Waiting To Be Heard - A Memoir Part 25

It is only recently that my mom confessed how wrenching our reunion was for her. Her words were barely coherent-just a rush of feeling: "Walking out of the prison without you that first time and many other times afterward was the hardest walking ever in my life-torture."

Three days later, my mom and dad came to colloquio-visiting hour-together. I remember thinking, when I walked in and saw them, Things must really be bad if Dad's here.

By then it wasn't as if I hadn't realized how much trouble I was in. But to see my father there added to the shock. I wasn't accustomed to having him involved in the nitty-gritty of my life.

My arrest had obviously shaken him. He seemed more tentative than I was used to. He didn't cry when I walked in, but he choked up and held me for a long time before letting go. He kept clearing his throat. His eyes were strained and red.

This was Dad's first trip outside the United States and the second time the three of us had sat down at a table together. I was a child again. My parents were making major decisions for me-and I knew the $4,800 I had left in the bank couldn't make up for the cost of two last-minute tickets from Seattle to Rome and the bills I was sure the lawyers were beginning to rack up.

My imprisonment didn't change the dynamic between Mom and Dad. They didn't suddenly seem like close friends. They didn't show affection for each other. They both focused on me. But it made me swell with love for my parents to see that even though they were marked by their failed marriage, they were able to create a united front. They'd arranged this visit together. They were talking to Luciano and Carlo together. Inside an impersonal prison-stark white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting, a gray metal filing cabinet, and a cartoon drawing of Umbria-with a guard watching the clock, our time together didn't feel nearly as forced as our lunch at that cafe in Seattle. The three of us were sitting on the same side of the table, our chairs squeezed as close together as possible. I was in the middle, with each parent gripping one of my hands.

Capanne made eight hours available for visitors each month-on Tuesdays and Sat.u.r.days-but the prison allowed each prisoner only six visits. This infuriated my parents, who wanted to be there each time the prison was open to outsiders. It made me crazy, too. Eventually Carlo and Luciano were able to arrange eight colloqui a month, and sometimes nine, by pleading with the prison authorities that my family had to come so far to see me. Even with the b.u.mped-up hours, the amount of time I was able to spend with the people I loved was such a tiny fraction of the thousands of hours I was locked up, trapped among strangers.

What my family ultimately managed to do for me, while living nearly six thousand miles away, was incredible. I'm sure I had more support than most of the inmates, including the ones who grew up down the street from Capanne. There was hardly a time that someone-Mom, Dad, or Chris-wasn't there, unless they'd arranged for an aunt, uncle, or friend to sub in.

There was nothing pleasant in it for them. They rented a tiny apartment in the countryside, about ten miles away from Capanne, left their spouses and my sisters, put their lives on hold, and took turns staying in Italy for weeks at a time. They didn't speak the language or know another soul. They came to Perugia for one reason: to see me for one hour, two times a week.

Without them, I think I would have had a complete breakdown. I would not have been able to survive my imprisonment.

Before my parents left together that first time, Mom grasped my hands again, leaned toward me, and, tears br.i.m.m.i.n.g, said urgently, "Amanda, I'd do anything to take your place. Your job now is to take care of yourself. I'm worried for you being here."

Her words underscored what we all knew: that while my parents had my back, they couldn't take care of me from day to day. I had to navigate prison alone. For other prisoners, the key to survival was to find someone to bond with, and that person would protect you and guide you through. But there was no one like me, no one I could confide in, no one whom I could trust to take me under her wing.

Chapter 16

November 914, 2007

The best part of my day was the few seconds between waking and remembering. During that moment, with my eyes not yet open, I was in my cozy lemon yellow room at Mom's house in Seattle. I was happy.

Then I'd remember that I was locked in a cold cell where the radiators were turned on for only a few hours a day. And panic would overtake me. How can I be in prison? How can I be accused of something so horrible? It seems impossible. Yet here I am.

