The Deposit Slip (5 page)

It was nearly five o’clock. He hadn’t even decided where to stay. He picked up some cases from an adjacent printer and headed for the front door.

“Jared!” a voice called as he reached the entryway.

He turned to see her small form, standing behind the front desk. “Mrs. Huddleston.”

Jared felt genuine pleasure at seeing her. As she came around the desk to give Jared a hug, he thought how deeply a person’s face marked the passage of time. In his memory, she still perched on the edge of middle age. Now she was the image of the elderly librarian.

“The ghost of Ashley,” she said quietly and smiled, looking him up and down.

Her voice still carried the heavy lilt of her roots—a second generation immigrant who spoke only Norwegian until she went to school. She was one of a handful of people in town Jared felt real guilt about never visiting.

“I didn’t see you when I came in,” he said. “Thought you may not work here anymore.”

“Retire?” She waved a hand around the room. “As long as I’ve been here, they’ll likely stuff me and exhibit me in the entryway someday. I’ve kept up with your exploits, Jared. Your father, you know. He comes in here often. Talks about your cases incessantly. He’s very proud of you.”

Jared couldn’t hide his surprise. He hadn’t spoken with his father in months.

“I don’t suppose you’re looking into that case with young Ms. Larson, are you?” she went on. “Now, close your mouth, Jared. The lawsuit isn’t a secret in this town, at least for people who get the paper. I read her last attorney quit a few weeks ago.”

It was strange enough being back in town. Jared didn’t want it to circulate that he was here investigating Erin’s case.

Mrs. Huddleston saw his look and shook her head, placing a finger to her lips. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” she said. “But you know, it’s good to think that someone might be looking out for that girl. Her case has stirred things up a bit, Jared. I haven’t seen anything like this since . . .”

She hesitated and embarrassment mixed with kindness in the elder woman’s eyes. Jared forced a smile. “That was a long time ago, Mrs. Huddleston.”

She looked for a moment as though she was pondering a reply, but instead reached out and squeezed Jared’s arm. It was a tender gesture—like so many she had extended in the past. He felt a release of some of the tension that had been building since he’d arrived in town.

“It’s so good to see you again,” she said with a smile. “Give me a call if you want to get your bearings in town, a refresher on who’s who.” She wrote her number on a piece of paper, and Jared took it with a thank-you. He left with a promise to return and catch up.

Standing on the grass beside the library steps, Jared saw the sun settling into the pines across the street. He looked farther uptown, in the direction of his dad’s house. No, he thought. He’d check in with his dad tomorrow. With relief at his decision, he turned the other way and began the long walk back to his car.

H
e checked into a motel. Looks like he’s planning at least another day in Ashley.”

The voice came from a speakerphone in the center of the wide, polished oak desk. Marcus Stanford sat behind the desk, clutching a pen. He glanced up at Franklin Whittier III, sitting low in the leather client chair opposite; watched with barely restrained disdain as the younger partner ran a hand gently over the surface of his carefully combed hair.

Whittier’s casual slouch annoyed Marcus. It was too relaxed, too familiar. He nearly said something, but the voice on the speakerphone intervened.

“I had to race up to Ashley to beat Neaton there after my contact called. Thought the safest bet was to catch up with him at the bank. I was right. He showed up there around three o’clock.”

Marcus tried to remain patient. Even after working with Mick Elgart for ten years, Marcus still grew frustrated with his habit of giving too much background in his reports.

“I couldn’t enter the bank until Neaton left because I didn’t want to become a familiar face to him. After he left and checked into a motel, I went back and met with Mr. Grant at the bank to discuss the visit. He said no one noticed Neaton come or go.”

Marcus tensed at the suggestion of Mick in direct contact with Sidney Grant, the Ashley State Bank president, especially during business hours. Anyone meeting with the bank president was likely to be noticed. He should have instructed Mick on that. But he wouldn’t discuss it in front of Whittier. Never acknowledge a mistake in front of the help.

