The Deposit Slip (8 page)

“Mr. Stanford has a point, Mr. Neaton. What were you doing at the bank if you were not there to meet Mr. Severson?”

What to say now? Stanford had successfully turned the judge’s focus back onto Jared’s conduct and away from the embarrassing fact that the Paisley boys had tried to ramrod a sanctions motion through without even giving Jared the chance to appear or respond. And now the court had addressed a question to Jared that he had no choice but to answer.

“As Mr. Stanford has stated in his moving papers, Your Honor, I was in town investigating whether to accept the representation of Erin Larson in her case against Ashley State Bank.”

“Judge”—Stanford jumped in smoothly, addressing his statement to the court and not to Jared beside him—“I do not understand what Mr. Neaton hoped to learn in the lobby of the Ashley State Bank if he was not there to speak with potential witnesses.”

The judge’s glower was descending over his features again. Sometimes, Jared thought, the truth is all you have—even in a court of law. Before the judge could echo Stanford’s question back to him, Jared began to speak.

“May it please the court, I was in the Ashley State Bank for no other reason than to start my investigation. Not to find witnesses, just to get my grounding. I used to bank there myself as a boy. It just seemed . . . the right way to start.”

Jared could see that his reference to growing up in Ashley had taken Judge Lindquist by surprise. His mien softened. “You grew up in Ashley?”

“Yes, sir, I did. I graduated from Ashley High School.”

His explanation made an impact. The judge leaned forward and asked a few more questions about when Jared had lived in Ashley; learned he had played football and baseball. Still standing next to him at the podium, Jared could feel his opponent stiffening and see the whitening of his fisted knuckles. It was a good change of subject.

At last, the judge settled back in his chair.

“Well now,” he began, “it seems to me that this issue of talking to a current employee without a subpoena was a misunderstanding. One which I am sure Mr. Neaton will not repeat. I don’t believe sanctions are appropriate at this time.”

By now, Stanford’s shoulder was almost rubbing against Jared’s. Before the gavel could fall, he spoke up again.

“Your Honor, this entire . . . misunderstanding derived from Mr. Neaton’s unclear status in this matter.”

“Mr. Stanford?” the judge asked uncertainly.

“The question is,” the Paisley attorney continued, “what
is
Mr. Neaton’s status in this case. Does he represent Ms. Larson or doesn’t he?”

The judge shook his head in agreement. “Mr. Stanford has a point. Mr. Neaton, are you in or are you out?”

“Sir?”

“The case, Mr. Neaton. Are you representing Paul Larson’s estate in this matter or aren’t you?”

Jared felt the walls closing in. “Your Honor, it was my understanding that Ms. Larson had until Wednesday to find new counsel.”

The judge shook his head. “That’s true. But under the circumstances, and in view of the present motion, I would like an answer now.” Though couched as a request, Jared saw that no local goodwill would protect him now: the judge’s face made it unmistakable that this was a command.

Stanford spoke up. “In fairness to Mr. Neaton, Your Honor, if he is going to make a decision today, I must remind him that the Ashley State Bank has already brought a Rule 11 sanction motion against Ms. Larson’s former attorney, Mort Goering, because this lawsuit is frivolous. Although we struck that motion when Mr. Goering withdrew from the case, Mr. Neaton should be reminded that we
will
renew
the motion against him personally if he now accepts the case.”

The room compressed further around Jared. He had been so focused on denying Stanford and Whittier the satisfaction of railroading him that he hadn’t thought through this possibility—that he would have to announce a decision about the case today, in open court. More to the point, he didn’t know what his decision would be.

Jared glanced at Erin. She looked adrift, lost in the machinations going on around her. Coming here this afternoon, focused on the coming fight, Jared had been oblivious to Erin’s vulnerability. She’d scarcely spoken the entire drive. He realized now that this same question must have been uppermost on her mind: Was Jared racing to fight the motion as a matter of personal pride and survival? Or was he making a commitment to Erin and the case?

His neck and head began to ache as his pulse rose. Hints and teasers—those were all Jared had learned about the case this past weekend. Except for the size of the claim, nothing in the last three days gave Jared any good reason to accept it.

It was ten million dollars. All the financial problems could be behind him—present and future. Wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that what he’d been working toward all these years, ever since he’d watched his father groveling on the carpet, writhing with handcuffs on his wrists—all because he’d taken money he couldn’t imagine getting any other way?

Jared looked toward his two opponents. They were seasoned attorneys who had already made it clear this was going to be a brawl. Stanford, standing at his shoulder, looked indifferently away from Jared toward the bench. Whittier sat at counsel table, staring back at Jared with undisguised contempt. Despite their different postures, he knew each was supremely confident Jared would reject the case. It was as clear as a naked bulb in an empty room.

Jared thought again of that slim ticket-sized sheet of paper recording the deposit. Still he wavered.

“Counsel?” the judge thundered, donning again his bench demeanor.

