"Two-fifty-six gig card," he said. "Parking mode clips are short, thirty seconds to a minute. Driving footage eats most of the space. Depends how much you've driven since Wednesday." He looked at me. "Have you driven much since Wednesday?"
"To the school Thursday. To juvenile intake. Home. Here."
"Then I'd guess we're fine," he said. "I'd guess. I'll make a forensic image tonight and send you a hash. Nobody looks at anything until I've imaged it. Not even you, Ruthanne."
"I know how it works, Teo."
"I know you know. I'm saying it out loud for the client."
He called Ruthanne at 9:40 that night. She called me at 9:43.
"There are four parking-mode events between when you got home Wednesday and when your boy took the bag Thursday morning," she said. "One at 9:06 p.m., that's Izzy getting the charger. You can see him lean in, grab the cable, and walk back to the house, and you can see the door not get locked. One at 11:16, that's a cat. A big orange one. It sits on your hood for a minute and then gets bored. One at 6:51 Thursday morning, that's Izzy grabbing the bag and running for the bus."
She stopped.
"And the fourth?"
"The fourth is at 11:52 p.m.," Ruthanne said. "Teo's driving it to my office tomorrow at eight. I want you there. Don't bring Izzy. Not for this part."
"Ruthanne. Tell me."
There was a pause on the line, and I could hear, in the background, Judge Wapner snoring.