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Even Doug Faneuil doesn’t think Martha should have gone to jail, that she was a casualty of a careerist U.S. attorney. The “Baby” was supported through the trial by a group of good friends, like Jeff Klein, owner of midtown’s City Club Hotel, who provided him with a room to escape the cameras posted at his Sunset Park apartment—the day that Faneuil appeared on the cover of the New York Post flexing a bicep, the papers in his hallway were turned facedown. These days, say friends, he’s managing a private art collection and trying to raise money for a nonprofit movie about suicide prevention and mental illness, a kind of testament to his sister. He’s also still paying off his $2,000 fine.

After her indictment, Martha’s story didn’t belong only to Martha. One person who was playing close attention was reality-show producer Mark Burnett. He first approached her, back in the spring of last year. But then he sent her a package: a tape of outtakes from her TV show and appearances on late-night shows like David Letterman. She was great when she was loose and spontaneous, he argued. She was funny on her April Fool’s Day shows, like when she crouched under the kitchen counter, poured fake blood on herself, and pretended that there had been an accident (imagine Al Gore doing the same thing, and you’ll have an idea of how funny it is). But it is true that Martha is a prankster, and takes great glee in practical jokes—Gael Towey, her creative director, told me a hysterical (really!) story about how Martha once bought a jadeite chandelier from under Gael’s husband’s nose at a West Village shop, then later sent it to Gael as a housewarming gift. Burnett and Stewart had the contracts drawn up.

The Mark Burnett reality show is liable to make Martha an even bigger cultural persona—and, more interestingly, to force her to be a real person for the first time, not a Wasp cartoon. Martha’s role will be to judge—this is how she’s most comfortable, after all. She’s going to proselytize above the fray, pronouncing upon ill-made leaf-print tablecloths and tasteless raspberry angel-food cakes, showing them all at the end how it’s done Martha’s Way. This story is not ready to be served: A source close to the company says that further information will be disseminated in a few weeks.

Martha’s editor’s letter will also be reinstated, not the unctuous “Remembering” column, but one advising readers on various arts-and-crafts projects, perhaps like how to make those paper cranes she made in Alderson. As far as Patrick goes, “apologies are not in order,” says Patrick. “We have been in touch. We have visited in Alderson. We are both immensely proud of what we did.”

Meanwhile, the stock price has tripled since Martha went to jail. It’s now higher than before she was indicted. Most of the analysts watching the stock have had a sell on it for months, arguing that it’s inflated on expectations alone.

The old guard has done just that. At the end of last year, Ubben sold 70 percent of his holdings, for $58 million. Patrick sold $25.5 million. Martha sold $8 million, too—perhaps implying that even Martha isn’t sure Martha can pull this off.

Martha has managed to fold even prison into her American tale. It’s made the story (and Martha herself) richer. A couple of weeks ago, on a frigid Friday morning, Lyne took some time on the company’s private-plane lease to see Martha at Camp Cupcake. Sometimes as she’s waiting to be admitted, someone will ask her, “Is Martha your sister?”

The holidays were over, so the visiting room was fairly empty and quiet. Martha and Susan played Scrabble. “You’re going to hate me,” teased Martha. “I have a seven-letter word.”

“Show me, show me,” said Lyne.

“It’s actually quite apropos,” said Martha, laying out her letters. The word was longing.

WITH ADDITIONAL REPORTING BY KATE PICKERT