He closed his eyes and took a breath to clear his lungs, trying to focus.
“It’s too late, Sidney,” Marcus answered at last, and felt surprise at the ordered rationality of the words. “Spangler gave Neaton a statement that the judge relied on to deny our motion. If something happened to her now, I think he’d let the statement into evidence at trial. And they also know about Rachel Langer and Mick.”
When would that shoe drop? he wondered. When would Neaton let the court know the full truth about them? At trial?
The banker’s breaths huffed across the phone line. “You’re not trying hard enough, Marcus.”
The strain of focusing was proving too much. “Sidney, I’ve got to think this through. I’ll call in the morning.”
“All right, Marcus.” The banker sounded strained but still controlled. “But no later than the morning.” The line clicked dead.
He set the phone on the couch. It was growing cold in the room, he thought without caring.
What a coward. Thinking Marcus would do his dirty work for him. Would kill a witness for him.
Besides, Spangler’s testimony was no longer the greatest concern in the case. He looked at the subpoena lying on the table—one of the two Neaton had handed him on the courthouse steps this morning. That wan, self-righteous twit who didn’t even have the decency to gloat.
The subpoena Marcus handed on to Whittier demanded that a bank employee appear the first day of trial with some floppy disks containing information about closed accounts. That was trouble enough, but easy to fix. Disks got erased every day.
The second subpoena—the one he’d withheld from Whittier—was another matter. How had they found out? It demanded the appearance of Paisley’s chief bookkeeper at trial—with copies of all Paisley trust account checks cashed in the past four years in excess of ten million dollars.
No one could see this subpoena. At Paisley. At the bank. Even if he could quash it before trial, someone would begin to ask questions. Someone at Paisley would remember the pro bono case. A partner. A staffer.
Through the window, a formation of geese winged across the cold blue sky, so high they could have been jets. Marcus felt disembodied, as though he were up there with them, looking down at the tiny figure of a man gazing upward through the glass.
In a universe that had lost its way, limits Marcus thought inviolate could no longer be respected. Unique solutions had to be considered, new paths forged. Things once unthinkable could no longer be so.
He struggled with the notion for a moment. This was a chasm that, once crossed, offered no return bridge. Could he really do this?
He’d never kill for Grant. For himself? But no, that wasn’t what this was about. This was for his children and the wife who needed him.
After all, he hadn’t brought matters to this impasse, had he? The farmer was the one who’d kept the check in the first place. If Larson hadn’t taken it to Grant, and Grant hadn’t called him, then Marcus would not be standing on the ragged edge of this precipice. And if Neaton had just let the case go—for two more days—this would all be unnecessary. He wouldn’t be facing these risks to his career, family—freedom.
He felt a calm as the resolve settled in. His mind cleared.
All right then. This would be done. And if he was going to proceed, it would, of course, have to be against the right target. Cory Spangler was irrelevant now. The Estate and the case only died with Paul Larson’s sole living relative, Erin.
And maybe their lawyer too.
The investigator’s voice over the phone was shaky. “I think that’s a really bad idea, Marcus.”
It was evening now. Marcus hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, hadn’t even moved from the couch. It had taken several hours to reach Mick. Just when Marcus thought the investigator might be avoiding his calls, he had telephoned.
“I need this.”
A sigh filled the phone. “Marcus, I told you it wasn’t a good idea to get mixed up with this guy to begin with. But you went ahead and hired him for that Athens work. Fine. Now you want me to get you personal information on the guy? If it gets back to him that I’m even looking for that kind of stuff . . . Marcus, this is a really bad idea.”
“Mick, your name came up today in court.”
The silence was long. “How.”
“Neaton knows who you are. That you work for me. In this case.”
He let the quiet sink in.
“You’re a part of this, Mick. You made the trips to our man in Washington. You followed Neaton and Goering. You arranged for Langer to work in their offices. You set me up with your New York contact for Athens.”
“Don’t do this, Marcus.”
“I just need enough information to get a feel for the man. And I need his new number. The old one doesn’t work.”
Mick’s voice hardened when he responded. “I don’t like this. But I’ll see what I can find out.”
The drive to the Larson farm was unhurried, soft and easy—like a journey on a cloud. Jared looked out the window, and he couldn’t keep the smile from his face.
Mrs. Huddleston at his side chatted with his father in the back seat, but Jared scarcely listened. He couldn’t. Nothing mundane could hold his attention at the moment.
They’d won the unwinnable motion. They were going to trial.
Cory Spangler’s statement had put it over. The statement he couldn’t use. Until Mrs. Huddleston suggested a way to reduce the risk to Cory by keeping the statement from Stanford until the hearing.
The risk was reduced, but not eliminated. They still needed Cory’s permission. That was the hardest step for Jared, because it meant admitting to Cory the knowledge he’d withheld from her in Athens.
He had planned to email Cory to explain it all—including the risk of proceeding—and ask her permission to use the statement. The librarian suggested it was better if she did it. It was much fairer to the young woman if Mrs. Huddleston posed the request rather than Jared.
They’d gotten Cory’s agreement by email the following day.
