Waiting to Be Heard: A Memoir

by Amanda Knox

  When she answered Prosecutor Mignini’s questions, she was clear, straightforward, and self-serving. She was smarter than her fellow officers. She knew the court was looking for police slipups. “We did our jobs perfectly, all the time,” she testified. “We didn’t hit Amanda.” “We’re the good guys.”

  When the defense questioned her, Napoleoni’s manner switched from professional—albeit dishonest—to exasperated, incredulous, and condescending. For instance, when Raffaele’s lawyer Giulia Bongiorno asked if the gloves police used at the crime scene were sterilized or one-use gloves, Napoleoni took a snarky tone, saying, “It’s the same thing.”

  “By one-use gloves you mean that they are gloves that can be used only once, right?” Bongiorno asked.

  “Obviously, yes,” Napoleoni said haughtily.

  “Therefore it means that every time you touched an object you changed gloves?”

  “No, it means that I put them on when I enter before I touch objects, and that’s what I did.”

  “But therefore with the same gloves, without changing gloves, you touched the various objects in the room in the course of the search?” Bongiorno asked.

  “It’s obvious, yes.”

  I knew it was the police’s job to analyze the scene of a crime, gather clues, and determine who did it. But here in Perugia the police and the prosecutor seemed to be coming at Meredith’s murder from the opposite direction. The investigation was sospettocentrico—“suspect-oriented”: they decided almost instantly that Raffaele and I were guilty and then made the clues fit their theory. Instead of impartiality, the prosecution’s forensic experts were relentless in their drive to incriminate us. Their campaign was astonishing for its brashness and its singleness of purpose.

  Napoleoni built up her case against Raffaele and me by tearing us down. The police were suspicious of us from the start, she said, referring to the first time she saw us, in front of the villa on the day Meredith’s body was discovered. “Amanda Knox and Raffaele Sollecito kept their distance from the others, kissing, caressing each other,” she said.

  Napoleoni added that, later, at the questura, we “were absolutely indifferent to everyone. They sprawled in the waiting room, sprawled on the seats, kissed each other, made faces at each other the entire time . . . They talked to each other under their breath. I noted their behavior because it seemed impossible that these two kids thought to kiss each other when the body of their friend had been found in those conditions.”

  My housemates and their friends reacted more appropriately, Napoleoni said. They “were all crying,” she told the court. “Some despaired.”

  To Napoleoni, Raffaele and I were self-centered narcissists. We lacked basic compassion. And we were liars through and through.

  Even something as simple as a misunderstanding about the toilet in the villa fueled the police’s suspicions. Napoleoni explained that I’d said that morning that when I came to the villa to shower, I’d “noticed feces in the toilet.” But when I returned with Raffaele, I “didn’t find it there.”

  That was true.

  However, when Napoleoni checked, she said, “I saw that the waste was very evident. The smear started from the top of the bowl. I went out again and told them, ‘but no, it’s there,’ and they began to fall into contradiction. Something wasn’t right.”

  I was surprised but didn’t doubt her. Realizing that someone had broken in, I’d been afraid when I went back in the villa with Raffaele. I looked at the toilet from a distance and, not seeing anything in the bowl, assumed someone had flushed it. Clearly, I was wrong. Apparently the feces had slid down farther into the bowl. But Napoleoni acted as if, in discovering the unflushed toilet, she’d caught us in a lie and that we’d ineptly scrambled to come up with a cover.

  At the time, it seemed urgent to tell Napoleoni about the unflushed toilet. I thought it was important for the police to know that the killer might have been in the house when I came home the first time. Why would I make up a story about disappearing shit?

  Napoleoni went on, twisting each aspect of the case. “I immediately noted that the house couldn’t have been broken into from the outside. It seemed to have been done after the room was made a mess. I immediately noted that there was glass on the windowsill, and if a stone came from the outside, the glass should have fallen below.”

  She also said that when the Postal Police came to the villa with the phones Meredith had been using, “they asked Amanda if it was normal that Meredith locked her door. Amanda said Meredith always locked her door, even when taking a shower.”

