Love, Lies, and Murder

by Gary C. King

  “Well, you know, I have a right to cross-examine you. I intend to cross-examine you. That’s part of my job here today.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “What was your wife wearing the day she—at the time she left?”

  “I believe you answered that—asked me that question.”

  “What was she wearing?” Jones was being insistent, and seemed intent on catching Perry in a lie.

  “Again, I don’t specifically recall. Could be shorts, could have been jeans. It was summertime. Over three months ago. I don’t remember.”

  “What did she take with her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you believe she took with her?”

  “I have no idea what was in her car. But I know that when she left the house, she was carrying, I believe, three bags.”

  “Okay. Describe those bags.”

  “Her standard overnight bag, which is a small gray valise. I believe she was carrying with her a backpack, like a leather backpack that she carries on airplanes with her. That’s really the only time she uses it, when she—when she gets on an airplane. And she was carrying a canvas tote that she used for her pool bag, but she had used it—it looked like it was full of her toiletries and things of that nature. I just—I don’t know. I didn’t take a close look inside of it. I was a little stunned when she came downstairs with her bags.”

  “How long had she been upstairs before she came down with her bags?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Jones.”

  “An hour? Thirty minutes?”

  “It was a short period of time.”

  “How long had it been since this discussion that might have been an argument ended and she went upstairs?”

  “All within the hour.”

  “So there might have been as much as an hour’s time lapse between the time the discussion or the argument ended and the time she came back downstairs with her bags. Is that correct?”

  “You’re confusing me. I don’t really remember.”

  “How did the argument end?”

  “With her being upset. My staying calm. Sitting at the kitchen table. With her asking me to leave for the evening. My answering her, ‘Are you sure you want me to leave?’ Her response was ‘Yes. I want you to go to a hotel.’ I got up, I went to the phone. I called the Hampton Inn. I made a reservation. I hung up the phone.

  “She got up,” Perry continued, “she said, ‘You’re not going again on my time and my money.’ And she took my credit card from me. She took my wallet from me. She grabbed the stuff. She ripped up the card. She handed me back my driver’s license and my cash. And she walked into my study, where she was there for a short period of time. I heard her. I sat at the kitchen table.”

  Jones seemed somewhat stunned as he listened to Perry. It was, after all, the first time that so many details had come straight from his mouth regarding the night of August 15.

  “You want me to—should I continue?” Perry asked. “I mean, want me to continue? Are you asking me to continue? I don’t—I forgot what the question was. I’m sorry.”

  “Just go ahead. Continue.” It was obvious that Jones wanted to hear what came out of Perry’s mouth next.

  “I heard the printer,” Perry said. “She walked out of my study. She walked upstairs. I don’t know how long she was upstairs, but it was a relatively short period of time. I stayed at the kitchen table. She came downstairs. She had the bags. She handed me the note that she had typed and asked me to read it and sign it. I did so. She turned around. She said something to the effect of, ‘It’s your turn. See ya.’ She left. That was the last time I saw my wife.”

  “And she had these three bags with her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any idea what was in the bags?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Any idea what was in her purse?”

  “No, sir. Well—well, that’s—that’s an unfair statement. I do know subsequently that—I have an idea, as I told you, that there were some toiletries in the bags. And I do know she took some CDs with her because I do remember her making a little sidestep to the CD—where our stereo is, and she took some CDs with her, which gave me an indication I thought that she was going to be driving somewhere.

  “And I subsequently learned,” Perry continued, “that she took cash and her passport and a small bag of marijuana that she keeps in a cabinet. I could not locate that small bag. I think it’s—I think it’s a better way for me to characterize it now is I assume that she took the cash, the passport, and the small bag of marijuana. Because they’re not there. And they weren’t there a day or two after she left.”

  “Did you know that small bag of marijuana was in a particular place before she left?”

