The Deposit Slip

by Todd M Johnson

  “Where’d you put it?” he asked.

  Jessie was back at his shoulder. “Under the passenger seat. Alongside two pretzels and an empty SoBe bottle.”

  “Then let’s hope Mrs. Huddleston was right,” Jared said. “And that Rachel doesn’t clean the car for the next few weeks.”

  “You’re sure about that.”

  “Yes,” Rachel answered. “He said they don’t know what to do.”

  Mick thought Rachel sounded like she hadn’t slept for a long time.

  “So I think I’m all done over there,” she went on over the silence.

  Mick could hear tendrils of anxiety coming through in Rachel’s voice. Was she lying to him now?

  “I guess so,” he responded slowly. “You sure there’s nothing more you want to share with me?”

  “No. Neaton said he may not even file a response.”

  “Okay. I’ll drop off the final payment,” he said, and could almost hear the relief flow back over the phone line. “But if you hear anything, you’ll let me know. Right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The line went dead. Mick smiled to himself. At last, some good news to share with Marcus. It was about time.

  42

  The wait to oppose a motion always reminded Jared of being in the on-deck circle at Skyler Field, all nerves and anticipation.

  In a few minutes, he would walk to the podium in this courtroom, where Stanford stood now finishing his polished presentation, and face the judge with his argument. Judge Lindquist might allow Jared to speak for his allotted time without interruption—or he might lay into him with curves and fastballs forecasting the demise of Jared’s case. This wasn’t Jared’s ballpark, it was the judge’s—and the pitcher and the umpire were one and the same here. All Jared could do here was stand firm and swing away.

  For nearly half an hour, the Paisley attorney had taken his turn, arguing that Jared and the estate of Paul Larson had no evidence to avoid dismissal of the case. How many ways could you say that? Only someone as good as Stanford could hammer a hundred extra nails into a coffin without trying the patience of everyone—including the corpse.

  Jared had never felt more uncertain about the outcome of a motion in his career, nor had he ever cared so deeply. It pained him that surprise and bluff played so great a role today—combined with reliance upon a judge’s intuition. If these fickle elements failed to align in Judge Lindquist’s courtroom today, everything his team had worked for would be lost.

  Erin sat at his side, pale and deathly still. Jessie was in a chair directly behind Erin—her usual energy bundled. Stanford and Whittier were to his right, Whittier at counsel’s table and Stanford at the podium.

  Most unexpected was the gallery. Nearly thirty people filled the hard wooden courtroom benches, with Mrs. Huddleston, Verne Loffler, Vic Waye, and even Carlos Navarrete, who’d wheeled into the courtroom a short time before. When the judge entered the room, Jared could see surprise in his stern sweep of the audience.

  Jared’s father was absent, but that was for the best, Samuel had assured. With all the attention he’d already received in the press, his presence could only be a distraction.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Stanford concluded.

  “Mr. Neaton?” the judge called.

  As always, Jared’s stomach jarred for an instant as he stood and approached the podium. He rested his notes on the podium, centered himself with a final breath, and began.

  For the first ten minutes, Jared wove a backdrop of context—lingering particularly on the deposit slip; highlighting its prominence. Stanford had pounded that the slip alone could not prevent dismissal of the case, but Jared knew that it was compelling evidence, and the essential hook for Jared’s main pitch today.

  “Of course,” Jared said, shifting directions, “the deposit must be proved by more than the deposit slip itself. Evidence demonstrating that the bank received the funds referenced in that slip and assumed liability for those funds must be presented. That brings me to our submission to the court of the statement of former bank employee Cory Spangler.”

  Jared could feel Stanford’s reaction behind him in the rush of breath, the sudden rustling of papers, and the whispers between Stanford and Whittier.

  “As the court can see in that statement—”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Stanford burst in.

  Jared heard the high-pitched scrape of Stanford’s chair as he pushed back.

