The Deposit Slip (18 page)

I
t could have been hard to find Carlos. The Mission Falls VA Hospital was a large facility, serving much of northern Minnesota. Jared was unsure if he could locate the veteran Vic Waye had described based solely on his association with Paul Larson.

But it was not. Jared’s first call as he left the theater the evening before was to Jessie, to leave a message to delay the day’s deposition. He then telephoned Pastor Tufts at home. Jared had barely mentioned a wounded veteran Paul Larson may have worked with at the VA—when the Pastor interrupted him. “Carlos Navarrete,” he said. “That’s who you’re looking for.”

Surprised, Jared said no more—just thanked the pastor and hung up. Now he was driving east on Highway 63 to the hospital, wondering what—if anything—Carlos could reveal.

Carlos Navarrete was sitting in his wheelchair in a pool of sunlight coming through the recreation hall window at the Mission Falls VA Hospital. From across the room, Jared could see he was reading a book in his lap.

“Carlos?” Jared asked as he approached. The man looked up.

He was dressed in jeans, wearing a T-shirt with “101st Airborne” printed in large letters across the chest. His dark hair was medium length with high cheekbones prominent in a youthful but serious face. He could have been a football player, Jared thought, from the depth of his chest and shoulder muscles.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m here to talk to you about Paul Larson.”

At a nod from Carlos, Jared took a seat. For the next fifteen minutes, Jared explained who he was and described the case. Carlos listened without questions until Jared paused.

“What do you want to know, sir?” he asked.

After the weeks of deposing witnesses with harsh glares or blank, skittish stares, Jared marveled at the tenor of openness in his voice.

“How did you know Paul?”

“He volunteered here at the VA. About a year and a few months ago, he came over, right here in this hall, and started talking to me.” He patted the wheel of his chair. “Paul saw my wheelchair and must have asked somebody about me.”

The sun had shifted around to the young man’s eyes, so he adjusted the chair quickly, expertly, turning his back toward the glass. Jared watched as he settled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

“I didn’t want to talk to him. At that point, I didn’t want to talk to anyone.” Carlos grasped his left thigh in both fists; the pant leg deflated at a point above the knee.

“I lost this to an IED my last month on a tour in Kandahar. My other leg got hurt enough that it’s been two years in rehab. Anyway, I woke up in Germany and finally got here. My family lives in Duluth.”

Jared could not resist resting his gaze on the empty pant leg. He glanced up to Carlos’s face, embarrassed.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “I haven’t got my ‘bionic’ on. But it doesn’t bother me. Not now.”

“What was Paul Larson like?” Jared asked, steering the conversation back.

“When Paul found me, I was pretty low. Paul saw it in me.” He pointed toward the door. “I saw him coming across the room. He walked like a wounded bull. Big strides, but that left leg, you could tell he was dragging it along.”

Carlos smiled. “I swear, Paul acted like he didn’t notice my missing leg the first half-dozen times he visited. We talked about everything but that. My dad’s service station. The 101st. His farm. My training. Oh, and his daughter. A lot about his daughter.”

“Did he talk about his own injuries?”

“Eventually. But we got there slow. One day, I realized he was talking about how he nearly lost
his
leg, and the pain and the limits he’d had every day since.”

Jared wanted to get to the money, but was transfixed by these images of Paul Larson in the final months of his life.

“He told me how he’d tried to hide it for so long,” Carlos continued. “How he still did. What a mistake that was, he said. ‘You’ve got no idea what you can do, or what’s really important,’ he’d say—like he was talking to himself.”

Carlos clasped his hands in his lap. “My folks said the same stuff. Told me how proud they were of me. ‘Nothing you can’t do,’ they’d say. But from them, it was just
palabras
. But here’s this guy, he’s been through it. He’s spent the long days wondering, Why me? It’s a waste of time, he said. More than that, actually. Said, ‘
You can’t let it matter
;
you’ve gotta make it irrelevant.
’ ”

“Did that make a difference?”

Carlos patted the arms of his chair. “Yes, sir, it did. Especially because, like I was trying to say, it was like Paul was just realizing it himself. Almost like we were discovering it together.”

A nurse approached. “Carlos, it’s time for your therapy.”

He smiled. “Just a minute, ma’am.” The nurse smiled in return and withdrew.

Time was running out on this conversation. “Carlos, did Paul ever mention anything about problems with his bank? Or maybe just money issues?”

The serious look settled over Carlos’s face once more. “Sir, is any of this going to get Paul in trouble? Because I owed Paul an awful lot.”