  Filomena Romanelli disputed this, Napoleoni said.

  What I’d said—that Meredith sometimes locked her door, including sometimes after she showered, while she was changing, and when she went out of town for the weekend—had gotten garbled in translation. The mistake cost me credibility. Having caught me in what they took to be small lies, the cops saw me as someone incapable of telling the truth.

  The homicide chief added that by checking telephone activity tables, the police discovered that both my cell phone and Raffaele’s had been inactive the night before Meredith was found. “Amanda from 8:35 P.M. and Sollecito from 8:42 P.M.” That fact meant nothing, but Napoleoni presented it as if, in turning off our phones, we had had an ulterior motive. That we’d wanted to watch a movie without being interrupted did not come up.

  “We looked for contradictions,” Napoleoni told the court, “and the contradictions always came from Amanda and Raffaele, because the account they gave us was too strange. It was improbable.”

  If anything, it was surreal. I hadn’t expected to come home to a murder scene. I hadn’t known what to make of what I’d found. Yes, I’d come home and taken a shower. I didn’t investigate beyond Meredith’s closed door. And then one thing had led to another. I’d discovered droplets of blood, then an unflushed toilet, then a break-in in Filomena’s room, and finally the police found Meredith’s body.

  Because Raffaele and I reacted differently from the others—and, I assume, differently from how Napoleoni imagined she would have—she and the prosecutor decided that Raffaele and I were the killers. Of course it’s natural for people to jump to conclusions, but not for a police officer to ignore facts and rely on superficial impressions. My stomach burned with resentment. I wanted to shout at her, “Who says there’s only one way to react? Who decided that being different equals being guilty?”

  When I first met Napoleoni, I thought she was mean. When I spent more time around her, I thought she was hateful. But looking at her on the stand, I thought, You were so stupid, Amanda. How could you not have realized that Napoleoni pegged you for guilty from the start?

  I remembered sitting in the back of the squad car on November 3, when the police were driving me to the house. Napoleoni was in the passenger seat in front. I said I was tired. She swiveled around to glare at me. “Do you think we’re not tired? We’re working 24/7 to solve this crime, and you need to stop complaining,” she reprimanded me sharply. “Do you just not care that someone murdered your friend?”

  I felt put upon that day. The police were guilt-tripping me. They didn’t understand that my life had been shattered. They were used to the stress of their work, but I think they didn’t realize that regular people get tired, hungry, and overwhelmed.

  I was also frustrated with myself. I couldn’t seem to do anything right.

  In the Hall of Frescoes, the authorities made the same points as Napoleoni, one after another, often using the same words: I was strange, my behavior suspicious.

  You could tell their testimony had been rehearsed.

  On the stand, my chief interrogator, Rita Ficarra, seemed much smaller than she had at the police station. Middle-aged, with dull, shoulder-length brown hair, she came across as reasonable. Who would believe that she’d been ruthless, questioning me for hours, refusing to believe that I didn’t know who’d murdered Meredith? I wondered how this woman, who now struck me as average in every way, had instilled such fear in m
e.

  Like Napoleoni, Ficarra insisted, “No one hit her.” She was serene and straight-faced as she testified.

  Ficarra elaborated. “Everyone treated her nicely. We gave her tea. I myself brought her down to get something to eat in the morning,” she said, as if she were the host at a B&B. Then she added, “She was the one who came in and started acting weird, accusing people.”

  In her story, I was the crazy guest.

  When Raffaele was called to the questura on November 5, I went along because I was afraid to stay at his apartment alone. Ficarra’s take on this was not generous: “She just came in,” she said. “No one called her in.”

  She told the jury that when she had returned to the questura at around 11 P.M., she and her colleague came through the door and into the hall. “I found Amanda . . . My astonishment was that I found her demonstrating her gymnastic abilities. She did a cartwheel, a bridge, she did splits,” Ficarra said. “It honestly seemed out of place to me.”