  “Your Honor, we strenuously object to Mr. Neaton referring to any document which has not been served upon us. We have no statement from a Cory Spangler in any of the papers we received from the plaintiff.”

  The judge fixed his gaze on Jared. “Mr. Neaton?”

  Jared suppressed his anxiety; forced a calm look of surprise. “Your Honor, I’m certain that document was served upon the defendant.” He extended his own copy of the statement toward Stanford. “I have an extra copy if counsel has forgotten his today.”

  The veins on Stanford’s neck bulged as he scanned the statement. Jared turned to his own counsel table and began paging through a folder. After a moment, he withdrew a single sheet and held it in the air. “Here it is, Your Honor, the Affidavit of Service prepared by my staff.”

  Stanford leaned forward on his fists, still clutching the statement in one hand and the other documents he’d been riffling through in the other. “Your Honor, I stand on my objection. We did not receive this statement.”

  “Whom does the affidavit say you served at the Paisley firm with Ms. Spangler’s statement, Mr. Neaton?” the judge growled impatiently at Jared.

  Jared examined the sheet carefully as though reading it for the first time. “Your Honor, it says that my staff personally served the Spangler affidavit on a Ms. Rachel Langer, working under the supervision of Paisley employee Mick Elgart.”

  The papers fell from Stanford’s hand, scattering like giant confetti across the floor.

  Jared recalled how Clay had once negotiated a top-dollar settlement in a difficult case, bluffing the opposing attorney into believing that Clay had a strong expert report to support his client’s case. When Jared had pressed his mentor on why the bluff worked, he’d responded that the opponent knew that his client was negligent and so assumed that Clay had the evidence to prove it. “You will find, Mr. Neaton,” his mentor had said through a satisfied smile, “that the guilty imagination is always more vivid than the innocent.”

  So Mrs. Huddleston’s theory about Rachel working for Paisley was right, Jared thought as he watched Whittier scramble to pick up the scattered papers from the floor. It was broadcast from every pore in Stanford’s pale face.

  It made sense: she’d been there every time Stanford learned inside information on the case. Jared had no real proof that she was in Marcus’s employ or that she was channeling information to Stanford and Whittier. But then, Marcus didn’t know that.

  And if Marcus doubted that they’d actually served Rachel with Cory’s statement, he could look in her car, beneath the seat, beside the empty SoBe bottle.

  The Paisley attorney’s eyes blinked rapidly, as though he were emerging from a deep sleep.

  All right, Marcus. What are you going to do now?

  “Um, Your Honor, this surprise witness—we’ve had no opportunity to take her deposition, so this statement should be excluded.”

  Nice try, Stanford, Jared thought. The judge intervened and made the point for Jared before he could even speak.

  “Counsel,” the judge answered impatiently, “I’ve reviewed this statement. It’s a person who worked at the bank. How could the knowledge of a former employee at the bank, about bank business, be considered a surprise to your client?”

  Stanford still looked off-center, but launched another track. “Judge, without an opportunity to take the deposition, this court should reject the affidavit as inadmissible hearsay.”

  Jared could see the judge considering this last appeal. He looked back and forth between the attorneys, rubbing a hand
across his chin. “Mr. Stanford, I think that’s just the flip side to the same argument. I’m going to permit Mr. Neaton to complete his presentation today; then I will consider your point. Now let’s get back to the matter at hand. Do you stand on your objection that this affidavit was not properly served?”

  Whittier returned to his seat, and Jared watched as Stanford shot him a pleading glance. The junior partner looked back with the helpless eyes of a cornered rabbit. Stanford’s eyes shifted back toward Jared, staring as though he thought he could bore straight through his skull and scoop out what he needed to know.

  You figure it out, Jared thought, looking placidly back. Figure out if we have the proof that Rachel was reporting to you through Elgart. Stand your ground on this objection—and find out if I can prove to this judge you busted half a dozen ethical rules by putting a paid mole in my office.

  Stanford’s eyes faltered, and Jared knew what was coming next.

