Waiting to Be Heard: A Memoir (36 page)

Chapter 32

December 11, 2010–June 29, 2011

O
ne must necessarily begin with the only truly certain, undisputed, objective fact: on November 2, 2007, a little after one
P.M
., in the house of Via della Pergola, Number Seven, in Perugia, the body of the British student Meredith Kercher was discovered.”

Those were the opening words spoken at my appeal, by the assistant judge, Massimo Zanetti.

This trial looked much like our first one did. It was held two floors below ground in the Hall of Frescoes
.
The same people sat in the same places. The hundred-plus attending journalists called out the same questions: “Do you feel confident?” “Do you have anything to say?” One yelled, “Nice shoes!”

Everything may be as it was
, I thought.
Except me.
I was conscious of how everything I did, said, or wore, every face I made could contribute to the outcome, good or bad.

I stepped over the threshold feeling full of dread.
The last time I was in this room I had to be carried out.

Madison, Mom, and Chris were sitting together. I gave them a careful, barely-there smile. Anything bigger would beg another “Smiling Amanda” headline.

Clothing seemed a poor criterion for determining if I was going to spend two and a half decades or more in jail, but I couldn’t afford the distraction of casual clothes. Rocco and Corrado had given Laura money to buy me appropriate court clothes. She turned out to be an excellent personal shopper.

My champagne-colored blouse and black pants told the judges and jury that I respected them and the law.

Raffaele also had a new look—though I don’t know if it was meant to appeal to the jury or just himself. He had beefed up and buzzed his hair during the fifty-three weeks since I’d seen him. I’d lost enough weight that the escort guards who gripped my arms said, “
Devi mangiare di più!
”—“You need to eat more!”

The judge’s opening statement gave us hope that the court wanted a trial grounded in facts, not theories
. Will we finally get a fair trial? Will the judges and jury finally listen to what we have to say?

I stood to deliver my declaration, the one I’d worked on for weeks. Speaking in Italian, without an interpreter, I sensed my voice quavering, my hands trembling:

“I was wrong to think that there are right or wrong places and moments to say important things. Important things have to be said, no matter what . . . To Meredith’s family and loved ones, I want to say that I’m so sorry that Meredith is not here anymore. I can’t know how you feel, but I, too, have little sisters, and the idea of their suffering and infinite loss terrifies me.”

Since the Kerchers weren’t there, I addressed my comments to the jurors. And though I was desperate not to cloud my message by crying, I choked up at the mention of my three siblings.

“It’s incomprehensible, unacceptable, what you’re going through, and what Meredith underwent. I’m sorry all this happened to you and that you’ll never have her near you again, where she should be. It’s not right and it never will be. You’re not alone when you’re thinking of her, because I’m thinking of you, I also remember Meredith, and my heart aches for all of you. Meredith was kind, intelligent, nice, and always accommodating. She was the one who invited me to see Perugia with her, as a friend. I’m grateful and honored to have been able to be in her company and to have been able to know her.”

I turned toward Patrick, whose lawyer blocked my sight line of him.

“Patrick? I don’t see you. But I’m sorry. I’m sorry, because I didn’t want to wrong you. I was very naïve and not remotely courageous, because I should have been able to endure the pressure that pushed me to wrong you. I didn’t want to contribute to all that you suffered. You know what it means to have unjust accusations imposed on your skin. You didn’t deserve what you went through. I hope you’ll succeed in finding your peace.”

Next I spoke to the court.

