It was the Fourth of July, and I was in my Sing Sing cell, sweating in the heat, perched on the edge of my bunk with my feet dunked in a bucket of cold sink water. What really had me burning, though, was that the Wi-Fi had been down in my block for three days. I couldn’t use my tablet to reach my friend and publicist, Megan, who handles my outside email and edits. With my brain boiling, I could hardly write; I usually work in the drafts folder of the messaging app, and now I was locked out.

Before the Wi-Fi cut out—I heard a wire melted during a recent heat wave—I’d received a couple of messages: interview questions about my forthcoming book, The Tragedy of True Crime, and edits on some other freelance stories. Now, whenever I punched in my password, a message popped up: “This device is n

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