The Deposit Slip (11 page)

“Did you know Paul Larson?” the pastor continued, his eyes neutral.

“No.”

“Neither did I—at least not well. When he and his wife first attended this church, that was way before my time here. By the time I came to First Lutheran a few years ago, his wife had passed away and Mr. Larson seldom came. Frankly, I don’t know his daughter at all. I only met her at the memorial service.”

“Is there anything you’ll share?” Jared pressed. Assuming a no, he began to rise.

The pastor ignored Jared’s movement—as well as his words and the sharpness creeping into his tone.

“Did you know that Mr. Larson began coming to our church more often in the final few months before he died?”

“No.” Jared’s hands still held the arms of his chair, but he wasn’t rising now.

“He did. I believe it was quite a change for him. In fact, he struck me as someone looking for change in his life, struggling with some decisions. Change can be hard, even if you think you want it. It can be enormously difficult for the person changing. Sometimes, even harder on those you love. Don’t you think so?”

Jared just nodded. Where was he going with this? Were they still talking about Paul Larson? He watched the pastor’s gaze meander around the room for a moment, until it settled back on Jared.

“To answer your question, I don’t feel I can get into matters that Mr. Larson may have deemed confidential. Especially as they might relate to his family. Mr. Larson was, after all, a very closed man.”

The pastor rose, signaling the end of the conversation. “Please don’t think I’m unsympathetic. But under the circumstances, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find what you need another way.”

Jared emerged back into the afternoon sunlight, softening now as it filtered through the lengthening shadows of the trees lining the street. He began the walk back to the park where he had left his car.

He hadn’t gotten proof of the deposit. But the pastor’s last comment had inferred that Paul Larson spoke with his pastor about a confidential matter shortly before he died. Something for which he was seeking spiritual guidance. Evidence of a guilty conscience?

He pulled out his cell and dialed. Jessie answered at the office, and he filled her in on what Mrs. Huddleston and the pastor had said.

“So, are you going to schedule some depositions of the bank employees?” she asked when he’d finished.

“Yeah. But let me think about how to handle it overnight.”

“Okay. How about the pastor. You think the farmer told him something significant?”

“Maybe. It’s possible Pastor Tuft was just trying to impress me with how well he can keep a secret. But he didn’t strike me that way.”

“Or,” Jessie responded, “maybe Larson confided general things about how he was doing, problems at the farm. Nothing really important.”

“Yeah.” Jared hesitated, unsure whether to go on. He’d called Jessie to discuss the case out of habit, but he was regretting it. She was already so sour on his taking the case.

It didn’t matter; she finished his thoughts before he could decide.

“You know, from what the pastor said, you could also conclude that his daughter knows more than she’s told us. You know, ‘confidences affecting his family.’ ”

Jared understood what Jessie meant. It was the prospect that most bothered him.

“What are you going to do?” she pressed again when Jared did not respond for a while.

“I think I’m going to try to find the two remaining witnesses on Erin’s list tonight after dinner. At the Legion Hall.”

“And, Jared,” Jessie said, as though she were about to launch into a complaint, “with the problems your client’s been having up there, you might want to be careful where you go at night.”

Not a complaint. Just concern. Though it was hard to contemplate anything dangerous about Ashley.

“I’ll be careful,” he promised, then hung up.

The basement bar at the Legion Hall was crowded and loud. From the base of the stairs, Jared saw veterans whose assorted tours must have covered the gamut from Korea through Afghanistan. The majority were men, but some wives or girlfriends also filled the lounge.

It was later than Jared planned—closing in on ten. He’d stopped at the motel after dinner to finish some legal research and answer some emails. After all, it seemed unlikely that the witnesses—Harry Sanderson and Victor Waye—would arrive much before midevening anyway.

Erin could give only a vague description of the men, so Jared walked to the bar to ask for them by name. The bartender raised his voice to answer.

“It’s more crowded than usual. We had a fund-raiser earlier tonight. But Vic and Harry . . . let me see.” The bartender swept the room before raising a finger and pointing toward the back. “There, under the flag.”

As he weaved his way around full tables, Jared passed one table with a single man sitting alone. Several empty beer bottles were pushed to one side in front of him; a full one gripped in his hand. It was Joe Creedy—the Larsons’ neighbor he’d met just a week earlier. Creedy didn’t even glance up as Jared brushed by.

