He zoomed out slightly to take a picture. As he steadied, a man wearing a brown jacket stepped into the field.
Jared’s mind flashed to the hostel door and the man in the brown leather jacket who’d brushed hurriedly past. It was, he recalled, just moments before he’d found the package.
The jacketed man on the Acropolis was twenty steps below Cory, separated by a mass of other tourists ascending to the gate. His face was forward, his head covered by the hood of a gray sweatshirt he wore beneath the jacket.
It was a common color and material, Jared told himself. He’s just another tourist climbing the stairs to the Acropolis.
But the man was matching Cory’s slow progress up the stairs, step by step. Then his head looked up in her direction.
Jared scrambled up, grabbed his pack, and pushed past a tour guide, rushing toward the stone steps that descended the Areopagus back to the crossroads where they had parted. Moments later, he turned to follow her route onto the path that rose toward the Acropolis.
The backpack became a boulder as he trotted heavily up the slope. His legs leadened and his pace slowed, despite the urgency pounding in his temples.
The Acropolis steps, lost from view when he left the Areopagus, were visible again just ahead. The cluster of tourists working upward toward the gate was denser than when Cory had ascended, and Jared slowed to an agonizing crawl at the base of the stairs.
He looked up. Cory and the man with the brown jacket were not in sight.
Ten minutes were gone before Jared passed through the final gate, emerging onto the plateau of the Acropolis. The surface of the hill was gravel and sand, bracketed at its center by the Parthenon on the right and a smaller marble monument to the left. The largest group of people were gathered around the base of the Parthenon, but the entire plateau was occupied by tourists and guides.
Jared scanned the crowd from where he stood. Cory’s red backpack was nowhere to be seen.
With growing panic, he started down the middle of the plateau, craning his head back and forth as he went. The sheer number of tourists and variety of clothing and backpack colors made him despair of finding her. A park guard was smoking at the near corner of the Parthenon. He considered asking for help, but worried about the time needed to explain.
He was nearing the far edge of the plateau, beyond the Parthenon. Here, the partial foundation of a new building jutted from the ground, surrounded by an earthmover and other idle equipment. A few remaining historic plaques dotted the narrow space in front of him.
A glimpse of crimson caught Jared’s eye, and he forced his drained legs to move in that direction. It was a backpack, but the figure wearing it was only partly visible behind a group of Japanese tourists. He saw the tour guide wave and point away, and the group shuffled off in unison.
The tourists gone, Cory was standing alone, reading a plaque. Jared felt a flood of relief.
She turned and smiled in surprise as Jared approached. “Mr. Neaton—you’re all red. You decided to come up after all?”
Sweat coursed down his forehead. Staring at the young woman, he felt the hidden package in his pocket pressed against his drenched shirt, and the relief washed away in a cascade of shame.
“What is it, Mr. Neaton?”
Jared opened his mouth to speak—when he saw movement in brown. He looked across Cory’s shoulder to a man passing by on the edge of a moving throng striding toward the Parthenon. The man’s eyes were hidden beneath the dark lenses of sunglasses.
As the mass of people reached the edge of the Parthenon, the man’s head turned toward Jared and Cory. Then he was gone from sight behind the marble structure.
On the breast of the man’s brown leather jacket, clear in the afternoon sun, was the dark flowing stain of Jared’s spilled coffee.
The honks of bustling taxis on the adjacent street made hearing difficult, while the flow of people passing Jared at the entrance to the Athens train station made him feel like a stone caught in the race of a rushing stream.
Cory’s face was flushed and perplexed. “I said I was okay coming home to testify.”
Jared shook his head. “Like I said, the text I got while you were on the Acropolis showed I’ve got it covered now. No need to interrupt your trip.”
Jared’s gaze swept past Cory, at the cabstands and passing people.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“Nothing, Cory. Thought I saw someone I recognized. Stupid, I know.”
Cory’s face dissolved into disappointment. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come?”
“Yeah.”
He was there now, fifty meters away across the six-lane street adjoining the train station, standing next to a newspaper stand. His hands were thrust into his pockets, his hood drawn back. The sunglasses still hid his eyes. The coffee stain was clearly visible on the breast of his brown leather jacket.
Jared pulled the still-moist package from his pocket and withdrew the ticket to Venice. Taking care that it was in full view, he handed it to Cory. “I got a ticket for you earlier, in case your testimony wasn’t needed any longer. It’s to Venice. I hope that’s okay. It’s for your trouble. For your willingness to help out.”
He knew it made no sense, but his imagination had withered.
She took the ticket from his hand. “Thanks,” she said, though her voice was hesitant with confusion.
He didn’t know how best to break away, but it had to be now, in clear sight of the man in the jacket. Jared reached out and hugged Cory, then stepped back to arm’s length. “Good-bye, Cory. Thanks.”
She reached into a pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, which she handed to him. “Here’s my email address. Let me know if something changes.”
“Okay.”
She still hesitated. “Mr. Neaton. I saw it.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, though he knew what she meant.
“I saw the deposit amount that night. I was telling the truth about not seeing the deposit slip, but I saw the amount.”
