Hardy said no, he thought that was about it, that she'd been a big help. He nudged Glitsky and they started to turn to go..
"I'm here every day," Ms. Reed offered, "if you need anything else."
"You know…" Hardy stopped, just now remembering. "There is something if you wouldn't mind. Abraham, you think we should calibrate this thing?"
This, as Hardy had explained to Glitsky on the way out here, was why he had to come along. Glitsky's badge got them access not just to Jennifer's account but to the whole automated system. While an obliging bank employee ran receipts out of the ATM, Hardy dialed POP-CORN – the number provided by Pacific Bell that police used for the "official time" of emergency calls to 911 – and checked it against the bank's computerized clock on the ATM.
They found that there was a three-minute difference between the times – 2:11 at the bank and 2:14 from Pac Bell.
"Is that important?" Ms. Reed asked Abe. Hardy had ceases to exist altogether.
"It could be crucial," Glitsky admitted, "in this case. But you should have it checked in any event. Records aren’t much good if they're not accurate."
Ms. Reed, nodding and attentive receiving this wisdom, thanked them both and gave Glitsky one of her cards. Then, clearly as an afterthought, she pulled out one for Hardy, too.
Outside, the gale blew and both men leaned into it. "That's why you do this," Hardy said through his clenched teeth. "Records aren't much good if they're not accurate."
Glitsky, happily married with three children, couldn't stop smiling, something he did perhaps twice a year.
Driving back downtown, Glitsky finally spoke. "I give up," he said. "What felony have I prevented by this astute police work?"
Hardy answered straight-faced, "Plan B was for me to dress up like a Ninja, break into the bank in the middle of the night and do the cross-check. Plan B wasn't very good. I didn't think it would work."
Glitsky shook his head, withholding comment.
Hardy did some figuring. When Mrs. Barbieto had called 911 at 9:40, it had been 9:37 at Haight and Cole. If Jennifer had left two minutes before the 911 call at 9:35, which was Mrs. Barbieto's testimony, she would have to have run 1.7 miles to the bank and access her ATM at 9:45, eight minutes later. She couldn't have done that. If, on the other hand, as Hardy surmised, it was more like five minutes between the shots and Mrs. Barbieto's call to emergency, Jennifer would have had eleven minutes, three plus eight, which was fast but, Hardy thought, doable.
Glitsky, not knowing why, had been right. Ms. Reed's ATM information could prove to be important, maybe even crucial.
He had to go upstairs to the jail again, because although Jennifer had given him permission to enter her house, he had neglected to pick up the key, which the sheriff was keeping with the rest of her effects. Hardy needed Jennifer's signature so the sheriff would release the key to him.
"Mr. Hardy, is it?"
The hand was out and Hardy took it. It was a surprisingly weak grip for such a big man – Ken Lightner, Mr. Clairol with his brown hair and red beard, Jennifer's psychiatrist, was standing inside the bars by the elevator as the door opened.
"I was just visiting Jennifer. We've got to get her out of here. She doesn't belong in that… you are here to see her, aren't you?"
Hardy explained about the key. He didn't warm to this man but he could be polite.
"Actually," Lightner said as the elevator closed, "perhaps it's fortunate that you're here. I was going to call you."
"If it's about Jennifer you should try David Freeman. He's her lawyer in this matter."
"Well, Freeman," Lightner paused, began again. "Jennifer seems to have a higher opinion of you."
Hardy shrugged. What was he supposed to say to that? He'd let Lightner figure out where he was going.
"I mean, you're representing her, too, aren't you?"
"I have to tell you that if either you or Jennifer thinks I'm anywhere near the trial lawyer that David Freeman is, you're both mistaken. David's a little abrasive, okay, but that's mostly just his style. He doesn't get beat too often, and that's where Jennifer's interests lie."
"What if she just likes… feels more comfortable with you?"
There wasn't much room in the area between the elevator door and the bars, but Hardy backed away a step. "This is not a comfortable situation, Doctor. I'm working with David, for David, I'm not that involved in Jennifer's defense on the guilt stage, and I'm a little confused about your role in all this. Did Jennifer ask you to talk to me?"
"Not directly, no. I'm not interested in offending you, Mr. Hardy, but my main concern is Jennifer. She's lost, upset, grief-stricken… she's very, very unhappy-"
"She's in jail, Doctor."
Lightner turned his head abruptly. Impatient. "No, no. I don't mean her situation now, here." He got a grip on himself, spoke more quietly. "Look, Mr. Hardy, she can't stay here. I don't think she'd survive a year, whatever it might be for the trial, in there. Have you seen… of course you have. You know what it's like. And Mr. Freeman tells her to forget about bail. Why? Is that in her best interest?"
Hardy was losing some of his own patience. "It's about reality, Doctor. I'd advise the same thing if I were the primary cousel representing Jennifer. I'm afraid she's not going to get bail. She's not getting out."
Lightner shook his head. "If she stays in jail I believe it's not unlikely that she will kill herself."
"You're talking to the wrong person. You should be talking to the judge… or the legislature. Besides, I think that's a little extreme. Jail's rough, no question, but I certainly didn't see any sign of suicidal depression this morning and I was with her for two hours."
"Would you know it if you saw it, Mr. Hardy?"
Hardy knew he had a point there, but the man was getting to him. "I think so. Now if you'll excuse me-"
"No, listen, listen please."
Hardy waited.
"I'm sorry. Maybe we've gotten off on the wrong foot, but somebody's got to understand what's really happening here," Lightner said.
"And you know?"
"I know. I've been treating this woman for four years. I've had to prescribe anti-depressant drugs during crises. Jennifer is clinically depressed."
An obvious if ingenious thought occurred to Hardy. "Well, Doctor, if she'd been depressed for four years, it isn't jail that's doing it to her." Hardy glanced at his watch. "Now I've really got to go. Sorry."
Lightner touched his arm and took a deep breath, as though making up his mind about a major decision. "Suppose I told you," he said, his voice low now, "that she may have actually done it. Don't you want to know why? It's what this is all about."
"You said you noticed it yourself… one minute she's so smart, almost playful, the next she's like a beaten victim – head down, uninvolved, at sea. She has no appetite, she's subject to extreme mood changes, lethargic to hyper-active. Nightmares ruin her sleep. All of these are classic signs of clinical depression."
Hardy had gone with Lightner to pick up the release – the reason he'd come up here in the first place – and they had ridden together down to the third floor, the DA's floor. Hardy, who used to be employed in the building, knew a few of the private spaces, and he brought Lightner now into the reporter's room just off the hall by the elevators.