The table pointed out by the bartender held three men. Two had hair salted with gray. The third, though younger, was nearly bald. The two looked to be in their late fifties or early sixties, the other a generation younger.

Jared introduced himself. The older ones, Sanderson and Waye, shook his outstretched hand. Jared didn’t catch the third man’s name through the noise. He also shook Jared’s hand, but weakly.

“I’m looking into Paul Larson’s case against the bank, on behalf of Erin Larson,” Jared began as he sat down. He assumed they would know the basics about the lawsuit. Hopefully, if they were friends of Paul Larson, they’d also be sympathetic. “I’m trying to find out what Paul Larson may have said about deposits at the bank, or coming into some serious money.”

Victor looked over at Harry. Jared was used to vacillation. Most people hesitated when there was any chance of getting dragged into litigation—even as friendly witnesses. As Jared waited, the third man muttered something about going to the bathroom. Jared saw that he took his beer with him.

Victor began to speak. “Paul was pretty closemouthed. He didn’t talk about personal things so much.”

Harry frowned. Jared now saw up close that he was a few years older than Victor. “Paul never mentioned any money coming in. He—like Victor said—he was pretty closemouthed about personal stuff.”

“Did you see any changes in him in the weeks or months before he died? How he acted, things he talked about?”

Both men shook their heads no, glancing away.

“Do you think he was depressed?”

Victor glanced at Harry again, a quizzical look on his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered.

Harry’s mouth opened to speak, but he froze, looking past Jared toward the bar. Jared started to turn, saw something close to his eyes and twisted instinctively, falling back to avoid it.

The blow hit his rising shoulder before smashing into his temple. Jared collapsed backward, pulling the table over and feeling a chill of cold beer soaking his shirt and neck. He was on the floor, grasping toward the table overhead, dimly aware of legs gathered near and an overturned chair beside his cheek.

Waves of voices flowed over him, one voice louder and nearer.

“Your dad cost me a job, Neaton. The son of a . . .”

A scuffle then and the voice rose a pitch, receding.
“What ya gonna do now, Neaton. Break our bank? Get out. . . .”
Footsteps faded, clattering up the stairs until the voice was gone.

Hands under his arms pulled him up and seated him, dim-witted, at the table.

The room of bodies was standing, talking excitedly. A face, Victor’s, was across from him at the table, and another leaned into view—the bartender?

“Should I call the police?”

“No.” The voice was his own. He was waving a disembodied hand. “No.”

Harry returned from somewhere. People around the room began to sit down again. “I got him out. Greg’s driving him home,” he said toward Victor.

Jared started to stand, his head throbbing a drumbeat of pain. “I’ll help you out,” Harry said.

Jared shook his head, flinching at a sharp stab up his neck. “No.” He stumbled to the stairs and took them slowly up and out into the night.

S
unday afternoon, Jared sat on the gray wooden stands of the baseball field at Skyler Park on the western edge of Ashley. He gently rubbed the bump on his temple, which still throbbed if he moved too quickly.

The song began from Jared’s hip pocket. He pulled the phone from his pocket and answered without looking at the number.

“Mr. Neaton.” A quiet voice came over the phone.

“Yeah. Is this Mr. Towers?”

“Richard. Yes. I’ve got some information for you.”

Jared had almost forgotten about the investigator. He leaned back and closed his eyes. “What is it.”

“These documents you sent me don’t say anything. Nothing there about the deposit or the account on the slip, and nothing relating to the Federal Reserve Bank.”

Jared waited for more. Though he hadn’t known what he was looking for, he had reached a similar conclusion from his own review.

“But,” Towers continued, “I spoke with someone . . . about the Reserve Bank records.”

“And?”

“Ashley State Bank never deposited any check with the Feds approaching ten million dollars anytime around when this deposit slip is dated.”

“You’re sure?”

A quiet sigh. “Mr. Neaton, ten million dollars is a lot of money coming from a rural bank. My contact . . . I’m sure. Ashley State Bank probably hasn’t deposited a sum like that in its history.”

“Now what?”

“You’ve got to find someone in the bank who witnessed the deposit—or heard about it.”

