The Deposit Slip (19 page)

Jessie wondered at the image of a young Sam Neaton. The past several weeks, she’d noticed his tender nature.

Her conversations with Sam had ridden the crest of their shared and growing concern about Jared. Mostly Sam probed gently about his son—his practice and his life. Jessie was struck by how little Jared’s father knew about him and wondered at a relationship so distant that
she
felt like the insider.

“I’m glad you’re his friend,” Mrs. Huddleston said absently as she pondered a decorative stand of autumn corn.

“Well, he’s my employer,” Jessie answered cautiously.

Mrs. Huddleston smiled. “You may have figured out that Jared doesn’t trust too many people. He trusts you.”

“I’m not so sure,” Jessie answered, feeling drawn in. “But I think maybe he trusts Erin more,” she said, knowing instantly she shouldn’t have said it.

Mrs. Huddleston glanced at Jessie. “Oh, you know better than that.” The librarian slipped an arm around Jessie’s and led her gently down the row of stalls. “And I have a hunch Erin’s more a cause than a destination. They have so much in common, you know.”

Jessie marveled at this statement—realized that it coalesced images filtering through her own mind the past several weeks.

“Well, I’m just glad Jared has you,” Mrs. Huddleston went on, patting her hand. “It’s so easy to make mistakes when you don’t have good friends around to give counsel.”

Jessie wondered if she was so transparent. How could Mrs. Huddleston know how close Jessie was to quitting?

The past weeks had grown more and more difficult, and Jared had disappeared, unwilling to talk with her about anything. He wouldn’t discuss the firm finances any longer, and Jessie had stopped leaving more than just phone numbers when clients called to complain. Other than half-an-hour over pizza two nights ago, he scarcely discussed the case with her at all. She never would have envisioned this impasse when she left Paisley to work with Jared.

She had decided to give him a few more days, at least until the document summaries and the depositions were done. But after that?

She had seen him through the Wheeler trial and cheered silently at Jared’s pronouncement that he would not travel that path again anytime soon. She could not stay now to see the consequences of discarding that promise. It was an act she couldn’t bear to witness.

“Richard?”

“Yes,” the investigator answered over the phone.

Jared had just begun his ride back home from the VA Hospital. He set the cell on speaker and rested it on the dashboard. “Did you get the phone records on Paul yet?”

“No,” Richard responded. “Working on it.”

“All right. Well, I’ve got something else for you—higher priority. Remember how I told you that Goering struck out looking for an overpayment check from the Agriculture Department?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Find out if he was getting checks from the Veterans Administration. Disability checks for his war wounds. Especially in the last three years of his life.”

“Okay,” the quiet voice answered. “Did Mr. Larson’s daughter have any information about it?”

“No,” Jared answered. He had texted Erin on his way out of the hospital to the car. Her response had been almost immediate: she was unaware of her father ever receiving veterans benefits. Still, a man like Paul Larson—who tried to hide his war wound his entire life—could have kept government disability payments secret, even from his daughter.

“And what if I find out he was collecting VA benefits?”

“Follow them. Find out who was in charge of the checks and who would know if he got an overpayment. Follow wherever it leads—Minneapolis, Washington. Wherever.”

And, Jared thought, pray we can afford it.

J
ared spent Friday night in the basement, trying to finish up the documents. Jessie was not around, working on summaries at the Larson farm, he assumed. So he had descended to the document room to try to finish up the boxes.

It was nearing ten o’clock in the evening when his cell phone rang. He saw that it was Towers again on the other end.

“I spent the rest of this afternoon on the phone,” the investigator said. “For the information I need on the VA disability checks, it’s best I go through Washington. I’ll need a release from Erin on behalf of the estate, but I have the office in D.C. where they can tell me the history of disability payments to Paul Larson. Are you sure you want me to fly there instead of handling this on the phone? It would be much cheaper.”

Jared hesitated. “I’m going to have to compensate you for your time, Richard. I know that.”

