The Deposit Slip

32





Jared sat outside a small café, a cup of sweet coffee on the table before him, just outside the fence surrounding the ruins of the ancient marketplace in the shadow of the towering Acropolis. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year, and the noon sun drew sweat from Jared’s exposed face and arms.

He’d arrived in Athens three days earlier. The first two days were spent traveling to each of the Athens youth hostels with a picture of Cory—a photo Mrs. Huddleston scanned from the library’s copy of her senior yearbook. Most of the hostel managers accepted Jared’s explanation that he was Cory’s brother, each volunteering that she was not a guest. Two had cost Jared fifty Euros apiece for the same information.

He reached the seventh hostel a few yards away, early on the morning of this, his third day. This one cost a hundred Euros—probably because the young manager’s eyes flashed instant recognition. It took several minutes of haggling and reassurances before the cautious manager took the note from Jared’s hand. Rubbing his beard, he nodded nervously at the picture, adding in near-perfect English, “She paid through tonight, but she is out.”

Since that conversation, Jared had nursed coffee and snacks the rest of the morning, occasionally walking to look in the windows of shops next to the hostel but fearing to leave for longer than a quick trip to the restroom.

Despite the manager saying she was staying through tonight, his reluctance caused Jared to fear he might be lying—or might warn Spangler to Jared’s presence. He would stay near the hostel entrance until he saw her return. This journey had cost too much to take a chance of missing her now.





The late-afternoon sun was drifting low on the horizon, casting shadows over the patio. Still seated at the café, Jared now felt a growing chill. Out of the sunlight, his clothing—so warm in the morning sun—was now damp and cold. He glanced around to see if one of the shops sold sweatshirts.

There she was at last.

Moving hurriedly up the street, a small backpack slung over one shoulder and a shopping bag in her right hand, she was, except for less makeup, a perfect match for the yearbook photo.

Jared dropped a five Euro note on his table and jogged the short distance to the hostel entrance. “Cory?”

Nearly in the door, she looked over her shoulder with a puzzled expression that faded rapidly to dismay. “I’m busy,” she said. “I mean I’m in a hurry.” She moved into the entryway.

Jared stepped closer. “Cory, Athens is a long way from Minnesota. I came all this way just to talk to you. I only need half an hour of your time. Please.”

He could see that she was a sweet girl, unused to refusing courtesy. She stared hard at Jared, trying to convey her discomfort. But he did not move or speak, and shortly the defenses fell from her eyes. “Just half an hour,” she said in a voice of reluctant surrender.

Jared had prepared this pitch like a closing argument—the story of the case, Paul and Erin Larson, and finally Sylvia Pokofsky’s testimony. Seated at a breezy restaurant table, as the shadows deepened further and a few dinner patrons began to arrive, the explanation took more than the promised half hour. As he finished, Jared looked into Cory’s eyes hoping he wasn’t conveying how close he was to desperation.

Cory’s face remained a study of indifference—until Jared mentioned Pokofsky. Her eyes faltered there, and he wondered if she was trying to recall whether Pokofsky knew enough to prevent any further denials.

She looked out over Jared’s shoulder toward the Acropolis, where the evening lights were beginning to shine in the deepening dusk. “All right,” she conceded with a sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Were you there the night Paul Larson deposited his check?” he asked, trying to mask his urgency.

“I was at the bank the night he came in and . . . something strange happened.”

“Tell me about it.”

The girl settled back in her chair and sipped her coffee. Jared watched her anxiously. He’d forgotten how young college students now looked to him, how close to the surface they carried their emotions. She did not speak at once and for a moment Jared feared she was withdrawing—building new defenses. Then she began.





Weeknights were always quiet at the bank, Cory said. It was usually just her, Cheryl Morrow, and Leigh Kramer who processed the day’s transactions, looking for errors and bundling the checks for transfer to the Federal Reserve. When she first began her internship, Cory was uncomfortable working evenings in the cool stillness of the ancient bank building. Ensconced at the small desk they had nestled into a corner for her behind the vault door, surrounded by marble and oversized wooden desks, she told how she felt like a laborer in a tomb.

But it was just for three months. A chance to pad her resume with this unpaid internship as she completed her last year of junior college—before applying to St. Olaf.

That night, both Cheryl and Leigh were sick. Fortunately, it was a Monday evening following a slow day. Starting at four o’clock, Cory had whittled away at the day’s transactions. Normally they would be done by ten, but tonight, working alone, it was nearing one thirty as Cory completed the final check.

As she placed the check bags in the messenger pickup cart, Cory was startled by the sound of multiple footfalls in the back hallway. One set of steps was heavy, slow, and irregular; the other a hurried, staccato rhythm.

