And Selina no longer looked like the delicate, weeping innocent who had burst into my living room with a scratch on her arm and a lie on her lips.

Her designer clothes had been replaced by a jail-issued jumpsuit.

Her carefully styled hair was disheveled.

And her eyes darted frantically around the courtroom, searching, I supposed, for the exit that no longer existed for her.

It is a strange thing, to see the person who orchestrated your murder reduced to a frightened defendant, and I felt, watching her, not triumph exactly, but something quieter: the sense of a great wrong finally being brought into the one place designed to answer it.

But I confess I studied Selina closely, that day, because she fascinated me in the way that a certain kind of person always fascinates the people they have wronged: I wanted to understand how she had done it.