the month. And my answer is yes, I had seen it within a month.”
“Had you seen it within a week?”
“Again, I can’t be more specific. I may have.”
“Had you seen it within two weeks?”
“I may have.”
“Had you seen it within a month?”
“Mr. Jones, we’re talking about four months ago? Five months ago? Three months ago? The answer is I can’t be specific the last time I saw Janet’s bag of marijuana.”
“Other than the fact that you had seen it sometime, as best you can characterize it, within a month of August fifteenth, and the fact that you looked for it later and you didn’t find it, do you have any other reason to believe that she took it with her?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That anytime Janet was upset and wanted to get away—anytime Janet left on a vacation or a weekend or a day, she would take her marijuana with her. It was an important part of her relaxation.”
“Did she take it to Canada?”
“I know Janet took it to Canada with her.”
“How do you know that?”
“She smoked it in Canada. Sat in the Hotel Frontenac room being late for dinner because she wanted to finish her joint. I have a specific recollection of that, Mr. Jones. And, actually, it’s a fond one.”
“Do you love Janet?”
“Yes.”
“At the time she disappeared, are you claiming you were still in love with her?”
“Yes.”
“You want to do everything you can to protect her and cherish her and cherish her memory if she’s gone and dead. Is that correct?”
“Mr. Jones, I don’t believe my wife is dead, but if she is dead, I will do everything I can to cherish her memory.”
Chapter 10
Moments after Perry March told Jon Jones, the deposition questioner, how much he would do to cherish Janet’s memory, if it turned out that she was dead, by explaining in great detail—in front of her parents—that she smoked marijuana on somewhat of a regular basis, Jones continued his questioning, but turned the subject toward Perry and Janet’s computer.
“What happened to the computer?” Jones asked.
“I do not know,” Perry replied.
“Computer would tell, if somebody had the hard drive, whether—the sequence of when this alleged note that you say she typed and gave to you, when that was prepared. Isn’t that correct?”
“There’s no question about it,” Perry replied. “I can be very truthful with you. I know that—I know this. That the word-processing program that Janet and I used on our home computer has a file stamp of the last time it has been saved on the computer. I know that the note that Janet typed and printed and gave to me on the night that she ran away’s file stamp time was eight-seventeen. Eight-seventeen at night.
“Once the computer hard drive was determined to be missing,” Perry continued, “which I know nothing about, I also made inquiry as to whether or not there would be some separate corroboration of that time period. To know whether or not I had been put in a compromising position by its being missing. And based upon my understanding, no. Other than the file stamp copy time period on the actual word-processing program, there is no other memory log in the operating system or anything else which would corroborate or not corroborate that time period.”
“Who did you make that inquiry to?” Jones asked.
“I stopped in personally to a—I think it was a CompUSA,” Perry responded, “and went up to the desk and asked a person who was—software person, and I was informed that unless you have a specific DOS-based or Windows-based utility program, which records the time periods of all the files, that the regular Windows 95 operating system does not record the time periods for all the respective files that are generated or discarded in a computer.”
“Where was this store?”
“I don’t remember. I think it was the one in Nashville that I went to. The CompUSA out, like, on Hickory Hollow or something.”
“When did you do that?”
“Probably
“Had you seen it within a week?”
“Again, I can’t be more specific. I may have.”
“Had you seen it within two weeks?”
“I may have.”
“Had you seen it within a month?”
“Mr. Jones, we’re talking about four months ago? Five months ago? Three months ago? The answer is I can’t be specific the last time I saw Janet’s bag of marijuana.”
“Other than the fact that you had seen it sometime, as best you can characterize it, within a month of August fifteenth, and the fact that you looked for it later and you didn’t find it, do you have any other reason to believe that she took it with her?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“That anytime Janet was upset and wanted to get away—anytime Janet left on a vacation or a weekend or a day, she would take her marijuana with her. It was an important part of her relaxation.”
“Did she take it to Canada?”
“I know Janet took it to Canada with her.”
“How do you know that?”
“She smoked it in Canada. Sat in the Hotel Frontenac room being late for dinner because she wanted to finish her joint. I have a specific recollection of that, Mr. Jones. And, actually, it’s a fond one.”
“Do you love Janet?”
“Yes.”
“At the time she disappeared, are you claiming you were still in love with her?”
“Yes.”
“You want to do everything you can to protect her and cherish her and cherish her memory if she’s gone and dead. Is that correct?”
“Mr. Jones, I don’t believe my wife is dead, but if she is dead, I will do everything I can to cherish her memory.”
Chapter 10
Moments after Perry March told Jon Jones, the deposition questioner, how much he would do to cherish Janet’s memory, if it turned out that she was dead, by explaining in great detail—in front of her parents—that she smoked marijuana on somewhat of a regular basis, Jones continued his questioning, but turned the subject toward Perry and Janet’s computer.
“What happened to the computer?” Jones asked.
“I do not know,” Perry replied.
“Computer would tell, if somebody had the hard drive, whether—the sequence of when this alleged note that you say she typed and gave to you, when that was prepared. Isn’t that correct?”
“There’s no question about it,” Perry replied. “I can be very truthful with you. I know that—I know this. That the word-processing program that Janet and I used on our home computer has a file stamp of the last time it has been saved on the computer. I know that the note that Janet typed and printed and gave to me on the night that she ran away’s file stamp time was eight-seventeen. Eight-seventeen at night.
“Once the computer hard drive was determined to be missing,” Perry continued, “which I know nothing about, I also made inquiry as to whether or not there would be some separate corroboration of that time period. To know whether or not I had been put in a compromising position by its being missing. And based upon my understanding, no. Other than the file stamp copy time period on the actual word-processing program, there is no other memory log in the operating system or anything else which would corroborate or not corroborate that time period.”
“Who did you make that inquiry to?” Jones asked.
“I stopped in personally to a—I think it was a CompUSA,” Perry responded, “and went up to the desk and asked a person who was—software person, and I was informed that unless you have a specific DOS-based or Windows-based utility program, which records the time periods of all the files, that the regular Windows 95 operating system does not record the time periods for all the respective files that are generated or discarded in a computer.”
“Where was this store?”
“I don’t remember. I think it was the one in Nashville that I went to. The CompUSA out, like, on Hickory Hollow or something.”
“When did you do that?”
“Probably
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