I agree-- that is why some forums just dripping with "love" for Meredith strike me as phony. I am sure she was a lovely girl, and the murder was horrific - but it is really only her family and friends who can truly grieve her.
WARNING:GRAPHIC PHOTOS Meredith Kercher murdered-Amanda Knox appeals conviction #9
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TRIAL OF CHAD DAYBELL CHARGED WITH MURDER OF JJ VALLOW, TYLEE RYAN AND TAMMY DAYBELL #3- Latest: nodamselindistress
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Well put---very important for people to remember.
Also: Anyone who has read Preston's account of being interrogated by Mignini, will see what Amanda was up against. Preston was middle-aged, a seasoned journalist, a married father---but felt weak, sheepish, and frightened by Mignini's force. So imagine a 20 year old, in a foreign country, unfamiliar with the actual spoken language outside the classroom---must have been terrifying.
I had read Douglass Preston's account of being interrogated by Mignini some time ago, but now know he has become a supporter of Knox, because he recalls that even as a middle-aged, world travelled journalist, he was totally unnerved by Mignini. From Preston's account:
I asked, Is this about the Monster of Florence case?
Bravo, said the detective.
The next day, I was ushered into a pleasant office in the Procura della Repubblica, just outside the ancient city walls of Perugia. Present were one of the detectives from the previous day, a small and very tense captain of police with orange hair, a stenographer, and Giuliano Mignini, sitting behind a desk. I had dressed smartlyItalians judge harshly in such mattersand I had a folded copy of the International Herald Tribune under my arm as a prop.
Mignini was a small man of indeterminate middle age, well groomed, with a fleshy face and thinning hair. His voice was calm and pleasant and he addressed me with elaborate courtesy, bestowing the honorific of dottore, which, in Italy, denotes the highest respect. He explained that I had the right to an interpreter, but finding one might take many hours, during which time I would be unpleasantly detained. In his opinion, I spoke Italian fluently. I asked if I needed a lawyer, and he said that, although it was of course my right, it wasnt necessary; he merely wanted to ask a few questions of a routine nature.
His questions were gentle, posed almost apologetically. The stenographer typed the questions, and my answers, into her computer. Sometimes Mignini rephrased my answers in better Italian, checking solicitously to see if that was what I had meant to say. He asked me about Spezis lawyer, Alessandro Traversi, and wanted to know what I could say about Spezis legal strategy. He named many names and asked if Spezi had ever mentioned them. Most were unfamiliar. The questions went on like this for an hour, and I was starting to feel reassured. I even had a glimmer of hope that I might get out in time to join my wife and children for lunch at a nearby restaurant, which came highly recommended in the guidebooks.
At this point the conversation turned to our visit to the villa. Why did we go? What did we do there? Where exactly did we walk? Was there talk of a gun? Of iron boxes? Was my back ever to Spezi? Did we see anyone there? Who? What was said?
I answered truthfully, trying to suppress a damnable habit of over-explanation, but I could see that Mignini was not happy. He repeated the same questions, in different forms. It began to dawn on me that the previous line of inquiry had been nothing more than a few balls lobbed in the bullpen. Now, the game had begun.
Migninis face flushed as his frustration mounted. He frequently instructed the stenographer to read back my earlier answers. You said that, and now you say this. Which is true, Dottor Preston? Which is true?
I began to stumble over my words (as Ive noted, I am not fluent in Italian, especially legal and criminological terms). With a growing sense of dismay, I could hear from my own stammering, hesitant voice that I was sounding like a liar.
Listen to this, Mignini said. He nodded to the stenographer, who pressed a button on her computer. There was the ringing of a phone, and then my voice:
Pronto.
Ciao, sono Mario.
Spezi and I chatted for a moment while I listened in amazement to my own voice, clearer on the intercept than in the original call on my lousy cell phone. Mignini played it once, then again. He stopped at the point where Spezi said, We did it all, and fixed his eyes on me: What exactly did you do, Dottor Preston?
I explained that Spezi was referring to his decision to report to the police what he had heard about possible evidence hidden at the villa.
No, Dottor Preston. He played the recording again and again, asking repeatedly, What is this thing you did? What did you do? He seized on Spezis comment that the telephone was bad. What did he mean by that?
I explained that he thought the phone was tapped.
And why, Mignini wanted to know, were we concerned about the phones being tapped if we werent engaged in illegal activity?
