25
It could have been hard to find Carlos. The Mission Falls VA Hospital was a large facility, serving much of northern Minnesota. Jared was unsure if he could locate the veteran Vic Waye had described based solely on his association with Paul Larson.
But it was not. Jared’s first call as he left the theater the evening before was to Jessie, to leave a message to delay the day’s deposition. He then telephoned Pastor Tufts at home. Jared had barely mentioned a wounded veteran Paul Larson may have worked with at the VA—when the Pastor interrupted him. “Carlos Navarrete,” he said. “That’s who you’re looking for.”
Surprised, Jared said no more—just thanked the pastor and hung up. Now he was driving east on Highway 63 to the hospital, wondering what—if anything—Carlos could reveal.
Carlos Navarrete was sitting in his wheelchair in a pool of sunlight coming through the recreation hall window at the Mission Falls VA Hospital. From across the room, Jared could see he was reading a book in his lap.
“Carlos?” Jared asked as he approached. The man looked up.
He was dressed in jeans, wearing a T-shirt with “101st Airborne” printed in large letters across the chest. His dark hair was medium length with high cheekbones prominent in a youthful but serious face. He could have been a football player, Jared thought, from the depth of his chest and shoulder muscles.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m here to talk to you about Paul Larson.”
At a nod from Carlos, Jared took a seat. For the next fifteen minutes, Jared explained who he was and described the case. Carlos listened without questions until Jared paused.
“What do you want to know, sir?” he asked.
After the weeks of deposing witnesses with harsh glares or blank, skittish stares, Jared marveled at the tenor of openness in his voice.
“How did you know Paul?”
“He volunteered here at the VA. About a year and a few months ago, he came over, right here in this hall, and started talking to me.” He patted the wheel of his chair. “Paul saw my wheelchair and must have asked somebody about me.”
The sun had shifted around to the young man’s eyes, so he adjusted the chair quickly, expertly, turning his back toward the glass. Jared watched as he settled his shoulders and took a deep breath.
“I didn’t want to talk to him. At that point, I didn’t want to talk to anyone.” Carlos grasped his left thigh in both fists; the pant leg deflated at a point above the knee.
“I lost this to an IED my last month on a tour in Kandahar. My other leg got hurt enough that it’s been two years in rehab. Anyway, I woke up in Germany and finally got here. My family lives in Duluth.”
Jared could not resist resting his gaze on the empty pant leg. He glanced up to Carlos’s face, embarrassed.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “I haven’t got my ‘bionic’ on. But it doesn’t bother me. Not now.”
“What was Paul Larson like?” Jared asked, steering the conversation back.
“When Paul found me, I was pretty low. Paul saw it in me.” He pointed toward the door. “I saw him coming across the room. He walked like a wounded bull. Big strides, but that left leg, you could tell he was dragging it along.”
Carlos smiled. “I swear, Paul acted like he didn’t notice my missing leg the first half-dozen times he visited. We talked about everything but that. My dad’s service station. The 101st. His farm. My training. Oh, and his daughter. A lot about his daughter.”
“Did he talk about his own injuries?”
“Eventually. But we got there slow. One day, I realized he was talking about how he nearly lost his leg, and the pain and the limits he’d had every day since.”
Jared wanted to get to the money, but was transfixed by these images of Paul Larson in the final months of his life.
“He told me how he’d tried to hide it for so long,” Carlos continued. “How he still did. What a mistake that was, he said. ‘You’ve got no idea what you can do, or what’s really important,’ he’d say—like he was talking to himself.”
Carlos clasped his hands in his lap. “My folks said the same stuff. Told me how proud they were of me. ‘Nothing you can’t do,’ they’d say. But from them, it was just palabras. But here’s this guy, he’s been through it. He’s spent the long days wondering, Why me? It’s a waste of time, he said. More than that, actually. Said, ‘You can’t let it matter; you’ve gotta make it irrelevant.’ ”
“Did that make a difference?”
Carlos patted the arms of his chair. “Yes, sir, it did. Especially because, like I was trying to say, it was like Paul was just realizing it himself. Almost like we were discovering it together.”
A nurse approached. “Carlos, it’s time for your therapy.”
He smiled. “Just a minute, ma’am.” The nurse smiled in return and withdrew.
Time was running out on this conversation. “Carlos, did Paul ever mention anything about problems with his bank? Or maybe just money issues?”
The serious look settled over Carlos’s face once more. “Sir, is any of this going to get Paul in trouble? Because I owed Paul an awful lot.”
“No,” Jared answered straight-faced, without hesitation—and without any idea whether it was true. He would not be denied this information now.
