Waiting to Be Heard: A Memoir (39 page)

I can’t wait to see you. I love you so much.

Please hug Oma for me.

Remember it’s only you who can make your life make sense. Thank you for always reminding me the truth about love.

I love you always,

Amanda

Chapter 35

October 3, 2011

I
t was Verdict Day.

The numbers of press in the pit at the back of the courtroom and in the pressroom next door had steadily swelled. My family had heard there were more than five hundred journalists covering the closing arguments and verdict, and they told me that satellite trucks were parked six across in the piazza in front of the courthouse. Their presence guaranteed that the announcement of a verdict—the most deeply affecting moment of my life—would be beamed around the world.

Mom and Chris, Dad and Cassandra, Deanna, Madison, and my aunts Janet and Christina were in the courtroom. Having everyone there was huge. It was a show of force that let me know I wasn’t alone, that they loved me no matter what. For the last four years, their lives had been on hold, too. My mom and stepdad, my dad and stepmom, and my grandmother had mortgaged their houses to pay for everything from my groceries to my legal bills; from their shared rented apartment outside Perugia to airfare back and forth to Seattle. They’d sacrificed everything to make sure one of them was there during the eight hours a month I was allowed visitors. My father told me how, over the dozens of drives he’d made to the prison, he’d watched the seasons change and the years go by. He’d passed the same farmland as it was tilled, harvested, turned under. He’d seen buildings go up from foundation to finish. Deanna had been so traumatized she’d dropped out of college.

Even so, they’d only ever been able to cheer from the sidelines. Of the 34,248 hours I’d spent in prison since November 6, 2007, I’d been allowed to see them for 376 hours—1 percent of the time.

Still, I needed them absolutely, whether the outcome was good or bad. If my life were definitively taken away from me, they’d be the only good I had. If I were acquitted and released, they’d be the ones I’d return home to. The decision would affect us all.

Around my wrist I was wearing a star I’d crocheted. I wore it to every hearing—not as a good luck charm but as a personal emblem. I’d made the star and many more like it for my family, early in my imprisonment. The thread, once a pristine white, had dirtied over the years. The star was my humble attempt to create something new and beautiful from what little I had available to me.

Judge Hellmann and Assistant Judge Zanetti were there, along with the six jury members wearing their Italian-flag sashes. The Kerchers wouldn’t be there until later, for the verdict.

Raffaele spoke first, taking off his white Livestrong-type plastic bracelet reading “
libera amanda e raffaele
”—“
FREE AMANDA AND
RAFFAELE
.” It was a supporter bracelet made by my family. He said he’d worn it since our conviction. He held it up, an offering to the court in the hope that he wouldn’t need it anymore.

“I have never harmed anyone,” he said. “Never in my life.”

My turn came next. I was shaking so badly the judge asked if I wanted to sit down. I hadn’t eaten or slept in days, and tears came as soon as I started to speak. I was wringing my hands in front of me, pleading for my life.

“It was said many times that I’m a different person from the way I look. And that people cannot figure out who I am. I’m the same person I was four years ago. I’ve always been the same.

“The only difference is what I suffered in four years. I lost a friend in the most brutal, inexplicable way. My trust in the police has been betrayed. I had to face absolutely unjust charges, accusations, and I’m paying with my life for something that I did not do.

“Four years ago I was four years younger, but fundamentally I was younger, because I had never suffered . . . I didn’t know what tragedy was. It was something I would watch on television. That didn’t have anything to do me . . .

“I am not what they say I am. The perversion, the violence, the spite for life, aren’t a part of me. And I didn’t do what they say I did. I didn’t kill. I didn’t rape. I didn’t steal. I was not there. I wasn’t present at this crime . . .

“I want to go home. I want to go back to my life. I don’t want to be punished, deprived of my life and my future, for something I didn’t do. Because I am innocent. Raffaele is innocent. We deserve freedom. We didn’t do anything not to deserve it.

“I have great respect for this court, for the care shown during our trial. So I thank you.”

I sat down and silently sobbed. I’d never felt so small and insignificant. I was at the mercy of a court that had shown me no mercy for four horrible years.