  Ficarra didn’t mention that the silver-haired police officer had asked me to show him how flexible I was. Now I can’t believe I acquiesced to his request, that it was normal to do yoga in such a setting.

  The longer Ficarra testified, the more she made it seem that the pressure the police exerted on me to confess was all in my head, that I’d blown the interrogation out of proportion. “In the end it was a calm dialogue, because I tried to make her understand that our intent was to seek collaboration,” she said.

  “At first she denied being at the villa the night of the murder, and then, when we called her on it, she started blaming someone else.”

  It was nearly unbearable to listen to her describe their behavior toward me as gentle and considerate. She defended everything without flinching. It was all I could do not to jump up and scream, “No! That’s not at all how it happened!” But my lawyers strongly advised me not to say anything—that as I was someone who had already been accused of lying, no one would take my word, especially over the police’s.

  Judge Massei asked Ficarra if I spoke to her in English or Italian.

  “In Italian,” Ficarra answered. “I repeat that she speaks Italian. She spoke only Italian with me. I don’t understand a word of English.”

  I remembered my interrogation, when they yelled that if I didn’t stop lying and tell them who had killed Meredith they would lock me up for thirty years. That was still their goal. I was terrified now that I was the only one who saw through them.

  The police were not the only people whose testimony damaged me. In one of the great ironies of the trial, Rudy Guede, a convicted murderer, also had power over my life.

  The gossip at Capanne was that Guede had found God in prison, and when he walked to the witness stand, looking less cocky and more disheveled than during the pretrial, my hope surged. Maybe he’d been seized by his conscience. I imagined that he’d face Raffaele and me and say straight out that neither of us had participated in the murder. But after Guede was sworn in, he uttered just six words: “Riservo il diritto di non rispondere”—“I reserve the right not to respond.”

  Then he stepped down. He didn’t look at me or anyone else as he was led through the double metal doors in the back of the courtroom, flanked by guards just as Raffaele and I always were. He wore an expression of blank indifference.

  Guede knew his silence could cost us our freedom. But there was no way to make him tell the truth. People have the right not to incriminate themselves—and in protecting himself, he helped to damn us.

  Chapter 26

  March–July 2009

  After I was accused of murder, people read new meaning into everything about me. A hickey on my neck became a scratch from Meredith in her last, desperate moments. An awkward encounter about a dirty toilet became a murder motive. Male friends I brought home became mysterious lovers of questionable character. Rudy Guede’s aside to the guys downstairs about my being cute became proof that he would do anything to earn my attention and approval.

  People who never met me were as judgmental as those who had. The runaway media coverage meant that everyone in Perugia—the whole of Italy, really—saw my picture several times a week. They heard the prosecution disparage me just as often.

  One of the prosecution’s key witnesses said they’d seen Raffaele and me out together on the night of November 1, and another said he saw me on the morning of November 2—at the time we said we were at his apartment. Another of their key witnesses, Kokomani, was sure he’d seen us with Rudy Guede on Halloween, indicating that we knew each other. I was 100 percent positive that he couldn’t have.

  It wasn’t necessary for any of these people to be right. It was enough for them to raise doubts, to make it seem that I was lying. They had to be only marginally convincing.

  The thought that these witnesses might wow the jury and judges terrified me.

  Marco Quintavalle, a storekeeper who lived near Raffaele’s apartment, told the court that he saw a girl waiting for the shop to open at a quarter to eight on the morning of Friday, November 2. “She had a hat and scarf obscuring much of her face but what struck me was how pale she looked and the color of her blue eyes . . . she went to the section at the back of the supermarket on the left, where there are the cleaning products. I can’t remember if she bought anything.”

  But when he saw my picture in the paper a few days later, his memory was precise. “I recognized her as the same girl,” he said.

  When asked if the girl was in the courtroom, Quintavalle pointed at me. “It’s her,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  I’d gone to the little store once to pick up milk and cereal. Once. I’d never been in the back, where the cleaning products are apparently shelved.

