I married a man in prison for money. Three years later his conviction was overturned — and eight days after he came home he put a black box on the kitchen table and said, “Now it’s my turn.”

And I took that page out of the folder.

I put it in the drawer under the kettle in my own kitchen.

And I never put it back. Not in eleven months. Not when Dov Pell asked me a direct question.

I have had two years to get honest about why I did that.

There are two reasons. I have had to say both of them out loud, to another person, in a room, before I could put either of them on a page.

The first is the one I told myself for two years.

That it looked like exactly what the prosecution said he had done. Money out of a charity, into a programme that did not exist any more, with the operations manager’s own hand on it.

I was not a lawyer. I had been reading case documents at a kitchen table for about four months.

And I looked at that page at one in the morning and I thought, in those words: this is the thing that sinks him.