© 2012 by Todd M. Johnson
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-5984-4
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
I dedicate this book to my incredible wife, Catherine, whose love is not dependent upon the tides of fortune; And to my daughter, Libby, and son, Ian—with the prayer that this fruition of their father’s lifelong dream will encourage them to never lose faith in their own.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1 2 3 4 5 6
7 8 9 10 11 12
13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24
25 26 27 28 29 30
31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42
43 44 45 46 47 48
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ad
Back Cover
1
Seated in the cool vault of the Mission Falls Bank, Erin switched on an overhead lamp and opened the lid to her father’s safe-deposit box. A faint smell of motor oil wafted up from inside. The scent of it launched an image across her memory—one so real it startled her. It was her father on a hot summer morning, coming into the kitchen from working on the tractor, leaning down to kiss her on the neck as she ate her breakfast.
How did a sensation so brief carry so much power, Erin wondered. She could feel the wet brush of his lips, the scratch of his beard on the soft skin of her neck; feel his heavy hand squeezing her shoulder. She forced herself to hold back tears, huddling deeper under her jacket against the chill.
With an effort, she forced her thoughts away from the image, letting them fade softly away.
Only now, alone in the stillness of the vault, Erin feared what else the box could lay bare.
She had already let several weeks pass since her father’s funeral, and knew she had no choice. Erin reached into the gray metal container and lifted out its contents: a small stack of papers topped with a photograph.
She held the picture to the light. It showed a young woman holding in her arms an infant wrapped in a patterned blanket. The pattern was familiar—Erin’s favorite. The woman was not. Erin knew it was her mother, Sandra, but memories of her mother were muted; mostly gathered from pictures like this one. But if the face was only distantly recognizable, the expression on it was unmistakable: she was smiling with the open heart of a new mother.
Erin held the photo to her nose, wondering whether some faint trace of her mother might be lodged there. There was nothing and, after another long look, Erin set it aside.
She turned next to the pile of papers, lifting and rapping them on the table to even them before setting the stack on the table and forcing herself to begin.
A deed to the family farm was on top. Calligraphy flowed across the oversized paper, dated 1924. Erin recognized the name of the purchaser as that of her great grandfather. Other documents followed: there was an aerial photograph of the property, yellowed invoices for farm equipment and long satisfied mortgages, followed by new mortgages—all tracing the financial ups and downs of the farmstead. They culminated in the most current bank mortgage in her father’s name. She set the farm papers aside.
Next in the stack was her mother’s death certificate, dated eighteen years ago.
The certificate was stapled to a crumpled receipt on ancient stationery, made out to Paul Larson. It affirmed her father’s payment for upkeep on a gravesite “in perpetuity.” It was followed by Erin’s birth certificate, dated twenty-six years ago next month, clipped to her report cards from first through twelfth grades. Erin smiled. She would not have guessed her father still had these.
Near the bottom of the stack, Erin found a series of three-by-five photographs attached to more documents. Several of the fading snapshots showed groups of young men posing in khaki uniforms, their fatigue sleeves rolled up, silhouetted against a backdrop of jungle. The boys were grinning, cocky, with close-cropped hair and arms slung across each others’ shoulders. Erin recognized her father in the center of the top photo, a cigarette draped James Dean–style from the corner of his mouth.
The last photo was her father again, still in uniform. In this shot he stood alone. There were tents and a gun emplacement visible behind him. He looked older in this picture, Erin thought. He stared at the photographer with distant, unsmiling eyes, and the swagger was drained from his face and form.
Attached to the photographs was her father’s honorable discharge certificate. There followed documents relating to his hospitalization for the injuries that ended his second and last Vietnam tour.
Reaching the bottom, Erin turned the papers over into a single stack and carefully paged through them once more, looking at each document individually. When she was done, she felt herself relax beneath a wave of relief. That wasn’t so bad, she thought. She pulled a bag from her purse and slid all of the papers into an empty folder inside.
Erin stood and reached to close the box lid—then stopped. In the bottom of the box was a single rectangular piece of paper she had missed.
It was not much larger than a movie ticket. She removed it and held it to the light. It was a printed form with faded purple type across the center. She leaned closer to read it.
It was a bank deposit slip drawn on the Ashley State Bank. The colored machine-print lettering was faded, but legible. The top line was a deposit date of February 10, 2008, a little over three years before. The second line appeared to be an account number.
Printed at the bottom of the form was a deposit total. Erin read the number again and again—then realized that she had sat down once more.
The deposit total was 10.3 million dollars.
