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.”

Dates that did not line up between the bank records and the trust’s own minutes — four of them, out by between nine days and eleven weeks.

And a witness who gave a statement in the November of 2020 and had moved out of state by the February, and who nobody has been able to reach since.

Everybody in that family had decided Avi was a thief. His own mother said it to me, in those words, in a car park in 2022.

And I stood outside courthouses on Carrow Street with a folder under my arm asking lawyers to look at it.

Eleven of them across two years. In the rain twice.

Four would not give me a meeting at all. Four took the folder off me and never rang back, and two of those four never returned it.

Two told me to my face that it was hopeless, and both of them were decent about it, and one of them bought me a coffee.