“Well, sir, Paul got me turned around. And there came a time when, well it was like Paul was one of the guys in my unit. We shared. So, I can remember there came a day when Paul mentioned there was something he’d dealt with badly. ‘Let my demons do the talking’ was how he put it, and made a bad decision. He told me he’d been thinking things through, though, and talking to his pastor, and he’d made up his mind to set things right. I let him do the talking that day, because he needed that, see. But he left here charged up to do . . . something.”
“Did he say what it was?”
“Yes, sir,” Carlos said reluctantly. “Said it had to do with money. Something about a check he received. He didn’t give any details. I think he might have, eventually. I think he wanted it to play out first. Or maybe he thought he was protecting me. And he said something else, at the end of the talk that day. He pointed to my wheelchair and said, ‘Don’t ever start telling yourself this entitles you to anything.’ ”
“Anyone home?” Jessie heard Mrs. Huddleston’s voice calling through the screen on the open front door. For a late-fall day, it was a balmy Friday morning, and Jessie was enjoying the fresh air.
It was nice to have Jared gone. Not that he’d been around very often since the depositions started. Since he’d blown her off again about Erin, they’d exchanged fewer than ten sentences, mostly about assignments. Still, knowing he would not return until later today suited Jessie just fine.
“Come on in,” she called. Mrs. Huddleston dropped by periodically to leave things for Jared—notes about a witness or canisters of cookies.
Mrs. Huddleston stepped into the entryway. Despite the warmth outside, she was bundled in a sweater and heavy jacket. The librarian’s eyes swept the cluttered room before resting on the pile of typed document summaries Jessie was creating. Even Sam had given up trying to keep the living room neat the past week; it was the crossroads of their struggle, and dishes, cups, and papers were scattered everywhere like fallen shrapnel.
“Jessie, you’re coming with me,” she announced.
“I really can’t, Mrs. Huddleston,” Jessie said, begging off. “Jared’s left me half a dozen more tapes.”
Mrs. Huddleston shook her head. “Do I have to write my first name on my forehead to get a Carol around here? I tell you what. I’m a pretty mean typist myself. You come with me for a two hour break, and I’ll set up my laptop and help you finish these tapes when we come back.”
Jessie knew she shouldn’t, knew how anxious Jared was to complete these summaries. They had long since given up hope of using them for the depositions—now almost finished. But trial was still looming in the weeks ahead and the “captain” wanted these r
ecords accessible in time.
Still, the thought of an afternoon off sounded good, despite—or maybe because of—Jared’s pressure. Jessie smiled at Mrs. Huddleston. “Where are we going?”
The weekly Ashley Farmers Market was well attended for a Friday in November. Fresh produce was in limited supply, but the wooden stalls at the edge of town were filled with canned jams and jellies, jars of honey, smoked meats, and an assortment of crafts. The market had become a permanent fixture in Ashley since the 1970s, Mrs. Huddleston explained, closing only with the first snowfall and opening within weeks of the final melt.
“I think you’ll see,” Mrs. Huddleston said as she examined the label on a jar of blueberry preserves, “that it’s as much a social gathering as a commercial one. Maybe it’s different in the Twin Cities, but here everyone knows the sellers and could as easily pick up the phone to buy something if they wished.”
They moved among the stalls at a leisurely pace. Jessie purchased a handmade leather bag and a jar of local honey. Mrs. Huddleston browsed, greeting most of the vendors like the neighbors they were.
“I’ve been curious to ask you, Jessie,” Mrs. Huddleston said as they moved among the stalls, “about those attorneys Jared’s up against. Stanford and someone?”
“Whittier.”
“Yes. Are they as difficult as they seem?”
Jessie thought for a moment. “Yes. Paisley was a pretty tough group, but Stanford stood out even in that crowd. Frank—Franklin Whittier—he always struck me as one of Marcus’s minions. I don’t know what he’s capable of.”
“No redeeming qualities?”
“No. I mean, I didn’t know them personally. There was a rumor,” she added, “that Marcus had another side. Some hidden history of doing serious pro bono work. But I never saw it around the office.”
Mrs. Huddleston stopped to admire a stall of paintings. The scenes depicted were as local as the artist: farm vistas and flowing creeks.
“So what do you think of the Neaton family?”
Jessie resisted the call to this subject. “I think Sam’s a very good man.”
“Isn’t he now?” the librarian said, nodding. “You should have known him in his younger days though. Driven as a Thoroughbred. You wouldn’t want to be in his way when the starting bell rang.”
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.
26
Jared 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 ma
neuvering 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.”
27
Seated 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.”
The Deposit Slip Page 16
