by Amanda Knox
“The second part of his secret came out while we were in our respective cells . . . at a certain point he and his friend changed positions, in the sense that his friend attempted to have oral sex with Meredith while Guede was behind. He specified in particular that his friend was in front of Meredith, who was on her knees, while Guede was behind Meredith, with his knee on her back. Kercher tried to wriggle out . . .
“Kercher tried to get away, and at this point Guede’s friend took a knife with an ivory-colored handle out of his pocket. While Kercher tried to get away, turning around, she was wounded by the blade. At this point, seeing as she began to bleed, Guede, finding his hands covered in blood, let her go. While Guede tried to staunch the wound with clothes, his friend reprimanded him, saying, ‘Let’s finish her. If not, this whore will have us rot in prison.’ At this point, his friend killed her, stabbing her various times while Guede gathered clothes to staunch the wounds. Then, realizing that she wasn’t breathing anymore, he left.”
After the murder, Guede went to a club and met his murderer friend, who gave him money and told him to flee Italy.
Alessi said, “Guede, at my questioning, responded that he couldn’t say whether or not it was the money that was stolen from Kercher. I also asked Guede how he could explain the broken window and the rock that was found in Kercher’s house, but Guede responded that while he was in the house he hadn’t heard a sound and didn’t know anything about that window.”
Alessi said that when he suggested that Guede tell the truth, “because there were two innocent people in prison . . . Guede responded that he certainly wasn’t the one to put those two in the middle of everything but rather the prosecution . . .
“I can also refer to an episode in Cell No. 11 in the presence of Antonio De Cesare, Ciprian Trinca, and Rudy Guede”—all prisoners.
“We were playing cards and, once again, in the course of a television program, Meredith’s murder was brought up, and at that point Luca Maori, Raffaele Sollecito’s defense counsel, was being interviewed. Guede made a comment against Sollecito . . .”
Guede said that since he didn’t have the same opportunity to defend himself as Raffaele, he was the victim.
Listening to Alessi testify, I felt frozen in my chair, my limbs numb. Alessi was a calm, direct, convincing speaker. Is this possibly what happened the night of November 1? Is this the horror that Meredith experienced? For three and a half years, I’d tried to imagine Meredith’s murder and had to push it out of my mind. When the prosecutor had put Raffaele and me into the scene, it hadn’t bothered me nearly this much. We weren’t there, so Meredith’s murder couldn’t possibly have unfolded the way Mignini described. His story was so far-fetched, and it was so painful to hear myself described in bloodthirsty terms, that I couldn’t help but focus on the verbal attack on me rather than the physical attack on Meredith.
Alessi’s story, however, sickened me when I heard it and haunted me long after. I knew it was only hearsay and that even though two of Guede’s other prisonmates corroborated it, it couldn’t be used as direct evidence. Real or not, it forced me to focus on the torture that Meredith was put through. And it opened up a question I’d never seriously considered and could barely handle: Had there been someone with Guede?
My lawyers once told me that investigators had found unidentified DNA at the crime scene, but I’d never dwelled on it. The prosecution had never presented it. Wouldn’t there have been signs of another person in the room and on Meredith’s body? I didn’t know. This is what I was sure of: Guede was there, Guede lied about us, Guede tried to escape his responsibility for the crime.
Guede would have to confess.
I desperately hoped he’d be honest when he took the witness stand. With the Supreme Court’s seal on his conviction, his sentence couldn’t be extended no matter how he incriminated himself. Since he truly had nothing to lose, I thought he might admit his crimes—and the fact that Raffaele and I weren’t there that night.
I planned to make a spontaneous declaration directly to him, either challenging him to tell the truth or thanking him for doing so. For a week I thought about what I should say, pacing in my cell as I tried out different words. I’d written Guede a letter I’d never sent. I wove that into my declaration just as I’d done with my statement to Patrick and the Kerchers.