Because it isnt nice to have your phone tapped, I answered feebly.
That is not an answer, Dottor Preston.
He played the recording again, stopping at several words and demanding to know what Spezi or I meant, as if we were speaking in code, a common Mafia ploy. I tried to explain that the conversation meant what it said, but Mignini brushed my explanations aside. His face was flushed with a look of contempt. I knew why: he had expected me to lie, and I had met his expectation. I stammered out a question: Did he think we had committed a crime at the villa?
Mignini straightened up in his chair and, with a note of triumph in his voice, said, Yes.
What?
You and Spezi either planted, or were planning to plant, false evidence at that villa in an attempt to frame an innocent man for being the Monster of Florence, to derail this investigation, and to deflect suspicion from Spezi. That is what you were doing. This commentWe did it allthat is what he meant.
I was floored. I stammered that this was just a theory, but Mignini interrupted me and said, These are not theories. They are facts! He insisted I knew perfectly well that Spezi was being investigated for the murder of Narducci, and that I knew more about the murder than I was letting on. That makes you an accessory. Yes, Dottor Preston, Mignini insisted, I can hear it in your voice. I can hear the tone of knowledge, of deep familiarity with these events. Just listen. His voice rose with restrained exaltation. Listen to yourself!
And, for maybe the tenth time, he replayed the phone conversation. Perhaps you have been duped, but I dont think so. You know! And now, you have one last chanceone last chanceto tell us what you know, or I will charge you with perjury. I dont care; I will do it, even if the news goes around the world tomorrow.
I felt sick, and I had the sudden urge to relieve myself. I asked for the way to the bathroom. I returned a few minutes later, having failed to muster much composure. Ive told you the truth, I managed to croak. What more can I say?
Mignini waved his hand and was handed a legal tome. He placed it on his desk with the utmost delicacy, opened it, and, in a voice worthy of a funeral oration, began to read the text of the law. I heard that I was now indagato (an official suspect under investigation) for the crime of reticence and making false statements. He announced that the investigation would be suspended to allow me to leave Italy, but that it would be reinstated when the investigation of Spezi was concluded.
The secretary printed out a transcript. The two-and-a-half-hour interrogation had been edited down to two pages, which I amended and signed.
May I keep this? I asked.
No. It is under seal.
Very stiffly, I picked up my International Herald Tribune, folded it under my arm, and turned to leave.
If you ever decide to talk, Dottor Preston, we are here.
On rubbery legs I descended to the street, into a wintry drizzle.
I left Italy the next day. When I returned to my home in Maine, which stands on a bluff overlooking the gray Atlantic, and listened to the breakers on the rocks below and the seagulls calling above, I felt tears trickling down my face.
But it was not overnot at all.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2006/07/the-monster-of-florence/4981/6/
I asked, Is this about the Monster of Florence case?
Bravo, said the detective.
The next day, I was ushered into a pleasant office in the Procura della Repubblica, just outside the ancient city walls of Perugia. Present were one of the detectives from the previous day, a small and very tense captain of police with orange hair, a stenographer, and Giuliano Mignini, sitting behind a desk. I had dressed smartlyItalians judge harshly in such mattersand I had a folded copy of the International Herald Tribune under my arm as a prop.
Mignini was a small man of indeterminate middle age, well groomed, with a fleshy face and thinning hair. His voice was calm and pleasant and he addressed me with elaborate courtesy, bestowing the honorific of dottore, which, in Italy, denotes the highest respect. He explained that I had the right to an interpreter, but finding one might take many hours, during which time I would be unpleasantly detained. In his opinion, I spoke Italian fluently. I asked if I needed a lawyer, and he said that, although it was of course my right, it wasnt necessary; he merely wanted to ask a few questions of a routine nature.
His questions were gentle, posed almost apologetically. The stenographer typed the questions, and my answers, into her computer. Sometimes Mignini rephrased my answers in better Italian, checking solicitously to see if that was what I had meant to say. He asked me about Spezis lawyer, Alessandro Traversi, and wanted to know what I could say about Spezis legal strategy. He named many names and asked if Spezi had ever mentioned them. Most were unfamiliar. The questions went on like this for an hour, and I was starting to feel reassured. I even had a glimmer of hope that I might get out in time to join my wife and children for lunch at a nearby restaurant, which came highly recommended in the guidebooks.