  “She never really told me where it was and she kept it hidden. . . . I knew it was in her desk, built-in desk cabinet area. And I don’t know exactly what drawer it was, but I do know specifically where the money was and where the passport was. And both were gone, Mr. Jones.”

  “You know, I really would like an answer to my last question.” Jones asked the court reporter to read it back.

  “Did you know that small bag of marijuana was in a particular place before she left?”

  “No. I knew a general locality of where I thought it was.”

  “Well, then, why did you say she took it with her?”

  “Because subsequently I searched for it and I could not find it.”

  “You knew it was in a general area. Is that correct?”

  “Yeah. I knew that she kept it in her desk area.”

  “When did you last see it before she left?”

  “I don’t know. She smoked marijuana pretty much on a weekly basis.”

  “The question is, when did you last see this small bag?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Within a month of her leaving, would you say?”

  “Absolutely within a month of her leaving, yes.”

  “Within a week before she left, did you see it?”

  “Again, I can’t be any more specific than that.”

  “Than what? Than a month?”

  “Yeah. Because sometimes she’d come out with a particular joint. And sometimes she’d come out with the whole bag. Sometimes she would roll a new one. Sometimes she would come out with a butt. I don’t know how familiar you are with parlance of marijuana. I’m not too familiar with it.”

  “Have you ever used marijuana?”

  “My wife attempted to get me to smoke it on a couple occasions. I did the proverbial Bill Clinton thing. I pulled it into my mouth and I spit it out. Simply to appease her because she wanted me to try.”

  “So the answer is yes, you used marijuana. Is that correct?”

  “No, sir. That’s not the answer. The answer is I never inhaled marijuana. I know it sounds crazy, but I tell you it’s the truth. I’ve never smoked a cigarette and I’ve never inhaled marijuana.”

  “Did you ever use cocaine?”

  “Never.”

  “Now, let me see if I understand. You claim that a month or so before your wife left, you were aware that there was a small bag of marijuana somewhere in a general locality.”

  “No, sir, that’s not correct. That’s not a correct statement.”

  “What’s incorrect about that?”

  “I’m telling you that I believed up until the day she left that there was a bag of marijuana in the house that she purchased. . . that she shared with her friends.”

  “You said that you last saw it, as best you can characterize it, a month before she left. Now, was that testimony true?”

  “No, sir. That’s not what my testimony was. . . . You asked me had I seen the bag within 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 s
een 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 sometime after they effected the search warrant and I found out my hard drive was gone. I was trying to figure out what the heck does that mean. Why would it be gone?”

  “When did you find out the hard drive was gone?”

  “When Detective David Miller came storming out at me on the day that they effected the search warrant, screaming, ‘Where’s the hard drive, Perry?’ like out of some B-rated detective movie.”

  “Did you know he was coming?”

  “I had no certain knowledge that Detective Miller was—” Perry tried to answer. However, Jones cut him off.

  “I didn’t ask you if you had certain knowledge,” Jones said, staring intently at Perry.

  “No, I didn’t know that Detective Miller was coming,” Perry clarified.

  “Did you have any information that the police were coming with a search warrant?”

  “My attorney had informed me that unless I allowed the police to come out and effect a third voluntary search on my house, they were going to issue a warrant.”

  “Did you have any information that one of the things the police wanted to look at or search was your computer?”

  “I will answer this question, the specific question, which is that Mr. Barrett informed me the day before that the police wanted to come out again and make a third voluntary search of my house. But this time they had informed my counsel that I was the prime suspect in my wife’s disappearance.”

  “So, shortly before the police came out and searched the computer, found out somebody had ripped out the hard drive, you had been told that the police intended to come to your house and search the computer—is that correct?”

  “Actually, Mr. Jones, I knew before then because the police had come out once before then, saying they wanted to inspect my computer, and they did.”

  “Who do you say tore the hard drive out of your computer ?” Jones asked.

  “I don’t say anybody,” Perry replied. “I have no idea, Mr. Jones.”