2
Seven Months Later
Hennepin County Courthouse
Minneapolis, Minnesota
Twenty minutes after eleven, and the bench was still empty. Lawyers’ time means nothing to a judge, Jared Neaton thought. Two lawyers—him at a hundred seventy-five dollars an hour, his overdressed opponent three times that—that was over two hundred dollars in billings for a judge twenty minutes late.
Phil Olney pushed Jared with his elbow. “When’s he coming?”
“Soon,” Jared assured him. But in the courtroom, the judge was the master of the universe. He’d arrive when he arrived. No point in fighting it—you just had to learn to adjust.
“Counsel?” It was Blake Desmond, his opponent, seated at the next table, offering him a piece of paper that had slid onto the floor.
/> Jared thanked him with a nod, but thought, Don’t get friendly with me now. When Jared entered the courtroom half an hour ago, Desmond wouldn’t even accept his hand. He was one of those lawyers who had to show his client how tough he was. His type prowled the halls of the five Tigers, the biggest firms in the Twin Cities. With his thousand-dollar suit and Gucci shoes, Desmond exemplified the worst of the breed.
Jared glanced at his client. It had only been three days since Phil’s world took a significant turn for the worse—when he’d stumbled over a second set of books his brother, Russell, had been keeping for the check cashing business they ran. The records revealed a secret bank account in Russell’s name holding $110,000 from the brothers’ business.
That discovery was upsetting enough. The crowning insult was the new Lexus Phil saw in Russell’s garage when he went over to his house to confront him. With a wife, two kids under six, and a mortgage two months overdue, Phil’s fury almost got him jailed.
He arrived at Jared’s office on the advice of another of Jared’s clients. Over three long days and nights, Jared had earned every penny of Phil’s three-thousand-dollar retainer check preparing a motion for a temporary restraining order to freeze bank accounts, pulling together affidavits, summarizing financials, preparing the backstory, and organizing an argument why the court should grant the TRO.
The arrival of this case—and retainer—had been welcome. Jared needed the money, and not having to wait thirty days to earn it was especially good news this month.
The panel door behind the judge’s bench opened. A matronly calendar clerk stepped through, a docket sheet clutched in her hand.
“Mr. Neaton,” she called, as she dropped into her seat, “are you still with Paisley, Bowman, Battle, and Rhodes? Because we have you listed at the Paisley firm.”
“No,” Jared answered, explaining that he was on his own now. The Neaton Law Firm.
Desmond stiffened slightly and turned to Jared. “When were you with Paisley? Did you know Michael Strummer?”
“Two years ago, and yes,” Jared tossed back, before turning to dig into his briefcase for an imaginary document. It was too late for respect.
Jared glanced at his fidgeting client, then settled back in his chair and tried to look calm enough for both of them. It took practice to project confidence while waiting for a motion he was likely to lose.
Another nudge from his client. The panel door behind the judge’s bench was opening again.
“All rise,” the calendar clerk croaked. A heavy-lidded court reporter holding a stenography machine trudged into the room, followed by a young, eager-looking law clerk.
Judge Kramer entered last. Stout and slow, a long black robe draping his enormous belly, he ascended the steps to his chair, then dropped with an audible grunt.
“You may be seated,” the bailiff called. The judge, out of breath, sucked air in restrained gulps.
Jared looked to his opponent, sitting bolt upright at the table to his right, jotting final notes on a pad. Farther along sat Russell, looking straight ahead and as rigid as his brother was shaky.
Jared looked back up to the bench. The judge, his breath recovered, had opened his file and was paging the briefs from Jared and Desmond, glaring through reading glasses that teetered near the end of his nose.
Judge Kramer was a tough draw for this motion. He knew the law, but his patience had diminished the longer he sat on the bench. He often took shortcuts in his rulings.
Jared hoped that might work for them today. The law was against Phil Olney on this motion. Their chance of success hung by the thin thread of fairness—which didn’t always equate with the law. That and whatever advantage Jared could create for his client in the next few minutes.
The judge looked up and cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen, I have read your briefs.” His voice resonated with command. “This is a motion for an injunction. The plaintiff, Philip Olney, seeks to freeze Russell Olney’s bank accounts pending an audit of the brothers’ joint business. Does that about sum it up, Mr. Neaton?”
Jared rose and responded that it did.
“Proceed with your argument.”
He stepped to the podium, giving a quick thought to how cold the law could be. In his hand was a fistful of proof that Russell Olney had stolen a six-figure sum from his brother. Yet Russell’s lawyer, now watching Jared prepare to argue, would almost certainly defeat the motion today: the law was on his side.
Jared acknowledged in his opening words that an early order to freeze a party’s bank accounts was unusual. There was no point in denying it: precedent disfavored a court prejudging a case by issuing a TRO when the victim could get a judgment to recover their lost money after a trial. Though Jared did not say it, this meant that Judge Kramer should rule for Russell Olney, deny the motion, and set the case on for trial.
