Waiting To Be Heard - A Memoir Part 62

When Mom and I finished embracing, we clung to each other's hands as if for dear life. It had been years since I had seen her anywhere but in the prison visitation room and the courthouse. It almost seemed like the setting couldn't be real-more like a revolving two-dimensional backdrop on a stage.

I wasn't used to being in different environments anymore. Indeed, in retrospect, I think my memories of the four years I spent in prison are so clear precisely because the background never changed. It was always the same echoing hallway; the same bleached cells; the same desolate yard; the same dark, windowless innards of the prison van; the same bright, crowded courtroom. These settings served as the blank piece of paper upon which the changes in character and feeling were more starkly revealed.

These completely new things-a changing, moving landscape; a car with windows; my mother; my freedom-were overwhelmingly overstimulating. I was bouncing up and down in my seat with pent-up excitement. I hadn't felt so much energy in years-not within the prison, in which I'd so often felt lethargic because of my sadness and the emptiness of purpose I tried so hard to fill on my own.

I wanted to know how the family was, how everyone had reacted, where everyone was, if we would be able to meet up with them soon.

Mom, still crying, told me that as soon as the verdict was p.r.o.nounced, everyone burst into tears and started hugging. "Of course," she said, "getting out of there was a mess. The journalists were going crazy, pushing each other over to try to get interviews. Your sister made a beautiful statement outside the courthouse. You'd be so proud of her."

I was proud of her.

"Do you want to call them?" Mom asked, excitedly offering her BlackBerry to me.

I didn't hesitate a moment, but I fumbled with the device, unable to make it work. I couldn't figure out how to get to the contacts.

"It's touch-screen, honey." Mom laughed. She scrolled through the phone. I hadn't picked up a cell phone in years, and never a touch-screen. This device was as good as sci-fi to me. But more than that, I was struck by how automatic it was to place a simple call. In prison, I had had to make a request a week ahead of time, ask to be allowed into the booth when the time came, wait for the prison official listening in to place the call, and say as much as I could in the ten minutes before the same official dropped the line. I recognized the names on the contact list my mom was scrolling through. I could now call any one of them, and talk for however long I wanted!

"Who do you want to call first?" she asked me.

I ended up spending the rest of the ride to Rome making call after call, to family and friends both back home and in Italy. I squealed loudly into the mouthpiece, too excited to keep my voice calm and the volume appropriate for the interior of a car.

By the time we pulled off the highway and into Rome, the paparazzi had long since lost our trail. I looked out the windows to view the city through the darkness, but my eyes kept falling on Mom, who was still clutching my hand and touching my cheeks. We drove through the streets, finally pulling up in front of an old town house on a street of town houses.

Steve got out of the car and surveyed the empty street before motioning us to follow. In the meantime, Corrado and the driver unloaded our bags. "We'll be back tomorrow to take you to the airport," Corrado said, smiling.

"Thank you so much for doing this," I said, hugging him.

"Are you kidding? I haven't felt so much excitement in a long time."

Steve led Mom and me up into the town house, where our host, a quiet, older man-a supporter of both mine and Raffaele's-greeted us with gestures more than words. He pinched my cheeks and showed us upstairs into his tight quarters-Mom and I would sleep on a foldout bed in the study; Steve on a cot in the kitchen. The rest of my family was staying in a hotel.

Mom and I put our bags down and headed for the bathroom together. I was carrying the toothbrush I had used in prison, but then remembered the insistence of my fellow prisoners that I was to break it and throw it away, to sever my last bonds with the prison and ensure that I wouldn't return. "Do you have an extra toothbrush?" I asked Mom.

"Of course. Let me go get it."

When she had gone, I wrenched at the toothbrush, managing to bend the handle. Good enough. I flung it in the trash.

Mom returned with a new toothbrush for me, and toothpaste, which we both shared. It was strange, to stand there brushing our teeth together, and made even more awkward precisely because we couldn't say anything with our mouths full. We met each other's eyes instead, arching our eyebrows up in recognition. This was like home again.

Mom was exhausted and crawled into bed immediately. But that first night, I couldn't sleep. My heart was still pounding. I wasn't remotely tired. I got up and slowly walked around the study, trying to read the t.i.tles of the books cramping the shelves around the walls. It was surreal to be in a place like this, when only hours before I had been sitting on my bed in prison, quivering with nerves and uncertainty.

I listened to Mom sighing in her deep sleep the entire night as I sat in an armchair, staring out the window until it became light. This isn't prison, I marveled to myself. This isn't prison!

Just after sunrise Steve was up and dressed, gathering our baggage in the foyer. He asked how I'd slept.

"Not at all!" I replied cheerfully.

Our host returned from his morning errand, offering us pastries and espresso. I gulped down the coffee and some water, but couldn't eat. I wasn't hungry. He then offered me the morning paper, tears in his soft eyes.

The front page showed a large, zoomed-in picture of me being escorted from the courtroom after the p.r.o.nouncement of the verdict, my face contorted by crying. Oh G.o.d, I thought.

"You're so photogenic," Steve wisecracked.

We barely had time to gulp down the espres...o...b..fore Corrado and the same driver from the evening before pulled up outside. After a long, reflective night, the rush was starting again. We said a quick good-bye to our host, who embraced us all with more strength than I would have expected from him.

We had some time before we needed to be at the airport, so we decided to stop by my family's hotel. Steve thought it would be a good idea if I changed clothes. "No offense. You look nice," he said, "but the paparazzi are looking for you in that outfit. We'll have a better chance of avoiding drawing attention to ourselves if you can borrow something from Madison or your sister."