Before the judge adjourned the trial, he warned the court, “This is not a soccer game, a terrible crime has occurred . . . now the lives of two young people hang in the balance . . . When the verdict is announced, I want no
tifoseria
—‘stadium behavior,’” he said. Then the judges and jury withdrew into chambers, and I was led from the courtroom.

Before being brought to the garage and locked in the prison van, I was allowed to hug my family in the back hallway. Raffaele was there, too, with his family. I asked him if he was nervous. “No,” he answered. But it was a very tentative-sounding no.

When I got back to Capanne, Don Saulo greeted me at the entrance to the women’s ward. “I’ve put everything off today to be with you,” he said, taking my hand. “My office is completely at your disposal.”

“Please, let’s go there now,” I said. Once there, I strummed the guitar and sang along to Mass songs that we both liked. Then we pulled out the keyboard, and I practiced the song I’d just learned—“Maybe Not,” by Cat Power.

Don Saulo took out a pocket tape recorder. “Just in case I don’t get to hear you sing again for a long time,” he said, smiling.

I sang the song again. Soothed by Don Saulo, my voice was steady.

The rest of the time, we sat across the desk from each other, talking. As he’d done so many times before, he held my hands—and as always, it gave me comfort.

Don Saulo’s parents had sent him to seminary when he was eleven. He’d been on his own most of his life.

“Are you lonely?” I asked. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked, but he always deflected the question.

This time, he answered. “Yes,” he said. “But I have God. It’s a fulfilling existence, but it’s also lonely. If you serve a certain purpose to humanity, humanity doesn’t always serve you back. In
seminario
they almost prepare you for that by being really formal, so you don’t get too connected to people. You’re not allowed to have special friends.”

“That makes me sad for you, but somehow you turned out to be such a strong, caring person.”

After a few minutes of silence, I said, “I’m so scared.”

This was not news to him.

“But I’m ready for whatever happens. I’ve thought it through. I’ve made lists. I’ve written my mom. I’m not going to let this destroy me.”

“I’m going to be praying for you,” he said, squeezing my hands, his cheeks wet. “I’m praying that you go home, Amanda. I hope I’ll never see you in prison again.”

“I’m really going to miss you if I’m freed.”

I’d allowed myself the tiniest shred of hope to say those words.

Don Saulo gave me a good-bye present: a small, silver flying dove on a thin chain. “The dove represents the Holy Spirit for my church,
Santo Spirito
, and it also represents freedom,” he explained.

Around 4
P.M.
, it was time for Don Saulo to leave. He hugged me for a long time. “I love you like a grandfather,” he said, holding me.

“I love you, too, Don Saulo.”

As I headed upstairs to my cell, an
agente
told me that Rocco and Corrado were waiting to see me. We detoured to the foyer of the women’s ward, where Comandante Fulvio, the head of the prison, was talking cheerfully with them. They were both smiling. “Where’ve you been?” Rocco cried teasingly.

“How are you feeling?” asked Corrado, steering me into a private office.

“Really nervous,” I said.

“We can understand your nerves,” said Corrado, “but everything has changed since before.”

“After your verdict, we’ve arranged for a car to pick you up from the prison,” Rocco said. “So you’re not swarmed by journalists.”

“We’ll both be here to take you to Rome,” Corrado said. “We’ve worked it out with your parents. We’re just finalizing the details with Fulvio.”

Their plans seemed wildly overconfident.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Amanda,” Corrado said, squeezing my hand tightly.

Back in my cell, Irina and I watched TV. Every channel showed a crowd gathering and hordes of journalists outside the courthouse waiting to be called in to hear the verdict. The reporters recapped the last four years. I liked watching them talk about how the appeal had turned to favor the defense due to the independent experts who had poked gaping holes in the key evidence. Some thought we would win; others disagreed. When the latter came on, I changed the channel.

I reminded myself that none of them really knew anything. After all, they were reporting that on the chance I was freed, my family had hired a private jet to fly me home. They wouldn’t have mentioned that rumor if they knew my parents were in no position financially to do such a thing.

It was about 8:30
P.M.
when the
agente
came to get me.

I shook the whole way to the courthouse. New hives seemed to appear at every turn of the van.

The holding cage at the courthouse felt like a brick oven. I could hear Raffaele fidgeting on the other side of the thick wall. A couple of times he asked if I was all right.

