The Deposit Slip

27





Seated in the windowed office, Richard watched, expressionless, as the pale man’s long fingers paraded across a keyboard with the familiarity of a concert pianist.

“Here we are. Paul Eric Larson. Served in the Marine Corps from 1971 to 1974. Wounded in 1973 during his second deployment. Disabled. Received a disability pension which continued until his death.”

The man tapped another key. “I’m making a copy for you of his benefit payment history.”

Richard watched Anthony Carlson, Department of Veterans Affairs, senior benefits manager, as he busied himself at the computer. A beaded chain draped Mr. Carlson’s shoulders, attached to an ID card nestled in the breast pocket of his crisply starched white shirt. His desk was clear and orderly. Each stroke of the keys was precise. The back credenza held stacks of precisely piled federal information sheets, a printer, a phone charger, and a cell phone lying beside it.

Anthony Carlson had been polite, efficient and cooperative from the moment Richard was ushered into his office late this morning. So what was wrong?

“Mr. Towers,” Manager Carlson began, setting the printed sheet from his credenza printer on the desk between them. “As you can see, Mr. Larson’s disability benefit payments have continued unabated since the 1970s. Those benefits have been indexed to inflation. It appears that they have been sent to the same P.O. box in Mission Falls, Minnesota, on a monthly basis since the mid-1970s.”

The fingers were manicured, Richard noted. Long, thin, smooth hands with carefully monitored cuticles. Hands that were often lathered in lotion, he surmised.

When he was forced to make a career change a dozen years ago, Richard decided to become an investigator. He did so because he knew he had an instinct that presaged his conscious thoughts. For as long as he could remember, Richard experienced moments of certainty that he was witnessing incongruities—events that, taken as a whole, made no sense. He would grapple with the sensation, triggered while observing classmates or activity in a room or street or people passing in the hall—unable to fathom the cause. Often he cursed its arrival, like the sudden inexplicable onset of an unreachable itch.

Usually, the solution would come crashing into his awareness minutes or hours later on a wave of relief. Painfully, sometimes the solution never came. But whether or not he solved the puzzle, he had long since stopped doubting it.

So what was wrong with Anthony Carlson?

The manager turned at his desk and reached for a pamphlet on a neat pile at the corner of the credenza. “This,” he said, setting it parallel to the printed sheet on the desktop, “explains survivor rights for relatives of disabled veterans, with citations to the appropriate regulations.”

Richard glanced through the glass wall of the senior manager’s office into the cubicle-filled space that occupied the center of the floor. Employees were moving about with a restrained pace. Each desk had a client chair next to it. A few were filled with people with white “VISITOR” cards clipped to their shirts or blouses.

“And you are certain from these records that Mr. Larson never received an overpayment on any of his disability checks?” Richard asked quietly.

“Quite certain,” Mr. Carlson responded with a smile. “These accounts are audited with some regularity by this office, and any overpayment would have been picked up within six to eighteen months.”

A streak of dark rimming the top of his sleeves. Senior benefits manager.

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Towers?”

Richard roused himself. “I don’t believe so.”

An emerald glow hovering over the cell phone.

Richard stood, extending a hand. “Thank you for seeing me so promptly.”

Outside, Richard crossed the busy street to a park. He seated himself on the pedestal of a pigeon-stained monument and pressed the numbers on his phone.

“Jared, please call me when you get this message. I met with the disability benefits manager. He assured me that there was no overpayment to Paul Larson. I believe he was lying.”

It would take a few minutes to explain his belief to the client, Richard knew. Perhaps he would be unimpressed. But to Richard, when the pieces of an incongruity assembled themselves, the picture was always crystal clear.

When he’d arrived that morning and filled out the information request form, Richard was told at the reception desk that he would be seen by the next free manager. Ten minutes later, he was met by a senior manager. Why would a senior manager handle his inquiry in a room full of available junior employees—unless this case file was flagged for his attention alone?

Perhaps Mr. Carlson just felt like some citizen contact.

But then why was this immaculate man, coiffed with obsessive care and sitting in his air-conditioned office, sweating through his shirt as he handled a routine question?

Maybe he was having a rough day.

Richard looked down at his own cell phone still in his hand. A newer model, it was identical to Mr. Carlson’s sitting on the rear credenza in his office; the phone that rested separate from its charger, in a room where everything was in its place. Richard pressed the surface of the phone to retrieve the call setting, dialed a random number, and set it to “speaker.” He watched as the screen lit with a greenish glow.

