After talking with lawyers and advocates, impartial experts, and Jens himself, I had come to believe that Jens was innocent of murder, though he had admittedly, and foolishly, helped cover up murders in their aftermath. I publicly advocated for his release. And I offered him advice and served as a bridge to the community of wrongly convicted people in the United States and abroad, a community that had been essential to my own mental health. In our many exchanges, Jens came across as intelligent, bookish, and quick to laugh, but with a deep melancholy beneath the surface, an emotion I knew all too well. Listening to his voice, I often felt as if I were peering through a looking glass into another, sadder dimension. He seemed to me like a tragic version of myself. Our bond was more than a friendship; it was a kind of kinship.

But now, armed with new information, I believed there was a strong possibility that Jens had been lying to me from the very beginning. I wrote the email, explaining the doubts I had. Jens was angry. “Let me say this quite bluntly,” he replied, in what would prove to be our last communication. “There is way more DNA evidence incriminating you than there is me … I mean, Amanda, WTF.”