The Deposit Slip

5





The gravel in Mort Goering’s voice over the car speaker phone made Jared want to clear his own throat. A lifetime smoker, he thought, and one who liked to hear himself talk. Still, Mort had the verbal swagger of someone who tried cases not once a year, but every month—until each new jury was as familiar as extended family. Jared had tried cases against his type, and he respected them.

Mort rolled through the details of the Larson suit like he was giving an opening statement. Just out of high school in the early seventies, he growled, Paul Larson left northern Minnesota for the Marines. He shipped out to Vietnam, finished one tour, re-upped for a second. The second round he was wounded—severely—and got the Navy Cross. When he returned to the States, his parents retired and left him the farm. He married his childhood sweetheart and moved onto the land, and Erin arrived nine years later—their only child.

“Erin’s mom died too young. Cancer. Very sad,” Mort said.

Erin went to high school in the Twin Cities. Never went back to live with her dad on the farm again. Then about eight months ago, Dad wrapped his car around a tree in a snowstorm. Erin came up to Ashley to settle up the estate.

“Erin finds a key in her dad’s desk. Thought it was from the bank in Ashley, but turns out her old man had opened a safe-deposit box in Mission Falls, twenty miles away. He didn’t bank there, just had the box. So a few weeks after her dad’s funeral, Erin goes there to clear it out and, voilà, the deposit slip.”

Mort chuckled. “She’s got no explanation for the money. It wasn’t even her dad’s Ashley bank account number, but strangely only a couple of digits off.” He snorted. “From what heights does that kind of manna fall, huh? I cleaned out my parents’ safe-deposit box when they died, and got a lock of somebody’s hair, a set of worthless stamps, and a half-empty carton of Luckies. I think my pop used to sneak a pack whenever he’d come into town by himself.”

“What do you know about the deposit?” Jared asked, wishing Mort would hurry up.

“Not much,” he responded. “The deposit slip was dated February 10, 2008. Based on other deposit slips in Paul Larson’s records, it was printed on the same kind of paper used by Ashley State Bank. Also same print style, colors—identical. But for all that, the bank denies any information about knowledge of the deposit—including the account number. When Erin wrote and called, the bank politely told her to go jump in a lake. She finally gave up and called me. Took her awhile to make that decision. Between you and me, I think she was scared to even know where the money came from.”

Jared understood that reaction. “How far did you get in the lawsuit before you withdrew? Any discovery?”

Mort described how he’d served formal demands on the bank for discovery of information: written interrogatories and demands for documents.

“In response I got garbage. The bank hired two jackals in suits, this Stanford and Whittier, who stonewalled my discovery. I got pages of objections for each request or question. I demanded better responses; they gave me more garbage. I finally brought a motion to compel, and they came back at me with a sanctions motion—directed at me and Erin.”

“What kind of sanctions motion?”

“Rule 11,” Mort spat.

Rule 11. The court rule that said a party sued on a frivolous claim could get sanctions—fines—against both the plaintiff and their attorney. It was the atomic bomb of pushback in a lawsuit.

There was a pause on the line. “Mort?”

“Yes. Sorry. My secretary was grabbing my calendar. I served the complaint on the bank on April twenty-first of this year. Your old comrades at Paisley appeared in the case two weeks later and—here it is—on July third, they served their sanctions motion. Fastest sanctions motion I’ve ever got slammed with.”

Marcus and Franklin were scorched-earth attorneys, but why were the Paisley lawyers so confident, so early, that a case like this was frivolous?

Mort was already rolling on. “Yes, so on July third they served me with fifty interrogatories, over a hundred document demands, and the motion demanding attorneys’ fees and costs from Erin and me under Rule 11.”

This made no sense. “Mort, Rule 11 won’t stick unless the claim really is frivolous.”

“Exactly. What could be frivolous about a claim based on a deposit slip from the bank?”

There was another pause on the line. “Heather, can you hand that book to me? Yes. No, the one on the left. Thanks. Jared, when you get to a law library, check out Morrison on Banking Law. I’ll email the page number. Let me paraphrase it for you now. Under Minnesota law a deposit slip is evidence of a deposit. What it is not is an actual contract itself. Sort of like a movie ticket doesn’t prove you actually saw the film. So you’ve gotta get other evidence to prove that an account existed, that the account was owned by the plaintiff claiming a right to the money; that the money actually went into the account; and that the money never left the account.”

Jared heard the thump of a book on a desktop over the line. “In this case, we couldn’t even connect the deposit slip to the farmer ’cause it didn’t even reference the farmer’s account number. So the sanction motion from Whittier and Stanford argued there was nothing to my lawsuit; I was just fishing. Sure enough, when the court finally made them produce the bank’s internal records—including Paul Larson’s account records going back three years—there was no sign of the deposit and no record of any account with that number attached to it.”

Mort sighed. “I took two depositions, from bank employees who were supposed to be the experts on the bank’s accounts and account activity. Neither one knew squat about the deposit or the account identified on the slip. They both testified the slip had to be a fake. Once the depositions were done, Stanford and Whittier scheduled their sanctions motion for a hearing. And you’ll appreciate this. They claimed the bank had already incurred a hundred twenty thousand dollars in attorneys’ fees. One hundred twenty thousand dollars. Can you believe that?”