He wanted to hear, but feared he wouldn’t let her go if he did.
“After he printed the slip, I could tell Mr. Grant was in such a hurry he hadn’t gotten out of the computer screen—just let it go blank. So when they went into Mr. Grant’s office, I went by the computer on my way out. It was all too strange: a deposit at one in the morning made by the bank president. I activated the screen, and it flashed up just as I heard the door opening on Mr. Grant’s office. I glanced at it before I pushed delete and left the bank. I was really scared they’d know I’d seen it. I’m so sorry, Mr. Neaton.”
“How much?”
“I didn’t see exactly. It was ten something. Ten million something.”
She looked near tears. “I knew something was wrong. Then I heard about the lawsuit. I was afraid to tell anyone I saw it. I’m so sorry.”
Jared reached out and gave her another hug. “It’s okay. I thought maybe you had.”
After a moment, he pushed her gently away again. She gave a final smile and then left him and entered the train station.
When he couldn’t see her any longer, Jared looked back across the street. The brown-jacketed man was gone.
37
She’s gone,” the voice said over the phone.
“You’re certain?”
“Yes, I saw her board the train to Venice.”
Marcus felt a wave of satisfaction.
“You should know, though. The lawyer—Neaton—he knows about the pressure I applied.”
“What do you mean?”
“Neaton put her on the train himself. He may have been holding her ticket.”
The satisfaction evaporated. “How could that be?”
“I couldn’t keep her from talking to Neaton. My job was to keep her from coming home. That’s done.”
What would Neaton do now? Go to the police—or worse, the judge? Claim that a witness had been tampered with?
“He’s got no proof she was contacted,” th
e voice went on, as though anticipating Marcus’s thoughts. “That’s guaranteed.”
If that were true, the judge was unlikely to take Neaton’s word for it. Neaton had no legal power to compel the Spangler witness to return to Minnesota to testify. Any accusations that she was threatened would sound like sour grapes about a witness who chose not to get involved.
Marcus said thanks and hung up. Neaton had a week to respond to the summary judgment and no evidence to present.
Using this resource in Athens had been a good idea. The case was nearly done.
They met at the Fickle Pickle, a deli they used to frequent for lunch when Jessie was still at Paisley. After leaving the firm, she had usually insisted on meeting her former colleague Yvonne somewhere they weren’t likely to run into others from the old crowd, but today, when Jessie reached Yvonne on a quick trip to Minneapolis, Jessie just agreed to this location.
She hadn’t gotten together with her old friend for many weeks. Too much time spent up in Ashley. And even when back in Minneapolis, Jessie seldom had the energy to run downtown for lunch.
They hugged on seeing each other, worked their way through the food line, and then found seats in the crowded restaurant. Over salads, Jessie let Yvonne fill her in on family and the office. She didn’t feel much like sharing anyway—couldn’t bring herself to talk about Jared and her decision to quit.
“So, are you coming back?” Yvonne asked.
Jessie was startled. “What do you mean?”
Yvonne shrugged. “Well, you know. You mentioned how tight things were with Jared last time we had lunch. Then we didn’t talk for a while. So when you called to get together today, I just thought maybe you’d decided to jump ship.”
Jessie was lost for a response. She looked around the deli and saw familiar faces from Paisley. Someone waved.
Was that why she’d said it was okay to meet here? Was she considering going back?
“Because one of the attorneys was asking about you,” Yvonne went on.
“Who was that?”
“Frank. Frank Whittier. From what he said, I think Marcus Stanford’s interested too.”
Jessie set down her fork. “What do you mean?”
“Frank was asking about you.” Yvonne smiled and leaned forward. “He came to me and asked how things were going with Jared. I think he’s hoping he could hire you back.”
Keeping her voice even, Jessie asked, “And what did you tell him?”
“Oh, I kept the door open. I didn’t want to discourage him, so I mentioned how you were getting pretty tired out over there, all on your own—especially with that big trial you just finished. Stuff like that. I think he got the message. How’s the pasta salad?”
Jessie didn’t respond. “When did you have this conversation?”
“It was weeks ago. Not long after our last lunch.”
She suddenly felt ill.
“He didn’t get in touch with you?” Yvonne asked.
“Whittier and Stanford are jerks,” Jessie let slip.
Yvonne’s face went blank with concern. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, it’s fine.” Jessie picked up her fork and forced a smile.
“Because, you know,” Yvonne said, her voice buoying, “people have the wrong idea about Marcus Stanford.”
Jessie was only paying half attention. What was the timing of Frank’s talk with Yvonne? Was it before or after Clay pulled his funding? How about when Paisley started courting Jared’s clients?
“I mean it, Jessie. I know something that’s not common knowledge.”
Was it possible Frank had been fishing for information; used it against Jared when he was vulnerable?
