Waiting to Be Heard

by Amanda Knox

  I needed to say that I had doubts about what I’d signed, to let the police know they couldn’t rely on my declarations as the truth. I knew that undoing the cops’ work would almost surely mean they’d scream at me all over again. As paralyzing as that thought was, I had to risk it. In naming Patrick, I’d unintentionally misled them. What if they thought I did it on purpose? They’d wasted time on me when they could have been out pursuing the real killer.

  “Can I have a piece of paper?” I asked Ficarra. “I need to write down in English what I’m trying to tell you, because you apparently don’t understand me right now. You can bring the paper to someone who can tell you what it says in Italian. We can communicate better that way. You’re telling me that I’m going to remember when I’m telling you that I am remembering, and that I doubt what I said is true.”

  She handed me a few sheets of paper and a pen. “You’d better write fast,” she said. “We have to get going.”

  If I could make them understand, everything would be okay. I sat down and scrawled four pages that became known as my first memoriale:

  This is very strange, I know, but really what happened is as confusing to me as it is to everyone else. I have been told there is hard evidence saying that I was at the place of the murder of my friend when it happened. This, I want to confirm, is something that to me, if asked a few days ago, would be impossible.

  I know that Raffaele has placed evidence against me, saying that I was not with him on the night of Meredith’s murder, but let me tell you this. In my mind there are things I remember and things that are confused. My account of this story goes as follows, despite the evidence stacked against me:

  On Thursday November 1, I saw Meredith the last time at my house when she left around 3 or 4 in the afternoon. Raffaele was with me at the time. We, Raffaele and I, stayed at my house for a little while longer and around 5 in the evening we left to watch the movie Amelie at his house. After the movie I received a message from Patrik, for whom I work at the pub “Le Chic”. He told me in this message that it wasn’t necessary for me to come into work for the evening because there was no one at my work.

  Now I remember to have also replied with the message: “See you later. Have a good evening!” and this for me does not mean that I wanted to meet him immediately. In particular because I said: “Good evening!” What happened after I know does not match up with what Raffaele was saying, but this is what I remember. I told Raffaele that I didn’t have to work and that I could remain at home for the evening. After that I believe we relaxed in his room together, perhaps I checked my email. Perhaps I read or studied or perhaps I made love to Raffaele. In fact, I think I did make love with him.

  However, I admit that this period of time is rather strange because I am not quite sure. I smoked marijuana with him and I might even have fallen asleep. These things I am not sure about and I know they are important to the case and to help myself, but in reality, I don’t think I did much. One thing I do remember is that I took a shower with Raffaele and this might explain how we passed the time. In truth, I do not remember exactly what day it was, but I do remember that we had a shower and we washed ourselves for a long time. He cleaned my ears, he dried and combed my hair.

  One of the things I am sure that definitely happened the night on which Meredith was murdered was that Raffaele and I ate fairly late, I think around 11 in the evening, although I can’t be sure because I didn’t look at the clock. After dinner I noticed there was blood on Raffaele’s hand, but I was under the impression that it was blood from the fish. After we ate Raffaele washed the dishes but the pipes under his sink broke and water flooded the floor. But because he didn’t have a mop I said we could clean it up tomorrow because we (Meredith, Laura, Filomena and I) have a mop at home. I remember it was quite late because we were both very tired (though I can’t say the time).

  The next thing I remember was waking up the morning of Friday November 2 around 10 am and I took a plastic bag to take back my dirty clothes to go back to my house. It was then that I arrived home alone that I found the door to my house was wide open and this all began. In regards to this “confession” that I made last night, I want to make clear that I’m very doubtful of the verity of my statements because they were made under the pressures of stress, shock and extreme exhaustion. Not only was I told I would be arrested and put in jail for 30 years, but I was also hit in the head when I didn’t remember a fact correctly. I understand that the police are under a lot of stress, so I understand the treatment I received.

