Harley started the tape recorder and then sat down, tapping her pen nervously on her notepad. She wrote a heading at the top Jack Napier Interview #1 and then underlined it twice. She coughed, then stopped the tape recorder and rewound it, making sure it had recorded the cough and was working properly. Then she started it again.

A knock came on the door. "Come in," said Harley.

Jack Napier was dragged inside, between two guards. They sat him down on the therapy couch, then chained his feet to the feet of the sofa. They checked that his handcuffs were secured, and then one said, "We'll be just outside if you need us. Press the call button," he said, nodding at the red button by Harley's chair.

"Ok, thanks," said Harley. They left, shutting the door behind them.

Harley turned to look at Jack, who was smiling at her. "There's no need for these," he said, holding up his handcuffs. "I ain't a wild animal."

"I think that remains to be determined," murmured Harley. "I just think I should let you know from the start, Mr. Napier, that you're being recorded, so everything you say to me is being taken down."

"Well, I'll try to watch my language, then," said Jack, grinning. Harley didn't grin back.

Jack sighed. "You got me chained up, and taped," he muttered. "If I didn't know better, kid, I'd say you were afraid of me."

Harley didn't know how to respond. He looked up at her. "Are you afraid of me?" he murmured.

She shook her head. "No. I mean…well, no more so than anyone would be of a dangerous man."

"You think I would hurt you?" he murmured. "When I owe you a favor?"

"I think the memory of something that happened twenty years ago won't necessarily prevent a man like you from taking what he wants," murmured Harley.

Jack stared at her. "A man like me," he repeated. He snorted, leaning back on the couch. "You've changed, kid," he muttered. "The Harleen Quinzel I remember wouldn't have cared what other people thought about me. In fact, she didn't. When my old man treated me like dirt, when your parents looked at me like some worthless piece of trash, did you care? No. You said we were friends. But I see you've grown up to be just like everyone else. Shame, really. I've thought about you a lot over the years, and I always hoped you hadn't changed. That you were still sweet and good and innocent, kind, caring, loving, and non-judgmental. But I guess you can't really live in this cruel, crazy world without losing all those things. I guess you ain't special, after all."

Harley looked at him. "Well…this interview isn't about me, Mr. Napier, it's about you," she murmured.

"Don't call me that," he muttered. "You know I hate that name."

"No, Mr. Napier, I don't," retorted Harley. "I'm sorry if the incident you're referring to, this passing meeting we had, isn't as fresh in my mind as it is in yours, but I was four years old at the time…"

"Nearly four," he corrected.

"Be that as it may, I recall little to nothing about it," said Harley, firmly.

"But you do recall something about it?" he asked. "What?"

Harley gazed back at him. "I remember your face," she murmured. "And your eyes. So full of rage and hatred and…pain. They haven't changed."

"Yeah, at least some things don't," retorted Jack.

"Mr. Napier…"

"I said don't call me that!" shouted Jack. "I beat my old man to death so I wouldn't be stuck with anything of his, including his goddamn name!"

Harley was silent at the outburst. Jack took a deep breath. "Sorry," he muttered. "Didn't mean to shout at you…or swear. You've told me off for that before."

"What should I call you then?" murmured Harley. "Jack?"

"If you wanna," he retorted, shrugging. "That's my name. But calling me that's as boring and unimaginative as naming your teddy bear Mr. Bear."

Harley just looked at him. "Mr. J?" she suggested.

He grinned. "I like Mr. J," he murmured.

"Well, then, Mr. J, if I may ask, why is our past meeting so important to you?" asked Harley. "I understand that the day itself is relevant in terms of your father's murder, but I don't understand why you'd remember me in particular."

He laughed. "Don't you?" he murmured, smiling at her. She shook her head. Jack shrugged. "Well…all my life I been…treated like scum," he murmured. "My old man hated me, my Mom hated me so much she ran away. Even as a kid going around Gotham, heading to the store in rags and dirty clothes, people would just look at you…everyone…like you were…trash. Like you were worthless, y'know?"

He sighed. "And when you feel worthless…you begin to hate. Everything. Everyone who made you feel worthless, which is everyone in the whole world. But when I met you…for the first time…I met someone who didn't judge me as worthless. Someone who said we were friends, who accepted me for who I am. Someone who just smiled at me and looked at me like…I was the most special person in her world. Obviously I wasn't, but…y'know…it felt that way to me. Anyway, I ain't ever experienced that, before or since, what it felt like to be…valued, loved, I dunno. But it was a nice feeling, and a nice memory. One that stayed with me. I don't think that's so crazy."

"No, it…it isn't," murmured Harley. She realized she was staring at him, and forced her eyes back down to her notepad. But she didn't write anything down.

"Uh…so, tell me, Mr. J," she murmured. "What drove you to murder your own father?"

Jack laughed. "What didn't drive me to murder my father?" he chuckled. "He was a scumbag. A drunken, violent bully, and he'd take his rage out on me whenever he could. The only thing I remember about my mother is her screams when he hit her. After she left, I was his only punching bag. He blamed me for her running off, because he wasn't man enough to blame himself. He was a coward. I've been a lotta things in my life, but no one can say I've ever been a coward. And frankly, my old man got what was coming to him. I don't like to think of it as murder."

"Because the idea of murdering your own father would be too horrible to bear if you gave it that definition?" asked Harley.

"Nah," he retorted. "Because you don't call it murder when you kill a cockroach, do ya? You don't call pest control murderers. Well, that's what I was. Pest control."

Harley began writing something down. "You don't call it murder if it's justified, do ya?" asked Jack. "If I get the chair, nobody's gonna say the state murdered me. They're gonna say it was justified. Well, if killing was ever justified, my old man's killing was."

Harley put down the pen. "Mr. J, the purpose of these interviews is to establish whether or not you are insane," she murmured. "If you are not, you will go to court, where Harvey Dent will press for the death penalty. But if you are, Dr. Leland will take care of you in Arkham Asylum to the end of your days."

"I know that, toots," he said. "What's your point?"

"My point is, at the moment, you're sounding a little too sane to me," murmured Harley. "And I'd just like you to consider whether that's what you intend."

Jack stared at her. Then he reached for the tape recorder, turning it off suddenly. "Don't…" began Harley.

"No, I want this to be just between us," he murmured, leaning forward. "Are you saying you wanna save me?"

"Of course I do," murmured Harley. "I couldn't stand the thought that any evaluation of mine had sent a man to the electric chair."

"And how far are you willing to bend the rules to accomplish that?" murmured Jack. "How far are you willing to go for me?"

Harley stared back at him. "I will honestly report all my findings to Dr. Leland," she murmured. "If you tell me things that corroborate your sanity, I will tell her that. If you tell me things that do not, I will tell her that. But it's not up to me, Mr. J. It's up to you."

Jack grinned, leaning back. "Y'know, for a moment there, I almost thought you cared about me," he chuckled. "I almost thought good little Harleen Quinzel was gonna do something a little naughty. But you ain't that kinda girl, are ya, toots?"

"No, I am not," replied Harley. She turned on the tape recorder again. "So, Mr. J, why did you murder your own father?"

Jack grinned. "Because I felt like it," he murmured. "Because I thought it would be funny. Because it seemed like one great, big, hilarious joke."

"Tell me more," murmured Harley, beginning to write.