“All right. What do you have?”

“Well, like I told you when I called this in earlier, Neaton’s one of yours—five years at Paisley before he went out on his own.”

“We know,” Marcus said impatiently. “What do you have up in Ashley.”

“I have security footage from the bank showing Neaton entering and looking the place over. And I have photos showing Neaton talking to one man, a Willis Severson.”

“And?”

“Severson works at the bank.”

Marcus straightened. “Very good. Was he an employee when the deposit was made?”

“No. He’s only worked there for a year and a half.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Whittier jumped in. “He’s still an employee. Neaton can’t talk to him without a subpoena. Judge Lindquist is a hard ass on procedure. He’ll—”

Whittier stopped. The speakerphone had fallen silent and Marcus was staring at him with cold eyes. Whittier looked perplexed, then reluctantly shook his head.

“Come on, Marcus, we’re alone. Enough on the language. What’s it matter—”

“It always matters.”

“But—”

“
It always matters
.”

Whittier slumped back in his chair, his face red.

Marcus wondered what had happened to the privileged class in this country. The generations that followed in the footsteps of wealth inherited the money, the numerals after their names, and nothing else. Paper thin appearances—nothing else.

When he’d hired Whittier, he’d hoped it would guarantee seven figures of work annually from his father’s company, Whittier Chemicals. He’d also hoped he’d gain a presentable protégé in court and with clients, someone who didn’t just look good in a suit. Franklin Whittier III: Cornell undergraduate and Columbia Law. The family lived in a five-million-dollar house on Lake Minnetonka and styled themselves as latter day royalty.

Look what they’d produced. Trash.

Or maybe that was an overstatement. Whittier could be tenacious; he was sharp, he worked hard, and he was manageable. And the seven figures worth of work did arrive at Paisley in his wake.

No, Whittier’s problem was that he was all aggression and little style or restraint. Unchecked, that was a recipe for anarchy.

Marcus turned back to address the speakerphone. “What else?”

“It looks like he’s got the entire Goering file in his car,” Mick continued. “My contact doesn’t know if he’s actually accepted the case or not, but it looks like he’s got the whole file with him.”

“Anything else?” Marcus asked the investigator.

“No,” Mick went on. “I haven’t had a chance to do any serious background. But at the bank they told me a few interesting facts.”

“Explain.”

“Neaton’s from Ashley. Grew up there.”

Marcus pursed his lips, uncertain. What impact could that have?

“But there’s more. His father, Samuel Neaton. He used to be the chief financial officer at the grain elevator. About twelve or thirteen years ago, he got caught with his hand in the till. It was a pretty big scandal for Ashley. Lots of heat. He was charged with embezzlement. He repaid the money, and the employer argued for leniency. He got three years in a minimum security prison down in Rochester. Happened when the younger Neaton was in high school. Sounds like they’ve been mostly estranged ever since.”

Marcus saw that Whittier was smiling at the news. Imbecile. That raised questions, but no answers. The only issue of importance was the extent of Neaton’s connections in Ashley and whether they would enable him to get further than Goering did.

“Where are you staying?” Marcus asked.

“Same place as Neaton: the Chatham Motel, at the edge of Ashley. I planned to follow him until he left town.”

“Good. We’ll be here at the office all weekend. Otherwise, call on my cell.”

As the speakerphone clicked off, Marcus leaned back in his chair.

“What do you make of Neaton?” Marcus asked. Whittier was perusing the room absently. It looked too much like pouting, Marcus thought. Childish and unseemly, especially for a junior partner at Paisley.

“He was two years behind me,” Whittier began. “He didn’t impress me. Seemed like a small-town boy trying to run with the big dogs. Little wallet, big dreams. Didn’t know he was from Ashley, though.”

The man had no other yardstick than money, did he? If it were that simple, Whittier would be the one sitting on this side of the desk.

“How about legal skills?” Marcus asked. “Trial skills?”