It was early enough that when we pulled up outside the hotel there wasn't yet any movement around the building or in the lobby. Steve got out of the car first and looked around furtively. "We shouldn't stay here long," he said. "The paparazzi will have followed us here."

I pulled the hood of my coat up over my face and quickly approached the entrance to the lobby. I put down my hood and walked quickly toward the elevators with Mom and Steve, trying to look casual. Just then, a photo of me came up on the large-screen TV in the lobby, announcing my release from prison. I was still wearing the same clothes. We raced to the family's rooms, where we quickly greeted, squealing; and I changed clothes. Then we were off again.

Corrado had arranged for us to wait in the airport's VIP Lounge, and for even more than that. We drove in through a side entrance to the airport, went through private security, and, when we finally had to come out to face the public, had an escort through the airport hallways. We were a large group, walking quickly through the various terminals. But airport security surrounded Corrado, Mom, Steve, and me all the way to the lounge. In the meantime, people took out their iPhones and took pictures. I embraced Corrado.

My family gathered in the lounge. I ordered my first legitimate cappuccino in years, as I explained to my baffled little sisters how, in prison, to create foam for a cappuccino, we'd pour boiling hot milk into an empty two-liter bottle and shake it furiously. It never worked all that well.

Chris and a supporter who worked for the airline had secured us three business-cla.s.s seats, so that I would be safe to relax on the plane, and family could be up there with me. Many journalists had managed to book last-minute seats on the flight, but the flight attendants, alerted to our situation, kept them from approaching the upstairs part of the plane.

Once on the plane, Deanna and I giggled together like little girls, poking at each other across the armrest. She fell asleep, but I still couldn't even doze. I was wired. I spent a lot of time catching up in my mind with what had happened to me so far, since my acquittal. Everything was different. Everything was not prison. I had viewed the same countryside for years without ever seeing anything else, and now I could open my window shade and watch the clouds foam beneath us. The flight attendants were smiling and considerate. I watched Deanna sleep, curled up awkwardly even in roomy business cla.s.s. Chris was across the aisle.

I searched for something to watch on the video screen on the seatback in front of me, and came upon a news report about my case. I felt myself go numb. This was a British report, and I was suddenly reminded of how big this was, of how many people knew about this and were following what was happening. I watched myself being led from the courtroom after my acquittal, and immediately my chest tightened. I took off Chris's headphones and turned off the channel, struggling to breathe.

About an hour before we were due to arrive in Seattle, Mom came up from coach to switch seats with Deanna. She brought with her little notes from journalists on the plane. "They all seem very supportive," Mom said, after we read the notes together. All were congratulatory in nature, and all were requests for interviews.

The sight of coming down over Seattle jacked my heart rate up again. I plastered myself against the window, almost in disbelief at how familiar the view was. It was so familiar that, for a brief moment, it felt as if I hadn't been gone so long after all, as if my life hadn't been irrevocably changed.

But after the plane had landed, it was back to the crazy rush and the new reality of the present. Coming out of the doorway of the plane, I was. .h.i.t immediately by the smell-the wet earthiness of Seattle, especially in the fall, which was so completely different from the way Perugia smelled at any time of the year. I breathed in deeply. It was the first thing that truly made me realize I was home.

Our group was allowed to exit the plane first, and down onto the tarmac, where two large black vans were waiting for us. The vans drove us to a private area, where we were greeted by Seattle police officers. My heart clenched uncomfortably for a moment, but they smiled. They were there at our service, to escort us.

There, I met David Marriott and Ted Simon for the first time. David helped my family handle the media, and Ted gave my family legal counsel. I recognized them both immediately, from the descriptions of them my family had pieced together for me. David looked like Santa Claus. He smiled and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me up against his belly, his voice joyful. "It's so good to finally meet you!" he cheered. Ted looked like a smartly attired, wily fox. He had thick, wavy gray locks and was wearing impressive black cowboy boots with his well-fitting suit. We also embraced, and he spoke energetically. "It's such an honor! How're y'doing? How y'feel? It's so great!"

David and Ted explained that there was a press conference about to happen outside. Ted and my parents were going to say a few words and take questions. "Now, if you think you can do it, you may also give the press a little something to sit on," David said. "Then maybe they'll be more inclined to leave you in peace for a while. Something like that?"

I felt it was the right thing to do. We walked through the doors and onto a dais that had been set up in front of a bank of cameras. My imprisonment and release from prison had never been a private affair. I gathered myself, feeling that I would be able to pull through without getting choked up.

I had expected to confront the same sort of impersonal cameras I had shied away from in the courtroom. Instead I was received with cheers. I was blown away by the show of support.

I said what first came to mind, often pausing to try to think of what to say next.

"My family is reminding me to speak in English, because I'm having problems with that. I'm really overwhelmed right now. I was looking down from the airplane and it seemed like everything wasn't real. What's important for me to say is just thank you to everyone who has believed in me, who has defended me, who's supported my family ... My family is the most important thing to me right now, and I just want to go and be with them, so, thank you for being there for me."

I couldn't stay focused, and ended up backing off from the dais. I could have said so much more about the many lives forever marked by the events of the past four years. I wish I had said something about Meredith and her family. I wish that I had expressed things more eloquently. But I had been unprepared. I was unprepared for my freedom. I was unprepared for how unfamiliar this all felt.

And still, I was home.