Everything she had told me in the dark, documented.

Not that I needed proof of my wife’s honesty; I believed her completely.

But I knew that a courtroom would want more than a husband’s belief, and my wife, even in the depths of her ordeal, sick and starving and alone, had been careful enough, and brave enough, to keep the records that would, one day, set her free.

My wife had built her own case while she was dying.

All I had to do was carry it the last mile.

I keep returning to that fact, because the more I think about it, the more extraordinary it becomes.