Mr. Carlson’s phone was engaged and on speaker the entire time Richard was in the room. The Veterans Administration senior benefits manager had invited someone else to their meeting.





“Depositions are simple. Straightforward.”

Clay’s words rolled back to Jared as he stared across at Sylvia Pokofsky. Heavy, with red hair in tight ringed curls, Sylvia had worked for the past eleven years at the Ashley State Bank as vice-president for Human Resources. Whittier was perched on a chair to her right, glaring at Jared with a look intended to distract him.

Jared didn’t look back.

The long nights without sleep were forgotten now; the fatigue drowned under a rush of adrenaline. After so many days of fishing for something—anything—related to the deposit, he felt the line tugging. Sylvia Pokofsky held Exhibit 164 in her hand. It was the list of employees produced by the bank to Goering this summer.

As he had with every witness so far, Jared asked Sylvia to review the list to see if any employee names were missing. This Monday morning, for the first time since these depositions began, the witness hadn’t simply said no. Equally as important, Whittier looked nervous.

“Let me repeat the question, Mrs. Pokofsky. Are there any employees who worked for the Ashley State Bank in February 2008, who you don’t see on the list in Exhibit 164.”

Most of the bank employees in Sylvia’s chair the past two weeks had been nervous or cautious, trying to satisfy the attorney at their side—but none had disappointed Shelby and Mrs. Huddleston’s expectations of honesty.

That was also true of Sylvia, though she was, perhaps, a little more arrogant.

Until now. Now Sylvia’s eyes were wide, her nostrils flared, and she was licking her lips. Amazing what a difference one question can make, he thought.

“Mrs. Pokofsky?” Jared asked quietly.

Sylvia squirmed, looking alternately at her attorney and then back at Jared. Whittier glanced at her disapprovingly with the edge of his eye. Jared sat up in his chair and fixed Sylvia in his gaze.

“I, well, I . . . ,” Sylvia began.

“Mrs. Pokofsky, please be certain you’re not sharing privileged information,” Whittier interrupted.

The words rang for Jared. Clay had taught him, and every lawyer knew that defending attorneys used certain “objections” to coach the witnesses on how to answer sensitive questions. Codes weren’t kosher, but even the most ethical attorneys would prepare their witnesses to recognize certain objections as gentle reminders. “Think before you speak” or “Listen carefully to the question.”

“But if you detect your opponent instructing his witness to lie or to deny knowledge of something they actually know, well,”—Clay had grinned darkly at Jared—“that, my young Mr. Neaton, is when you must engage the enemy in a more vigorous fashion.”

Whittier’s code during the other depositions had been simple and consisted of two signals. Objecting that a question was “vague” alerted the witness to listen carefully to how the question was worded. “Lack of foundation” reminded witness there were others better prepared by Whittier to respond to the question.

They’d been the typical harmless coding Clay had referred to, and Jared had let them pass. But this was the bomb. “Privileged information” was the signal to shut up. And it worked. At these words, Sylvia’s face sank beneath an uncomfortable glaze. She leaned back in her chair and licked her lips once more.

“I don’t recall at this time,” she said softly.

“Mrs. Pokofsky”—Jared half raised out of his chair—“do you know the penalty for perjury?”

The witness blanched. “I’m just not sure,” she blurted out.

“Because perjury is a felony, punishable by fine, imprisonment—”

“Are you threatening my witness?” Whittier barked.

“Mrs. Pokofsky,” Jared said over Whittier, changing tack. “What are you not sure about?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” she stammered, “what you mean, uh, by an employee.”

“Mrs. Pokofsky, do not reveal privileged information.” Whittier’s voice rose, and his hand went to her forearm.

How far was Whittier willing to take this? Because after days of restraint, Jared was close to coming over the table. Besides, he thought, keep this up and the judge would spear him on it when he read the transcript.

Sylvia was now dragging her tongue across her lips like she was dying of thirst. Her fear filled the room; her breaths came quick and shallow. She wanted to tell the truth, Jared realized. She didn’t want to obey Whittier’s instructions.

Jared dropped his voice to a gentler, more solicitous tone. “What I mean, Mrs. Pokofsky, is simply are there any persons who worked in the bank—in any capacity—who are missing from this list?”

The color rushed back into Sylvia’s face as the witness shrugged off Whittier’s hand and pursed her lips with resolve. “Well, there was an intern.”

“And her name was . . .” Jared responded immediately.

Sylvia looked relieved and exhaled before answering. “Cory. Cory Spangler.”