  I don’t know how it would feel to be “identified” in court when you’re guilty, but hearing those words when I wasn’t made me flinch as if I’d been struck. The ache was physical. It took maximum self-control for me to stay seated. Unlike the police, who I thought must be lying to cover their mistakes, I knew the shopkeeper believed what he said. Would the jury?

  It came down to who was more credible—him or me?

  Under cross-examination, my lawyers asked Quintavalle why he hadn’t revealed this information when the police came to question him right after our arrest. He said he hadn’t remembered. He hadn’t wanted to get involved in the murder case and had come forward only at the urging of a journalist friend in August 2008. I relaxed a little. The jury would see what was true and what wasn’t.

  The media purposely did not. “A New Hole Appears in Amanda Knox’s Alibi” and “Witness Contradicts Amanda Knox’s Account.” News stories like this infuriated my family and friends.

  But strangers, no doubt, would think, There goes Amanda, lying again.

  Nara Capezzali was a widow in her late sixties who lived in an apartment building behind the parking lot across the street from our villa. She testified that she heard a scream between 11 and 11:30 P.M. “It made my skin crawl, to be honest,” she said.

  She was certain of the time because she took a nightly diuretic and always woke up around 11 P.M. to use the bathroom.

  Before falling back asleep, she said she heard footsteps running up the metal stairs by the parking lot. “At almost the same moment,” she heard the crunching of feet on gravel and leaves coming from the direction of our driveway. Never mind that our driveway wasn’t gravel; it was mostly dirt.

  Meredith’s room was on the back of our house, as far as possible from Capezzali’s. The defense doubted that anyone could have heard these noises across a busy road and behind closed windows with double panes. But the prosecution clung to Capezzali’s account, which was a linchpin used to approximate Meredith’s time of death.

  One of the few points on which the prosecution and defense agreed was that the police had made an inexcusable blunder shortly after the body was found. They prevented the coroner from taking Meredith’s temperature for hours, squandering the best chance to gauge her time of death. The second opt
ion—analyzing the contents of Meredith’s stomach—was far less reliable. The third—Capezzali’s memory—wasn’t reliable at all.

  There were many bad days during my trial. The worst was the afternoon when evidence was presented to establish the time of Meredith’s death. Since the judge had ruled that to protect Meredith’s privacy the press and public couldn’t see her autopsy photos, he cleared the courtroom of everyone who wasn’t directly involved in the trial. Pictures of Meredith’s dissected stomach were projected onto a screen like the kind used for home movies. I knew that if I looked, I’d have the same reaction as the juror who bolted for the ladies’ room. Even more devastating than the actual image of the stomach was knowing it was my friend’s.

  Throughout the display, the prosecution delivered a primer on the human digestive system. We learned it takes about two to four hours to digest a meal. Meredith’s friends had said that they’d started dinner around 6 P.M. Since the food hadn’t yet passed into Meredith’s small intestine, my lawyers said she died between 9 and 9:30 P.M.—10 P.M. at the latest.

  Any later and her stomach contents would have shown up in her small intestine. According to Meredith’s friends, she had gotten home at around 9 P.M. On the only computer the police hadn’t fried, Raffaele’s laptop, the hard drive showed that we’d finished watching Amélie and clicked Stop—the last “human interaction” with the computer—at 9:15 P.M. The tight timing gave us an alibi that even the prosecution didn’t try to disprove.

  Instead they glossed over these facts and used Capezzali’s testimony to determine what time Meredith had died. Based on the scream, they decided that she died at 11:30 P.M. Even though Meredith’s digestion indicated an earlier time of death, they were fixated on that scream. Meredith had been murdered by 10 P.M., based on her stomach contents, but the prosecutors invented a scenario in which Meredith was home alone between 9:30 P.M. and 11:30 P.M. According to their argument, the sphincter between the stomach and the small intestine tightens at the moment of trauma, and digestion temporarily stops. Left unanswered was what trauma in that two-hour space interrupted her digestion—the same two hours when the prosecution said she was relaxing on her bed with her shoes off, writing an essay due the next morning. They were ignoring basic human physiology and hanging Meredith’s time of death on an older woman’s urination habits.