They drove up the driveway to the Larson farmhouse half an hour later and unloaded the groceries from the trunk to the kitchen. There, Jared took a seat at the kitchen table. Sam and Jessie were soon at the sink washing vegetables, while Erin and Mrs. Huddleston prepared the handmade tortillas. By silent consensus, Jared was allowed to watch. Pressed elbow to elbow in the small farmhouse kitchen, Jared thought the group looked like a friendly scrum.
It was warm and relaxed, and Jared intended to enjoy it. He would not focus on the fact that they still lacked the evidence to convince a jury of key elements of their case, that the judge could still change his mind and dismiss the case after hearing the limits to the estate’s evidence at trial, or that jury trials were never won on bluffs.
Because they were going to trial. They had bought another three weeks. And more importantly, they now had the subpoena power to force the bank to bring more evidence to trial.
It was enough for tonight. He knew that they stood in the eye of the storm. They had passed safely through one side of the tempest and were heading straight toward the other in just twenty-one days. But for tonight, Jared would look up at the clear skies overhead and pretend the hurricane had passed.
44
The coffeehouse was nearly empty. A For Lease sign in the window testified to the establishment’s last days. Marcus could see why: the espresso was terrible. Mick had picked the right place for a meeting that demanded solitude.
Marcus hated Greenwich Village. It was pretentious and bohemian at the same time, and he despised both qualities. But Proctor Hamilton—the name Mick had dredged up for his New York man—only met clients in Manhattan, and this was better than most alternatives.
To find the information Marcus wanted on this man, Mick had made a quick trip to New York, called in many favors, and promised many in return. But the reward was a real phone number and a skeletal resume for the man they had hired, sight unseen, for the Athens work.
Proctor Hamilton lived in Queens, though he never met clients in that borough. He was a former Army Ranger with special operations training and experience. He usually limited himself to known clients or persons referred by those clients. Typically, he ran his earnings through one of three or four offshore banks in the Caribbean. And generally he insisted on a face-to-face meeting to arrange work. In fact, Mick’s contacts were quite surprised when he related that Mr. Hamilton had accepted the first job from Marcus over the phone.
Marcus looked at his watch, confirming that Proctor was now half an hour late. Marcus knew the man had only worked with him reluctantly the first time and might refuse this meeting. It was beginning to look like he had done just that.
The bell over the front door rang, and a man stepped into the nearly vacant coffeehouse. He scanned the shop before approaching the booth where Marcus sat.
Proctor Hamilton was in his midthirties, Marcus estimated. As he took off his jacket, the Paisley lawyer saw that he was slender, but wiry and muscular.
Hostility was carved onto the man’s face. Marcus sensed that any pleasantries would be unwelcome. Fine. No chitchat. Get right to business.
“I have another job I’d like you to perform.”
Proctor sat silent. If his face changed at all, Marcus couldn’t detect it.
“You weren’t successful last time. The girl gave a statement. The case is unraveling.”
“Is she coming to trial?” the man asked, breaking his silence.
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. She gave a written statement.”
Proctor looked at the table and shook his head. “That wasn’t what you hired me for. You hired me to keep her from coming back from Europe. She’s still there. If you had some other legal agenda, that’s your problem.”
Marcus was infuriated at the cool disdain in the man’s voice. But he needed this man, and arguing about the last job was not going to accomplish what he needed.
“The other assistance I need will make it all irrelevant anyway,” Marcus said, then paused. He expected Proctor to ask him what it was—but the man stared with indifference until Marcus continued.
“I need you to eliminate the plaintiff in the lawsuit, Erin Larson. And if the opportunity permits, the lawyer as well.”
The man shook his head, a sarcastic smile appearing on his face. “Eliminate. Is that a legal term?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do. I’m not interested. Lose my number,” Proctor answered and began to slide from the booth.
“You have to.” There. It was out. Marcus felt his throat grow dry.
Proctor stopped and looked at Marcus sullenly.
“What do you mean.”
“I taped our first phone conversation about the job in Athens,” Marcus said, restraining himself from running his tongue across parched lips.
Proctor’s eyes showed no concern. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. I called you from my office. My phone’s set up for it. It’s all on a disk.”
“And just what does that get you. You burn me, you burn yourself.”
“You haven’t been listening. I need your help because I’m already burned. Now this has to get done. You get me out of my problem and yours goes away as well.”
“Do it yourself.”
Strangely, Marcus realized, this had not occurred to him. But then, he thought, he was an advocate. He didn’t take the stand to testify; he presented the story. Made it palatable, and he sold it. And when he needed expertise, he hired it.
“This needs to be an accident. I need your expertise.”
“Do you?” Proctor slid fully back into the booth. Pressing his elbows onto the table, he leaned close enough for Marcus to feel the breath on his cheek.
“Well, I’ve made some inquiries of my own, Mr. Stanford,” Proctor said in a soft monotone. “And my inquiries say that what you and that bank have done up in that little town, it’s a mess. A mess. Now you want me to be part of it.”
“No, you’re already part of it. I want you to help me sort it out,” Marcus responded. “And I’m not extorting you. I will pay your full fee.”