“Kate—in Accounts Receivable—told me something very private. You know those rumours about Mr. Stanford doing important pro bono work? Well, Vivian said she knew where that came from. Apparently, something really bad had happened to this little girl. I think there was some terrible abuse involved. Well, apparently Mr. Stanford insisted on handling the case without fees—for him or for Paisley—so the little girl would get every dime. He got special permission from the management committee to do it. Apparently they settled without even starting a lawsuit, and to make sure her identity stayed secret, Mr. Stanford insisted on handling every detail. The file didn’t even have a name assigned to it.”
“Uh huh.” They were capable of it. First, they shut down Clay’s support by threatening his pension, then they strip Jared of his clients. Her feeling of nausea was growing.
“Kate told me Mr. Stanford even insisted on personally depositing the settlement check into the trust account.”
Jessie looked up at her friend, replaying what Yvonne had said through her head.
“Are you listening to me?” Yvonne asked.
“Did you say that Stanford handled a big case and insisted on depositing the settlement himself?”
Yvonne nodded. “Don’t you get it? Mr. Stanford could have gotten a lot of accolades for something like this. If people knew what he’d done, they’d have a whole different impression of him—in the firm and outside it. But Mr. Stanford insisted it stay quiet—only the management committee even knows it happened, and Vivian told me even they weren’t in on the details. The only reason I know about it is because Kate is second in charge now in Accounts Receivable, and she had to ask some questions because of this ‘secret trust fund’ deposit that’s still on the books.”
“How big was this settlement?”
“I don’t know.” Yvonne glanced around the restaurant. “Well, I’m not supposed to know. No one is. But Kate got a sense of it when she was adjusting the books. It’s supposed to be huge. Lots of zeros.”
“And when did Marcus Stanford make this deposit?”
“Kate didn’t have an exact date,” Yvonne said, enjoying Jessie’s renewed attention.
“But around when,” Jessie pressed.
Yvonne shrugged. “Around three. No, no, I remember. It was around four years ago.”
Jessie set her purse down on the desk in the quiet office. She looked at Jared’s office door and tried to remember how long it had been since he’d been in there.
She hardly recalled the drive from downtown following her lunch with Yvonne. The implications of what Yvonne had told her were stunning. Was it possible Stanford was so deep in this case that he’d deposited the Larson money in the Paisley trust account under the guise of a pro bono settlement?
It was hard to believe Stanford would ever go so far. Never for a client. But for himself?
Jessie pulled her cell from her purse, checked her address book, and pressed a number. The muted voice of the investigator Towers answered.
“Richard, have you had any luck tracing that man we saw at the Perkins last week?”
“Yes. The gentleman appears to be Mick Elgart. He’s a high-end private investigator who works for institutional clients. I was going to report it to Mr. Neaton when he got back.”
“Paisley?”
“Elgart has an extremely closed practice, and he doesn’t advertise. But, yes. Some of his competitors believe he works for Paisley.”
“How about Marcus Stanford?”
“I couldn’t get that much detail. I’m still working on it.”
Jessie thanked him and hung up the phone.
So it was Stanford and Whittier—following Jared, cutting him off from Clay’s support, starving him of the oxygen of funding. And now maybe hiding the deposit money. And their strategy was working, she thought. Jared was hanging way out there now trying to keep the case alive.
Realizing Paisley’s manipulation of Jared released some of her anger at him. Whatever she thought about Jared’s reasons for taking the case, what Stanford and Whittier were up to made her angrier. What could she do to help?
He needed funding. There had to be a source of money to keep things going. Jessie didn’t have anything like the savings to do it; neither did Jared’s dad. What other resources could be tapped?
Her eyes
came to rest upon a single bankers box behind her desk, now covered with the detritus of a law office spinning out of control. Uncovering it and placing it on her desk, she took off the lid and quickly paged through the financial documents inside. She lifted the phone and dialed.
It rang three times before he answered. “Talk to me.”
“Mr. Olney?”
“Philip. Who is this?”
“It’s Jessie from Jared Neaton’s office. I have your bank records here. I wanted to tell you that I believe we have an expert to review them.”
“Oh great. That’s a relief. I think my scumbag brother’s ripe for settlement; he calls me every other day, and I can hear he’s scared. We just gotta know how much he stole.”
“Yes. We can get the audit done right away. But I wanted to share another opportunity with you—if you’re able to settle the case with your brother. An opportunity to invest in a big case in our office. No pressure, of course—only if you’re interested. But the opportunity will only be available for a few more days.”
38
Jared had rescheduled his return home. By the time he’d placed Cory on the train it was impossible to make his flight anyway, so what was the hurry? Another day or two would make no difference in the outcome of the case.
He stayed overnight at Cory’s hostel, then spent the following day roaming Athens. Not as a tourist, but just walking. He could have been wandering the streets of Minneapolis for all he noticed his surroundings.
His thoughts were unmanageable and time slid away. He felt untethered. Whatever spirits had driven him the past thirteen years—through college and law school, then churning out the billable hours and trials at Paisley—in the last twenty-four hours, they had deserted him.
Early that evening, he found himself on the Areopagus once again, not sure how he’d gotten there. The tour groups had left, and only straggling visitors sat atop the hill, waiting, Jared realized, for the sun to set. He chose a cold and solitary rock and sat down.
The Deposit Slip Page 22