“That’s the only thing?”

“Unless the bank comes up with more records that confirm this account existed and the money was deposited there, yes.”

Now it was Jared’s turn to sigh. “All right. Thanks for your help, Richard. Can I call if something more comes up?”

“Sure.”

Another dead end. No proof the deposit existed; if it did exist, no clue where it went. So where did he turn now?

Towers said it. He needed to start taking depositions of bank employees—find a witness to the deposit. Jared pulled Mrs. Huddleston’s employee list from his pocket, then selected Jessie’s number on his cell phone.

“Wondered if you’d be calling,” Jessie answered on the first ring. “Decide about the depositions?”

“Yeah.” Jared first explained his conversation with the investigator. “Towers’s right. We’ve got thirty current and former bank employees on Mrs. Huddleston’s list who could have knowledge about the deposit. I don’t know how to make a cut, so let’s depose them all. Stanford will probably fight me if I ask for
five
depositions—so let’s ask for them all, and if they balk, we’ll fight about how many with the judge.”

Jessie put the phone on speaker as Jared read her the names.

“Got it,” she said at last, picking up the phone again.

“Good. Now get notices of depositions to Stanford and Whittier first thing Monday for all of them, starting two weeks from tomorrow. Set them for one a day until we’re done.”

He was trying to project confidence he didn’t feel. He may have made up some ground with Judge Lindquist in this case, but he knew he was not in command. The judge could easily limit him to the five depositions he’d mentioned to Jessie. Then what would he do?

One thing was certain: it was time to start swinging back. There was a rhythm to a lawsuit. If you let the other side control the pace, you spent all your money and time reacting. Jared never liked to be the one reacting.

He had under twelve weeks to find his evidence and needed a toehold somewhere. Soon.

“Jessie,” he added as an afterthought, “I also want you to send a letter to Paisley demanding they make absolutely sure they’ve given me every document the court ordered them to produce for Goering. I want every scrap of relevant paper from the bank before these depositions.”

They agreed that Jessie would get the letter and deposition notices out on Monday to Paisley and then finish up some things on Tuesday before coming up to Ashley. Erin, understanding costs were higher, had agreed to put her up. Jessie asked where they would be setting up the war room. Jared answered that he’d call her in a little bit to let her know.

He returned the phone to his pocket. It was growing cooler as the breeze picked up and the sun fled behind the clouds. Still, Jared lingered on the hard bleachers.

He’d come to Skyler Park this afternoon because of what Mrs. Huddleston had said as he was going out the door the day before. He always assumed Dad came back to Ashley from prison out of defiance or plain stubbornness—to prove that no one was going to drive him out of his hometown. Mrs. Huddleston’s comment was the first time he’d ever considered something different.

But what was the point of thinking about it? It was a mystery he didn’t need to solve—his reasons for coming back were his own, and they changed nothing. That road was behind Jared—he wouldn’t travel it again.

Jared’s eyes wandered through the wire fence and across the empty diamond. His memories drifted to hot summer nights out on the hard packed ground of the infield. He could hear the shouts of parents and smell the clouds of cigar smoke from these stands. As his gaze swept from the empty dugout to home plate, he felt the butterflies again: that flutter in his stomach when he’d stoop to grit his hands with loose dirt before grabbing the bat with both fists and stepping to the plate.

At bat, he was always conscious that his father was off somewhere beyond the crowded bleachers, pacing like a caged tiger. But that awareness always faded as he stepped into his swing; felt the raw jolt race up his forearms and shoulders as the wood connected with the ball. His legs would churn the baseline, his chest pounding with the rush of seeing nine bodies race in a choreography he had set in motion. If the hit was solid and the wind was right, he’d find himself sliding face first at the second base bag anchored by the baseman’s shoe; hear the thud of the ball in the glove; grab the canvas with his outstretched fingers as the umpire grunted “safe.”

Only then, as he dusted his pants and tugged his cap down over his forehead, would his eyes move irresistibly to his father, standing in the shadow of the bleachers—unmoving at last, a tight smile creasing his face. For that moment, an exhilarating peace would settle over the world. It was a peace that Jared wished he could wrap around himself forever.