  However, it was under this pressure and after many hours of confusion that my mind came up with these answers. In my mind I saw Patrik in flashes of blurred images. I saw him near the basketball court. I saw him at my front door. I saw myself cowering in the kitchen with my hands over my ears because in my head I could hear Meredith screaming. But I’ve said this many times so as to make myself clear: these things seem unreal to me, like a dream, and I am unsure if they are real things that happened or are just dreams my head has made to try to answer the questions in my head and the questions I am being asked.

  But the truth is, I am unsure about the truth and here’s why:

  1. The police have told me that they have hard evidence that places me at the house, my house, at the time of Meredith’s murder. I don’t know what proof they are talking about, but if this is true, it means I am very confused and my dreams must be real.

  2. My boyfriend has claimed that I have said things that I know are not true. I KNOW I told him I didn’t have to work that night. I remember that moment very clearly. I also NEVER asked him to lie for me. This is absolutely a lie. What I don’t understand is why Raffaele, who has always been so caring and gentle with me, would lie about this. What does he have to hide? I don’t think he killed Meredith, but I do think he is scared, like me. He walked into a situation that he has never had to be in, and perhaps he is trying to find a way out by disassociating himself with me.

  Honestly, I understand because this is a very scary situation. I also know that the police don’t believe things of me that I know I can explain, such as:

  1. I know the police are confused as to why it took me so long to call someone after I found the door to my house open and blood in the bathroom. The truth is, I wasn’t sure what to think, but I definitely didn’t think the worst, that someone was murdered. I thought a lot of things, mainly that perhaps someone got hurt and left quickly to take care of it. I also thought that maybe one of my roommates was having menstral problems and hadn’t cleaned up. Perhaps I was in shock, but at the time I didn’t know what to think and that’s the truth. That is why I talked to Raffaele about it in the morning, because I was worried and wanted advice.

  2. I also know that the fact that I can’t fully recall the events that I claim took place at Raffaele’s home during the time that Meredith was murdered is incriminating. And I stand by my statements that I made last night about events that could have taken place in my home with Patrik, but I want to make very clear that these events seem more unreal to me than what I said before, that I stayed at Raffaele’s house.

  3. I’m very confused at this time. My head is full of contrasting ideas and I know I can be frustrating to work with for this reason. But I also want to tell the truth as best I can. Everything I have said in regards to my involvement in Meredith’s death, even though it is contrasting, are the best truth that I have been able to think.

  I’m trying, I really am, because I’m scared for myself. I know I didn’t kill Meredith. That’s all I know for sure. In these flashbacks that I’m having, I see Patrik as the murderer, but the way the truth feels in my mind, there is no way for me to have known because I don’t remember FOR SURE if I was at my house that night. The questions that need answering, at least for how I’m thinking are:

  1. Why did Raffaele lie? (or for you) Did Raffaele lie?

  2. Why did I think of Patrik?

  3. Is the
evidence proving my pressance at the time and place of the crime reliable? If so, what does this say about my memory? Is it reliable?

  4. Is there any other evidence condemning Patrik or any other person?

  5. Who is the REAL murder? This is particularly important because I don’t feel I can be used as condemning testimone in this instance.

  I have a clearer mind than I’ve had before, but I’m still missing parts, which I know is bad for me. But this is the truth and this is what I’m thinking at this time. Please don’t yell at me because it only makes me more confused, which doesn’t help anyone. I understand how serious this situation is, and as such, I want to give you this information as soon and as clearly as possible.

  If there are still parts that don’t make sense, please ask me. I’m doing the best I can, just like you are. Please believe me at least in that, although I understand if you don’t. All I know is that I didn’t kill Meredith, and so I have nothing but lies to be afraid of.

  I finished writing and handed the pages to Ficarra. I didn’t remember the word for “explanation.” “This is a present for you”—­“un regalo,” I said.

  She said, “What is it—­my birthday?”

