The Deposit Slip

45





Vic looked fresh and ready to go, Jared thought as he looked across the coffee table in the living room of the Larson farm. Once he’d gotten past the unfamiliarity of the process, the veteran seemed to enjoy preparing to testify at trial. Good. He’d make a fine witness.

“When did Mr. Larson seem to change?” Jared asked.

“Uh, well, he seemed to change—uh—about a year ago.”

Jared held up his hand. “Vic, don’t think so much. You don’t have to win the case, you just have to answer a question. And answer it like we were in a conversation. Lean forward in the box like it’s a pleasure to tell your story, then tell the truth. And don’t worry about missing something, or using certain words. If you miss something, I’ll just ask you another question. That’s my job. Now try it again. When did Mr. Larson seem to change?”

Vic leaned forward in his chair. “A year ago.”

“How did he change?”

“He got quieter.”

“Why was that different?”

“Well, sir, Paul Larson was always a quiet man, but now he shut down completely. Wouldn’t talk even to us, his best friends.”

Jared smiled. “See? Just tell the story. Remember, you’re just an introduction to Carlos, who’ll tell the jury why Paul Larson started shutting down. How he began to struggle with confessing about a money problem.”

Vic looked pleased with himself and nodded his understanding.

They were down to four days from trial and the witness preparation was going well. Every night this week, Jared had prepped at least one witness. Each day, he worked in the quiet of his father’s house, then drove out to Erin’s. Witnesses were usually free and available after supper, and he thought they would be more comfortable prepping away from town.

Jared thought for a moment about what day it was. Erin had been gone for three days and would be back from Minneapolis in tomorrow. He was pleased with his decision to suggest a visit to her aunt Karen. She was so obviously nervous as trial approached. Besides, that way she could pick up Cory Spangler, who was arriving from Rome in the morning.

Jessie was a whirlwind. Since the motion, she had completed the witness and exhibit lists, their trial brief, and organized their exhibit books. Her energy seemed limitless.

They still needed to complete his motion papers compelling a response to his subpoena for the trust account records. He’d already received Paisley’s response to the subpoena for the bank disks, signed by Whittier. The response claimed the disks had been destroyed. Jared knew it was a lie, but probably one he couldn’t disprove. On the other hand, if he got a similar nonresponse on the trust account records, he’d take that one to the judge.

They took a break and got sodas from the fridge. Jared looked around the quiet kitchen and thought again how much he preferred preparing for trial here rather than at his father’s house. There was more space to spread out and it was quieter, but most importantly, it was out of town.

Tension was growing in Ashley as the trial approached. The prolonged stares and uncomfortable glances were more common when Jared walked downtown. He overheard Mrs. Huddleston’s friend Shelby report some tense comments thrown her way at a basketball game.

The growing vitriol of the local newspaper articles must be feeding it. Vic assured him again that everyone in Ashley knew the bank nearly owned the paper with its advertising revenue. But that knowledge likely wasn’t universal.

Richard Towers had left a message that he was coming into town tomorrow night with a final report and bill. He could have mailed it, but the investigator said he wanted a chance to touch base in person and wouldn’t charge for his visit. He also said he had some other information. Maybe it was Erin’s phone records that he’d waited for so long.

They were nearly done with their sodas. Jared gestured for Vic to return with him to the living room to finish up.

Tomorrow evening, Jared would pick up Carlos Navarrete at the VA Hospital and bring him out to the farm for prep. He planned to have Carlos testify about Paul Larson’s personal struggles in his final months. It set the stage for Cory’s testimony regarding the night of the deposit. Jared also knew that the veteran’s respect and love of the man came through in every word he said about him, and would transfer sympathy to Erin with the jury.

Of course the most important witness was Cory. They’d stayed in close email contact since the summary judgment motion. Cory reported no problems or threats. Erin was picking her up at the airport before returning tomorrow afternoon.

The Olney investment cash had paid for her ticket. Erin had also agreed Jared could use some of the money to return Cory to Europe to finish her trip.

As he prepared to begin his questioning again, Jared looked out the window. The yard light was out, and it was too dark to see anything beyond a few feet. Still, Jared could see a few flakes of snow beginning to fall.

The forecast talked about more snow each evening this week. Since both he and Vic needed to return to Ashley tonight, he’d best move this along.





Snow was falling in the dark sky, appearing in the streetlights as though magically summoned, twirling down in fine, light wisps. Striding the sidewalk to the Mayfair Drug Store, Jessie noticed that the flakes disappeared as soon as they struck the ground, melting on the still-warm pavement. That would change soon enough, Jessie thought. By the time trial started early next week, there would be standing snow on the ground.

She pulled her coat closer at the brisk air and saw her breath cloud as it left her lips. Jessie would have preferred to stay in tonight, but before Erin had left to visit her aunt in Minneapolis one more time before trial, she’d asked if Jessie could pick up her asthma prescription in Ashley. As busy as Jessie had been with her own trial work, this had been her first opportunity.