Getting up, I'd look out the barred window and envy the rabbits hopping across the empty, dank fields. I wasn't even exactly sure where Capanne was-all I knew was that it was somewhere between Perugia and Rome.

Some days I felt as if I were in limbo, because I wasn't able to connect to the real world. I was adrift. Mom and Dad were my anchors, and I measured time by their visits. Two days until they're here. Four days until they can come back.

In spite of all that had happened, I believed that the police, the prosecutor, a judge-some official-would look at the facts and realize how wrong they'd been. They'd be jolted by the obvious: that I was incapable of murder. Surely someone would see that there was no evidence. My belief that my imprisonment was temporary was all that kept me from being overwhelmed. I guess my faith in eventual justice is what psychologists call a coping mechanism.

In the days after Meredith's death I'd insisted on staying in Perugia. Back then, going home meant defeat. But my wants flipped with my arrest. Now the only thing that mattered was to reclaim my life in Seattle. I considered what I would do once my ordeal was over-how I'd rebuild myself, whether I'd live with Mom or find a place of my own, whether I'd go back to school or get a job, how much I wanted to reunite with the people I loved.

I was determined not to settle in at Capanne. I saw that as a victory for the officials who thought I was guilty. I told myself I'd leave no trace of having been there; I'd carry out only what I'd carried in-a lesson my family had taught me when we went camping. In my mind, I was camping. This is no more permanent than a week in the mountains, I told myself. My only possessions were the few impersonal supplies that came in the garbage bag I was handed the first night and a few utilitarian items from the nuns' closet-sheets and a stiff bath towel. I was determined to make do. The idea of getting comfortable was terrifying.

Mom begged me to tell her what I needed. "To leave this place," I said. But knowing I couldn't, I asked for a couple of pairs of underwear and a few T-s.h.i.+rts.

A guard gave me an order form for groceries and other basics-ranging from salt to sewing needles-and a libretto, an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch piece of paper folded in half with a handwritten spreadsheet inside to track what I spent. I had two hundred euros-about three hundred dollars-in my prison account from the purse/book bag they'd impounded upon my arrival. The order form was divided into three columns for the name of the item, the code number, and the quant.i.ty. Gufa badgered me to buy her a camp stove and a coffeemaker, but I refused to order so much as a carton of milk. I'd be gone before it reached its expiration date.

Getting me out of jail was the first priority whenever I talked to Carlo and Luciano. Their take was that when the media frenzy died down in a couple of weeks, a judge would probably put me under house arrest, either with my family or in a religious community. Then, when the prosecution saw they had no evidence against me, they would let me go.

As the days crept by, though, I renegotiated my deal with myself. Amanda, you're going to need a few things. Buying won't mean you're staying.

I filled in the columns for a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a hairbrush.

A few days later a short, thin young woman dressed as an adolescent-in jeans, a sweats.h.i.+rt, and Miss Piggy sneakers-brought me my order, pa.s.sing it through the meal slot in the bars. One of the items completely baffled me. "No, no," I said, realizing what it was. "I want it for the hair."

"Oh," she said. She laughed good-naturedly and showed the guard my mistake. I was mortified, as I always was, when my ignorance tripped me up.

In filling out the order form, I'd requested a men's shaving brush-a spazzola da barba-instead of a spazzola per i capelli.

"Don't worry, I'll see if I can exchange it," she offered.

"Thank you," I said. "You're so kind to prisoners."

She laughed heartily this time and caught Lupa's eye. "Fanta is a prisoner," Lupa explained to me. "All the workers you see are prisoners."

It wasn't just the language that threw me. Almost every aspect of life at Capanne was foreign. (The garbage bag I'd been given upon my arrival hadn't come with a prison "user's manual.") Gufa quickly nicknamed me "Bimba"-"little girl." She said it in a playful way, but at the same time it underscored how clueless I was.

I was at the mercy of my jailers. I had no idea what to antic.i.p.ate or how to act. What should my relations.h.i.+p with other prisoners, guards, prison officials, be? How open could I-or should I-be and with whom? As nave as I now realize this was, when guards and prison officials, psychologists and doctors, asked me about myself, I didn't know if I was allowed to keep my thoughts private or if I always had to tell them exactly what was on my mind.

