Foul-ball Home Run

Picture Amanda Knox’s father, Curt Knox, as he nervously adjusted his posture when a cameraman snapped, “Sit up straight,” before Curt’s first appearance on global television. He may have been in a corporate video or two in the past, perhaps some family videos. But this was big time. People behind and around the cameras weren’t smiling. The feeling of all business must have felt less than sympathetic.

Imagine how someone from make-up yanked hairs out of Curt’s nose, and how a snotty producer cut Curt off mid sentence to bark, “Try not to say, ‘Ummm’ so much.” In the background imagine someone saying, “Curt, that LA lawyer lady is on the phone again.”

Thrust into the spotlight, things escalate from embarrassing to overwhelming to Gloria Allred pretty quickly. But the image of Curt Knox squirming under the lights and in front of the cameras cannot be so nightmarish as what happened to Curt Knox next. Curt Knox, the father.

His reflex would come as it would to most fathers, to protect his little girl’s reputation; and, himself being a VP at Macy’s, perhaps a little bit of his own. As it would play out, by throwing himself into the fray, he was putting himself in the witness stand, and would either be deemed a reliable, or an unbelievable witness.

From the beginning, Curt Knox appeared a little disheveled as he laid out the boilerplate. ‘She just couldn’t do this. She doesn’t have it in her,’ he’d say.

He and his ex wife, a math teacher from West Seattle Vanity Fair writer Judy Bachrach found ‘perpetually baffled,’ would drone on and on about how perfect and innocent Amanda is. Then relatives, then friends, then friends of friends, and ultimately people pulled off Seattle streets, waxed poetically about the outgoing little girl who’s favorite piece of clothing was a slightly rusted My Little Pony chastity belt.

But imagine Curt’s face as he listened to someone tell him, “Amanda boned seven dudes, one of them at least on a train, and another, that Raffaele guy, a couple hours after she met him. And it’s gone public. It’s everywhere.”

Jesus. To hear that about his own daughter after sticking his neck out proclaiming she is as pure as snow that’s yet to hit the ground. How awful to learn you’ve been made a liar by your own flesh and blood, and that daddy’s little girl has been whoring around.

And with not even the chance to recover, there on video for the world to see was his little darling, fingering lacy panties in a trendy store, as that Raffaele guy told her, loud enough for others to hear, that the sex that night was sure to be pretty good. Some may recognize that as a common West Seattle girl’s need after a roommate’s murder. But most wont, least of whom, the Italians.

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Curt, a VP at Macy’s, holds a position whereby honesty and integrity are key. Of course this didn’t look good for his daughter. But what about Curt? Curt the man? Curt the father? Curt the VP? Curt the guy who makes his living with a perceptive awareness of everything around him. What kind of impact did this have on his standing as a reliable character witness? How does a guy make eye contact after something like that?

I imagine Curt walking the halls of his office, wanting to yell at his fellow muckity mucks, “Your daughters are fucking just like mine. Don’t kid yourself motherfuckers!”

But he stayed the course, again and again selling his daughter’s innocence into the camera, playing up her honesty, and perhaps playing the smart card in sticking to his own story. VPs don’t blink. Part of me admired him for that. But the majority recognized the great mistake he was making.

Now imagine Curt’s face as he listened to someone tell him, “Your daughter keeps telling different stories of where she was. She was at that Raffaele’s house smoking drugs. Or, no, she was at home, smoking drugs. She slept in late, no, she was at the store first thing buying cleaning supplies. No, she listened as a black man raped and murdered that girl, and fingered her boss as the guy. They arrested him . . . oh, they let him go. He’s going to sue for defamation. Now she says she was so high she can’t remember anything.”

To make matters worse, the nighttime tabloid shows found the story juicy enough to pour their hearts and wallets into, and it was everywhere in HD, starring the crazy lying tramp American girl with multiple stories and a myriad of personalities. And emerging as the man who knew her least was Curt Knox the father, who by now was clearly an unreliable witness.

The harder Curt Knox worked to proclaim his daughter’s innocence, the harder she worked to refute it. Curt and his ex wife said she got along great with her roommates. Truth was the roommates found her annoying, and dirty. Curt claimed she was loved by all, but many in Perugia called her troia, or bitch. The more they painted their daughter a victim, the more came out that they didn’t know their daughter at all – the exceptional Ugly American.

It bordered on perjury.

