The Deposit Slip (7 page)

Jessie said okay.

Immediately, his anxiety eased. The decision felt terrific. He needed this. Tomorrow, he’d drive to Mission Falls and Federal Express the bankers boxes to the investigator, who’d have them to review early Tuesday. That would still leave enough time for Towers to give him his impressions by Tuesday or Wednesday—so that Jared could make a decision.

This felt right. He’d turn around at the next exit. One more day away from the office. One more day of a change.

“Neaton’s gone. I followed him till he got on the freeway. He’ll be back in Minneapolis in another hour.”

It was late Sunday afternoon. The Paisley attorneys were seated again in Stanford’s office, the speakerphone between them, with Mick Elgart on the other end.

“Good,” Marcus responded to the phone. “Franklin’s making progress on the motion for sanctions against Neaton. We’ll have it done in time for the hearing tomorrow.”

“I have some other information,” the investigator continued. “About Neaton. The ex-con, his old man, still lives in Ashley.”

It was probably irrelevant: Jared Neaton likely wouldn’t be a factor after tomorrow, Marcus thought. “Don’t do any more on that front until we see how the hearing goes.”

“Think it’d be a problem if I attended the hearing?” Elgart asked.

Marcus pondered for a moment. Neaton wouldn’t be in attendance: there was no way he would have enough time to get to Mission Falls from Minneapolis once he got notice of the emergency motion. It couldn’t hurt to have Mick in the courtroom. He said the same aloud.

After Elgart hung up, Marcus pushed the motion papers he had been reviewing back across the desk to Franklin. “Good job. Serve Neaton’s office in the morning—say nine o’clock. Twenty-four hours, this will be over.”

B
ack away, now!” Walls thundered; a door crashed. The piercing, terrified voice of his mother cried, “Samuel!”

“Get away from him, ma’am, now!” Ragged sobbing and more shouts.

Jared jumped up from his desk, spilling books and a glass of water onto the floor. He threw the bedroom door open, slamming the knob against plaster, and hurtled into the hall.

His dad lay spread-eagle on the floor by the front door. A man crouched over him, a knee on his spine, wrenching his dad’s arm across the small of his back. Another man stood behind him, waving a badge in the direction of his mother, who was wailing in the kitchen door.

Samuel’s face, small and pale, was pressed against the tile floor. His eyes locked on Jared. With spittle running to the floor, his father cried in a strangled voice, “For God’s sake, Merilee, get him out of here!”

Through the turmoil, a tune, a lyric. He knew it, but the words escaped him, leaving an empty buzz.

Jared’s eyes opened onto the face of his alarm clock. Ten thirteen. So late. And the buzz, he realized, was his cell phone, vibrating on the table beside his bed.

The images faded now.

He hadn’t had that dream for years.

The phone. Jared fumbled to grasp it and pushed the button to take the call.

“Jared?”

“What’s up, Jessie?”

“Did I wake you?”

“It’s okay. What is it?”

“They’ve brought a motion. It’s against you, for sanctions.”

The sudden rush of adrenaline made his temples pound. “Slow down. What motion? Who brought it? What case?”

He heard Jessie take a breath. Her tone: it wasn’t panic. It was anger.

“ ‘Erin Larson, as personal representative for the estate of Paul Larson v. Ashley State Bank,’ ” Jessie read. “It’s a motion for sanctions, against you, personally. It’s signed by Stanford and Whittier at Paisley.”

“I don’t get it. I’m not even in the case yet. What’s the basis for it?”

“It’s for interviewing a bank employee without a subpoena.”

“I haven’t done that.”

“Well, they’ve got a photograph.”

A photo? “What’s it show.”

“It looks like you, standing in front of a red building. The motion claims you were talking to a bank employee, Willis Severson.”

The motel room faded in a flush of fury.

“I’ve got some more bad news,” he heard Jessie continue. “It’s scheduled as an emergency motion, set for two thirty this afternoon, in front of Judge Lindquist in the Mission Falls Courthouse.”

“Today?”

“Yep. Today. This afternoon.”

Jared tried to clear his head.