“I never expected to find myself here, condemned for a crime I didn’t commit. In these three years I’ve learned your language and I’ve seen how the judicial procedure works, but I’ve never gotten used to this broken life. I still don’t know how to face all this if not by just being myself, who I’ve always been, in spite of the suffocating awkwardness . . . Meredith’s death was a terrible shock for me. She was my new friend, a reference point for me here in Perugia. But she was killed. Because I felt an affinity toward her, suddenly, in her death, I recognized my own vulnerability. I clung above all to Raffaele, who was a source of reassurance, consolation, accommodation, and love for me. I also trusted the authorities carrying out the investigation, because I wanted to help render justice for Meredith. It was another shock to find myself accused and arrested. I needed a lot of time to accept that reality, of being accused, and redefined unjustly. I was in prison, my photo was everywhere. Insidious, unjust, nasty gossip about my private life circulated about me. Living through this experience has been unacceptable for me. I trust above all the hope that everything will be worked out as it should be, and that this enormous error about me will be recognized, and that every day that I spend in a cell and in court is one day nearer to my freedom. This is my consolation, in the darkness, that lets me live without despairing, doing my best to continue my life as I always have, in contact with my friends and family, dreaming about the future. Now, I am unjustly condemned, and more aware than ever of this hard and undeserved reality. I still hope for justice, and dream about a future. Even if this experience of three years weighs me down with anguish and fear, here I am, in front of you, more intimidated than ever, not because I’m afraid or could ever be afraid of the truth, but because I have already seen justice go wrong. The truth about me and Raffaele is not yet recognized, and we are paying with our lives for a crime that we did not commit. He and I deserve freedom, like everyone in this courtroom today. We don’t deserve the three years that we’ve already paid, and we certainly don’t deserve more. I am innocent. Raffaele is innocent. We did not kill Meredith. I beg you to truly consider that an enormous mistake has been made in regard to us. No justice is rendered to Meredith or her loved ones by taking our lives away and making us pay for something we didn’t do. I am not the person that the prosecution says I am, not at all. According to them, I’m a dangerous, diabolical, jealous, uncaring and violent girl. The people who know me are witnesses to my personality. My past, I mean my real past, not the one talked about in the tabloids, proves that I’ve always been like this, like I really am, and if all this is not enough, I invite you to ask the people who have been guarding me for three years. Ask them if I have ever been violent, aggressive, or uncaring before the suffering that is part of the broken lives in prison. Because I assure you that I’m not like that. I assure you that I have never resembled the images painted by the prosecution. How is it possible that I could be capable of achieving the kind of violence that Meredith suffered? How is it possible that I could throw myself like that at the opportunity to hurt one of my friends, for the sake of violence, as though it were more important and more natural than all my education, all my values, all my dreams, and my whole life? All this is not possible. That girl is not me. I am the girl that I have always shown myself to be and have always been. I repeat that I also am asking for justice. Raffaele and I are innocent, and we want to live our lives in freedom. We are not responsible for Meredith’s death, and, I repeat, no justice is accomplished by taking our lives away. Thank you.”

I had hoped that I could have talked to both Patrick and the Kerchers privately. Now that seemed extraordinarily unlikely. Still, it felt good to say what needed saying.
Finally, I’ve done the right thing
.

It was the longest, most emotionally exhausting seventeen minutes of my life.

And it might have been my only chance if the court ruled against our request for an independent review of Raffaele’s kitchen knife and the bra clasp and bringing in new witnesses. My lawyers believed there was a good chance they would grant it, but “if not,” Luciano had said, “you need to be strong. We’ll make our case anyway.”

My declaration left me feeling cleansed and relieved. I didn’t expect to change minds instantly—and I didn’t. Chris, Mom, and Madison told me later that the Kerchers’ lawyer, Francesco Maresca, had left the room at my first mention of Meredith’s family. “She bores me,” the London
Guardian
reported him saying. “Her speech lacked substance, was designed to impress the court and was not genuine.”

Maresca cared more about seeing me convicted than finding justice for Meredith. He always spoke of me as if I were a monster who must pay for Meredith’s death with my life.

I had to hope that the judges and jury—five women and one man—didn’t feel that way about me.

I knew the first court hadn’t convicted us solely on the forensic evidence, but I couldn’t imagine how Raffaele’s and my team could defend us if the appeals judge, Claudio Pratillo Hellmann, and his second, Massimo Zanetti, squashed our demands a second time.

That’s what the prosecution was pushing for. A review is “useless,” they said. “This court has all the elements to be able to come to a decision.”