“Yes,” I said, my voice weak. My chest hurt. I was shivering uncontrollably. Violently, as if I had a fever of 105. I tried to take deep breaths. It didn’t work.

The guard holding my arm was a tall, sturdy blonde who wore baby-blue eye shadow to match her light blue uniform. I whimpered like a child as we headed upstairs. “
Shh, shh
,” she said. “It’s okay.”

Ashley and Delaney were standing by the courtroom door, just as they had at the end of the first trial. The blond
agente
and a young ponytailed brunette half-pulled me inside. I wasn’t ready to face the decision.

The courtroom had the feel of a carnival put on mute—an electric, unnatural silence emanated from so many varied bodies. The journalists were allowed to film the reading of the verdict, so there were flashing still cameras and TV cameras. Some journalists had hoisted themselves up on tall stands erected for this moment.

I didn’t see Meredith’s family coming in. I saw my family standing alert against the fence that ordinarily separated the journalists from the rest of the courtroom. They were smiling at me, but I could see the strain on their faces. I tried to smile back, but my face had frozen. I was pushed between my lawyers, who put their arms around me and tried to calm me. “Are you cold?” Luciano asked. He rubbed my shoulders, pulling me against him.

I didn’t want the judges and jury to come out.

I didn’t want to hear their words. I was too afraid they would condemn me.

The court secretary announced, “
La corte!
” and the court filed into position. The jury members looked steadily ahead, expressionless. Judge Hellmann began reading aloud. He started with the letter F, the charge for slander. I was pronounced guilty, and my sentence was raised from one year to three—time I’d already served.

I tried to hold off the terrible resurgence of fear that I’d be convicted on all charges. I had to focus to remember that I could be convicted for slander and not for murder, and I strained against the feeling of drowning until I knew what was coming.

People started muttering behind me, turning my nerves up another notch.

“For the charges prescribed in letters A, B, C, D, and E,” Judge Hellmann continued, “
La corte assolve gli imputati, per non aver commesso i fatti
”—“the defendants are acquitted by the court, for not having committed the acts.”

I’d been struggling for four years to reach the surface of the water. That first gasp of air was deep, heavy, sudden, and painful. But it was breath. It was life. It was freedom.

The crowd cheered. Some booed.

In the seconds before the guards rushed me out of the courtroom, Carlo, Luciano, and Maria hugged me. Then, in one step, I was out, down the stairs, crying, propelled by the guards, who guided my steps.

Waiting downstairs, I was still crying. Raffaele held my hand, saying, “But Amanda! It’s okay! We’re going home!”

One of the guards winked. “You’ve done well, little girl,” he said. “You won me my bet!”

Just before we were taken outside, I embraced Raffaele. “I’ll come see you in Seattle,” he said.

The guards helped me into the backseat of a regular police car. I buckled myself in and looked out the windows at the trees and cars lining the street. It was dark, but I wanted to see everything—just to see them—because I could. We raced through Perugia and into the countryside, sirens blaring—just like when I’d been taken to the prison the first time. This time I didn’t have my head down between my knees. This time the guards were smiling at me.

At Capanne, the paperwork had already come through from the courthouse. “It’s time to go,” the guards said. “Run upstairs quickly and grab your things.
Now
. Run.”

I ran through the hallway alone, up the stairs to the locked gate. As soon as I called out, “
Agente!
” for the guard to let me in, the hallway erupted in cheers. Women crowded in front of their gates to see me, thrusting their arms through the bars to touch me, to say good-bye. I touched their hands, a passing marathon runner.

Irina was at our cell door crying. We hugged. “Take care of yourself,” I said.

I picked up my bag, walked out of my cell for the last time, and ran back down the hall to shouts of “Amanda, Amanda.
Libertà! Libertà! Libertà!
”

Guards took me to the center building and gave me back my passport and money. I didn’t recognize my passport photo. It was a younger me, taken just before I’d left for Italy, before any of this had happened, a picture of the Amanda who’d left Seattle in a rush, excited to be in a new place, to discover herself as an adult in a new culture. I felt sad to see her. I wanted to say, “You have no idea what’s going to happen to you. I want to protect you.”