  In response to further questioning, Perry said that he did not have an opinion regarding who may have removed the hard drive. He explained that the computer was used primarily for “home stuff.”

  “I did a lot of work on it at home,” Perry said. “I’d do documents for clients . . . office work. I used it quite a bit to access Internet. Databases, things of that nature. Janet used the computer for the construction of the house. All of her house budgets and Excel spreadsheets were on the computer. And then there was—clearly, Janet used it for her personal word processing as well, when she needed to type somebody a letter or send some correspondence. . . . And then I used it probably mostly for education for my kids, for Sammy.”

  “Who owned the computer?”

  “We did. My wife and I.”

  “Where was it located?”

  “In my study.”

  “After August fifteenth, did you use the computer?”

  “You know, Mr. Jones, I don’t have any recollection of specifically using the computer after August fifteenth. I don’t think I did. . . . I may have used it once for some office-related issue . . . and I did turn it on for the police when they came and inspected it.”

  Over the next few minutes, Perry and Mr. Jones moved into the area of differentiating between using a computer and programming one. Perry—in his typical manner of playing his game of semantics with his questioner—quibbled at length over the use of the word “programming” with regard to how it pertained to computers and their use.

  “Mr. Jones,” Perry said, “I’ve never written a program.”

  “Have you ever attempted to do any programming of the computer?”

  “I don’t understand your question,” Perry responded. “I just think it’s because you’re probably just not using the correct vocabulary with me. When you say that, are you asking if I wrote software programs? I’m not . . . trying to be truculent here, I’m just trying to understand what you’re saying.”

  “Have you ever modified a program?” Jones asked.

  “Modify a program,” Perry repeated. “Every time you save a file, you modify a program or data. That is part of a program. So the answer is every time you save, you modify. That’s the truth.”

 
; “Other than just saving, have you ever modified a program ?”

  “Sure, I have. I’ve installed pieces of programs where you don’t fully install the program (when initially loading it into the computer). You take pieces of it out. You put pieces of the program in as part of the installation process. I’ve deleted programs. I mean, again, I just think it’s imprecision in language. I’m not being evasive. I just don’t understand what you’re trying to ask me.”

  “When did you last use or attempt to use the computer before the police came and found that the hard drive had been ripped out?”

  “I don’t remember, but I do know—wait. I’m sorry,” Perry said. “That—I did not answer your question properly. The last time I used the computer—that I turned it on physically before the police executed a search warrant on my house and I learned that the hard drive was gone—was in the presence of Detective David Miller and one other police officer.”

  “Was that, to the best of your memory, within a week of . . . your discovery of the hard drive being ripped out?”

  “I think so,” Perry responded. “I think that I discovered that the hard drive was missing. I don’t know the exact date they executed the search warrant of my house. It was the fifteenth or the seventeenth of September. I can’t remember.”

  Jones offered the date as the fifteenth of September.

  “That was like . . . a Wednesday?” Perry asked.

  September 15, 1996, was actually a Sunday, but neither Perry nor the questioner, Jones, seemed to know that. In actuality, the search warrant in question had been executed on September 17, 1996, a Tuesday.

  “Anyway, if the police executed, assuming that it was Tuesday—I don’t remember the date,” Perry said. “But if they . . . came to my house with their corps of paramilitary boot-camp folks . . . and executed their first search warrant on Tuesday, then I think that Detective Miller—inspected my computer Wednesday of the week prior, because I left for the Rosh Hashanah holiday on Thursday. So I was gone Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I was back in town on Monday.”

  Even though Perry’s testimony had been inconsistent and had wavered back and forth with regard to the date of the search warrant having been served, and had conflicted with whether the warrant had been served before or after his trip to Chicago for the Rosh Hashanah holiday, Jones’s incessant questioning was eventually able to show that the warrant had, in fact, been served upon Perry’s return. It had been at that time that Detective Miller had discovered that the hard drive was missing from Perry and Janet’s computer.