I wondered about the basic rhythm of things. How was I supposed to wash my clothes? How did I perform the essential routines of daily life? And whom should I ask? I found out that in order to get an appointment with the prison comandante, to buy anything that wasn't on the grocery list, to switch out clothing or books in the storage room, to get a prison job, to pa.s.s your belongings on to another prisoner, to change cells-for nearly everything-you had to fill out a domandina, to ask permission.

No one explained to me how anything worked unless I made a mistake. When my family brought me a puffy ski jacket, I found out that padded material was off-limits, apparently because drugs could be hidden inside. Many items were on the "No" list for this reason. Among them: comforters, soft cheese, homemade cookies, and some types of b.u.t.tons. Even nutmeg was forbidden. Apparently, when eaten in large quant.i.ties or smoked, it can make people drunk or high. Gloves were allowed only if the fingers had been cut off. When I got mail, a guard would bring the envelope to my door and open it in front of me. She always tore the stamps off my letters-drugs could be glued on the back-and gave the letters to me page by excruciating page. If I wanted the envelope, it had to be checked first for poison, razors, and, of course, drugs.

During the first month, I found out that most agenti kept an emotional distance from prisoners. Many would ask you about yourself but would never tell you their name or anything about their lives outside prison. One day, when a guard called Rossa was walking me upstairs from a visit with the doctor, I asked her, "Are you having a good day?"

"You need to stop kidding yourself and acting like we're friends," she snapped. "I'm an agente, and you're a prisoner. You need to behave like one. I'm doing you a favor by warning you."

I felt my face go red, humiliated by the reality of my situation.

One of the few things that didn't upset me was Capanne's clockwork consistency-coffee, tea, or milk at 7:30 A.M., lunch at 11:45 A.M., dinner at 5:45 P.M. The routine helped the days blur together and the waiting go faster.

But time stretches in prison. I was awake at least sixteen tedious, empty hours a day-with few options for filling them. I tried to block out my claustrophobia with reading, writing, and sit-ups. Lupa had rummaged through the prison book closet to bring me Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire in Italian, along with an Italian grammar book, and a dictionary. I still cared about learning Italian, even then, and I spent hours looking up definitions and diagramming each sentence into subject and predicate. Anything that made me feel purposeful gave me emotional comfort, and it was psychologically essential for me to find a silver lining in my imprisonment. Later, learning Italian became more about self-defense and survival: I had to speak Italian if I wanted to communicate and, ultimately, defend myself.

Early on, I started keeping a journal, which I t.i.tled "Il mio diario del prigione"-"My Prison Diary"-on the cover:

My friend was murdered. My roommate, my friend. She was beautiful, smart, fun, and caring and she was murdered. Everyone I know is devastated for her, but we are also all at odds. We are angry. We want justice. But against who? We all want to know, but we all don't ...

Now there's the sound of women wailing through bars and the sounds of wheels of the medicine carts rolling down the hard floors of the echoing halls.

November 2007

But I spent most of my time sitting on my bed wondering what was happening beyond the sixty-foot-high walls topped with coiled razor wire. What were my parents and family and friends doing and thinking? What was happening with the investigation? How long would it take to examine the forensic evidence that would clear me?

Underneath every thought there was a bigger, louder one looping through my head. How could I have been so weak when I was interrogated? How did I lose my grip on the truth? Why didn't I stand up to the police? I'd failed myself, Meredith, Patrick, Raffaele.

Just about the only relief from the excruciating boredom and relentless self-criticism was pa.s.seggio, the hour a day I got to leave my cell and exercise outdoors. Because I was still separated from the prison population, and Gufa didn't take full advantage of her exercise periods, I didn't realize that other prisoners could go outside twice a day for two hours at a time. Even if they didn't want to work out, it was an opportunity to socialize that I didn't have.