Waiting To Be Heard - A Memoir Part 32

I said, "You were telling me these things. I was saying, 'I'm not sure. I'm confused.' "

This interrogation was becoming more and more like the one I'd meant to correct. It wasn't a do-over at all. Mignini would ask a question, and when I answered, he would reject my response and ask again. He was trying to intimidate me, spewing words at me.

Luciano and Carlo were leaning forward in their seats.

"Where did the name Patrick come up?" Mignini demanded.

"From my cell phone," I said. "Because I'd texted a message to Patrick. I wrote, 'See you later.' "

"What did you mean by your message?"

"In English, it means 'Goodbye. See you later, as in sometime.' It's not like making an appointment to see someone. And I wrote, 'Buona serata'-'Have a good evening.' I had no plans to meet up with him."

"Why did you erase Patrick's message?"

"I sometimes erased the messages I received. I didn't have enough memory in my cell phone to keep them."

"Why did you say you didn't remember writing that message?"

"Because I didn't remember."

"Why did you name Patrick?"

"The police insisted I'd met the person I had sent the text message to."

"No. Why did you name Patrick?"

"The police had been asking me about Patrick."

"No! Why did you name Patrick?"

"The police insisted it was Patrick."

He was more and more aggressive about it. "Why Patrick?"

"Because of my message."

"That doesn't explain why Patrick."

"Yes, it does."

"Why did you say Patrick killed her?"

"Because I was confused. Because I was under pressure."

"NO!" he insisted. "Why did you say Patrick?"

I was more frustrated than I'd ever been. "Because I thought it could have been him!" I shouted, starting to cry.

I meant that I'd imagined Patrick's face and so I had really, momentarily, thought it was him.

Mignini jumped up, bellowing, "Aha!"

I was sobbing out of frustration, anger.

My lawyers were on their feet. "This interrogation is over!" Luciano shouted, swiping his arm at the air.

Carlo and Luciano sat me down and huddled around me, saying, "It's okay, Amanda, it's okay. You did a good job, and we'll talk about it the next time we come."

Then a guard walked me out. I was sobbing hysterically. I had done my best to explain everything, and I had failed completely.

As he left, Mignini apparently told waiting reporters that I hadn't explained anything or said anything new. All I did, he said, was cry.

That day changed everything for me. I understood that the prosecution's goal was not about trying to find out who had killed Meredith. I was left with the horrible certainty that I'd made a mistake and there was nothing I could do to fix it. There was nothing I could do that would make any difference to the prosecutor. In Mignini's hands, everything was distorted and bent to seem like more evidence of my guilt, and I was devastated.

Back in my cell, the Italian news channel was replaying a scene from the previous weekend, of Meredith's family, dressed in black, walking into her funeral service in England. I knew about the funeral from Don Saulo, and my spirit had been with Meredith all that day. As I watched her heartbroken family, I could only think, With all I'm going through, I'm the lucky one.

Chapter 21

JanuaryMay 2008

Clutching a garbage bag stuffed with my clothes and books, I stood at the gate of my third cell in nine weeks. The agente cranked the key in the lock and pulled. "What do you think this is?" she sneered. "A hotel?"

"No," I said, knowing that she saw my relocation requests as diva behavior.

I'd asked for the changes for solid reasons. My first cellmate, Gufa, had been erratic and difficult to live with. My next cellmates were three middle-aged gossips who criticized my cooking and cleaning. They called me a sn.o.b because I liked to read and write. "What good are your studies now, when you'll be spending the rest of your life in prison?" one asked.

They gave me a nickname: Principessa sul Pisello-the "Princess on the Pea." The reference to the fairy-tale t.i.tle was a two-sided jab: pisello is a colloquialism for "p.e.n.i.s," a reference to my supposed s.e.xual depravity.

Now I was moving in with Cera. Young, with the tall, lean looks of a model, she worked as a portavito, delivering meals from a rolling cart. She was also in my weekly guitar cla.s.s, another prison "rehabilitation" activity like movie time. But I was still secluded from the main prison population-a special status to protect young, first-time suspects. The downside was that it prevented me from partic.i.p.ating in group activities or talking to anyone but my cellmates. Thankfully, Don Saulo convinced prison officials to let me attend the guitar lessons, just as he had weekly Ma.s.s.

One Wednesday, as Cera and I walked back to our cells from our lesson, I asked, "Would you be willing to let me live with you? We're around the same age and we both study. I could help you with your English."

She waited a few beats before saying, "Sure. I'll write a request tonight."

Cera had managed to make her cell homey, clean, and organized. There were bright colored sheets on the beds, postcards taped to the walls, and a colorful curtain tied to the bars at the window. We had a heart-to-heart talk while I unpacked. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed closest to the window. "I should probably tell you right off, I'm bis.e.xual," she said.

"That's cool," I replied. "I'm not, but I'm definitely live-and-let-live."

"You're not my type, anyway," she said. "I thought you might be gay when you asked to live with me, but I decided you weren't." She hesitated. "You know, your former cellmates said you're spoiled."

Wow. Why hadn't I realized they would trash me behind my back? They gossiped about everyone else. Cera read my disappointment. "They're fake. Almost everyone in prison is fake. You'll see."