  I felt so much lighter. I knew that I was blameless, and I was sure that was obvious to everyone. We’d just had a misunderstanding. I’d cleared the record.

  I was on the police’s side, so I was sure they were on mine. I didn’t have a glimmer of understanding that I had just made my situation worse. I didn’t get that the police saw me as a brutal murderer who had admitted guilt and was now trying to squirm out of a hard-­won confession.

  My memoriale changed nothing. As soon as I gave it to Ficarra, I was taken into the hall right outside the interrogation room, where a big crowd of cops gathered around me. I recognized Pubblico Ministero Giuliano Mignini, who I still believed was the mayor.

  An officer stood in front of me as straight as a gun barrel and read me my rights. It was in Italian, only some of which I understood. They handcuffed me. A third person held on to my upper arm. They said, “You’re under arrest. We’re taking you to prison.”

  As groggy and mixed-­up as I was, those official words startled me. “You’re doing what?!” I asked, raising my voice, agitated. I couldn’t make sense of this news.

  I thought that they were keeping me to protect me. But why would they have to arrest me? And why did they have to take me to prison? I’d imagined that maybe “custody” meant I’d be given a room in the questura. That Mom could be there with me.

  It’s inconceivable to me now that I hardly reacted. It didn’t occur to me that I should again ask for a lawyer—­or that I needed one. I assumed that once I’d signed my testimony, the moment for a lawyer had passed. I was completely preoccupied with distinguishing between real memories versus whatever I’d imagined. I was lost in my head, trying to remember everything Raffaele and I had done hour by hour, minute by minute, on the night of Meredith’s murder so that I could tell the police. I was still replaying my interrogation. I didn’t—­or couldn’t—­grasp how much trouble I was in.

  If they ever said that I was a murder suspect, I either didn’t hear it or didn’t understand it. I heard “it’s only for a few days,” “bureaucratic reasons,” and “it’s all under control.”

  “Okay,” I said reflexively. I’d fought hard for myself during the night, and I was totally passive now. I had nothing left.

  Still, what came next shocked me. After my arrest, I was taken downstairs to a room where, in front of a male doctor, female nurse, and a few female police officers, I was told to strip naked and spread my legs. I was embarrassed because of my nudity, my period—­I felt frustrated and helpless. The doctor inspected the outer lips of my vagina and then separated them with his fingers to examine the inner. He measured and photographed my intimate parts. I couldn’t understand why they were doing this. I thought, Why is this happening? What’s the purpose of this?

  The doctor and nurse weren’t rough with me, but it didn’t matter. Being on display, nude, in front of strangers while they discussed me was the most dehumanizing, degrading experience I had ever been through. I didn’t protest. I waited silently, feeling violated and angry. In my head I was screaming, Stop it! Stop it now!

  Next they checked my entire body for cuts and bruises, clawing through my hair to get to my scalp and inspecting the bottoms of my feet. A female police officer pointed out different places to examine and document. I thought, Why are they measuring the length of my arms and the breadth of my hands? What does it matter how big my feet are? Later, I realized they were trying to fit the crime to my dimensions. What would Meredith’s wounds be like if I’d been the one who stabbed her? Could I have stabbed her from my height? They took pictures of anything they thought would be significant.

  I pointed out the hickey Raffaele had given me. It had faded to a pinkish tinge on my throat, but I didn’t want to appear as if I were hiding anything from them. The police seemed totally uninterested and recorded it perfunctorily. But during my trial the prosecution used it as evidence to fit one of their ever-­changing scenarios.

  Raffaele. I didn’t know what to think of him. How could the person I’d felt so close to have abandoned me? Had he really said, “Amanda left that night” and “Amanda asked me to lie for her?” Or were the police just telling me that? I no longer knew whom I could trust. I felt betrayed and alone.