She pushed through the door into the warm air of the drugstore. Closing time was in fifteen minutes, and Jessie saw that the aisles were nearly empty and headed to the counter.

“May I help you?” the young pharmacist asked. Jessie explained that she was picking up a prescription and gave her Erin’s name. The woman disappeared into the back.

Another older woman was visible behind the counter, sitting at a desk strewn with papers and envelopes. It was Shelby Finstrude, Jessie realized—Mrs. Huddleston’s friend. Jessie was introduced to her at the Neaton house during a visit by the two of them.

“Shelby,” Jessie called. The older woman looked up and flashed a smile.

“Oh hello, Jessie.” She stood up, a sheet of paper in her hand, and approached the window.

“What are you doing?” Jessie asked, pointing toward the desk.

Mrs. Finstrude shook her head and smiled, a little embarrassed.

“You know, my husband and I used to own this store. We ran it for three decades. Gosh, was it that long? Anyway, it’s been sold for fifteen years now, and we still haven’t cleared everything out. Mrs. Carrolton—the new owner—has been so patient. But she asked the other day if I could ‘tidy up’ my records in the back. I think she meant ‘get them out of here.’ ”

Jessie laughed.

“You know,” Mrs. Finstrude went on, “I’m the world’s worst pack rat. I think I’ve still got every prescription and financial record we ever had. Now with HIPAA, I’ve got to be so careful about how I dispose of them.”

The prescription clerk was taking forever. Thirty years. Doing anything that long seemed extraordinary to Jessie. That’d make her the owner back when Erin was growing up. “Did you know Sara Larson?” Jessie asked, making conversation.

The older woman smiled. “Oh my, yes. Sweetest girl you would ever want to meet. She’d be in here every week. Erin—her daughter—had asthma as a child.”

Her memory was as clear and far reaching as Mrs. Huddleston described, Jessie thought. She looked over the woman’s shoulder at the desk. Stacks of spreadsheets and ledger books crowded one corner.

Mrs. Finstrude still clung to the photocopy in her hand, and Jessie saw that it was a copy of a bank check. “Did you make copies of every check people paid with?” Jessie asked incredulously.

Shelby smiled. “Pretty much. We got a copier when they first came out and kept it humming. Pack rat and crazy.”

Jessie thought again about Sara, the description Jared had passed on about Paul’s devotion to her. The deposit slip. The missing account. Her heart picked up.

“Shelby, would you have any photocopies of checks written by Sara Larson?”

The older woman shrugged. “I suppose. People didn’t use credit cards in those days; we wouldn’t accept them. And almost no one around here had medical insurance.”

Jessie’s heart pumped stronger. “Could you look for me?”

“I could. I’d need to go back through some boxes. For what period?”

She wracked her memory for the date of Sara Larson’s death. “I think between 1990 and 1993.”

“All right.”

The pharmacist was returning at last with Erin’s prescription in her hand. Jessie reached through the window and grasped Mrs. Finstrude’s arm. “Could you do it very soon?”

Her urgency must have shown, Jessie thought, because the elderly woman answered immediately. “Yes. Tonight.”





The phone rang several times before the flat affect of Proctor’s voice answered it.

“It’s four days until trial,” Marcus said, unable to hide his frustration. “When are you coming out?”

“I’m already here” came the indifferent reply.

Marcus was stunned. “Why didn’t you call?”

“I don’t need anything.”

“Have you figured out who Grant has gotten involved?”

“Um-hmm.”

“How’d you find out?”

“I picked him up surveilling the Larson farm the last two nights.”

Marcus thought through the implications of what Proctor was saying. It meant Proctor was watching the farm as well. Preparing. He thought about asking for assurances that Proctor hadn’t been spotted, but knew the comment would be insulting.

“Well, who is it?”

“It’s better if you stay out of things now.”

“I may have information that could help you.”

Pause. “It’s a farmer. Named Joe Creedy. He’s a drunk.”

Creedy? The name was unfamiliar.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I told you—it’s better if you stay out.”

Marcus gripped the phone. He was unused to being kept in the dark. He didn’t like it.

“We’re four days until trial. When are you going to act.”

“When I’m ready.”

“So what do I do.”

“The same thing you do every day. You don’t do anything different. Now’s not a good time to change your patterns.”

Marcus understood, though he railed at being relegated to a passive role.

“Don’t call again unless it’s an emergency,” Proctor said, and hung up.

Marcus set down his phone. Well, at least he was moving. This was cutting things very close—but then he hadn’t given the man much time to prepare as it was.

The effort of showing interest in the trial preparations with Whittier was wearing on him. But Marcus knew he had no choice.

Only four more days. He could keep up the pretense a little while longer. It was almost over.