  “Uh, Judge, I do not recognize the employee names Mr. Neaton—uh Mr. Neaton’s staff say they served, but I, um, will not at this time . . . challenge his assertion that we did receive service of process of the statement.”

  The judge looked puzzled at Stanford’s stammering reply. He shrugged and turned back to Jared. “Very well, Mr. Neaton, you may proceed.”

  Jared felt like collapsing into his chair. But he needed to charge on: Stanford would recover, and quickly.

  For twenty minutes more, Jared reviewed Cory’s statement and its implications for the judge. As the party opposing dismissal, all inferences from the evidence must be assumed most favorably to Erin and the estate, he argued. The logical inference from Cory Spangler’s statement was that the deposit recorded on the slip, the heart and soul of this case, was made that evening in Ms. Spangler’s presence. After all, Cory’s statement testified that the strange rendezvous between the bank president and Mr. Larson was around the date on the deposit slip.

  “Moreover, Your Honor, the discreet circumstances of the deposit—a private meeting between Mr. Larson and the Ashley State Bank president after midnight—implies the bank’s intent to conceal the deposit, which would explain the absence of typical evidence of the transaction.”

  Jared knew that this was all light stuff. Cory’s statement did not reflect an amount for the deposit that evening, nor the history of what happened to the funds after the deposit—all critical evidence. The absence of solid proof was mirrored in Judge Lindquist’s scowl throughout the presentation.

  But Jared knew he couldn’t win this motion on the scant record anyway. He needed this judge to detect something more in the case: the disquieting sensation that something was going on behind the simple piece of paper and a young girl’s short, emotionless description of a late-night deposit.

  “We are confident,” Jared wrapped up, “that the evidence at trial will vindicate our claim that Ms. Spangler witnessed the deposit of the ten-million-dollar check that late evening, when no one was supposed to see, in a fashion no one was ever to detect. We believe we will prevail on our claims, through a jury verdict of liability against the bank.”

  Jared was wrung out. He retrieved his notes and turned away, feeling the judge’s frown as he sat down.

  Stanford stood to rebut, and Jared cringed. The Paisley attorney didn’t even bother to step to the podium, but launched into his argument standing at counsel table. As he spoke, his ears and face were red and he clenched his reordered notes like a grenade.

  “Your Honor,” he began, his voice a restrained explosion, “we have witnessed today a singular acknowledgment of what the plaintiff and Mr. Neaton do not have—that is, proof of this alleged deposit. How many months—how many years—must the Ashley State Bank stand hostage to these slanderous claims? Plaintiffs have presented no evidence here to avoid dismissal. This ‘statement,’ ” he said, lifting Cory’s words by his fingers as though they were radioactive, “is rank hearsay. Even if it were acceptable evidence, it cannot prove the elements of the estate’s claims. It is a last minute, fruitless appeal to this court’s emotion—a promise to deliver tomorrow what the estate has not delivered today.

  “This—claim—must—be—dismissed.”

  Stanford’s final line was an unmistakable demand. The rest of the message—while succinct and articulate—resonated not with Stanford’s usual cool intellect but with violence. Jared had been prepared for a forceful response, but this passion was nearly shocking.

  Jared felt the eyes of the courtroom turn to the bench in unison with his own. Judge Lindquist was staring frozenly at Stanford, now seated, his face still crimson. At last, the judge looked to his own bench and began paging through the notes there. The gesture seemed less a search than an effort to buy time.

  The judge leaned back and closed his eyes. The courtroom stilled for the long minutes that the judge remained in that posture. Then his eyes opened and he leaned forward—looking, Jared thought, suddenly unburdened.

  “Gentlemen, I have concluded that this summary judgment motion shall take . . . um . . . considerable time to resolve. The issues are . . . sufficiently complex, that it is possible that I will be unable to resolve them in the scant three weeks before trial. Accordingly, I will take this matter under advisement—and you had best be prepared to present your cases to the jury in twenty-one days.”