  More than anything, I wanted my mom. She would help me explain what had happened and get me out of this nightmarish experience. Where is she? How can I reach her? Is she waiting for me at the train station?

  I was finally allowed to get dressed. The police had brought me an airy skirt from the villa with my hiking boots. It seemed like such a ridiculous choice for November that I wadded it up in my purse and put back on Raffaele’s clothes, which I’d been wearing before.

  I asked to use the bathroom. A female police officer stood in front of the stall with the door open. Why is she standing here? I can’t relax enough to pee, even if she’s looking away. I guessed this unwanted guardian was somehow supposed to keep me safe.

  Eventually I put aside my inhibitions long enough to be able to pee. After that they closed the handcuffs back around my wrists. I think they’d left them intentionally loose, but I was so submissive I reported their breach. “Excuse me,” I said. “But I can slip my hand out.”

  They tightened them.

  Then they shoved a wool hat down over my eyes. “Duck your head,” Ficarra ordered. “Don’t look up.” She mumbled something about “journalists.”

  We were standing in a dark foyer. Everything was hushed. My head bent, I was looking at the floor when I suddenly recognized the backs of Raffaele’s feet ahead of me. I felt a clenching in my chest. I hadn’t seen him since we’d come inside the questura together. I had no idea where he’d come from—­or why he was walking just steps ahead of me. I so badly wanted to say something, but I knew I shouldn’t make a sound.

  I just wanted this ordeal to end.

  I was consumed by worry for Patrick. I felt that time was running out for him if I didn’t remember for sure what had happened the night of Meredith’s murder. When I’d said, “It was Patrick,” in my interrogation, the police pushed me to tell them where he lived. As soon as I’d mentioned his neighborhood, several officers surrounding me raced out. I figured that they’d gone to question him. I didn’t know that it was too late, that they’d staged a middle-­of-­the-night raid on Patrick’s house and arrested him.

  Then the doors to the questura opened, and I was led outside. No one had told me that what I’d said had been made public. With my head down, it didn’t register that there were photographers snapping my picture. Nor could I know that the police would be holding a press conference at which they’d announce, “Caso chiuso”—­“Case closed.” Or that, that evening, news sites would report Raffaele’s, Patrick’s, an
d my arrests for “a sexual encounter that went horrifically wrong.”

  When I look at the pictures of me now—­standing in Raffaele’s oversize warm-­up pants and fleece jacket, a gray wool hat pulled over my eyes—­I recall how I followed their directions like a lost, pathetic child. I didn’t question, I didn’t object, I just put my head down when they told me to and trusted that this would all make sense soon. In that moment, I couldn’t see—­and it didn’t have anything to do with the hat.

  I was half-­carried, half-­pushed from the building, with Ficarra and another person each holding me under an arm. They directed me into a police car, then got in on either side of me. “Duck your head to your knees during the ride,” one of the police officers ordered. “Do not try to sit up.”

  Sirens wailed.

  I’ve since read that the convoy of squad cars drove through Perugia, honking horns in triumph. I only know that we flew along the curving roads in a rush of sound, that we were moving so fast I thought I might get sick in the backseat, that the half-­hour trip seemed without end. The officers kept their hands firmly on my back; my eye sockets pressed into my forearms across my knees. The hat pulled down, I was floating, as though I’d escaped from my own body.

  Finally our car pulled through the main gate of the Casa Circondariale Capanne di Perugia—­not that I knew where we were—­and came to a stop inside a dim, cavernous garage. As the doors rumbled closed, I was allowed to sit up. A uniformed prison guard came over, and I tried to catch his eye. I wanted someone, anyone, to look at me and see me for who I was—­Amanda Knox, a terrified twenty-­year-­old girl. He looked through me.

  The inner garage door rolled open, and we drove into the prison grounds. My stomach lurched. Concrete walls, ablaze with orange lights and topped with coiled razor wire, stretched up to the night sky in every direction. I felt smaller and more frightened than I’d ever been.