An image arose in Jared’s mind of the crushed glass; he saw again the thread of fear in Erin’s eyes as she strained to trace Ashley’s Main Street through the windshield’s fractured lines.

“Your Honor,” he heard himself say, “I will be representing Erin Larson as personal representative for the estate of Paul Larson in her claims against Ashley State Bank.”

Jared heard the crack of the judge’s falling gavel.

“Very well, Mr. Neaton. The present motion for sanctions is denied. You have three months until trial.”

M
arcus, what just happened? Did that Neaton lawyer really just take the Larson case?”

Marcus looked across the table at Sidney Grant, the Ashley State Bank president. Grant, slender and balding, wore a custom-tailored dark blue suit and crimson tie. They were alone, sitting over cups of coffee in the corner booth at the Justice Café. The Mission Falls Courthouse across the street was visible over Grant’s shoulder through half-closed blinds.

“Yes, Neaton took the case.”

The table bounced as Grant slammed down both fists, the sudden ferocity of the blows throwing Marcus back in his seat.

“
How did you lose control in there?
We were
two days
away from the case being dismissed.
Two days
.”

Marcus’s eyes shot around the room. It was empty and the waitress was nowhere in sight. He shook off the shock and willed his face back to passivity. How
did
they lose control? By acting without understanding Neaton. Or worse, by misunderstanding Neaton. They hadn’t known what motivated him, what inspired him. Or what he feared. Marcus had seen the instant, just before Neaton accepted the case, when something triggered defiance in him and pushed him into taking the plunge. What was he thinking at that moment?

Goering had been easy, especially with a contact inside his office. Neaton was a former Paisley colleague, and yet they’d been completely in the dark about him.

“Calm down, Sidney.”

“
Two days, Marcus
.” Grant was twisting in his chair now, his bulging fists thrust into his pockets.

“It will be fine.”

“We were so close. Now we’re going to have more depositions, more investigation.”

“
Settle down and listen
.”

The older man’s eyes flashed in a final spout of anger and then faded as he looked into Marcus’s face. He pulled his hands from his pockets and moved grudgingly to comply.

“Neaton’s holding no better cards than Goering did,” Marcus said as Sidney sank back in his chair. “The law is still against him, and he’s got no evidence to support his claims.”

“What if he starts deposing employees again, like Goering did?”

“He almost certainly will. But it doesn’t matter. There are no witnesses in Ashley with evidence to support the case.”

The banker shook his head firmly. “You’re spinning this now. How about witnesses outside of Ashley.”

“If Neaton broadens his search, we’ll stay ahead of him. We’ll deal with that risk if it arises. But it won’t arise.”

The banker’s eyes looked unconvinced. “And our man in Washington? Is he still tied down?”

“Yes, but Mick is heading there again next week to make sure.”

The banker exhaled a lungful of air, exhausted by his own outburst. “Is Whittier still just
working
the case?” he sputtered. “He’s not in the loop, is he? This is spread thin enough as it is.”

Marcus shook his head affirmatively. “As we agreed.”

Grant shook his head hard once again, like he was shedding something offensive. “You’re selling me, Marcus. Just like you sell a jury. Don’t sell me.” He swept a hand toward the courthouse. “We
cannot
go to trial on this case. The risk is too high.”

“We won’t go to trial.”

Grant looked away dismissively. “I want to believe you, Marcus.” His gaze returned and his eyes were questioning. “We caught a break with Paul Larson’s accident, you know.”

Looking in Sidney Grant’s soft face and fearful eyes, Marcus had to strain to mask the disdain that welled up in his chest. “Yes,” he answered.

Grant was breathing easier now; it was safe to leave, and Marcus wanted to get away. As the banker reached for his coffee, Marcus dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table and reached across to pat the banker’s shoulder. “I’ve got things to do. Don’t panic, Sidney. We have this under control. I’ll call you.”

Marcus emerged from the café onto the quiet sidewalk. He turned to his left, away from the window, then walked around the corner and stopped.

Leaning against the cold brick, Marcus exhaled; felt a slight tremble shake him. It was the adrenaline, he knew, and he stood quietly for a moment to let it pass.

He hated having to mollify that small-town banker, a grasping little man who thought he was the boss here. The shakiness faded away and Marcus straightened, walking away from the courthouse. After a few strides, he pulled out his phone and pressed the speed dial for Mick’s number.

“I want you to follow up on that loose end we discussed,” Marcus began when the investigator answered.

“Okay.”

“This is critical, Mick. Get it done. I want to know there’s no way Neaton can get anywhere down that road. Do you understand?”

“I already sent a letter. I’ll stay on it.”

“Good. I also want you to get a lot more information on Neaton. I want to know what gets him out of bed in the morning—his strengths, and more importantly, his weaknesses. I want to know how he approaches cases. And I want to know more about his father’s criminal problems—everything.”

“You know, I may be busted,” Mick said, his voice strained. “I think Neaton got a good look at me when he came into the courtroom.”

Marcus fumed at this reminder of his mistake. “We’ll see. Try to stay out of Neaton’s path while you’re getting this background.”