Whittier shrugged. “He had a pretty good string of jury wins working under Clay Strong. Strong gave him a lot of chances to try cases for someone so young.”

“Tell me about the Wheeler case.”

“Neaton got beat. He must have picked up the case after he left Paisley, because the trial was just a couple of months ago. The
Bar
article said it was an eight-week trial. Neaton represented a woman on a fraud claim against her financial adviser. New York lawyers represented the adviser. The judge wouldn’t let a key witness testify for Neaton’s client, and the jury found for the defendant. Neaton’s appealing. Rumor has it he took it on a contingent fee basis—rolled the dice.”

“And he left Paisley how long ago?”

“A couple of years.”

It must have been crushing, Marcus thought. Only two years out of the cocoon of the big firm and he bet it all on a case like that. New York attorneys must have given him a battering. What was the likelihood he’d take another tough contingent fee case so soon? Or have the resources to do it?

“So, what do you suggest we do, Franklin?” he asked, as much to assuage Whittier’s bruised ego as from genuine interest.

“Same thing we did with Goering. We swing for the face right away. Neaton won’t take another chance on a case so soon if he knows he’s in for a beating. Today’s Friday; Neaton’s got to decide if he’ll take the case by next Wednesday. That’s only five days. We just keep him ducking, and he won’t dare touch it in this short of time.”

Marcus nodded, though he felt less certain than Whittier. He didn’t like making strategic decisions without all available information. A vague recollection gnawed at him: hadn’t he worked with Neaton briefly soon after he arrived at Paisley? If so, why did he stop working with him?

But what did it matter? Whittier was right. If no attorney accepted this case in the next five days, it was over—he won. It was very tempting to bully Neaton out of the case before he got too interested.

He made his decision. “All right,” he said, and gave Whittier an encouraging nod. “Let’s bloody his nose and finish this.”

S
o, what are you thinking about the case?” Jessie asked.

It was late Saturday morning. Jared lay wrapped in the tangled sheets of his bed in the motel room, sections of Goering’s file strewn across it. He had finished reviewing it last night and this morning. He was just heading into the shower when Jessie called on his cell.

“I still don’t know.” He explained about his conversations with Mort and Erin and the results of his legal research. “The file is like Mort described. He struck out trying to find witnesses in Ashley. He took two depositions of bank employees. They had no recollection of the deposit and claimed the bank had no record of the account with the mystery slip.”

The instant he stopped speaking, Jessie began. “I’ve been thinking that there are a lot of problems with this case. Like where did the money come from. If a jury’s going to award money to the farmer and his daughter, they’re going to want to know. If the money’s illegal, they’re not going to be that sympathetic, are they?”

Jared checked an audible sigh. “I get that. But they’re not going to like the bank keeping the money either,” he said. “And hopefully we’ll figure out where the money came from by trial.”

Jessie’s voice betrayed urgency. “Jared, have you thought about what I mentioned the other night? About it being so soon?”

“Yeah. I’ll take that into account. Now, did I get any messages yesterday?”

Jessie was worried and that was fine, Jared thought, jotting down the names and numbers of clients she repeated. But she wasn’t the one climbing out of a hole. She didn’t have the maxed out credit cards and unpaid bills stacking up in the living room.

His mind slid to the shattered windshield. He’d started the night thinking about his research and the Goering file. He’d fallen asleep to the image of broken glass on Erin’s car.

There
was
something to this case. The money and the account number so close to the farmer’s. The deposit slip itself. Even the safe-deposit box where Erin found the slip. The things in the farmer’s box were his treasures. Would he keep a fake deposit slip mixed in with his wife’s death certificate? His daughter’s report cards? The deed to his farm?

Jared realized that Jessie had grown quiet. “Is that it?” he asked, setting down his pen.

Jessie remained silent a moment more. “No. There’s one from Clay,” she said, and Jared heard the disapproval in her voice. “He must not have your cell.”