Since court hearings were held only on Saturdays, an excruciatingly slow week would have to pass before we’d know Judge Hellmann’s mind. While we waited, Italy’s highest court signed the final paperwork on Rudy Guede’s verdict, approving his reduced sixteen-year sentence in the belief that he had not acted alone. Could that news influence Judge Hellmann’s decision? By pursuing our trial, he might seem to be contradicting the Supreme Court and make Italy look foolish.

“Do you think that will hurt us?” I asked Chris and Madison at their next visit to Capanne.

“All I know is that you’d better keep building up your iron
cojones
,” Chris answered, trying to make me laugh.

The following Saturday, when the court retired to chambers to decide, I tried to calm my jangled nerves. Unfortunately, cameras were allowed in during breaks. The photographers bent themselves sideways trying to zoom in on me.

During the hour-and-twenty-minute wait, I occasionally turned around long enough to meet my mom’s or Madison’s eyes. Mom smiled nervously at me. “Courage,” my lawyers reminded me. “Courage.”

When Judge Hellmann came out to announce his decision, I held my breath and squeezed Luciano’s hand, instinctively ducking my head to avoid a painful blow.

“I’m convinced the case is complex enough to warrant a review in the name of ‘reasonable doubt,’ ” Judge Hellmann told the rapt courtroom. “If it is not possible to check the identity of the DNA, we will check on the reliability of the original tests.”

Maria Del Grosso, from Carlo’s office, patted me excitedly on the shoulder.

I hadn’t wanted to admit to my lawyers or to myself how petrified I’d been. Only when the result came back did I realize how much fear I had had pent up. I brushed away tears.
We might finally have a real chance to defend ourselves.

Still, I was wary. The judge in the previous trial had granted our request for data and then sided with the prosecution’s interpretation.

A
fter that, we were back to waiting again. The independent experts, Dr. Carla Vecchiotti and Dr. Stefano Conti, forensic medicine professors at Rome’s university, La Sapienza, were sworn in, and Judge Hellmann charged them with figuring out whether a new analysis of the DNA on the knife and bra clasp was possible. If not, he wanted to know if the original results of the prosecution’s forensic expert were reliable: Were the interpretations of the genetic profiles correct? Had there been risk of contamination? The experts were given three months from the day the prosecution turned over the evidence.

While the experts were working, Judge Hellmann moved ahead with the new testimony he’d granted. During the first trial, Prosecutor Mignini had called the witness Antonio Curatolo, a homeless man referred to as “the stepping-stone leading us up to the murder.” Curatolo had testified that he’d seen Raffaele and me arguing on the basketball court in Piazza Grimana. It was key evidence in our conviction, because it contradicted our alibi that we’d never left Raffaele’s apartment. But it had been left unclear which night Curatolo was describing—Halloween or November 1?

Curatolo was recalled as a witness, but he came under different circumstances. The onetime homeless man was now in prison himself, on drug charges. He arrived in the courtroom flanked by two guards, just as Raffaele and I were. As he took the stand he said that the night he saw Raffaele and me, “there were a lot of young people in costume” joking around. “There were other people who were messing around. It was a holiday.” Buses were there to take young people to discos outside town.

Raffaele’s lawyer, Giulia Bongiorno, asked, “So you’re saying, the night that you saw Raffaele and Amanda, there were people wearing masks and in buses?”

To the defense it was obvious this description matched Halloween, not November 1, a religious holiday, when the clubs were closed and no buses had been hired for the night.

Curatolo had also testified that the day after seeing Raffaele and me in Piazza Grimana, he saw Carabinieri and men dressed in white—“Martians,” he called the Polizia Scientifica in their anticontamination suits. Since the Polizia Scientifica came to the villa on November 2, this meant that Curatolo must have seen Raffaele and me on November 1.

“So the very next day that you saw Raffaele and Amanda, there were police officers and people in white suits at the villa?” Prosecutor Mignini asked.

“I am as certain of that as I am sure that I am sitting in this chair now,” Curatolo told the appeals court.

The prosecutor and civil lawyers insisted that some of the discos were open on November 1, 2007, and that there were buses in Piazza Grimana.