José. Well, I had accused him of murder, unwittingly of course. I didn’t really blame him for being hostile.

An unfamiliar ache had begun in my chest, and it took me a moment to identify it: hope. I quickly stifled it. Hope was dangerous in here. The only way to survive was by accepting reality.

‘My appeal’s set for early next year, but it might not happen. They keep moving it.’

‘But this is a good thing, Case. Gives us time to mount a proper defence, get all this evidence presented. A mistrial, even, maybe, given the bad advice you got.’

‘But – Jeremy, I don’t have any money.’ American lawyers were expensive, I knew.

Jenna had made it clear there was nothing she could do for me, and I had no one else. The pitiful amount I’d saved from my nanny job would not have covered an hour of a lawyer’s time.

‘There’s no charge!’ He actually slapped the table in excitement, causing the guard to look over, fingering his gun. ‘They raise funds to defend people, and they think you, well, you’d make kind of a good poster child.’

I didn’t quite understand this at the time, in my naivety, but later I saw why. I was white, young, pretty, scared and British – the American public were more likely to follow my case, and care that I’d been wrongfully sent to Death Row. More than they’d care about, say, the hundreds of black men in the same position. At the time, I could only think about myself. That maybe someone was going to help me, and this nightmare might end.

As my appeal date grew nearer, I was in agony. What if the Innocence Project people didn’t get to my case in time and I was reconvicted? It would be so much harder to get another appeal then. We’d need new evidence, and I knew better than anyone there was no more to be had. I was pacing my cell, watching the mail every day, looking up like a hopeful dog when they announced visitors.

One day, it was my turn. The guard was in an even fouler mood than ever, her skin red, her breath wheezy. ‘Adams. Visitors.’

Visitors, plural. My heart began to hammer.

‘Who is it?’

I knew better than to ask that, and she just shot me a look. As she put my cuffs on, she was rough, muttering to herself when they wouldn’t catch. I could smell her sweat and the cheap body spray she used, the drug-store shampoo. I felt a wave of sympathy for her, in this crappy job with its ever present threat of violence. She hadn’t convicted me or sent me here.