Curt and his ex wife claim there was anti-American sentiment. And if there wasn’t, they were working hard to create it. Or somebody was. And they had lots of help, mostly from knee-jerk dirt hustlers at little Seattle stations, to the larger-than-lifes at the mega corps. That kind of help turned what could have been Amanda Knox the poor little confused victim, into Amanda Knox the big screw you from all of us here at USA Dot Com.

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It didn’t take long for the wolf effect to happen. The louder they cried their faith in their daughter, the louder was Amanda’s response with shame, the louder and clearer appeared her guilt in an Italian court. It got to the point that if Curt Knox and his ex wife said one thing, the immediate opposite was looked forward to with great anticipation. And of course, Amanda delivered.

I imagine Curt Knox roaming the halls wanting to scream, “What are you looking at! You know what your daughters are doing at their dorms, don’t you! You know what your daughters are doing in their sororities! They’re drinking! They’re smoking! They’re FUCKING!” And I can’t blame him. I imagine him kicking and punching and throwing things through doorways and out windows. I imagine his rage to be unfathomable, the pain so far out of reach. And I for one would hold his hand through the worst of it, Amanda’s guilt and all.

It wasn’t surprising when Americans started whining about the state of Italian CSI. Specialists started cashing checks as on-camera experts on criminal investigations. They went so far as to point at grainy video and cry foul at how things were handled. Americans have grown so fond of the sexy edgy forensic crime dramas that these people had no problem feeding hysteria to the bloodthirsty masses that wanted lasers and massive glistening breasts and bulging slacks covering the scene as only Americans can do. No Horatio, no deal.

But Italians don’t see things the same way. I suspect the Italian prosecutors viewed the defense’s cry about DNA evidence as a stroke of good luck, and knew they’d won the case when America at large started chanting it. The louder the cry, the greater the insult to the Italian process. In reality Amanda had already hung herself with her mouth, but American pride continued to spit blood and snot into the face of Italian common sense. All of this was just gravy.

Maybe even Gloria Allred saw that and said, “Shit. She’s toast.” Maybe Curt should have taken her call.

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At some point, someone somewhere made a different call, and suddenly the American media that had immediately smelled a shit-stinking rat in Amanda Knox, was now smelling and selling sweeter and more patriotic, if not nationalistic bunny farts. On every channel were gossip-level shows pandering to the American idiot that the Euro wolves had captured their purest stray lamb, and a team of the brave should go get her.

(A good example of this American guile comes in the form of popular media writer and drama queen Michael Wolff. Please catch his histrionics at Vanity Fair dot com.)

I kept waiting for Curt Knox to at least go silent on the advice of a qualified PR agent. Silent like the murder victim’s family. Silent like that Raffaele’s father, a prominent Italian doctor who for sure could have raised quite the stink in his own country if he felt there were foul play. But you’ll notice that Raffaele’s father, Curt Knox’s counterpart, was nowhere to be found in the American media.

But Curt and his ex wife kept whoopin’ it up like Slim Pickins at a chili cook-off that had run out of spoons. Many called it a coordinated media campaign, which included an impotent Larry King handing over the national stage to Curt and his ex wife to increase focus on that which, in the end, was doing more harm than good. Great for the ratings, bad for their daughter. It was as if some Hollywood screw was walking the two of them over every possible mine in the field just for giggles and grins.

CNN reported that Della Vedova, a member of Team Knox, reminded the jury of its obligation to church law, and to be “morally certain of their decision.” Again, probably another mistake, being that the majority of Amanda Knox’s transgressions had been of the moral nature. She had proven herself a liar, had bared false witness, and had clearly established herself a Jezebel. By continuously singing Amanda’s praises, Americans more so crucified her as they did come to her rescue.

There would be better judges to evoke than they of the Church. Perhaps Horatio Caine. But anyway, that’ll be 486,987 Hail Marys and 25 years in what is a pretty nice prison by any standards.

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I imagine Curt Knox now, a burned-out tree trunk of a man sitting alone in his car in his VP parking spot. The wipers have stopped in the middle of the windshield and he stares at them with squinted eyes. He’s had the screaming matches with his ex wife over what she must have done to fuck up his daughter. He’s had the fights with the lawyers who couldn’t put a stop to it. He’s had the hugs and sobs with the foreign diplomats who really aren’t going to go to bat on this one. But deep inside, his anger rests on something he just can’t lash out at.

Amanda Knox had left home on Daddy’s dime no doubt, with a farewell to be remembered – “peace out suckers, loves Amanda.”

How does Curt Knox recover from something like that? Curt Knox the man. Curt Knox the father. Curt Knox, the sucker.