  “What just happened?” Erin asked. They were standing in a back hallway of the courthouse, away from observation. Jessie was barely suppressing a grin.

  “Judge Lindquist just pocket-vetoed the motion,” Jared answered, entirely exhausted and elated at once.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It means,” Jessie said, picking up the point, “that the judge didn’t deny the motion—he just told Stanford he wasn’t going to rule in the next three weeks.”

  “Which means?”

  “It means we’ve got to prepare for trial,” Jared answered, and Erin threw her arms around his neck.

  Jared caught up with Stanford just as he was following Whittier out the front door of the courthouse.

  “Marcus.”

  The Paisley attorney turned. He looked dazed, but the stare hardened as his eyes recognized Jared.

  Jared held out two subpoenas. After a moment’s pause, Marcus grabbed them from his hand.

  Jared didn’t allow himself the pleasure of the grin he felt, but simply turned and walked away. There was a lot of this case still to fight. Jared headed back into the courthouse to gather his briefcase and papers for the drive home.

  Marcus stood on the top step of the courthouse, reading the subpoenas in disbelief. He felt Whittier at his elbow. “What is it, Marcus?”

  How had they found out?

  “Marcus?”

  He handed one of the subpoenas to Whittier; he folded the other and slid it into his pocket.

  “It’s a subpoena,” he said. “Let’s talk about it later.”

  The junior partner nodded, clearly afraid to ask any more questions after the summary judgment motion. He wandered away, leaving Marcus standing alone in front of the courthouse doors.

  43

  The clock on the mantel was wrong. Marcus couldn’t place it at first. It was . . . too loud. He stared at the clock face passively, listening to the crack of the second hand, unable to master his thoughts.

  The universe had tipped up and spilled its contents into the ether today, and now nothing was in its right place anymore. A man could walk through a room he’d spent his life traversing, and he’d hit every piece of furniture—every lamp and table. He’d fall like a drunken fool on a split in the carpet that shouldn’t be there—because everything had changed.

  At this instant, the deposit slip case should be a file his secretary was walking to Paisley’s storage vault. Marcus should be hearing his partners’ congratulations in the hall—or sitting at his desk throwing pads of unnecessary case notes and pleading pages into the trash. Perhaps signing the final check for Mick Elgart and phoning the good news to Sidney Grant. Planning the flight
to Baltimore for an unscheduled visit with the children he hadn’t seen in months, and launching his campaign to convince his wife to return.

  Neaton had no evidence and this judge—hoary Judge Thomas Lindquist—always required evidence. The clerk, Rachel Langer, who was their secret weapon, was used against them; the witness, Cory Spangler, that his high-paid help assured him would not testify, blew into the courtroom on the wings of a two-page statement; and even Mick Elgart was revealed in open court.

  Yet he still should have won that motion. But he didn’t. The universe upended today.

  He’d nearly crashed on the drive away from the hearing. Unable to stomach returning to Paisley, he’d set off to his cabin and, distracted, slid across the median on a curve, narrowly missing a truck. The act barely registered with him.

  His cell phone on the end table buzzed. He picked it up absently, saw that it was Sidney Grant, and pushed the button to answer.

  “Marcus. I heard the result. I sent Charley from the bank to watch the hearing.”

  The calm in Sidney Grant’s voice was more jarring than the shout Marcus had expected.

  “Marcus, are you there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You’ve let this go,” the banker went on in the unnaturally soft voice. “You said you had it under control, and you’ve let it go. You told me that the Spangler girl was taken care of and she wasn’t.”

  Marcus didn’t respond, because he couldn’t. Didn’t Sidney see that everything had changed? Look out your window, Sidney, at the cantilevered horizon.

  “We cannot try this case. Marcus, something more serious needs to be done about the Spangler girl.”

  So that was it. The banker was in his persuasive mode and he thought that calm would be more effective than anger. Especially to convince Marcus to do to Cory Spangler what the banker assumed Marcus had already done to Paul Larson.