Waiting to Be Heard by Amanda Knox

Author:Amanda Knox
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, pdf
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2013-04-30T16:00:00+00:00

As the date for the interrogation approached, Luciano and Carlo offered me a few pointers. “Don’t let him get to you. Don’t say anything if you don’t remember it perfectly. It’s okay to say, ‘I don’t remember.’ You don’t have to be God and know everything. It’s better to say, ‘I don’t know,’ and move on.”

I was a jumble of emotions—­eager to set the prosecutor and the public straight on who I really was and nervous about putting myself out there. But the night before Interrogation Day, my nerves overtook my excitement. I couldn’t eat much of the pizza my roommates and I made for dinner on our camp stove. I turned and tossed most of the night, thinking about what I wanted to tell the prosecutor. As I was being escorted to the prison compound’s center building at 10 A.M. the next day, I was humming my prison anthem, “Let It Be,” trying to calm some of my jitters.

The meeting took place in the same makeshift courtroom as my hearing to confirm my arrest five weeks earlier. The setting wasn’t that much more pleasant than the questura office where Mignini had interrogated me the first time. Separate tables for the defense and the prosecution faced each other from opposite sides of the small, dim, bare room, with two barred windows set close to the ceiling so no one could see in or out.

The tension was instantly obvious. Mignini was sitting at his table with two police officers. Like Carlo and Luciano, he was wearing a black robe. The three men had come ready for a fight. I felt awkward and out of place, as though I’d stepped into the middle of a feud that had nothing to do with me.

But I was the reason for the feud—­and the only person who could set things right.

I stood near Carlo and Luciano with an interpreter, waiting for Mignini to give me permission to speak. That never came. Instead of asking what I had to say, he started firing questions at me immediately.

What has stuck with me the most is that he never looked me in the eye. He stared down at the paper in his hand, on which his questions were written out. It’s as if I didn’t merit the effort it would have taken to look up.

“Do you have any Spanish friends?” he asked—­Rudy Guede said he hung out with Spanish friends on Halloween.

I was calm and assertive. “No,” I answered.

“What’s the meaning behind your name Foxy Knoxy?”

“It’s just a nickname,” I said.

“But what is the meaning behind it?”

“There is no meaning behind it. It’s a play on my last name, Knox. My soccer teammates started calling me that as a teenager.”

“Why do you use it to identify yourself?”

“I don’t. I don’t introduce myself as ‘Foxy Knoxy.’ ”

“Did you have problems with Meredith?”

“No. We didn’t know each other long, but we were friends.”

“Do you know Rudy Guede?”

“I met him,” I said, “but I didn’t remember his name until he was arrested.

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