“We can talk about that. But I’m speaking of the costs. I can’t front them for you, Mr. Neaton. Are you sure you want to take on the expense?”

When Jared left the farmhouse the other night, he hadn’t told Erin he would stay on the case. He also had not said he would quit. Facing her plea that he continue, he couldn’t mention that one factor crying for him to leave the case was money. His well had run dry.

Jared had reviewed the checking accounts—business and personal—earlier in the week. Between the bills for his Minneapolis practice, Jessie’s paycheck, and his townhouse mortgage, there wasn’t even enough of the Clay cash left to cover Towers’s flight. He’d instructed his bank to distribute the last of his rollover IRA from Paisley, but that would take a few weeks—and then would only be enough for Jessie’s next paycheck and a few screaming bills.

It went against every fiber of Jared as a trial attorney to make strategic decisions in a case because of money. Having Towers handle this problem by phone made all the sense in the world. But Jared knew that maneuvering through the Washington bureaucracies was quicker in person. You always hit dead ends, and in person, you could push. On the phone, you got put on hold. Besides, Clay used to say that you could never tell if you’d gotten everything from a witness without going eyeball to eyeball with them.

There was one risky option that had been nipping at the edge of Jared’s mind for days now. The bond money from Olney and some other client funds. The bond wasn’t due to court quite yet and the money still sat in the client trust account. Jessie nagged every few days about it, wanting to know when they were going to post the bond.

Misusing client trust money. This was the stuff of disbarment—or worse. Jared quickly tallied up his receivables from the work he’d done back in Minneapolis a couple of weeks ago. It should cover the Olney bond—when it came in. But it still was risky to count on that resource.

Jared could feel the truth in this case like hot breath—he was
so close
. He saw again Whittier’s superior smirk at the deposition and knew that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—make a mistake in this case because the tap was running dry.

The Olney cash would buy him two weeks, Jared thought with finality, and he’d pay it back with the next dollars in the door.

“No, fly out to D.C.—Monday morning if you can. Call me back with the cost, and I’ll drop a check in the mail in the morning.”

S
eated in the windowed office, Richard watched, expressionless, as the pale man’s long fingers paraded across a keyboard with the familiarity of a concert pianist.

“Here we are. Paul Eric Larson. Served in the Marine Corps from 1971 to 1974. Wounded in 1973 during his second deployment. Disabled. Received a disability pension which continued until his death.”

The man tapped another key. “I’m making a copy for you of his benefit payment history.”

Richard watched Anthony Carlson, Department of Veterans Affairs, senior benefits manager, as he busied himself at the computer. A beaded chain draped Mr. Carlson’s shoulders, attached to an ID card nestled in the breast pocket of his crisply starched white shirt. His desk was clear and orderly. Each stroke of the keys was precise. The back credenza held stacks of precisely piled federal information sheets, a printer, a phone charger, and a cell phone lying beside it.

Anthony Carlson had been polite, efficient and cooperative from the moment Richard was ushered into his office late this morning. So what was wrong?

“Mr. Towers,” Manager Carlson began, setting the printed sheet from his credenza printer on the desk between them. “As you can see, Mr. Larson’s disability benefit payments have continued unabated since the 1970s. Those benefits have been indexed to inflation. It appears that they have been sent to the same P.O. box in Mission Falls, Minnesota, on a monthly basis since the mid-1970s.”

The fingers were manicured, Richard noted. Long, thin, smooth hands with carefully monitored cuticles. Hands that were often lathered in lotion, he surmised.

When he was forced to make a career change a dozen years ago, Richard decided to become an investigator. He did so because he knew he had an instinct that presaged his conscious thoughts. For as long as he could remember, Richard experienced moments of certainty that he was witnessing incongruities—events that, taken as a whole, made no sense. He would grapple with the sensation, triggered while observing classmates or activity in a room or street or people passing in the hall—unable to fathom the cause. Often he cursed its arrival, like the sudden inexplicable onset of an unreachable itch.