In the meantime, I was agitated. I had no reason to expect that Guede would admit what had happened—anyone who can kill is already lacking a conscience. Even if Guede acknowledged Raffaele’s and my innocence, it still wouldn’t be enough on its own to free us—his statements were compromised since he’d lied before and wasn’t impartial. But it would be a huge step in the right direction—and an even bigger comfort to me.
Taking the witness stand, Guede said he wouldn’t speak about the murder, that he was there only to respond to his former prisonmate’s accusations. Mignini read a letter to the court that Guede had supposedly written to his lawyers after Alessi’s claims surfaced. I found it so unsettling that I could hardly listen. The letter didn’t remotely correspond with Guede’s education—he wasn’t a model student and, in fact, had dropped out of school. The language was sophisticated. Calling Alessi “a vulgar being with a foul conscience,” the letter condemned his “blasphemous insinuations.” It ended with a comment on “the horrible murder of a splendid and wonderful girl by Raffaele Sollecito and Amanda Knox.”
When Carlo tried to pin him down, Guede told an attentive court, “It’s not up to me to say who killed Meredith. I’ve always said who was in the house that damned night.”
I couldn’t contain my anger another second. I had to denounce his lies. Just as Guede was about to be dismissed, I asked to make a spontaneous declaration. Judge Hellmann said I’d have to wait until Guede had left the courtroom.
I felt cheated as I watched him walk out of the courtroom in handcuffs. I was disgusted. I’d truly hoped and believed that Guede would do the right thing, because, damn it, he was human. How could he not, ultimately? As the double doors closed, I quickly reorganized the statement I’d prepared. “I just want to say that the only time Rudy, Raffaele, and I have been together in the same place is in court,” I said. “I’m shocked and anguished by his testimony. He knows we weren’t there.”
Then I sat down, crying.
Chapter 33
June 29, 2011
What if?
Twenty-four hours before the court-appointed experts were to present their findings on the DNA, only two words were going through my mind. What if? What if their review somehow—impossibly—confirmed Meredith’s DNA on the knife blade? What if they found that the bra clasp couldn’t have been contaminated?
Or what if the experts risked telling the truth and sided with the defense?
I knew the prosecution’s DNA testing was flawed. But so little had gone right in this case, why would this go right?
Science was on our side. The knife blade had tested negative for blood, and there was a high likelihood that the bra clasp had been contaminated while it sat on the floor for six weeks. But I had no faith in facts anymore. They hadn’t saved me before.
It was terrifying to hope—and impossible not to.
Over the summer, there were moments when I could escape the pressure and just be me—a twenty-three-year-old girl. Most afternoons Don Saulo called me down to his office, and we spent an hour together. It was precious time for me.
I’d gotten used to telling him everything on my mind. I appreciated his intelligence, compassion, and intuition. Don Saulo had lived a sheltered life, but his empathy was strong and unreserved.
I talked to him about my family and friends, my ideas and doubts.
We also talked about music. Don Saulo had invited me to play guitar at Saturday afternoon Mass. Now he was teaching me basic music theory and how to play an old electronic keyboard he had in his office. We’d listen to
a song on his portable CD player, and then we’d learn it together on the guitar or piano. I drew a paper keyboard so I could practice in my cell at night—ear buds in, playing the silent chord progressions.
But I was too nervous to play the day before the experts’ announcement. Don Saulo sat across from me holding my cold hands in his warm ones as I plodded through my “what if” possibilities.
“No matter what happens,” he said, “live your life to its fullest.”
I looked down. “Yeah, no matter what happens, I can only make the best of it.”
When the hour ended, I went back to my cell as dejected as ever. My current cellmate, Irina, was sitting on her bed smiling.
“What’s up with you?” I asked.
“Oh, just a little news,” she purred.
She must know something about the review. I imagined the news must be good. She has that maddening smile. But what if she’s mocking me?
“Everyone’s saying it,” she burst out. “You’re going home!”
