The Deposit Slip

by Todd M Johnson

  Jared was unsure what he would do next. Confront Marcus? Hurt him? Arrest him? There was no plan. His rage had not relented, but all he felt with certainty was that he was going to end this tonight.

  Inside, the house sat dark. Jared had only been there once, for a firm function, and could not recall the layout. Directly ahead, visible from a faint night-light in the adjacent kitchen, was a large dining room table. It appeared as though the dining room opened directly into a spacious living room space to his left. Jared turned to the wall, feeling for a light switch.

  “You don’t want to do that.”

  The voice came from the farthest reach of the living room, in a corner beyond a large window.

  Jared felt his anger begin a slide toward fear. He strained to see through the darkness in the direction of the voice.

  “Take two more steps into the room, then stop.”

  The voice was not angry, but clear and commanding. Jared moved to comply.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Jared could just make out two silhouettes beside a tall bookcase nestled in the corner of the room. One man was seated at a small corner desk, his face faintly visible from a low lamp aimed at the desk surface. Jared could see that it was Marcus.

  The other figure was standing behind Marcus, deeper in the darkness. One hand was visible, retreating from the desk lamp, which Jared guessed he had just turned low. The other held a handgun. It was directed at Marcus’s head.

  The distance from the door suddenly felt like a canyon.

  They stood silently for a long interval. Jared knew he should be more frightened, but the last fragments of anger still lingered in his chest, and the mystery of the scene cushioned him with a vague sense of disorientation.

  “Who are you?” he heard himself ask.

  The figure didn’t respond at first, until Jared almost wondered whether he was imagining the man.

  “Well, Mr. Neaton,” the voice began at last, so calm it seemed almost serene, “I’m a fountain of justice in this parched corner of the world up here.”

  At these words, the last of Jared’s rage gave way to a wave of nausea. He felt his knees grow watery.

  A mantel clock clacked, punctuating the silence. Now he could also hear Marcus’s labored breathing, the man’s nostrils widening with breath that came like a bellows.

  “Now, this I hadn’t planned on,” the voice spoke again.

  Jared didn’t know how to respond, fearing that anything he said would make the gun fire—or turn toward himself.

  “This man wanted Erin Larson to die,” the gunman continued. “Did you know that? And if there was an opportunity, he asked that you be thrown in as well.”

  “Did you put Joe Creedy up to the attack tonight?” Jared asked.

  “No. That was someone else’s mission. But I watched it unfold. Tell me: was it successful?”

  Jared wavered. “Yes,” he answered.

  “Well, that does make events here tonight nicely . . . symmetrical.”

  Jared’s eyes had adjusted more fully in the dark space. He saw that Marcus’s eyes were rheumy and wide, as though he were staring at a different place.

  The gun slowly shifted, arcing from Marcus’s head until the barrel pointed at Jared’s chest.

  “That’s not a good idea.”

  It was Marcus’s voice this time, and though riddled with fear, it carried a trace of his courtroom command.

  “What did you say?” the gunman asked.

  “That’s not a good idea. Stick with your plan.”

  “Are you giving me advice, Counselor?” the gunman mocked.

  Marcus shook his head. When he spoke, his voice had gained a further measure of strength. “I’m just saying that your first plan made more sense. One death is a suicide; two deaths is an investigation. And,” Marcus continued, “you still need the disk of our conversation.”

  The gun shifted away from Jared for an instant.

  “I’ll find the disk,” the voice said.

  “But will you find it before the police reach the same conclusion as Neaton and come here looking for me? You let Neaton go, and I’ll tell you where it is.”

  “Are we negotiating, Counselor?”

  “No.” Marcus shook his head slowly. “Everything I’ve got is on the table.”

  The weapon hovered between the two attorneys.

  “I already told you, Stanford, I never get caught,” the gunman said. “How can I let Neaton go?”

  “If you let him go, Neaton’s not going to tell a soul what he saw here.”

  The man snorted derisively. “And why is that?”

  Marcus cleared a dry throat and fixed a stare on Jared. When he opened his lips to speak again, he addressed himself to Jared—and his plea floated as if made from something other than breath.

  “Because this man let me write my own suicide note tonight. It gave me a chance to say things—to my kids, my wife. Things I’ve never said before. Things I didn’t understand before now. Jared, I’m not leaving this room tonight—no matter what happens. Let them read my note. Let them believe I killed myself because I was sorry—not because I was afraid. And don’t leave them with his story: that I murdered you, then killed myself.”

  Jared shook his head, torn in two, still wrapped in the paralysis of his fear.

  The gunman’s head turned toward Jared, and though his face was shrouded by the dark, Jared knew he was examining him.

  “You’d best leave now, Mr. Neaton,” he said at last.

  “You’re going to kill Marcus if I go,” Jared heard himself answer.

  “Whether you leave or you stay, Mr. Stanford is about to have justice visited upon him.”

  “That’s not justice.”

  The man shrugged. “Whatever you believe, walk away from this. You didn’t set this in motion. He did. There must be someone else more important to live for. Or to die for.”

  “You’d let me walk out of here.”