“There was nothing I could do, Marcus. If I’d just come out and instructed her not to answer, the judge would’ve made her testify anyway. Once it was obvious she knew something and Neaton bored in, there was nothing I could do.”

Excuses. Just excuses, Marcus thought. Even after he’d coached Whittier on the importance of this witness—told him how to prepare her—he still did a miserable job and lost her. When they got to the critical question, she feared Neaton most. Marcus swallowed his disgust and said nothing.

He’d considered withholding the witness from the original list of bank employees they sent to Goering. The risk was that it would spotlight Pokofsky as someone with critical knowledge if Goering—or Neaton—learned about her from another source. Once Pokofsky appeared on Neaton’s final list, it should have been enough to coach her that an intern could technically be considered something different than an employee, and she could truthfully answer no when Neaton asked the inevitable question.

No one else in the bank even remembered Cory Spangler. Spangler had worked for twelve weeks at the bank while attending a local community college, three years ago, and mostly after hours. But the HR lady had a memory like a computer. If anyone at the bank would recall Spangler, it would be her.

So now, instead of avoiding a spotlight on Pokofsky, Whittier’s clumsy attempt to stifle her testimony had shifted the glare directly onto Spangler herself.

The cell phone beeped, signaling another incoming call. Marcus held the phone at arms’ length and saw that it was Mick. “Frank, I’ll call you back,” he said, then switched lines before the junior partner could respond.

“Marcus, we’ve got a problem,” the investigator said as soon as the line activated.





Marcus’s silence had extended nearly a minute before he heard Mick’s tentative voice over the line. “You still there?”

Marcus felt numb. He should have anticipated this—that Neaton might tumble to an overpayment from another government source than farm subsidies. Pull yourself together.

“You heard the entire meeting through his cell?”

“Yes.”

“How did Anthony cover it?”

“Like a pro. He sounded natural, smooth. I heard nothing that concerns me, Marcus. He sent this Towers fellow away cleanly.”

How could this happen the same day as Spangler’s name surfacing? Marcus explained the Pokofsky testimony to Mick.

Now Marcus was listening to a dead line.

“Mick, you’re sure they can’t reach this Spangler witness?”

“No way,” Mick answered in a rush. “Her mother bit my head off when I pressed her on finding the daughter. Said her daughter’s completely out of reach for three months. Traveling in Europe and not calling home. Her words.”

“All right. Get back in touch with Anthony. Keep him calm. Return to Washington if you have to. But mostly, I want you to stay with Neaton now. I want to know what witnesses he’s meeting with around Ashley. I don’t want any more surprises.”

The investigator said okay and clicked off.

Marcus settled back in his chair. He closed his eyes and willed himself to relax, his heart to slow.

Was he still in control here? Was he still ahead in this game?

The pounding in his ears softened. Yes, he answered himself as the muscles in his back and legs eased. Neaton got a lucky break in the weak Pokofsky lady, but it was a small one and contained.

As for Washington, his man commanded the record. The check was buried so deep it was virtually audit proof.

He had felt, for a moment, a pang of uncharacteristic fear. Fear made for bad decisions, overreactions. There was nothing to fear here. Nothing had changed. They’d get through this and be fine. Just a few weeks more.





After the testimony about the intern Cory Spangler, Jared had continued deposing Pokofsky the rest of the day, hoping she would reveal more useful evidence. Whittier had called for a break shortly after Pokofsky’s testimony about Spangler and must have beaten her up pretty hard in the hallway, because during the rest of the deposition, Pokofsky’s voice barely climbed over a whisper. The only other thing she revealed was that Spangler had never been formally removed from the bank’s rolls as an active intern, apparently to leave open the option for her to return—something that she never did.

The deposition over, Jared went to his car and called Mrs. Huddleston, asking her if she could try to locate Cory Spangler. “The Spanglers,” she murmured softly. “Her mother’s a little testy, but I’ll give it a try.”

Only after hanging up did he notice the voice mail left by Towers.

Jared gripped the steering wheel as he heard Towers’s voice mail that he believed the VA manager was lying. He tried calling back for details, but there was no response. The investigator must be on a plane back to Minneapolis by now.

Jared telephoned Jessie and told her to delay the next day’s deposition until later in the week. “Tell them I’m sick; I don’t care,” he said, explaining the testimony about Cory Spangler and the message from Towers. Jessie seemed unenthused, but said she’d take care of it.

Jared started the car, feeling renewed energy. Tonight he’d tackle the boxes in the basement once more.