Usually, the solution would come crashing into his awareness minutes or hours later on a wave of relief. Painfully, sometimes the solution never came. But whether or not he solved the puzzle, he had long since stopped doubting it.

So what was wrong with Anthony Carlson?

The manager turned at his desk and reached for a pamphlet on a neat pile at the corner of the credenza. “This,” he said, setting it parallel to the printed sheet on the desktop, “explains survivor rights for relatives of disabled veterans, with citations to the appropriate regulations.”

Richard glanced through the glass wall of the senior manager’s office into the cubicle-filled space that occupied the center of the floor. Employees were moving about with a restrained pace. Each desk had a client chair next to it. A few were filled with people with white “VISITOR” cards clipped to their shirts or blouses.

“And you are certain from these records that Mr. Larson never received an overpayment on any of his disability checks?” Richard asked quietly.

“Quite certain,” Mr. Carlson responded with a smile. “These accounts are audited with some regularity by this office, and any overpayment would have been picked up within six to eighteen months.”

A streak of dark rimming the top of his sleeves. Senior benefits manager
.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Towers?”

Richard roused himself. “I don’t believe so.”

An emerald glow hovering over the cell phone
.

Richard stood, extending a hand. “Thank you for seeing me so promptly.”

Outside, Richard crossed the busy street to a park. He seated himself on the pedestal of a pigeon-stained monument and pressed the numbers on his phone.

“Jared, please call me when you get this message. I met with the disability benefits manager. He assured me that there was no overpayment to Paul Larson. I believe he was lying.”

It would take a few minutes to explain his belief to the client, Richard knew. Perhaps he would be unimpressed. But to Richard, when the pieces of an incongruity assembled themselves, the picture was always crystal clear.

When he’d arrived that morning and filled out the information request form, Richard was told at the reception desk that he would be seen by the next free manager. Ten minutes later, he was met by a senior manager. Why would a senior manager handle his inquiry in a room full of available junior employees—unless this case file was flagged for his attention alone?

Perhaps Mr. Carlson just felt like some citizen contact.

But then why was this immaculate man, coiffed with obsessive care and sitting in his air-conditioned office, sweating through his shirt as he handled a routine question?

Maybe he was having a rough day.

Richard looked down at his own cell phone still in his hand. A newer model, it was identical to Mr. Carlson’s sitting on the rear credenza in his office; the phone that rested separate from its charger, in a room where everything was in its place. Richard pressed the surface of the phone to retrieve the call setting, dialed a random number, and set it to “speaker.” He watched as the screen lit with a greenish glow.

Mr. Carlson’s phone was engaged and on speaker the entire time Richard was in the room. The Veterans Administration senior benefits manager had invited someone else to their meeting.

“Depositions are simple. Straightforward.
”

Clay’s words rolled back to Jared as he stared across at Sylvia Pokofsky. Heavy, with red hair in tight ringed curls, Sylvia had worked for the past eleven years at the Ashley State Bank as vice-president for Human Resources. Whittier was perched on a chair to her right, glaring at Jared with a look intended to distract him.

Jared didn’t look back.

The long nights without sleep were forgotten now; the fatigue drowned under a rush of adrenaline. After so many days of fishing for something—anything—related to the deposit, he felt the line tugging. Sylvia Pokofsky held Exhibit 164 in her hand. It was the list of employees produced by the bank to Goering this summer.

As he had with every witness so far, Jared asked Sylvia to review the list to see if any employee names were missing. This Monday morning, for the first time since these depositions began, the witness hadn’t simply said no. Equally as important, Whittier looked nervous.

“Let me repeat the question, Mrs. Pokofsky. Are there any employees who worked for the Ashley State Bank in February 2008, who you
don’t
see on the list in Exhibit 164.”

Most of the bank employees in Sylvia’s chair the past two weeks had been nervous or cautious, trying to satisfy the attorney at their side—but none had disappointed Shelby and Mrs. Huddleston’s expectations of honesty.