But Jared and his opponent understood another truth: this case would never see a trial. If Phil lost this round, he didn’t have the money to pursue it further. In the less likely event that Phil won and the judge froze Russell’s bank accounts, the opposite was true—Russell would be forced to settle or starve. Today was Phil and his brother’s only “day in court.”
“However, while it may be unusual to freeze bank assets at the start of a case,” he continued, shifting his pace, “it is not unprecedented in the right circumstances. And in this case that ruling is essential. Because Russell Olney is a thief. Not an ordinary one. Russell Olney is a thief of unusual talent, ambition, and ruthlessness.”
“Your honor,” Desmond spoke out in a deep timbre, rising slowly to his feet behind Jared’s shoulder. Jared did not turn or acknowledge him, but continued to speak.
“A thief willing to steal from his own brother, his sister-in-law, his young nephews—”
“Your Honor?”
“A man,” Jared called, brandishing an affidavit in his hand, “so cold and calculating that he was depositing stolen proceeds from the business in his secret account on the way to his own sister-in-law’s birthday party—”
“ I object!”
Oh, sweet music, Jared thought, watching the rising tide of red in Judge Kramer’s scowling face. Desmond should have done his homework.
Some judges abhorred a fight in the courtroom. They expected cordiality above all else in their domain and would punish the unwary aggressor. Judge Kramer, a former Golden Gloves champion thirty years ago, wasn’t one of them. Jared kept his face expressionless, noting the crooked profile of the judge’s nose. In his courtroom, a fight was fine. What Judge Kramer abhorred was pomposity and grandstanding.
“My client is not a thief,” Desmond went on, ignoring the storm cloud of the judge’s face. “This man”—a finger jabbed toward Phil—“this ungrateful brother would attack his own sibling with scurrilous accusations without a shred of evidence to support them! I ask for a ruling upon my objection!” he concluded, arms thrown wide.
Jared stood mute, barely able to mask his thrill of pleasure.
The judge’s red face looked near to exploding. “Mr. Desmond. Is there a jury here that is visible only to you?” Jared saw the court reporter suppress a snort. “At this moment, Mr. Neaton is not presenting evidence. He is making an argument. Do you know what an argument is?”
Russell’s face went as dead white as the judge’s was red.
“Well, Mr. Desmond, you can’t ‘object’ to an argument. Sit down.”
Desmond sat as the judge turned to Jared and proclaimed, in a softened tone, “Mr. Neaton, you may continue.”
Jared nodded and continued with a litany of Russell’s repeated, after-hours transfers of money—juxtaposing the transfer dates against the backdrop of family birthdays, business milestones, and even a Christmas Eve. Someone willing to steal from his own brother on the eve of Christmas would not hesitate to abscond with the ill-gotten funds during the long months of litigation. This, Jared concluded, was that special case justifying special measures.
Desmond’s responding
delivery, though chastened, was meticulous, mapping out the same precedent that Jared had researched to reach his own conclusion that Russell had the law on his side. But the judge’s eyes remained stony throughout the presentation.
Desmond sat down at last. The judge pushed back his chair and crooked a finger toward his law clerk, who stepped up to the bench. Their whispered exchange lasted several minutes before the clerk returned to his desk.
“Gentlemen,” the judge said, leaning into the bench, “Philip Olney’s motion is granted. I will sign the order to freeze all bank accounts of the defendant, Russell Olney.”
Jared suppressed a jolt of satisfaction at these words; felt his client squeeze his arm. “Thank you, Your Honor,” he said, quickly gathering his papers. You win a motion, you get out of the courtroom fast before the judge has a chance to change his mind.
“Your Honor,” Desmond called out. “There is the matter of a bond.”
Not fast enough. Jared had hoped, if he won, that Desmond would be too startled to bring this topic up.
The judge halted in the middle of the difficult task of raising himself to leave the bench. “Are you requesting a bond?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Desmond learned quickly, and his pitch was short and to the point. “It is generally mandatory, sir.”
The judge glowered and turned to Jared. “Counsel?”
Desmond was on the right side of the law again. The bond could be waived, but seldom was. He glanced at Phil, who he knew was running on empty. Jared had asked for a seven-thousand-dollar retainer when he took the case. Phil had responded that all he could raise was three, even after maxing out his credit cards.
“Your Honor, under the circumstances, my client is in no position to post a bond. His funds,” he said, waving toward Russell, “are in the hands of his brother.”
Jared hoped Desmond would belabor the point and annoy the judge into the leap of denying the bond. But he did not. Judge Kramer looked down to his papers and rubbed the crook of his nose between his finger and thumb.
The Deposit Slip Page 1