At this point the conversation turned to our visit to the villa. Why did we go? What did we do there? Where exactly did we walk? Was there talk of a gun? Of iron boxes? Was my back ever to Spezi? Did we see anyone there? Who? What was said?
I answered truthfully, trying to suppress a damnable habit of over-explanation, but I could see that Mignini was not happy. He repeated the same questions, in different forms. It began to dawn on me that the previous line of inquiry had been nothing more than a few balls lobbed in the bullpen. Now, the game had begun.
Migninis face flushed as his frustration mounted. He frequently instructed the stenographer to read back my earlier answers. You said that, and now you say this. Which is true, Dottor Preston? Which is true?
I began to stumble over my words (as Ive noted, I am not fluent in Italian, especially legal and criminological terms). With a growing sense of dismay, I could hear from my own stammering, hesitant voice that I was sounding like a liar.
Listen to this, Mignini said. He nodded to the stenographer, who pressed a button on her computer. There was the ringing of a phone, and then my voice:
Pronto.
Ciao, sono Mario.
Spezi and I chatted for a moment while I listened in amazement to my own voice, clearer on the intercept than in the original call on my lousy cell phone. Mignini played it once, then again. He stopped at the point where Spezi said, We did it all, and fixed his eyes on me: What exactly did you do, Dottor Preston?
I explained that Spezi was referring to his decision to report to the police what he had heard about possible evidence hidden at the villa.
No, Dottor Preston. He played the recording again and again, asking repeatedly, What is this thing you did? What did you do? He seized on Spezis comment that the telephone was bad. What did he mean by that?
I explained that he thought the phone was tapped.
And why, Mignini wanted to know, were we concerned about the phones being tapped if we werent engaged in illegal activity?
Because it isnt nice to have your phone tapped, I answered feebly.
That is not an answer, Dottor Preston.
He played the recording again, stopping at several words and demanding to know what Spezi or I meant, as if we were speaking in code, a common Mafia ploy. I tried to explain that the conversation meant what it said, but Mignini brushed my explanations aside. His face was flushed with a look of contempt. I knew why: he had expected me to lie, and I had met his expectation. I stammered out a question: Did he think we had committed a crime at the villa?
Mignini straightened up in his chair and, with a note of triumph in his voice, said, Yes.
What?
You and Spezi either planted, or were planning to plant, false evidence at that villa in an attempt to frame an innocent man for being the Monster of Florence, to derail this investigation, and to deflect suspicion from Spezi. That is what you were doing. This commentWe did it allthat is what he meant.
I was floored. I stammered that this was just a theory, but Mignini interrupted me and said, These are not theories. They are facts! He insisted I knew perfectly well that Spezi was being investigated for the murder of Narducci, and that I knew more about the murder than I was letting on. That makes you an accessory. Yes, Dottor Preston, Mignini insisted, I can hear it in your voice. I can hear the tone of knowledge, of deep familiarity with these events. Just listen. His voice rose with restrained exaltation. Listen to yourself!
And, for maybe the tenth time, he replayed the phone conversation. Perhaps you have been duped, but I dont think so. You know! And now, you have one last chanceone last chanceto tell us what you know, or I will charge you with perjury. I dont care; I will do it, even if the news goes around the world tomorrow.
I felt sick, and I had the sudden urge to relieve myself. I asked for the way to the bathroom. I returned a few minutes later, having failed to muster much composure. Ive told you the truth, I managed to croak. What more can I say?
Mignini waved his hand and was handed a legal tome. He placed it on his desk with the utmost delicacy, opened it, and, in a voice worthy of a funeral oration, began to read the text of the law. I heard that I was now indagato (an official suspect under investigation) for the crime of reticence and making false statements. He announced that the investigation would be suspended to allow me to leave Italy, but that it would be reinstated when the investigation of Spezi was concluded.
The secretary printed out a transcript. The two-and-a-half-hour interrogation had been edited down to two pages, which I amended and signed.
May I keep this? I asked.
No. It is under seal.
Very stiffly, I picked up my International Herald Tribune, folded it under my arm, and turned to leave.
If you ever decide to talk, Dottor Preston, we are here.
On rubbery legs I descended to the street, into a wintry drizzle.
I left Italy the next day. When I returned to my home in Maine, which stands on a bluff overlooking the gray Atlantic, and listened to the breakers on the rocks below and the seagulls calling above, I felt tears trickling down my face.