As Mick hung up, Marcus looked at his watch. It was nearly four in the afternoon. He glanced up and realized he had wandered into Mission Falls’s downtown.

An elderly man moved past with halting steps, nodding at Marcus with a slight smile. Marcus looked away, up the street toward stores and a nearby café entrance. A few shoppers were on the sidewalk. Half a block away, a mother with a stroller stopped to speak with someone outside of a drugstore. A car pulled into a vacant parking spot in front of a hardware store.

There was no great sense of urgency anywhere in sight, Marcus thought. No one seemed rushed; there was no energy or drive. The scene presented an unnatural calm.

These people are floaters, he thought. With the exception of the grasping bank president sitting in the coffee shop a few blocks away, desperately clinging to an opportunity thrust into his face three years ago, Marcus had not met a soul up here with the clarity of purpose to seize control of their lives.

A whole community of passive floaters. Marcus found the image unsettling. In this universe you were either in control or you were controlled. It wasn’t a moral issue—it was a fact of nature. Marcus had made his election long ago. He couldn’t understand why anyone would choose differently. It was
all
about control.

Marcus heard again the banker’s words:
“We caught a break with Paul Larson.”
He shook his head, then turned to retrace his steps back to his BMW parked beside the courthouse.

Jared looked through the front window of the Fishermen’s Café at Erin, who was glancing over a menu. He looked down to his left hand at his side, clenching and unclenching. He forced himself to stop.

On the courthouse steps, Erin had thanked him with a hug that he’d barely noticed or returned. All he wanted now was the reassurance that he’d made the right decision.

As soon as they’d arrived at the restaurant, Jared had asked Erin to get a seat while he made a phone call. Now he was waiting on hold, listening to the flat twang of a country western tune, while the law firm receptionist searched for Clay Strong.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Neaton,” she said, finally coming back on the line, “but Mr. Strong is unavailable at this time. Do you have a number where you can be reached?”

Jared gave his cell number and hung up, wiping sweat from his hands onto his pant legs.

All the work and arrangements Jared had envisioned if he took Erin’s case now roared through his mind like a flash flood, each task seeming more urgent than the last. He had only a few months to prepare for trial shortly before Christmas, but Jared knew that was nothing. Preparing a case like this could easily take a year. It wasn’t just the effort this case required; it was all the other clients he couldn’t afford to lose again, who had to be serviced while battling the Paisley firm.

But even that was secondary to getting his financing lined up. That was why his first call had been to Clay, to accept the funding offer. And now Clay wasn’t available.

Jared pushed through the door into the café. Several seconds after sitting down, he realized Erin was speaking.

“What did you say?” Jared asked.

“I said, thank you again for taking the case.”

He forced a smile. “Sure.”

Jared tried to clear his head. He knew he had to mask his tension in front of Erin. Lawsuits were a tidal wave of stress for clients. With all this case implied, the pressure on her would be especially high.

The waitress appeared and took their orders. As she withdrew, Erin broke the silence.

“You used to work with those guys?”

“Stanford and Whittier?” He nodded yes.

“Mort could hardly mention their names without spitting.”

Jared smiled, relaxing a little.

“What are they like?”

Jared thought for a moment. Arrogance was too simple. He tried to remember the phrase he’d overheard one day as a Paisley associate—“
restrained superiority
,” that was it. The description fit Stanford at least. Unmistakable superiority restrained just enough to veil outright conceit.

Jared explained this to Erin. She asked him the same question about Franklin Whittier.

That was easier. “Whittier’s got the superiority down, but none of the restraint. Marcus is the dancer; Whittier’s the bull. Adequate in the courtroom, but unpolished.”

“So you worked for Marcus at your old firm?”

“Yes. But not for long.”

“How did you manage that?”

“I made . . . arrangements,” he answered as the waitress brought them their drinks, and it looked like Erin was going to make him tell her.

One early evening, six years past, Jared sat nervously in front of Clay Strong’s desk. Clay rocked slowly, humming an unrecognizable tune. An unlit cigar was cradled between the fingers of his left hand. He grasped a brief in his other hand, which he scrutinized through half moon reading glasses. Several minutes passed in agony until, at last, Clay set the memorandum gently on the surface of his desk.

“
Well
, young Mr. Neaton,” he drawled emphatically, “that was an
excellent
piece of work for a new associate.” He rolled out the word
excellent
as though he were pronouncing a sacred truth.

Clay had removed his glasses and looked at Jared with discomforting intensity. “So please tell me
why
you asked me to review a memorandum which I did not request, for one of my cases to which you are not even assigned.”

Jared forced a swallow through the dry cavern of his mouth. “I want to work for you.”

“Well, you didn’t have to draft an unsolicited memorandum to make that happen.”

“No, Mr. Strong. I mean I’d like to work exclusively with you.”

Clay’s thick eyebrows rose slowly over deep-set green eyes, like a heavy curtain ascending from a stage.