Waiting to Be Heard: A Memoir
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In March 2015, the Supreme Court of Italy exonerated Amanda Knox, author of the New York Times bestselling memoir Waiting To Be Heard. In an afterward to this newly issued paperback edition, Amanda updates readers on her life since 2011, introduces the individuals who helped her persevere as her case continued through the Italian courts, and shares her plans for helping others who have also been wrongfully convicted.
In November 2007, 20 year-old Amanda Knox had only been studying in Perugia, Italy, for a few weeks when her friend and roommate, British student Meredith Kercher, was murdered. The investigation made headlines around the world, and Amanda's arrest placed her at the center of a media firestorm. After an extremely controversial trial, she was convicted of murder in 2009. She spent four years in an Italian prison until a new court, which appointed independent experts to review the prosecution’s DNA evidence, affirmatively found her innocent in 2011. She returned home to Seattle, Washington.
But just when Amanda thought her legal nightmare had ended, it began all over again. In March 2013, Italy’s highest court annulled the acquittal and sent the case to the lower courts for further proceedings. Even though no new evidence was introduced against her, Amanda was found guilty and sentenced to 28½ years in prison in January, 2014. This decision was overturned by the Italian Supreme Court, which exonerated her of the murder charge.
In Waiting to Be Heard, Amanda speaks about what it was like to find herself imprisoned in a foreign country for a crime she did not commit, and how much she relied on the unwavering support of her family and friends, many of whom made extraordinary sacrifices on her behalf. Waiting to Be Heard is an unflinching, heartfelt coming-of-age narrative like no other—now with a new afterword, in which Amanda describes the heart-stopping final twists in her fight for freedom, and her hopes for the future.
It always worked with my mom when I handed her my letter. She’d open it right away, while I stood by. She almost always cried when she read it. She’d hug me and say, “Thank you! ” and assure me that everything was okay. That’s what I wanted to have happen now. Somehow the kindness from the nun and that embrace from Agente Lupa had encouraged me that it would. I believed it was only a matter of time before the police understood that I was trying to help them and I would be released. The guard would unlock the cell.
She demanded. Her panic was retriggering my own. “Filomena,” I said, as evenly as I could, “we’re just leaving Raffaele’s. ” Ten minutes later, when we reached the villa, my stomach was knotted with dread. “What if someone was in here? ” I said, feeling increasingly creeped out. Raffaele held my free hand while I unlocked the door. I yelled, “Is anyone here? ” At first nothing seemed amiss. The house was quiet, and the kitchen/living area was immaculate. I poked my head in Laura’s room. It looked fine, too.
That I went to Le Chic and he returned to his apartment. He said that I’d convinced him to lie. A bloody footprint allegedly compatible with Raffaele’s Nikes was found at our villa, and the pocketknife he carried on his beltloop was presumed to be compatible with the murder weapon. The judge’s report concluded that we “lost the appearance that [we] were persons informed about the facts and became suspects” when I confessed that Patrick had killed Meredith; that I wasn’t sure whether or not Raffaele was there but that I woke up the next morning in his bed.
Who’s Patrick? ” “My boss at Le Chic. ” “What about his text message? What time did you receive that? ” “I don’t know. You have my phone,” I said defiantly, trying to combat hostility with hostility. I didn’t remember that I’d deleted Patrick’s message. They said, “Why did you delete Patrick’s message? The text you have says you were going to meet Patrick. ” “What message? ” I asked, bewildered. I didn’t remember texting Patrick a return message. “This one! ” said an officer, thrusting the phone in my face and withdrawing it before I could even look.
Patrick looked at me blankly. “No, thank you,” I said, correcting myself. It turned out that working at Le Chic wasn’t nearly as easy or as straightforward as billed. In fact, it was bewildering. I didn’t always understand Patrick’s directions, especially over the pulsating music, and I had to rely on Juve to translate. It was hard to keep track of orders let alone customers, whom I could hardly expect to stand in one place all night. I couldn’t maneuver trays and had to hand-carry the full glasses two at a time.