  “Yes. Because I think you’ll do as Mr. Stanford asked. And also, my attorney here is right: you’re harder to explain than him.” He paused. “But not impossible.”

  Jared shook his head in denial. “I can’t just leave.”

  When the gunman spoke again, the voice had deepened, and Jared shuddered, knowing he was hearing a cold and remorseless truth.

  “I’m just the whisper in the dark that tomorrow you’ll tell yourself you never heard. But for now you’d best listen. You’re about to die. For this.” The man nudged Marcus’s forehead with the weapon. “You didn’t cause this man’s death. He did. He’s asked you to leave. So go. And never mention this again.”

  Jared looked at Marcus, surprised to see his eyes now focused with the intensity he’d last seen in the courtroom. When Marcus spoke, his words carried the force of a closing argument.

  “I want you to go, Jared. Now. Let my family know what I did in the end.”

  It was several moments before Jared realized that he was back in the driveway. He came aware to hear the wind sifting through snow-laden pine needles with a gentle shush. He took a frozen gulp of air, felt it cold and harsh in his lungs like a promise of life. He kept expecting to hear or feel something that would tell him it was done. He never did.

  Jared still heard Marcus’s last words echoing with undiminished clarity. The Paisley lawyer had saved his life. He had also exacted a promise.

  Silently, Jared trekked the few snowy steps to his car and drove away.

  47

  The long conference table was so glossy he could have shaved in its reflection. The door at the farthest end of the room opened, and Jared saw Franklin Whittier III step into the room.

  He gauged the man as he approached. His hair was still parted perfectly, but his face was colorless. His eyes did not look at Jared, and there was no smile on his face—self-important or otherwise.

  Whittier didn’t extend a hand as he sat at the head of the table to Jared’s left. Jared glanced once more around the room, at a table intended for fifty, p
olished to a rich wood sheen; purchased at a dear price to impress corporate boards and intimidate opposing counsel. This place used to impress him as well.

  “Well, Jared,” Whittier began, “It was good of the court to extend our trial date in view of the tragic events of last week.”

  Jared nodded. “Yes, it was, Frank.”

  Whittier cleared his throat. “You can imagine that Marcus’s suicide has been quite a blow here at Paisley.”

  “And the attack on the women, I would think as well,” Jared responded.

  Whittier nodded. “Of course.”

  Jared pressed right on. “I understand that Mr. Creedy has said that your client put him up to that.”

  The junior partner pursed his lips and shook his head determinedly. “Mr. Grant firmly denies any involvement in the attacks.”

  “Umm. Well, why the meeting then, Frank?”

  Whittier’s hands were clasped in front of him, atop a file folder, and he looked now at Jared with an encouraging, businesslike smile. “Particularly in view of the strange circumstances of the past week, we have advised our client that it would be best for all concerned if we could work out a resolution of the case.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes.” The smugness had crept back into Whittier’s face. “I’ve been authorized to make a settlement in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars. It is more than we suggested Mr. Grant offer, in view of the evidence in the case, but appropriate to the circumstances. I think your client would do well to take it.”

  Jared pushed back his seat and put both hands behind his head. Paisley had a smell, he realized. It wasn’t the odor of money or of success—as they probably presumed. It was the smell of . . . fear.

  Every day, these attorneys trod the halls in fear. Associates fearing that partners would descend to assign more work or criticize—or worse, deem them inadequate to make partner. Partners’ fears that their colleagues would puncture through their posturing of relaxed confidence and inevitable success. Fear that the clients would stop coming, having somehow learned that the size of this firm did not translate to a magical knowledge about the law. Fear. It was the best kept secret of these hallowed halls. And Whittier was steeped in it now like an overabundance of cologne.

  Jared opened his briefcase and pulled out a document. “Frank, this is the subpoena that I served on Mr. Stanford as we were leaving the summary judgment hearing. It demands copies of any eight-figure checks deposited by Mr. Stanford in Paisley’s trust account in the past four years. The subpoena isn’t specific on the check amount, so I’m going to make that part easier for you. Let’s narrow this down to a check in the amount of ten million, three hundred fifteen thousand and four hundred dollars. And no cents. I’d suggest you start under pro bono accounts.”

  Whittier was scanning the subpoena, his smugness gone.

  “And when you find it,” Jared went on, “I’ll tell you what settlement my client will accept. My client will dismiss its claims against the Ashley State Bank if and when the money is returned—all of the money—in a check made payable to the estate of Paul Larson, with a letter acknowledging where the money has been stored these past three years. It will further acknowledge that these funds are the property of the United States government, care of the Department of Veterans Affairs. And finally, it will acknowledge that these funds were located and returned through the efforts of Erin Larson as personal representative for the estate, who is solely entitled to the statutory reward for remitting those funds to the United States.”

  Jared closed his briefcase. “And one more thing. If you pay back the ten million dollars within the week, my client is also willing to release her claims against this law firm for fraud, misrepresentation, and related punitive damages—for an additional one million dollars from Paisley.”

  Jared did not linger. As he left the conference room, Whittier was still reading the subpoena.

