Jared recalled waiting in line before these same barred teller windows long ago. Twelve years old, he came each week clutching the tally from a day of mowing lawns and clipping hedges. He would inch forward in line, surrounded by the smell of cologned men with short, fat ties, the pungent sweat of overalled farmers, or the cloud of a graying woman’s perfume. At last, he would part with bills still moist from sweaty pockets, sliding them under the metal cage. He would watch as the bored teller converted the product of six hours of pushing a mower under a blazing sun into tiny smudged print on the page of his deposit book, then step away anticipating his pride at presenting the book to Dad waiting at home.
Those printed entries marked the weeks of summer—until his dad’s praise became a litany of expectations and the pride faded as Jared felt inadequate to meet them. By fourteen, the lectures and cajoling had become a daily occurrence, until Jared feared to even make a withdrawal, which might be seen by his father. At last, he took to hiding a portion of each week’s earnings in the back of a dresser.
Jared realized that he was staring at the teller window. He looked away to avoid notice. People kept entering and leaving the bank through the glass doors to Jared’s left. He couldn’t stand there much longer without drawing attention.
He turned and stepped back through the glass doors, taking a sudden deep breath on the sidewalk outside.
“Jared Neaton?”
A tall, sandy-haired man mounted the steps, and it took Jared a moment to place him. Willis Severson, a high school classmate. Jared greeted him cautiously. They were never close, and Jared wanted to move on before others coming or going from the bank were drawn to them. He avoided answers that would engage too much conversation. It wasn’t hard: Willis was mostly interested in telling his own history. Only half paying attention, Jared heard that Willis had never left the area, was married with three kids, and lived in nearby Merritstown now. When Willis paused for a breath, Jared jumped in to apologize about an appointment and headed past him down the steps.
Reaching the street level, Jared turned uptown, moving away from his car. The library was only a few blocks farther on, and he wanted to confirm what Goering had said about the law. Using the library computer and Internet connection, he would do a Westlaw search. Time was not on his side here, and he had to find some answers quickly.
From half a block’s distance, Mick looked through the telephoto lens pressed to the narrow opening in his car window. Neaton stood fifty yards away in front of the bank door, though through the lens, his face looked as near as the dashboard.
After Rachel’s call, Mick had downloaded Neaton’s picture from the online Hennepin County Bar Directory and raced north from Minneapolis to Ashley. Given the three-hour drive, he knew he was unlikely to catch the lawyer at the Larson farm, but figured Neaton would come into Ashley afterward. The trick was where to pick him up.
The bank seemed the surest bet. Mick parked with a clear line of sight and waited. Ten minutes ago, he’d felt the satisfaction of seeing Neaton approach along Main Street before climbing the bank steps and disappearing inside.
Now as Neaton emerged from the red stone building, Mick watched another figure approach him on the steps, his hand outstretched. Mick focused in as the two men merged, snapping a long series of shots.
In less than two minutes, Neaton parted from the other man and descended the steps. Mick lowered the camera and raised his car window shut, looking away as the lawyer walked past his position on the other side of the street.
Now what? Stop in the bank to figure out what Neaton was up to? No, he thought. His client would be very disappointed if Mick couldn’t report on all of Neaton’s activities in Ashley. He had to stay with Neaton for now—at least until he left town.
In his side-view mirror, Mick watched Neaton move away up the street. He lifted his cell phone and punched in a speed dial number. “Hello? May I speak with the Mr. Grant? . . . No, he’ll know what it’s about. Just tell him it’s Mick calling.”
Two hours passed in the cool of the library. Jared clicked on another Minnesota case summary and scanned it quickly. It gave the same answers as the last four.
Hunched before the library computer, Jared’s research confirmed what Mort Goering had told him about Minnesota law on deposit slips. A bank account was a contract between the depositor and the bank—it obligated the bank to repay any money placed in the account. A deposit slip showed money went somewhere—but didn’t prove that a bank account actually existed, that the depositor owned that account, or that any money deposited in that account remained there and was never withdrawn. Unless Jared could find other evidence to prove each of these propositions, Erin’s deposit slip was a dead end.
He leaned back and shook his head. So there it was. This was going to be an old-fashioned discovery battle, against well-funded attorneys who always played hardball.
He took a deep breath, stretched, and looked around. The library still smelled of that strange mix of new print and musty old tomes. Jared wished he could bottle it. During the worst days of high school, when his world was collapsing, he would hide out here on Saturday afternoons. That smell had become home to him.
The date on the computer screen reminded Jared again that time was very short. He still had to review Goering’s files in his car. If possible, he needed to find an expert who could help him understand what bank records might exist to prove the deposit. He also should see what he could learn from witnesses in Ashley. And he only had a day or two to do all that and decide if he would take the case.
The critical witnesses would be those who could confirm the details of the deposit or the account and help him trace the money. Jared imagined it like a rock dropping in water. The point of the impact was the moment of the transaction—the most crucial witnesses at that center would be Paul Larson, deceased, and the bank employee who handled the transaction. The next ring out would be anyone Larson confided in, or other bank employees who learned about the transaction. After that, who else? Anyone who could confirm that the account existed and it was owned by Paul Larson.
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.
8
He 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.”
9
So, 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 Deposit Slip Page 5