“So what’d he say.”

Jessie didn’t answer immediately. Just as Jared was going to press again, she sighed. “Jared, he said he’s willing to bankroll your office and case costs up to thirty thousand dollars if you take the Larson case. In return, he wants twenty percent of your contingent fee.”

The file papers flew as Jared threw off the sheets and sat up. “When were you planning on mentioning this?”

“Now, don’t get like that, Jared. I was getting to it.”

He bit back the response that came to mind.

“I just . . . I’m worried it’s too soon.” Her voice gentled. “So what are you doing today?”

Jared resisted the invitation to change the subject, but willed himself to settle down. Later, he told himself. He needed Jessie’s help. He had to let this go—for now. “Erin texted me a list of her dad’s friends,” he answered. “I’m going to start there and see what I can learn.”

“And you’ll be back when?”

“Later today.”

“Before you decide to take this case,” Jessie pressed quietly, “can we talk some more?”

He wanted to say no. It was his practice. His call. But Jessie took risks coming over as his legal assistant when he left Paisley two years ago. She gave up a large, financially solid law firm, surrendering benefits he still couldn’t match. She’d worked the long hours of the Wheeler case too, and taken several late paychecks. Now he was taking her for another potentially risky venture.

“All right. But not now. Let’s talk Monday.”

Jessie said okay and they hung up.

Thirty thousand dollars, Jared thought as he gathered up the file papers. Enough to assure the office bills got paid—including Jessie’s salary—and
probably
enough to cover the case costs the next few months. The twenty percent Clay wanted was fair and actually less than Clay could have asked just for referring the case to Jared.

But Clay wasn’t being generous. This was a carrot to get Jared to take a case his old mentor saw as valuable but tough. It was a good carrot—but Clay’s cash wouldn’t do the work or keep Jared’s remaining clients happy. And no amount of support was worth taking a contingent fee case he couldn’t win—particularly with a Rule 11 threat attached to it.

He finished putting the file back in order and then picked up the list of names Jessie had given him. The list made it clear that he was already falling behind at the office. Most pressing was the Olney case: he’d better call Olney and figure out when they’d get the paperwork done on his bond.

Jared dialed Phil’s number. The phone rang half a dozen times before the client’s familiar voice answered. Jared explained the need to get together next week to complete the bond.

“Jessie said you’re out of town,” Phil said. “’Cause if you’re comin’ back, I could swing by this weekend.”

Jared explained that he wouldn’t be back to Minneapolis until late that night, or early the next day. “I’ve got a new case against the local bank up here. It has some twist and turns.”

“Hey, Counselor,” Olney responded, “if you’re lookin’ for someone who knows about banks, I’ve got a guy who’s done some work for me on bad checks. He’s very sharp. There isn’t a rock big enough for a deadbeat to hide from ’im.”

Jared didn’t need a skip-tracing P.I. He needed someone who could tell him what he needed to know about banking practices and records.

“This guy’s very, very sharp,” Olney went on. “Takes a little gettin’ used to, but really knows his stuff. And listen—I feel real bad about the money. This guy owes me. Let me get you two together, work this off a little.”

The concern in Olney’s voice sounded genuine. Jared told Phil he could pass on his cell number.

Half an hour later, Jared was showered and headed out of his motel room to his car. He’d take a few hours and visit some of the witnesses Erin had identified. Most of the names on Erin’s list were neighboring farmers of her father. He would start there.

As he pulled out of the motel parking lot, Jared glanced at a blue Subaru parked across the street. The driver was turned away, talking on a cell phone. Jared steered left, driving toward the county road leading out of town, in the direction of the Larson farm.

“Old Pauly Larson, he never had nothin’ like ten million dollars.”

Jared could feel the spring beneath him on the seat cushion of the battered couch. Was this the fourth, no, the fifth farm he’d visited in as many hours? This farmer, the neighbor to the south of Larson’s place, scowled at Jared from an ancient rocker across the living room.

