The Deposit Slip

11





Back 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.

“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.”