“Was Severson a bank employee?” Jessie asked. “Did you talk to him?”

“Severson was a high school classmate of mine, and we talked for five minutes about his wife and kids. He never mentioned working for the bank.”

“Well, it doesn’t look good. Especially talking to this guy at the bank.”

How did they know he would be at the bank?
He
didn’t even know he was going to be there until he got to town. Did someone in the bank spot him? Even if they did, how would they know he was considering taking the case? And who took the picture?

Jared shook his head. Slow down. Think. Even sharks like Whittier and Stanford wouldn’t do something like this unless there was some payback for the effort. Because he realized, as his heart rate began to slow, it’s not likely the judge would grant the motion and sanction him as long as he responded and explained. Especially if he could show that he wasn’t even in the case—might not even
take
the case. Maybe the judge would hand out a warning, but not a sanction.

But the Paisley boys knew that too. So what could a move like this accomplish against someone not even in the case yet?

His head cleared, and it suddenly seemed obvious. They were telling him to stay out.

That thought set his pulse rising again. Well, he was going to respond, so it was fortunate he was up here, in Ashley, instead of down in his office. It would have been tough to get back up here from Minneapolis to appear for the motion.

Jared was sitting at the side of his bed now, fully awake. The sun glinted around the rims of the closed shades of his motel room window.

They served the sanction motion at his office in Minneapolis at ten in the morning, four hours before a motion that was to be heard two hundred miles away. Jared shook his head as something else became clear. Stanford and Whittier didn’t expect him to be able to respond to the motion. They didn’t expect him to still be anywhere near Mission Falls. They thought he’d gone home. But this time their info was wrong.

“Jessie, I want you to scan the motion and send it to my email address.”

“All right. What can I do to help?”

“I’m heading over to the library to use their computers. I’ll have a response roughed out in two hours. I’ll want you to clean it up, serve it on Paisley, and get a copy up to me by fax so I can file it with the court.”

This day wasn’t going to be what he had planned. But he’d make sure it wasn’t what the Paisley boys expected either.

A few hours later, just before two thirty, the ceiling-high wooden doors swung open into the cavern of the century-old Mission Falls courtroom, and Jared stepped through, Erin just behind.

As he entered the dark paneled room, the court seemed frozen in his sight, as though Jared’s arrival had paralyzed everything and everyone in it. Breathe, Jared thought, unsure if he was commanding himself or everyone else.

The judge sat tall on a dais, raised unnaturally high over the surrounding chamber, like a forecastle towering over the deck of a ship. He was ramrod straight, with perfectly parted black hair and his face set in a tight glower; a warning beacon to anyone who disturbed the order of his world. His court reporter, a woman half his age, had her back turned halfway to the door. She stared over one shoulder toward Jared, her fingers poised for the next word to fall. An even younger law clerk in the corner simply seemed startled, looking as though she might flee.

None of them interested Jared though. He focused on the relaxed shape of Marcus Stanford seated at counsel table and the tall, angular form of Franklin Whittier III, standing at the podium. Their eyes, too, were locked on him. Whittier’s were a mix of anger and surprise. Stanford’s were simply cold and distant. They were who he was here for.

As he strode toward the lawyers’ tables, Jared noticed Whittier’s focus slide reflexively toward the gallery. He followed the path of his eyes.

Seated in the back row of the gallery was a man Jared recognized—it was Sidney Grant, the president of Ashley State Bank. Jared had last seen him as a boy. Like Mrs. Huddleston, Grant’s features had matured, settling into late middle age.

Beside him sat a younger man, muscular and sporting a shaved head. For a comical moment, Jared had the impression this man was trying to hide, as he raised a folder and slid down in his seat.

No one spoke as Jared and Erin took their chairs at the open counsel table. Only when they had settled themselves did the judge break the stillness.

“Who are you?” the judge bellowed, reasserting his control of the still courtroom.

“Jared Neaton, Your Honor,” he said, standing once more. “And this is my . . .” He caught himself before saying
client
. “This is Erin Larson,” he finished. “We are here in response to this motion. I apologize if I’m late, but I understood the motion was scheduled for two thirty this afternoon.” He looked pointedly toward the clock on the far wall. It showed two twenty-five.