Proctor hesitated. “This isn’t a money issue. I told you, this is a mess. I don’t do messes.”
“It has to be done very soon.” Marcus pressed on, ignoring the last comment.
Full minutes passed, in which Proctor stared into Marcus’s eyes, and the Paisley attorney did not turn away. It wasn’t a contest. Marcus could see that Proctor was weighing his options: the risks, the money—particularly the money.
Marcus always knew—in the courtroom, in negotiations—when he had the winning edge. He had it now. Mick’s information made clear that this man saw himself as a businessman. Marcus’s threat was irrelevant: now that money was on the table, it was just business. They could sit here for an hour if Proctor liked, so close they nearly intertwined, but eventually Proctor would come to the same conclusion.
“Why was all this necessary?” Proctor asked.
“That’s not your concern,” Marcus answered rapidly, taken by surprise at the question.
“You’ve made it my concern. Why’d you get so deep into this one? You’re a hotshot attorney, lots of bucks.”
“It’s not your concern.”
“You want my service, you answer.”
Marcus heard the finality in Proctor’s voice. This deal—this arrangement—felt so close. He decided to answer.
“I needed this opportunity to break free. The freedom to fix some things in my life. And now these people could prevent it.”
“Oh,” Proctor came back—in a tone that Marcus could not discern between understanding and mockery. “Then this is personal.”
Marcus did not answer, and at last he saw Proctor shake his head. “Making this look like an accident, when it’s such a convenient accident for you and your client: it’s nearly impossible.”
“That’s why you’re the expert.” Marcus’s throat was cotton.
“All right,” Proctor said, spreading his hands across the table like he was clearing it. “I’ll clean up your mess. Three hundred thousand.”
“One hundred thousand.”
“Two hundred thousand. Half in advance.”
Would he carry through? Of course he would. He was a professional.
“Okay.”
Proctor recited a new account number and bank. “Transfer by tomorrow. This is rushed enough as it is.” Marcus wrote it quickly on the back of one of his cards, then nodded his assent.
“And on this short notice, you’ve got to assist,” Proctor finished. “I haven’t got time to track your targets, so you’ve got to help me set up.” Marcus agreed again.
Proctor gave him a new cell number, and then he was gone.
As Marcus watched the man leave the coffee shop, he felt, with a remote sense of wonder, his right hand trembling. Nothing more, just his right hand.
The information about taping their conversation had kept the man at the table, but the money put it over, Marcus told himself. He gripped the hand as it gave a last gentle shudder.
So, he thought, quashing a momentary echo of regret. So it really had come to this.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grant, but he’s still out of the office. He told me to let you know he hasn’t forgotten his promise to call.”
Sidney Grant gripped his pen like a spear. “I’ve called every day for a week.”
“I know,” Whittier’s oily voice came over the phone line. “Mr. Stanford is very sorry. He knows the importance of getting back to you. He said he needs to finish some arrangements before you speak.”
Sidney knew that Whittier was in the loop now, but how far?
No. He wouldn’t discuss this with Whittier. He’d deal with this himself. Without another word, Sidney punched the Intercom button on his desk phone, cutting Whittier off.
“Sharri, send Mr. Creedy in now.”
Sidney was shocked as the farmer entered the room. The
man looked only a step out of the grave. Creedy’s hair was matted under a John Deere hat, his scarred hands oiled black from machine work. Mostly, the lines of his face and yellowed complexion told how far he had fallen.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Creedy muttered.
“That’s fine, Joe,” Sidney replied, unsure whether the farmer was being sincere or sarcastic. “Sit down.”
Joe’s gaze was distant as he slumped in his seat and looked at Sidney with unfocused eyes.
It had been nearly six months since Sidney had seen Creedy last, despite the farmer’s repeated requests to meet with him. He wondered if Creedy’s parents knew he was losing the farm. Sixty years that land had been in the family and his father never missed a payment. That man knew how to run an operation. But Creedy’s parents should’ve known their son wasn’t equipped to run the farm by himself.
“Mr. Grant, we had a deal,” the farmer said, pulling his cap off and clenching it in his hands.
Sidney estimated that Creedy was in his midthirties. Sitting across from the banker, the man looked fifteen years older. “Now, Joe, you know I’m a man of my word. But I always said we’d work out your mortgage when things were all settled.”
“I’ve done everything you wanted, Mr. Grant. You never told me what it was all about, but I did just like you asked.”
“I know, Joe, it’s . . .”
The farmer was shaking his head, not looking at Sidney as he rambled. “I went out and jammed up Pauly’s equipment; let his animals loose those nights—even shot out his windows.”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Then we got on his girl these past months,” Creedy rolled on. “Everything you asked I’ve done.” A flick of spittle appeared at the corner of Joe’s mouth, and when he looked up, there was heat in his eyes.
“Settle down, Joseph. Let’s talk this through. I know you’ve done as I asked—”
“No, Mr. Grant, you don’t. There’s things that happened.” The farmer grew quiet. “You don’t know it all.”
The Deposit Slip Page 25