But it was not overnot at all.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2006/07/the-monster-of-florence/4981/6/
flourish
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flourish
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I agree names like that are silly. I was just making sure everyone was clear that no one was implying that those who believe the guilty verdicts were just aren't necessarily a bunch of AK and RS "haters," and vice versaAlthough I'm not sure I understand why there's even discussion about other forums
Perhaps I missed somethingNo, just making a general observation about seeing things said like, "those Knox groupies".....glad it is not done here.
Although I'm not sure I understand why there's even discussion about other forums
and of course, one can believe Knox guilty without harboring any rabid hate for her. I in fact believed she was guilty for a long time, even though I thought she was sweet and pretty looking. I became disillusioned and a bit angry when I began to see that many "facts" i had accepted were simply not true, or very, very shaky.
Flourish, I recall there was discussion a few weeks ago about whether Raffaele used hard drugs. I don't remember the conclusion of the discussion, since I didn't know anything one way or the other at the time. However, he did use hard drugs. He had a history of using hashish, cocaine and acid, although cocaine and acid use were more in his past (not that far in his past, since he was 23 at the time of the murder).
To my thinking, his use of hard drugs might have cause certain neurological or other peculiararites.
No, he wasn't. But the use of hard drugs may have produced something. Even if sporadic. I suppose it doesn't have any real bearing at this point.
OldSteve
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Thinking of myself as being on the jury (meaning I am not pro or con anyone side) and going through all that has been mentioned here (causing my noggin to spin) I say to my fellow jurors (you folks) correct me if I'm wrong but the only evidence we have of AK being in MK room is one drop of AK's blood (if what I read previously is correct). I ask if any photos were taken of AK right after the murder, and so far not can be produced to show any bruising on AK.... ILE mentions no bruises.
There was mention of DNA on a knife found at RS's kitchen, but AK had access to that, so that doesn't mean anything to me. There was RS's DNA on MK's bra clip, but the clip was passed around when it was collected, and RS's DNA could have transferred from someplace else in the cottage..
The theories of sex games taking place have mentioned with no fluid DNA proof, or other proof given... cannot picture AK and RS on the spur becoming involved with an outsider like Rudy who has been found guilty and hasn't involved them.
It seems to me that Rudy acted alone in a robbery turned murder/rape...
There was mention of DNA on a knife found at RS's kitchen, but AK had access to that, so that doesn't mean anything to me. There was RS's DNA on MK's bra clip, but the clip was passed around when it was collected, and RS's DNA could have transferred from someplace else in the cottage..
The theories of sex games taking place have mentioned with no fluid DNA proof, or other proof given... cannot picture AK and RS on the spur becoming involved with an outsider like Rudy who has been found guilty and hasn't involved them.
It seems to me that Rudy acted alone in a robbery turned murder/rape...
You said it. And I think this ought to have been the conclusion back in the original trial in 2009, and that the appeal should thus not even be taking place. The Massei and Machelli reports are full of projection and conjecture. I have no special feeling for Raffaele or Amanda, but when I see a fellow human being taken for a ride, it makes me angry.
Gee, I had assumed R spoke English, and Amanda, at least scholastic Italian. They must have been very attracted to eachother. When you are 20, it does not take much, unfortunately. When I look back at my youth and how easily I could be attracted to someone, sometimes quite silly.....but why do you ask? are you implying drugs, or sexual weirdness? it's always possible, but.....how can we say? At that age, raging hormones still comes into play. It's not like they were 38 and became inseparable.
Nova
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Whoa! I thought RS was accused of looking at bestiality photos on a school computer (or on his own computer at school). The phrase "deviant sexual interest" usually connotes a desire to participate in perverse activities.
For all we know, RS was merely--and temporarily--curious, no?
Nova
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As you know, AK was learning Italian, it was why she was in Perugia. She was neither fluent nor utterly at sea in that language. Obviously, she and RS found ways to communicate (though one wonders how they negotiated the complexity of an on-the-spot rape or murder conspiracy).
Since you yourself are multilingual, I'm sure you understand that language comprehension is acquired by degrees, not in an instant burst of revelation.
Nova
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I too am curious as to otto's point. When I was AK's age, I had brief relationships with French Canadians who spoke no English at all; I spoke no French. Granted the language barrier prevented deeper, long-term relationships, but a short affair could be arranged with hand signals.
I think AK's and RS' relationship was something in between: more than hand-signals, less than perfect communication; more than an anonymous fling, less than a marriage of best friends.
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