“No,” Jared answered straight-faced, without hesitation—and without any idea whether it was true. He would not be denied this information now.

“Well, sir, Paul got me turned around. And there came a time when, well it was like Paul was one of the guys in my unit. We
shared
. So, I can remember there came a day when Paul mentioned there was something he’d dealt with badly. ‘Let my demons do the talking’ was how he put it, and made a bad decision. He told me he’d been thinking things through, though, and talking to his pastor, and he’d made up his mind to set things right. I let him do the talking that day, because he needed that, see. But he left here charged up to do . . . something.”

“Did he say what it was?”

“Yes, sir,” Carlos said reluctantly. “Said it had to do with money. Something about a check he received. He didn’t give any details. I think he might have, eventually. I think he wanted it to play out first. Or maybe he thought he was protecting me. And he said something else, at the end of the talk that day. He pointed to my wheelchair and said, ‘Don’t ever start telling yourself this entitles you to anything.’ ”

“Anyone home?” Jessie heard Mrs. Huddleston’s voice calling through the screen on the open front door. For a late-fall day, it was a balmy Friday morning, and Jessie was enjoying the fresh air.

It was nice to have Jared gone. Not that he’d been around very often since the depositions started. Since he’d blown her off again about Erin, they’d exchanged fewer than ten sentences, mostly about assignments. Still, knowing he would not return until later today suited Jessie just fine.

“Come on in,” she called. Mrs. Huddleston dropped by periodically to leave things for Jared—notes about a witness or canisters of cookies.

Mrs. Huddleston stepped into the entryway. Despite the warmth outside, she was bundled in a sweater and heavy jacket. The librarian’s eyes swept the cluttered room before resting on the pile of typed document summaries Jessie was creating. Even Sam had given up trying to keep the living room neat the past week; it was the crossroads of their struggle, and dishes, cups, and papers were scattered everywhere like fallen shrapnel.

“Jessie, you’re coming with me,” she announced.

“I really can’t, Mrs. Huddleston,” Jessie said, begging off. “Jared’s left me half a dozen more tapes.”

Mrs. Huddleston shook her head. “Do I have to write my first name on my forehead to get a
Carol
around here? I tell you what. I’m a pretty mean typist myself. You come with me for a two hour break, and I’ll set up my laptop and help you finish these tapes when we come back.”

Jessie knew she shouldn’t, knew how anxious Jared was to complete these summaries. They had long since given up hope of using them for the depositions—now almost finished. But trial was still looming in the weeks ahead and the “captain” wanted these records accessible in time.

Still, the thought of an afternoon off sounded good, despite—or maybe because of—Jared’s pressure. Jessie smiled at Mrs. Huddleston. “Where are we going?”

The weekly Ashley Farmers Market was well attended for a Friday in November. Fresh produce was in limited supply, but the wooden stalls at the edge of town were filled with canned jams and jellies, jars of honey, smoked meats, and an assortment of crafts. The market had become a permanent fixture in Ashley since the 1970s, Mrs. Huddleston explained, closing only with the first snowfall and opening within weeks of the final melt.

“I think you’ll see,” Mrs. Huddleston said as she examined the label on a jar of blueberry preserves, “that it’s as much a social gathering as a commercial one. Maybe it’s different in the Twin Cities, but here everyone knows the sellers and could as easily pick up the phone to buy something if they wished.”

They moved among the stalls at a leisurely pace. Jessie purchased a handmade leather bag and a jar of local honey. Mrs. Huddleston browsed, greeting most of the vendors like the neighbors they were.

“I’ve been curious to ask you, Jessie,” Mrs. Huddleston said as they moved among the stalls, “about those attorneys Jared’s up against. Stanford and someone?”

“Whittier.”

“Yes. Are they as difficult as they seem?”

Jessie thought for a moment. “Yes. Paisley was a pretty tough group, but Stanford stood out even in that crowd. Frank—Franklin Whittier—he always struck me as one of Marcus’s minions. I don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“No redeeming qualities?”

“No. I mean, I didn’t know them personally. There was a rumor,” she added, “that Marcus had another side. Some hidden history of doing serious pro bono work. But I never saw it around the office.”

Mrs. Huddleston stopped to admire a stall of paintings. The scenes depicted were as local as the artist: farm vistas and flowing creeks.

“So what do you think of the Neaton family?”

Jessie resisted the call to this subject. “I think Sam’s a very good man.”

“Isn’t he now?” the librarian said, nodding. “You should have known him in his younger days though. Driven as a Thoroughbred. You wouldn’t want to be in his way when the starting bell rang.”