  48

  They could have asked for more, Jared knew. Perhaps they should have. After all, Paisley was about to face a mountain of ethics charges—probably a criminal investigation—and had every incentive to settle quickly to show their “shock” at Marcus’s actions, their desire to make things right.

  But Erin wanted this over, and Jared advised that a million dollars was probably the breaking point between Paisley’s interest in a quick resolution and willingness to fight. That fight would have included attacking her father for receiving and trying to keep the money in the first place.

  The latter was very important to Erin because—now that all the facts were out—she was only beginning to grieve her father’s theft of the funds. Carlos and Vic had consoled her with repeated assurances of Paul Larson’s remorse about keeping the money, his desire to do the right thing. But no one could confirm that. Marcus was dead, and Sidney Grant hadn’t opened his mouth to recite anything more than the Fifth Amendment.

  The checks and letters arrived from Paisley, exactly one week after Jared’s meeting with Whittier. Per Jared’s request, they were sent to his father’s home. Now was the time to collect them and drive out to deliver them to Erin. But before they met, he first needed to speak with his father.

  The house was empty and the letters unopened on the kitchen table when he arrived. Jared pocketed them and returned to his car to search for his dad.

  An unseasonably warm spell the past week had melted some of the snow from lawns and roofs, but today the town was chilled again by a blustery wind. Jared drove to the church, wondering if his father might be working, but Samuel wasn’t there. Next, Jared tried the library, where Mrs. Huddleston said she had not seen him.

  Half an hour later he recognized his father’s car in the lot at Skyler Park and spied a lone figure sitting on the wooden stands, wrapped in a winter coat. Jared parked and walked in Samuel’s direction.

  His father didn’t stir until Jared was nearly upon him.

  “Cold day to be out here, Dad.”

  Samuel tossed him a brief smile. “I’m fine.”

  Jared sat beside his father and joined him in studying the snowy diamond. “Do you remember the night against the Mission Falls Tigers when we got that double play in the last inning?” he asked.

  “Of course. Your junior year. A great throw. You were quite a second baseman.”

  “No. But I could hit the ball.”

  “You were always your own worst critic,” his father disagreed.

  Jared felt surprise at the comment. Several minutes passed, silent and unmoving. Though the cold seeped through his thin jacket, Jared did not feel like interrupting the moment, and so they sat together looking at the field.

  His father spoke first. “I saw they arrested Sidney Grant.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And it looks like Joe Creedy’s going to recover from his wound?”

  “I read that too. He’ll be healthy enough for his trial. Looks like Ashley’s got something to chew on for another ten years.”

  His father nodded. “Are you glad the case is over, Jedee?”

  Jared nodded.

  “Satisfied?”

  He shrugged. “There are a few loose ends. Actually, maybe you can help me there.”

  Samuel looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelopes with the two checks.

  “Dad, these envelopes have two checks totaling more money than I’ve ever seen in my life. Most of it is going back to the feds. But a million-dollar reward and a million dollars from Paisley, less my fees and costs, is headed into Erin Larson’s hands.”

  “That’s great, Jedee. I’m glad for her.”

  Jared shook his head. “I’m not. It could be ten times that amount, and it couldn’t stem the disappointment and betrayal that Erin is going to carry around the rest of her life about her father.” He paused, then added, not unkindly, “You and I know something about that, Dad.”

  His father’s eyes looked weary, Jared thought. Worried too—perhaps at where this was
going. Jared ached at the thought of how many times he’d contributed to that careworn look. He looked away, back toward the field. “Dad, I can bring Erin the money. But I can’t offer anything else. And I want to.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Samuel asked cautiously.

  “Because I want you to tell me what Paul Larson said when he called you the afternoon before he died.”

  The shock that settled over Samuel’s features lasted only a moment, but in that interval Jared half expected him to take his place behind the stands, pacing and fretting, the worried father unable to control events. Then the alarm melted from his father’s eyes, replaced by a mystified look of surrender.

  “Did the pastor tell you?”

  “No. I got Paul Larson’s phone records.”

  A grudging smile appeared, and Samuel shook his head. “I always was impressed with your smarts, Jedee.”

  “What did Paul Larson say to you?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because just like he did with Pastor Tufts, Paul Larson made me swear, on everything that’s holy to me, to never tell a living soul.”

  “Haven’t things changed, Dad? With his death—the lawsuit over? I think Paul Larson would want you to share anything that would help Erin sort this out.”

  The conflict playing out on his father’s face told Jared he’d struck a chord. Just once more, he told himself, he’d allow his father’s guilt to play out for this one last cause.

  Samuel closed his eyes, looking overwhelmed.

  “I’ve prayed about this since the day the lawsuit started, Jedee,” he began softly. “Then when you got into the case, I could hardly sleep. But if I could’ve kept what I did from you and your mother, I probably would have. So how could I reveal his secret: especially to Erin—the person Paul most wanted to hide it from? I did everything I could to help you on the case, except break my word.”

  Jared waited for a moment, wondering if he should press for more when his father went on.

  “But I guess it’s a fool who can’t see when things have changed.” He leaned back against the next row of the stands and closed his eyes.