“The report is out?!” I screamed. “It’s okay?! I’m going home?! Says who?”
“The TV! The news. The forensic report came back! You’re cleared! They said you’ll be freed!”
I had to hear the words myself. I went to the TV, madly changing channels until I found the news. “Svolta Giudiziaria”—“Judicial Turning Point,” the headline read, behind an announcer who was talking about my case. The crawl at the bottom read: “DNA damning Knox and Sollecito deemed unreliable by court-appointed experts. New hope arises for the defendants.”
Suddenly my heart was filling my whole chest. I couldn’t breathe. From the moment I’d been arrested, I’d never heard good news about my case on TV. It’s finally happening! I jumped up and down and spun around in a little dance, whooping and yelling, “I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it!
Stefanoni, the prosecution’s forensic DNA expert, was finally recognized as being wrong.
I was crying, my face flushed and hot.
Irina opened her arms, and I squeezed her as tightly as I could.
“Ah, Amanda!” she said, laughing. “You’re going to pop my implants!”
It was the first time in three and a half years at Capanne that I could truly jump for joy.
I remembered Don Saulo. I’d just burdened him with my angst. I have to tell him! I ran to the bars of my door. “Assistente!” I bobbed on my toes while I waited for the agente who’d opened my cell five minutes before. I knew asking her to unlock the door again was a no-no. I don’t care! I have to tell Don Saulo!
The agente approached the door looking bored. “What is it, Kuh-nox?” she asked sourly.
“I know I was just down to see Don Saulo,” I said breathlessly, “but I have to go back down—just for a second. I have to tell him the news. The forensic report came back, and everything is okay. I have to tell him, because I didn’t know before. Okay?”
My hands were on the bars and I was leaning into the cancello as though willing it open.
The agente eyed me with confusion. “You want to see Don Saulo again?”
“Please. Just for a second!”
She looked perplexed as she turned the key and swung the barred door open. I rushed out, jogging down the hallway, even though it wasn’t permitted. I called back to the guard, “I’ll be back in a second!”
Don Saulo was in the chapel leading a group of prisoners in Bible study. I rushed inside, beaming, and hugged him. “It came out!” I whispered. “It’s good!”
When I pulled back, I saw that he’d teared up. The women stared. They’d seen Don Saulo cry plenty of times, but they’d never seen me excited. “What happened?” one asked.
“The forensic report came out. It supports the defense,” I said. “I might actually be freed!”
“You see! There is God! There is God!” exclaimed Tessy, one of the Nigerian women I’d help write letters to her family. She jumped up and hugged me. So did Beauty, another Nigerian.
I said good-bye and went back upstairs. At the gate to the hallway, the agente saw me and glared.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “I had to tell Don Saulo the news about my case.”
“You could have told him tomorrow,” she grumbled.
The rest of the evening I flipped channels, watching news report after news report, wanting to hear the words again and again—“Svolta giudiziaria. Nuova speranza per Amanda e Raffaele”—“Judicial turning point. New hope for Amanda and Raffaele.”
Chapter 34
June 30–October 2, 2011
The next morning I arrived at the Hall of Frescoes with a lighter heart. The journalists called out, “Amanda, what do you think of the new findings?” “Are you excited?” “Do you think you’re going home?”
I didn’t answer, but I liked the tone of these new questions.
I could see my mom trying to suppress her glee. When I got to the table, Carlo squeezed my hand. Raffaele nodded and smiled. We were all trying to contain ourselves. We weren’t in the clear yet, but we were closer than we’d ever been. And I think we all had the deep-seated fear that somehow the prosecution would flip the findings and convince the judges and jury that the old report was the right report. I knew they’d try. They’d been publicly embarrassed.
This time the trial was going our way. I was delighted—I hoped it wasn’t obvious—when the experts criticized the Polizia Scientifica’s procedures. My DNA was on the knife handle, but the DNA trace on the blade was “unreliable,” because Patrizia Stefanoni had ignored international protocol in testing such a tiny amount. It could have come from contamination, they said.
