The Deposit Slip

47





The long conference table was so glossy he could have shaved in its reflection. The door at the farthest end of the room opened, and Jared saw Franklin Whittier III step into the room.

He gauged the man as he approached. His hair was still parted perfectly, but his face was colorless. His eyes did not look at Jared, and there was no smile on his face—self-important or otherwise.

Whittier didn’t extend a hand as he sat at the head of the table to Jared’s left. Jared glanced once more around the room, at a table intended for fifty, polished to a rich wood sheen; purchased at a dear price to impress corporate boards and intimidate opposing counsel. This place used to impress him as well.

“Well, Jared,” Whittier began, “It was good of the court to extend our trial date in view of the tragic events of last week.”

Jared nodded. “Yes, it was, Frank.”

Whittier cleared his throat. “You can imagine that Marcus’s suicide has been quite a blow here at Paisley.”

“And the attack on the women, I would think as well,” Jared responded.

Whittier nodded. “Of course.”

Jared pressed right on. “I understand that Mr. Creedy has said that your client put him up to that.”

The junior partner pursed his lips and shook his head determinedly. “Mr. Grant firmly denies any involvement in the attacks.”

“Umm. Well, why the meeting then, Frank?”

Whittier’s hands were clasped in front of him, atop a file folder, and he looked now at Jared with an encouraging, businesslike smile. “Particularly in view of the strange circumstances of the past week, we have advised our client that it would be best for all concerned if we could work out a resolution of the case.”

“Really.”

“Yes.” The smugness had crept back into Whittier’s face. “I’ve been authorized to make a settlement in the amount of five hundred thousand dollars. It is more than we suggested Mr. Grant offer, in view of the evidence in the case, but appropriate to the circumstances. I think your client would do well to take it.”

Jared pushed back his seat and put both hands behind his head. Paisley had a smell, he realized. It wasn’t the odor of money or of success—as they probably presumed. It was the smell of . . . fear.

Every day, these attorneys trod the halls in fear. Associates fearing that partners would descend to assign more work or criticize—or worse, deem them inadequate to make partner. Partners’ fears that their colleagues would puncture through their posturing of relaxed confidence and inevitable success. Fear that the clients would stop coming, having somehow learned that the size of this firm did not translate to a magical knowledge about the law. Fear. It was the best kept secret of these hallowed halls. And Whittier was steeped in it now like an overabundance of cologne.

Jared opened his briefcase and pulled out a document. “Frank, this is the subpoena that I served on Mr. Stanford as we were leaving the summary judgment hearing. It demands copies of any eight-figure checks deposited by Mr. Stanford in Paisley’s trust account in the past four years. The subpoena isn’t specific on the check amount, so I’m going to make that part easier for you. Let’s narrow this down to a check in the amount of ten million, three hundred fifteen thousand and four hundred dollars. And no cents. I’d suggest you start under pro bono accounts.”

Whittier was scanning the subpoena, his smugness gone.

“And when you find it,” Jared went on, “I’ll tell you what settlement my client will accept. My client will dismiss its claims against the Ashley State Bank if and when the money is returned—all of the money—in a check made payable to the estate of Paul Larson, with a letter acknowledging where the money has been stored these past three years. It will further acknowledge that these funds are the property of the United States government, care of the Department of Veterans Affairs. And finally, it will acknowledge that these funds were located and returned through the efforts of Erin Larson as personal representative for the estate, who is solely entitled to the statutory reward for remitting those funds to the United States.”

Jared closed his briefcase. “And one more thing. If you pay back the ten million dollars within the week, my client is also willing to release her claims against this law firm for fraud, misrepresentation, and related punitive damages—for an additional one million dollars from Paisley.”

Jared did not linger. As he left the conference room, Whittier was still reading the subpoena.