The Deposit Slip

12





Marcus, 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.

“Now, that is an unusual request. I expect I should be flattered. Would you care to share with me your reasons?”

“I want to try cases,” Jared said. “You have the biggest case load and discretion on how to assign them. You could get me into the courtroom more quickly than anyone else in the firm.”

He watched Clay slide the cigar into his mouth and chew for a moment.

“Mr. Neaton, as you know, the trial department of the Paisley firm has over fifty attorneys, nineteen of whom are senior partners.” Clay leaned across the desk toward Jared, and his stare and drawl intensified. “You surely are not saying that all of these other partners are beneath your regard.”

Jared’s heart was pounding now. “No. But from what I can tell, even the most senior Paisley associates have only tried a handful of cases. I want to be a trial attorney, not a litigator.”

There was an unspoken understanding among attorneys that there were litigators and there were trial attorneys. Litigators were often expert at preparing a case—depositions, document requests, motions, and all the other procedures setting the stage for a settlement. Some lawyers spent their careers in this world. Then there were trial attorneys—those lawyers with the skills and the temperament to regularly take the courtroom stage before a judge and jury and try cases. Jared had once heard a judge describe the gulf between litigators and trial attorneys as akin to that between accountants and riverboat gamblers.

Jared wanted to be a trial attorney—an advocate with the skill to convince a panel of jurors to answer yes to his client’s claim. But he had another motivation for today’s request: an abhorrence of working with most of the Paisley partners, lawyers who consumed and discarded associates like chewing gum.

When he had arrived at Paisley from law school six months earlier, Jared had quickly learned the ravaging culture of the firm: voracious partners abusing fresh young lawyers through eighty-hour weeks, over eight years or more. Even if they survived that gauntlet, they rarely made partner unless they cultivated significant clients of their own in their “spare time”—or attached themselves as sycophants to their abusers.

Jared considered leaving the firm. His Georgetown law school grades were strong and would have landed him other jobs. But for all its faults, Paisley paid better than every other firm in the Twin Cities—and its name carried a lot of weight. That meant interesting, high-value cases.

He had decided that his only option at Paisley was to work with Clay. He was not only a truly skilled trial lawyer, he also showed respect for associates and shared client responsibility. If Jared could work with Clay alone, maybe he could survive to partnership without sacrificing the experience, reputation, and paycheck Paisley had to offer.

Clay’s eyes had sharpened, pinning Jared like a specimen—unwavering for several minutes until Jared felt a cold trickle of sweat down his side.

“Mr. Neaton,” Clay said at last, “is there a particular partner you are trying to avoid?”

Jared felt the life go out of his limbs. He didn’t even consider avoiding the question. Of several possible responses, one immediately rose to mind.

“Marcus Stanford,” Jared answered.

Clay did not appear surprised. “And the first explanation—about wanting to work with me. Any truth in that?”

“Yes. All of it.”

“You want to try cases too, that’s true?”

Jared nodded.

Clay leaned back in his chair, his profile to Jared. After a torturous minute, he began speaking to the ceiling.

“Well, young Mr. Neaton, you appear to be able to write well, and you express yourself with a modicum of intelligence. Those are good traits, though many attorneys have them.”

Clay twisted his neck to look over at Jared. “But you also have a gutsy streak bordering on foolhardiness. You seem to have a knack for strategy. And, apparently, some insight into character. Now, those are the rare traits of a good trial attorney.”

Clay picked up his dictating machine from the desk and pushed the Record button. “Meg, please prepare a memorandum,” he began. “ ‘To all partners. I am currently overwhelmed and need significant case support. I have asked Jared Neaton to begin working with me effective immediately as my principal litigation associate. I appreciate your support in transferring any assignments Mr. Neaton may currently be working on to other associates.’ ”

He pulled the tape from the recorder and dropped it into his out-box.

“All right. We’ll give this a try. Anything else?”

Jared could muster only a shake of his head.

“Good.” Clay set his cigar down in an ashtray and picked up three thick file folders from his back credenza, handing them across the desk to Jared. “Then I will see you tomorrow morning at eight o’clock in my office. Be prepared to discuss these cases at that time.”

As Jared grasped the files, Clay held on a moment longer, leaning closer across the desk and pinning Jared with his stare once more.

“And let us both hope that Marcus Stanford never hears of our arrangement.”





Erin’s mouth had opened to ask another question when Jared’s phone rang. It was Jessie.

“Jared? I’ve been sweating it out. What happened? You said you’d call right away.”

“Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?”

Jared excused himself from the table and left the café again.

“The judge dismissed the sanction motion,” he said, once outside.

“Great. So why the glum voice?”

Jared took a deep breath, but before he could say a word, she said, “You said we’d talk before you took the case.”

“I know. I couldn’t pass it up, Jessie.”

“You’re just digging out.”

“Jessie, I’m in the case,” Jared said with finality.

A sigh passed through the phone. “All right. What next?”

At these words Jared felt relief for the first time since leaving the courtroom. The clutter and panic in his mind retreated: Jessie’s on board.

Jared laid out his plan for launching the case, including setting up a “war room” in Ashley. He also told Jessie he’d get her the Goering documents for Richard Towers to review. “Tell him there’s less rush now that we took the case. See if he can get back to us by this weekend.”

“Are you going to take Clay’s money?”

“Yeah.” Jared could not tell from Jessie’s momentary silence whether she approved or disapproved.

“What about your other clients?”

“I’ll come back down to Minneapolis, and let’s try to put out the biggest fires over the next couple of days. Being in town I can also finalize arrangements with Clay. Then I can come back up and find some space for the war room.”

“I’ll come up and help you get set up,” Jessie said immediately.

Jared hesitated, then relented. “Okay.”

They hung up and Jared realized how exhausted he was. He turned and looked through the restaurant window to where his client sat waiting, watching. The day was over. The real fight would start tomorrow.





Jessie slumped into her chair, struggling with a growing sense of dread. What was Jared thinking? She looked at the stack of office bills she had just organized and prioritized on her desk. Next to it was a pile of tasks for clients, most of which were days or weeks behind.

This decision to take the deposit slip case, it didn’t feel right. Not now, while Jared was swimming with exhaustion and debt. She realized, though, that the dread was not entirely—even mostly—about the practice. As impulsive as Jared could be, this decision had a flavor of something more troubling.

It was time she got up to Ashley and met this new client Jared was willing to bet the ranch on.