They were sending a message, Jared thought. Even in the Paisley firm, where intimidation tactics were admired, Stanford was legendary for his “messages.”

“You know I don’t mind a fight,” Mort growled. “But the judge we drew at the Mission Falls Courthouse, Judge Lindquist, he’s a tough one, not afraid to rule on motions. He’s handed out some serious sanctions against attorneys in the past. And all I’ve got is a deposit slip with no one alive to tell me if it’s real or fake. I finally told Erin I had to withdraw. I can’t take a chance on a six-figure fine.”

“What’s this about having to get an attorney by next week?” Jared asked.

“Oh, that. I told you Judge Lindquist is tough. I asked for ninety days for Erin to find another attorney; Lindquist gave her three weeks. So she’s got until next Wednesday.”

That meant that even if he took the case, Jared would be on a short calendar to find supporting evidence. It also meant that if he took the case, he’d be under the same Rule 11 sanction cloud as Mort.

“So, how long’d you work with Clay?” Mort asked, changing the subject.

“Five years, as an associate at Paisley.”

“Couldn’t learn from anyone better,” Mort said. “I met him on a farm implement products case fifteen years ago up here in Bemidji. Power train—farmer lost a hand. Six-figure verdict. The jury loved Clay. Terrific lawyer.”

Yeah. Nothing got past Clay. So Clay probably knew about all these issues in the Larson case before he offered it to Jared. Just another reason Clay didn’t take the case himself.

“Anyone else look at the case the past couple of weeks?”

Mort hesitated. “Yes. A couple, I think. Erin’s been beatin’ the bushes. All of them passed. Don’t know if it’s the Rule 11, the time crunch, or what. Clay’s the only one I contacted for her. Hey, Jared, there’s something else you ought to know.”

“What’s that?”

“Erin’s had some troubles up in Ashley. Tires slashed. Angry notes and phone calls. This case has stirred up some hard feelings in town.”

Jared felt his stomach churn. “Why all the emotion?”

“The bank’s causing it, far as I can tell.” Mort huffed. “Seeding the local paper with articles about how the case could break the bank. Saying if the bank collapsed, farmers’ loans would be picked up by tougher managers who’d be more aggressive on foreclosures; hurt the local economy. That kind of thing.”

Jared tried to shut off a rush of memories and emotions. Why would he step back into that morass in Ashley again? Ten million reasons, he told himself. At least he had to take the next step.

“Can I come pick up the file on my way to Erin’s place?”

“Sure. I’ve got a legal intern who’s taking a year off from Hamline Law School to get some experience. Great young gal, quite sharp. Rachel Langer. I’ll have her pull it together for you.”

Jared thanked Mort and said he’d be there soon.

“Listen, Jared,” Mort continued before he hung up. “You know these Paisley jerks, so maybe it’ll be different for you. But if you’re gonna jump into the middle of this war, be forewarned. These guys are working the case like it’s very, very personal.”





Mick Elgart’s cell phone rang, waking him from a nap on his living room couch. He rubbed a hand over his face and blinked his eyes to read the number. Clearing his throat, he answered. “Yeah.”

“Hello? Hello? This is Rachel.” Her voice was a low whisper.

“Okay, Rachel. Speak up. I can barely hear you. Are you somewhere you can be overheard?”

There was a pause. “No, I guess not.”

Mick shook his head. “Okay, then stop whispering. What is it?”

“There’s a guy picking up the file from Goering’s office. The Larson file.”

“All right, Rachel. Who is it?”

“His name is Jared Neaton.”

“Is he taking over the case?”

“I don’t know. I just know he’s picking up the file.”

“How soon is he coming?”

“Hmm? Oh, he’s here. He’s loading up his car right now.”

“Do you know where he’s going after he’s got the file?”

“I heard him tell Mr. Goering that he was heading up to Ashley to meet the—to meet Erin Larson.”

Mick was trying to think, but Rachel went on. “So, am I done here? Because I want to be done here.”

The whine irritated Mick, and he leaned back on the couch. How to respond? Rachel had been a necessary pain since she’d answered his Craigslist ad for a legal assistant last spring. He’d offered her five times the wage any law clerk could ever earn if she would “volunteer” at the Goering firm. The whining had grown more shrill as he’d pressed her to report deeper confidential information each week about the Larson case. It didn’t matter: by then he knew she was addicted to the cash.

Could he set her free now? If he did, was there a risk she’d turn on him—talk to Goering or the police?

Yes, he concluded, he could set her free. And no, she wasn’t a risk. If the Larson file was leaving Goering, there was little point in keeping her on the payroll. As for her turning—that wouldn’t happen. He knew her type well enough. She’d convince herself that he was the evil in the equation. In a month or two she’d also convince herself that nothing she’d done was serious and push it out of her mind.

“Yes, Rachel, you can quit now. Your final cash will be in your mailbox next week. Good luck with law school.”

The line went silent. She was headed for the right diploma, Mick thought as he turned off his own phone. She’d make some lawyer.