Two men emerged around the hallway corner into the lights covering the back counter area. The first shed a coat, and a cloud of snow fell from the jacket as he laid it across his arm. It was Sidney Grant, the bank president. The other man was of similar height, but with broad shoulders drawn firmly back. He wore a fur-lined denim jacket and walked with a limp. Cory did not recognize him.

Cory’s corner was dark and, she realized, invisible to the men as they approached. She felt awkward, uncertain how to announce her presence.

“This isn’t necessary, Paul,” Sidney Grant said, stopping among the desks. “It’s better with this kind of thing to keep the record light.”

“I want a receipt,” Paul answered. His face was shadowed from Cory’s angle, but she heard his low thick voice clearly. It reminded her of her father when he was very tired. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

The tension between the men made Cory shrink farther behind her desk.

The bank president walked to one of the teller windows and turned on the computer monitor. After a moment, he moved the mouse, clicking several times on the cursor before typing on the keyboard. “Give me the account number you want again,” he said over his shoulder. Paul pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read an eight-digit number, while the banker pecked at the keyboard.

Finished typing, Mr. Grant began searching the teller station, among the cubbies and cupboards underneath. He straightened and turned, his face puzzled—when he saw her. “Cory?” he called and his voice faltered. “How long have you been there?”

“I started at four p.m.,” she said, not knowing how else to answer.

The other man—Paul—was staring too, his arms limp. Facing Cory, she saw that a stubble shadowed his face. His eyes were gentle, Cory thought, but tentative.

The banker spoke again in clipped words. “Go in the back and get me some deposit slips.”

Cory stepped around the desk, stumbling over her purse. Her stomach churned anxiously as she made her way to the supply room and came back with a set of slips. Mr. Grant snatched them away and returned to the teller station, slipping one of the deposit tickets into the printer and clicking on the cursor. Cory saw that Paul had taken a step in her direction and was looking at her with concern.

“Do you know my daughter?” he asked.

“I, I don’t know.”

“Erin Larson. She graduated from high school four years ago.”

Cory was not thinking clearly, but the name sounded familiar. “Yes, I think so. She was a couple of years ahead of me.”

“Paul,” the banker interrupted, “come on. We’ll finish in my office.”

Paul smiled at Erin before turning to follow the banker. Cory could see that Mr. Grant now held a deposit ticket in his hand. With a grim glance at Cory, the banker led Paul into his office, shutting the door solidly behind them.

Shaken, Cory gathered her coat and purse. She walked silently across the room toward the back hallway leading to her car.





She stopped her story—or paused—Jared was unsure which. “Did you see what was on the deposit slip?” Jared asked.

Cory shook her head.

Jared watched her quietly for a moment. He felt lightheaded and was suddenly struck with how far his own disbelief in the deposit had grown. He had questions about her story—some serious. But this was it. It must be it.

He opened his mouth to probe further, then stopped. As skittish as Cory appeared, he was apprehensive that the wrong word now would make her recant it all. Still, he couldn’t shy away from the next request; all of this could be meaningless if Cory didn’t agree to share her testimony.

“Cory,” he began softly, “what you witnessed that night is critical to Erin’s case against the bank. In fact, without it, we probably won’t even get to trial. I imagine this is a very important trip to you. I’ll figure out a way to repay you and make another trip possible. But I want you to come back with me to Minnesota and make a record of what you saw.”

Her face twisted in surprise. “But I said I didn’t see the deposit slip.”

“It doesn’t matter. What you saw is ‘circumstantial evidence’ that the deposit slip was created. It’s the only real proof the deposit slip we have is real. Our only true chance to win this case.”

Another half truth, Jared knew. Cory’s testimony might defeat summary judgment, but couldn’t win the case for them: that was a lost cause absent proof of the amount the banker placed on the slip that evening. But any hedging on the importance of Cory’s evidence could let her off the hook.

Her eyes were still noncommittal.

Jared felt his chances fading. “Cory, this isn’t just a case about that deposit. Erin Larson is trying to prove her father, Paul, was not alone in this and may even have been coerced into keeping the money. You’re the only witness right now that links this deposit to actions by Sidney Grant and the bank.”

He saw that the reference to Erin’s father—or perhaps the negative reference to Sidney Grant—touched something in Cory. “For how long?” she asked reluctantly.

“One week. Long enough to arrange for your deposition testimony.” And long enough, he didn’t add, for Marcus to savage you with cross-examination.

Cory released a sigh of surrender, and Jared felt slammed with a jolt of excitement bordering on giddiness. He’d make it up to her, he told himself; she’d have other chances to travel. But this was it. Let’s see the Paisley boys get summary judgment in the face of this evidence.

“I’ll arrange the plane tickets home,” Jared said, and there wasn’t a hint of his elation in his voice.