Kercher Meredith - Waiting to be heard: a memoir

For my family.

Contents

December 4, 2009, Perugia, Italy

PERUGIA

AprilAugust 2007, Seattle, USA

August 30September 1, 2007, Italy

September 2007, Perugia, Italy

October 2007

October 25November 1, 2007

Morning, November 2, 2007, Day One

Afternoon, November 2, 2007, Day One

November 3, 2007, Day Two

November 4, 2007, Day Three

November 5, 2007, Day Four

Morning, November 6, 2007, Day Five

Evening, November 6, 2007, Day Five

November 7, 2007

November 89, 2007

CAPANNE I

November 1013, 2007

November 914, 2007

November 1516, 2007

November 2007

November 1829, 2007

December 2007

JanuaryMay 2008

JuneSeptember 2008

September 18October 28, 2008

OctoberDecember 2008

JanuaryMarch 2009

MarchJuly 2009

September 1October 9, 2009

October 10December 4, 2009

December 4, 2009

CAPANNE II

December 2009October 2010

NovemberDecember 2010

December 11, 2010June 29, 2011

June 29, 2011

June 30October 2, 2011

October 3, 2011

October 34, 2011

December 4, 2009

Perugia, Italy

I walked into the ancient Perugian courtroom, where centuries of verdicts had been handed down, praying that a tradition of justice would give me protection now. I glanced at the large crucifix on the wall, crowning the judges seat. Blue-capped guards surrounded me, propelling me forward. The room was packed with police officers, lawyers, and journalists, but it was unnervingly quiet. I saw familymy mom, dad, stepmom, stepdad, my sister Deannastanding over to one side, mouthing, I love you, I love you. My other sisters were too young to be allowed in the courtroom, but they were waiting for me just on the other side of the double doors.

The injustice was finallyalmostover.

Four minutes after midnight a bell rang once, and the court secretary announced, La corte . The judges, wearing black robes, and the jury, draped with the green, white, and red of the Italian flag, came somberly through the chamber door. They looked stubbornly above and beyond our expectant faces as they walked to their places. I was standing between my two Italian lawyers, gripping the hand of the bigger man, the one who had told me again and again over all these months, Courage, Amanda, we need you to have courage. We will do the rest.

I took in a deep breath as the judge lifted the paper and began reading the articles on which I was being tried, quietly, monotonously.

Someone behind me wailed, No! a second before I heard the judge pronounce, Colpevole Guilty. Trembling, I slumped into my lawyer, who put his thick arm around me and pushed my face into his chest. Blood was pounding in my ears. I kept moaning, No, no, no. I thought, This is impossible, this is impossible, this is a nightmare, this cant be true, its not fair, its not fair. People were everywhere, shouting for or against me. Hands reached out to me, touched meI didnt know whom they belonged to. Over all the noise and confusion, I could hear my sister and mother sobbing.

My legs couldnt support me. The guards held me up by my armpits and carried me, crumpled, out of the courtroom. In the chaos of my shattered world, I never heard the judge sentence me: Twenty-six years.

Done. It was done.

AprilAugust 2007

Seattle, USA

M om sat next to me in our favorite tall-back booth. Dad slid in across from us. Whats this about? he asked.

I couldnt believe the three of us were actually doing this.

Eating salads with my parents doesnt sound like a big deal, but it was for me. Im sure that for them it was hugely uncomfortable. I was nineteen, and as far back as I could remember Id never seen my parents sit at the same table, much less share a meal. I was a year old and my mom was pregnant with my sister Deanna when she and my dad split up. They had rarely talked to each other since, even on the phone. Proof of how much they both loved me was this reunion at the Eats Market Caf in West Seattle. Mom picked at her fingernails. Dad was businesslike. All smiles were for me.

The biggest testament to my parents love for Deanna and me was how theyd handled their divorce. They bought houses two blocks apart to give us the benefits of a two-parent family and the gift of never feeling pulled between them. I never once heard either criticize the other. But they were invisible to each other, whether separated by two blocks or two rows at a school play. At soccer games, both cheered on the sidelines buffered by a line of other parents.

The permanent divide meant that when I had news to tell I always had to do it twice. Bringing my parents together this one time was my way of saying: this is the most important decision of my life so far. It was a drumroll to let them know that I was ready to be on my own.

As always, I had gone to my mom first. Shes a free spirit who believes we should go where our passions lead us. When I told her mine were leading me 5,599 miles away from home, to Perugia, Italy, for my junior year of college, her unsurprising response was Go for it!

Mom was born in Germany and moved to Seattle as a child, and my grandmother, Oma, often spoke German to Deanna and me when we were growing up. It wasnt until my freshman year in college that I realized I had a knack for languages and started playing around with the idea of becoming a translator. Or, if only, a writer. When it came time to decide where to spend my junior year, I thought hard about Germany. But ultimately I decided to find a language and a country of my ownone my family hadnt already claimed. I was sure that would help me become my grown-up selfwhoever that was.

Germany would have been the safer choice, but safety didnt worry me. I was preoccupied by independence. I trusted my sense of responsibility, even if I sometimes made emotional choices instead of logical onesand sometimes they were wrong.

If I really wanted to become a translator, Spanish or French would have been a more practical choice than Italian. But everyone took Spanish, and I didnt feel connected to French. My fascination with Italian culture went back to middle school, when I studied Latin and learned about Roman and Italian history. I loved Italy even more when I was fourteen and saw it close up, on a two-week trip with my mom and her family. My Oma, aunts, uncles, stepdad, Deanna, and I piled into two minivans and drove through Germany and Austria to visit relatives and celebrate Oktoberfest in Munich before heading south into Italy, to see Pisa, Rome, Naples, Pompeii, and the Amalfi Coast. The history Id studied became real when we visited the Coliseum and the ruins of Pompeii. I remember pointing out things to my family and babbling about factoids Id stored away, so much so that they nicknamed me the tour guide. I was charmed by the narrow, cobblestone streets and the buildings rooted into the earth that were so different from what I was used to in Seattle. It was a month and a half after 9/11, and all the Italians we met were warm and sympathetic. I came away thinking Italy was a welcoming, culturally and historically rich country.

As a sophomore in college, I signed up for Italian 101. Then, when I found out that the University of Washington hosted a summer creative writing program in Rome, taught in Italian, it felt like kismet. It combined everything I was looking for. Step one was to master Italian and immerse myself in the culture for nine months in tiny Perugia. Then Id be ready to take on Rome in June.