It was the last farm on Erin’s list. The farmer’s cold expression had scarcely changed since he’d arrived. Jared knew he was on borrowed time in this house.

“Like I told that other lawyer, that fast talkin’ one, you think Pauly’d be working over his 2755 Deere every night if he had ten million sitting in a bank somewhere? Not if he wasn’t crazy, he wouldn’t.”

Jared listened politely while Joe Creedy spoke as rapidly as he rocked. His wife stood behind him, nodding in supportive cadence. It was the same story in a different voice that he’d heard at each stop. Maybe a little angrier.

More wasted time, Jared thought, glancing at the spindly hands of a wall clock. It was nearing four in the afternoon.

“So you don’t recall anything unusual Mr. Larson may have said to you a few years ago? I know it’s a long time, but something that sticks in your memory about some windfall for Mr. Larson?”

“No, I don’t. An’ that would’ve stuck with me, things being so hard this past few years. An’ he didn’t say nothing to Susie,” he said, jerking a thumb toward his wife, “or she’d remember. She remembers everything.”

The wife nodded quickly.

“So that’s it,” the farmer ended.

These last words carried an air of finality. Jared took the hint, thanked the farmer and his wife, and stood to leave. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything, please give me a call.”

“Um-hmm,” the farmer grunted noncommittally.

Joe stayed seated as Jared walked to the door and out onto the front porch of the farmhouse. He stepped down to the dirt yard, rounded the porch, and headed toward his car near the farthest corner of the house. As he reached for the car door, he was surprised to see the farmer’s wife emerge from the back door of the house.

“Mr. Neaton,” she called in a quiet voice. Jared stepped around the front of his car to meet her.

“You know,” she began as she neared, “since that Mr. Goering visited this summer, I’ve been thinking. I do remember something. I’d prefer you kept it to yourself, though. Joe,” she said with the glimmer of pain, “he’d probably like me to stay out of this.”

Jared nodded his understanding.

“Pauly was closer to Joe’s folks than us,” she went on softly. “They farmed this land until a couple years ago. Joe and me lived in the trailer in the back and helped out until his folks retired to Tampa.”

“Mr. Larson said something?”

The wife shot a glance toward the house.

“Well, not to me—or Joe. But Joe’s dad came back from town once a few years ago and said he’d run into Pauly. He said Pauly’d asked him about soil money.”

“Soil money?”

“Money from the Conservation District. You know, government money. For not planting acreage.”

Jared nodded. “What did he ask?”

“Well, that’s what was funny. Pauly asked if Joe’s dad ever got an excess check. You know, one that paid too much. Pauly asked if that’d ever happened to him.”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah. Dad told him he hadn’t, and that was that. I just remember it because Dad came back wondering if Pauly’d gotten an excess check or something. From the government.”

Jared thanked her.

“You know,” she went on, “everyone liked Pauly. He was good to everyone. He’d help with repairs or hauling if he had the time. Quiet fellow, you know, but solid as oak. Joe must’ve liked him too because he took Pauly’s death real bad, hardly talked for weeks after. But Ashley State Bank’s got the paper on our farm like it did with Pauly, and we’re behind. That bank cuts no one slack. Joe’s tried to meet with Mr. Grant over there a half dozen times, and it’s not helped. Joe prob’ly doesn’t remember what his dad said, but even if he did—well, you know.”

Jared said he did and thanked her before getting into his car.

Soil money. Excess check. Maybe Clay knew someone who could fill him in on the likelihood of that and how he could explore it.

The afternoon was waning. Jared knew he had to make a decision about his dad. He hadn’t even called to tell him he was in town yet. Reluctantly, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in the number.

“Hello?”

“Dad?”

“Is that you, Jared?”

“Yeah. I’m in town.”

“In Ashley?”

“Yeah. Okay if I stop by?”

“Of course, son. You’re in town? In Ashley?”

He answered yes again, and said he’d be there soon.