Angel Face_ Sex, Murder and the Inside Story of Amanda Knox - Barbie Latza Nadeau [37]
Amanda stares forward as the jury turns to see her reaction. One of her lawyers, Luciano Ghirga, put his arm around her. The other, Carlo Dalla Vedova, touches her hand. “It was all a lie that marked his destiny,” continues Pacelli, his face turning red. “It was ruthless defamation that destroyed Patrick as a man, husband and father.” As Pacelli builds up steam, his voice grows louder and louder, and Amanda slumps further in her chair.
“You’ve heard the stories about her hygiene, about how messy she is. Well she is unclean on the outside”—he pauses, allowing the courtroom to go silent in anticipation—“because she is dirty on the inside.”
“Who is the real Amanda Knox?” he asks, pounding his fist on the table. “Is she the one we see before us here, all angelic? Or is she really a she-devil focused on sex, drugs, and alcohol, living life on the edge?”
“She is the luciferina—she-devil.” At that point, even the judge is regarding Amanda quizzically, trying to decide whether that description could be true.
AMANDA AND RAFFAELE don’t come to court through the front door, like most defendants. Their shared police van pulls up to the back of the building, and they are escorted into cells in the back dungeon, where they wait with their lawyers for court to convene. The photographers stand on chairs and jostle on ladders to get the best view of Amanda coming in. She smiles coyly and, like Princess Diana, lowers her head then lifts her eyes to look up at people. She is a pretty woman, and she knows it.
Each day, the Anglo press forms a consensus on her appearance. Is this light blue or powder blue? Do we say hooded sweatshirt or just hoodie? Who do you suppose French-braided her hair? followed by laughter and a lesbian joke. Obviously, no one on Knox’s mostly male legal team thought to coach her on courtroom demeanor until the very end of the trial: Don’t wear sexy clothes when you’re on trial for a sex crime. Don’t smile at Raffaele. Don’t look so happy. On Valentine’s Day, her tight pink T-shirt read “All You Need Is Love,” and the Beatles reference was a particular affront to the British press, covering the murder of a British student.
Raffaele got better advice and always wears effeminate, nonthreatening hues—lime green, baby duckling yellow, bubble gum pink. He started lifting weights in the fall, and his growing muscles are obvious through his pastel shirts. Amanda and Raffaele interact with each other in the courtroom, mouthing how-are-you’s and passing chocolates. Amanda frequently looks confused. She studies each witness and then, eyes wide, looks at the prosecutor, often as if she has never seen him before. Many times, she doodles on a yellow pad. Occasionally, she lays her head on the desk. Sometimes, Raffaele just stares at Amanda, completely fixated. By the end, he looks desperate.
LIKE MOST TRIALS IN ITALY, this one was in session only two days a week—with additional time off for holidays and a summer break. This is the true flaw in the Italian judicial system: a lack of sufficient courtrooms and judges to handle an overabundance of cases, so it is rare to have any trial run on a Monday-to-Friday schedule. In addition, Raffaele’s lead lawyer, Giulia Bongiorno, is a member of parliament in Silvio Berlusconi’s party, so she could not devote full time to saving Raf from prison. As a result, the hearings stretched over eleven months. The prosecution took the first five months to present its case, embellishing thin forensic evidence with circumstantial inferences and testimony meant to convey the dark character of Amanda.
Early on, a string of witnesses who became known in the press room as “the British virgins” appeared one after another in conservative, buttoned-up clothes. They blushed when they described Amanda’s vibrator and her many lovers—never mind that they had all been out partying with Meredith until 6:30 A.M. on Halloween.
“Meredith complained that she brought men back to the