Professor Stefano Conti showed the video of the Polizia Scientifica collecting evidence when they returned to the villa six weeks after Meredith was killed. The professor zoomed in on the dirty latex gloves the investigators wore. The police’s own recording showed them passing the bra clasp back and forth and then putting it back on the floor to photograph as evidence. “There are a number of circumstances that don’t follow protocol or proper procedure,” Conti said in something of an understatement.
By the video’s end, he’d identified more than fifty mistakes the forensics team had made, including waiting six weeks to collect the evidence, using the wrong type of bags to collect evidence, wearing gloves dotted with blood and dirt, and picking up Meredith’s bra and underwear and touching her body barehanded.
“Today was a profound, clear, and unequivocal analysis of the DNA on the bra clasp,” said Raffaele’s attorney Giulia Bongiorno. “DNA on the bra clasp attributed to Raffaele Sollecito was the only evidence on which he was convicted. This so-called evidence has fallen apart.”
As the weeks went by, I was starting to have faith that this judge wouldn’t overlook the mistakes the police had made.
As expected, the prosecution and the civil attorneys tried to delegitimize the experts by saying they were biased in favor of the defense and complaining that neither expert was qualified.
They were reaching.
The co-prosecutor, Manuela Comodi, said Conti and Vecchiotti were lying. Show us the exact moment when the bra clasp was contaminated, she said. If we couldn’t prove it was contaminated, we couldn’t claim it.
Vecchiotti and Conti’s response: Following protocol is the way a forensic scientist proves that contamination doesn’t happen. The forensics team picked up the bra clasp that was found in a different part of the room, put it down, photographed it, and picked it up again, and you’re saying there wasn’t a high likelihood that it was contaminated?
You can’t prove that the glove touching the bra clasp was contaminated, Comodi told the experts.
Conti and Vecchiotti said, “We have a picture of the glove. You can see the dirt.”
The prosecution said you have to prove that the glove had Raffaele’s DNA on it.
&nbs
p; Conti and Vecchiotti’s final words on the subject: No, we don’t. It’s enough to show that the glove was dirty and that the bra clasp was moved from one place to another, that it wasn’t picked up for six weeks—that protocol was violated.
That day, July 30, was the last hearing before the August break. Judge Hellmann announced that he wanted the court to return to session on September 5. The co-prosecutor objected. “I was hoping to still be on vacation with my daughter then,” she said.
On vacation with your daughter! I screamed in my head. I wish I could be on vacation with my mother! You’re worried about extending your vacation and you don’t care that I’ve missed out on almost four years of my life!
Judge Hellmann set the next hearing for September 5.
I didn’t know when the verdict would come, but the closer we got, the more nervous I felt. I couldn’t eat, my hair was again falling out in clumps, I was covered in hives, and my hands shook involuntarily. I often burst out crying. Mainly I couldn’t relate to the uninhibited enthusiasm of my family, friends, and supporters. When Corrado visited in August, he asked, “Why are you so worried, Amanda? Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see. Just relax.”
I couldn’t even draw a full breath.
The closest I came to unwinding was the time I spent playing music and talking with Don Saulo. The weather was too hot to walk in the afternoons, too hot to move during the day, almost too hot to think. I wrote lots of letters to James and others in Seattle, and to Laura in Naples. I read. I daydreamed about the four possibilities that awaited me when Judge Hellmann read out my verdict. Life imprisonment? Twenty-six years? A lower sentence? Acquittal? I broke my own rule and counted the days until September 5. I knew I shouldn’t. It made the thirty-seven days between court dates crawl by.
When September finally arrived, being back in the courtroom helped me regain a tiny bit of control over my hypernervousness. It meant that things were happening again. It was better to focus on the momentum than the waiting.