That was also true of Sylvia, though she was, perhaps, a little more arrogant.

Until now. Now Sylvia’s eyes were wide, her nostrils flared, and she was licking her lips. Amazing what a difference one question can make, he thought.

“Mrs. Pokofsky?” Jared asked quietly.

Sylvia squirmed, looking alternately at her attorney and then back at Jared. Whittier glanced at her disapprovingly with the edge of his eye. Jared sat up in his chair and fixed Sylvia in his gaze.

“I, well, I . . . ,” Sylvia began.

“Mrs. Pokofsky, please be certain you’re not sharing privileged information,” Whittier interrupted.

The words rang for Jared. Clay had taught him, and every lawyer knew that defending attorneys used certain “objections” to coach the witnesses on how to answer sensitive questions. Codes weren’t kosher, but even the most ethical attorneys would prepare their witnesses to recognize certain objections as gentle reminders. “Think before you speak” or “Listen carefully to the question.”

“But if you detect your opponent instructing his witness to lie or to deny knowledge of something they actually know, well,”—Clay had grinned darkly at Jared—“that, my young Mr. Neaton, is when you must engage the enemy in a more vigorous fashion.”

Whittier’s code during the other depositions had been simple and consisted of two signals. Objecting that a question was “vague” alerted the witness to listen carefully to how the question was worded. “Lack of foundation” reminded witness there were others better prepared by Whittier to respond to the question.

They’d been the typical harmless coding Clay had referred to, and Jared had let them pass. But this was the bomb. “Privileged information” was the signal to shut up. And it worked. At these words, Sylvia’s face sank beneath an uncomfortable glaze. She leaned back in her chair and licked her lips once more.

“I don’t recall at this time,” she said softly.

“Mrs. Pokofsky”—Jared half raised out of his chair—“do you know the penalty for perjury?”

The witness blanched. “I’m just not sure,” she blurted out.

“Because perjury is a felony, punishable by fine, imprisonment—”

“Are you threatening my witness?” Whittier barked.

“Mrs. Pokofsky,” Jared said over Whittier, changing tack. “What are you not sure about?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” she stammered, “what you mean, uh, by an employee.”

“
Mrs. Pokofsky, do not reveal privileged information.
” Whittier’s voice rose, and his hand went to her forearm.

How far was Whittier willing to take this? Because after days of restraint, Jared was close to coming over the table. Besides, he thought, keep this up and the judge would spear him on it when he read the transcript.

Sylvia was now dragging her tongue across her lips like she was dying of thirst. Her fear filled the room; her breaths came quick and shallow. She wanted to tell the truth, Jared realized. She didn’t want to obey Whittier’s instructions.

Jared dropped his voice to a gentler, more solicitous tone. “What I mean, Mrs. Pokofsky, is simply are there any persons who worked in the bank—in any capacity—who are missing from this list?”

The color rushed back into Sylvia’s face as the witness shrugged off Whittier’s hand and pursed her lips with resolve. “Well, there was an intern.”

“And her name was . . .” Jared responded immediately.

Sylvia looked relieved and exhaled before answering. “Cory. Cory Spangler.”

“There was nothing I could do, Marcus. If I’d just come out and instructed her not to answer, the judge would’ve made her testify anyway. Once it was obvious she knew something and Neaton bored in, there was nothing I could do.”

Excuses. Just excuses, Marcus thought. Even after he’d coached Whittier on the importance of this witness—told him how to prepare her—he still did a miserable job and lost her. When they got to the critical question, she feared Neaton most. Marcus swallowed his disgust and said nothing.

He’d considered withholding the witness from the original list of bank employees they sent to Goering. The risk was that it would spotlight Pokofsky as someone with critical knowledge if Goering—or Neaton—learned about her from another source. Once Pokofsky appeared on Neaton’s final list, it
should
have been enough to coach her that an intern could technically be considered something different than an employee, and she could truthfully answer no when Neaton asked the inevitable question.