Judge Lindquist’s face broke from the glower and his eyes narrowed onto Whittier at the courtroom podium.

“Counsel, I thought you said Mr. Neaton would not be attending this hearing and that we could get started.”

Whittier did not speak for a moment, standing like a statue. Behind him, Stanford rose from counsel table.

“Well, Your Honor, that was what we were informed by our office,” Stanford said, his voice unflappable. “I apologize to the court, and of course to Mr. Neaton, for the misunderstanding. I believe my secretary spoke with someone from Mr. Neaton’s office.”

It was a lie, of course, but Jared knew it was impossible to challenge. Stanford really was as good as Jared remembered. With his short brown hair, angular face, perfectly pressed suit, and brightly shined shoes, his presence made Franklin Whittier’s pale. He did not round his
o
’s or overplay his emotional pitch. But he knew that Stanford always came completely prepared, always projected sincerity, and seldom gave away the last word. He was also relentless.

The judge looked uncertain how to proceed. That was good, Jared thought as he stood up.

“Your Honor, I cannot imagine how Mr. Stanford could have gotten the impression I was not intending to appear today. This is a motion accusing me of unethical practices. I’ve traveled a considerable distance, on less than four hours notice, to refute these charges. And I’ve prepared papers which make clear that this motion for sanctions is completely baseless. May I approach?”

“You may.”

Jared stepped up to the judge in his perch and handed him a set of the papers he had prepared at the library over the past several hours using the computer in Mrs. Huddleston’s office.

“Then you deny the defendant’s accusations today?” the judge called as he paged through Jared’s papers.

Jared did not return to his seat; since the court had addressed a question to him, he stopped at the podium.

“Excuse me, Counsel,” he said, gently but firmly supplanting Whittier’s place there. Whittier, still befuddled, slid aside. Once established at the podium, Jared looked up at the judge to respond.

“I certainly do, Your Honor.”

Out of the edge of his vision, Jared saw Whittier’s uncertain expression flee, replaced by a cold glare at the realization that Jared had just taken over the argument. That’s right, Whittier. Sit down.

“Your Honor,” Jared continued, “as I’ve set out in our papers, my contact with Mr. Severson was innocent. I neither knew that Mr. Severson was a bank employee, nor did he volunteer that information. It was not a topic of conversation in any way. In fact, Mr. Severson initiated our conversation, as I’m sure the cameraman could testify if the full record had been provided to this court.”

“Judge, it doesn’t matter whether Mr. Neaton started the conversation or not,” Whittier burst out. “Under the rules, he should not interview a potential witness.”

Good. They effectively acknowledged what Jared could not prove today with anything other than his own testimony—that Severson started the conversation.

The judge was still reading through Jared’s papers. Jared waited until he looked up once more.

“What do you say to that, Mr. Neaton?”

“I agree. I cannot elicit information from a current employee whose testimony might establish the bank’s liability. I did not do so. As I said, I was unaware Mr. Severson even worked at the bank. In fact, I was still unaware until my office was served with these motion papers only this morning.” Jared placed a strong emphasis on the words
this morning
to highlight again the unfairness of the short notice.

“Your Honor, we would certainly like to accept Mr. Neaton’s representations at face value.” It was Stanford. He had stood and smoothly rounded the counsel table, motioning Whittier to sit. He approached the podium, expecting Jared to move. Jared smiled back at Stanford congenially, but stayed his ground.

Stopping short of the podium, Stanford looked up to the judge once more, displaying a matching smile on his face.

“But, Your Honor, what are we to believe here?” He placed a hand on the edge of the podium, as though still claiming it as his territory. “Mr. Neaton does not have a law office in Ashley, nor anywhere else in this county. His law office is in Minneapolis. Did Mr. Neaton just happen to wander into the bank and run into a bank employee on a Friday afternoon?”

Stanford’s smooth delivery galled Jared—so elegant compared to his partner. Worse yet, the judge seemed taken by Stanford’s question. Jared wished Whittier would open his mouth again.