“Mrs. Spangler,” the flat male voice intoned over the phone. “We don’t mean to keep troubling you, but we’re quite anxious to contact your daughter Cory. This is a wonderful opportunity, and we certainly wouldn’t want her to miss out on this scholarship.”

Andrea Spangler snorted into the phone, and her voice deepened as it always did when she was edging toward anger. What’re they doing calling on a Sunday night anyway?

“I’ve called you folks at the bank three times now to tell you I can’t reach Cory. She’s studying abroad. And besides, she’s a senior in college now, and it’s kinda late for a scholarship.”

“I understand,” the voice went on solicitously. “But this scholarship is time sensitive, and it can be applied to past tuition as well. It would be a shame for your daughter to miss this chance to reduce her school debt—or even enjoy some cash as she approaches graduation.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, ’cause I can’t reach her.”

There was a pause over the line. “Are you absolutely certain your daughter can’t be reached? Because we can keep this scholarship opportunity open until February first, Mrs. Spangler.”

“Nope. She’s travelin’ for at least three months,” Andrea said, grasping the opening to end this conversation. “Completely out of reach.”

“There’s no way—no way at all to reach her during this time?”

Now, this was just too much. “She’s got no phone, and she’s gonna be out of touch the whole time she’s traveling!”

“If that’s the case, Mrs. Spangler, I’m very sorry. We won’t bother you any further,” the voice relented. “Thank you for your time.”

Andrea hung up with a terse good-bye. For heaven’s sake, she thought. What a pain. They’d called and written twice now, and she’d already told them that Cory was studying abroad this semester and now was traveling between classes.

A scholarship? Cory only interned at the bank for three months—and that was, gosh, over three years ago. She was almost done with college now. Besides, what did they expect her to do? Fly over there and find her for them? Cory was more than clear that they’d hear nothing from her the whole time she was gone. Maybe now the bank folks would leave her alone.

It was early Sunday evening when Jared finally forced himself to drive to his father’s home. His hand was poised to knock on his father’s door when it opened. Samuel stood on the threshold, smiling widely, Jared’s last harsh words seemingly forgotten. He waved Jared in.

“Good to see you again, son,” Samuel said, gesturing him toward the couch.

By the time Jared crossed the living room and sat down, his father was already in the kitchen. “I’ve got some hot chocolate made,” he called out.

Samuel emerged with a steaming mug, then sat down across from him on the La-Z-Boy with one of his own. Jared sipped at the mixture of cocoa from a powdered mix, buried under foamy whipped cream sprayed from a can. The liquid was nearly scalding, and Jared jerked back, spilling some drops on his lap.

“Sorry, Jedee,” his father said, jumping up to dash back to the kitchen for some paper towels. “I just got the water off the stove.”

The sound of his old nickname, the nickname only his father ever used, grated on Jared. The next few minutes would be impossible if this wasn’t so necessary to see the case through.

Jared set the cup down as his father returned. There was no point in delaying this.

“Dad, it would be a big imposition, I know, but I wondered if I could work out of your house while I handle a case in Mission Falls the next few months.”

The look on his father’s face was unbearable. Jared thought, for a moment, Samuel’s eyes might be tearing. “Why, Jedee . . .”

“I don’t have any choice, Dad,” Jared interrupted. “Costs are really tight in the case.”

His father nodded. “Of course. I understand. Of course.” But a look of excitement remained in his eyes.

“I can pay you something for the space,” Jared began.

“No,” his father interrupted, and for a moment Jared heard the unmistakable tone of command that used to lace his speech. “I mean, I couldn’t.” The tone had disappeared.

Jared wanted to force the issue. He refused to feel guilty with this man, and he would never owe him. But a glance at Samuel’s eyes and he halted. He couldn’t face the bruised look—not tonight.

“Jedee, we could clear out the living room for your office, and you could sleep in the spare room. . . .”

Jared hated the thought of accepting so much, but knew he had no choice. “Thanks, Dad, but the basement will be fine for a work space office.”

“It’s pretty chilly down there to work, and . . .”

“I’m sure the basement will be fine, Dad. Let’s take a look.”

Samuel reluctantly led Jared to the wooden steps leading downstairs from the kitchen. The basement was unfinished with a concrete floor. It was open and empty, except for a washer and dryer in one corner. The room was damp, but plenty large enough for their needs.