The Deposit Slip

8





He checked into a motel. Looks like he’s planning at least another day in Ashley.”

The voice came from a speakerphone in the center of the wide, polished oak desk. Marcus Stanford sat behind the desk, clutching a pen. He glanced up at Franklin Whittier III, sitting low in the leather client chair opposite; watched with barely restrained disdain as the younger partner ran a hand gently over the surface of his carefully combed hair.

Whittier’s casual slouch annoyed Marcus. It was too relaxed, too familiar. He nearly said something, but the voice on the speakerphone intervened.

“I had to race up to Ashley to beat Neaton there after my contact called. Thought the safest bet was to catch up with him at the bank. I was right. He showed up there around three o’clock.”

Marcus tried to remain patient. Even after working with Mick Elgart for ten years, Marcus still grew frustrated with his habit of giving too much background in his reports.

“I couldn’t enter the bank until Neaton left because I didn’t want to become a familiar face to him. After he left and checked into a motel, I went back and met with Mr. Grant at the bank to discuss the visit. He said no one noticed Neaton come or go.”

Marcus tensed at the suggestion of Mick in direct contact with Sidney Grant, the Ashley State Bank president, especially during business hours. Anyone meeting with the bank president was likely to be noticed. He should have instructed Mick on that. But he wouldn’t discuss it in front of Whittier. Never acknowledge a mistake in front of the help.

“All right. What do you have?”

“Well, like I told you when I called this in earlier, Neaton’s one of yours—five years at Paisley before he went out on his own.”

“We know,” Marcus said impatiently. “What do you have up in Ashley.”

“I have security footage from the bank showing Neaton entering and looking the place over. And I have photos showing Neaton talking to one man, a Willis Severson.”

“And?”

“Severson works at the bank.”

Marcus straightened. “Very good. Was he an employee when the deposit was made?”

“No. He’s only worked there for a year and a half.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Whittier jumped in. “He’s still an employee. Neaton can’t talk to him without a subpoena. Judge Lindquist is a hard ass on procedure. He’ll—”

Whittier stopped. The speakerphone had fallen silent and Marcus was staring at him with cold eyes. Whittier looked perplexed, then reluctantly shook his head.

“Come on, Marcus, we’re alone. Enough on the language. What’s it matter—”

“It always matters.”

“But—”

“It always matters.”

Whittier slumped back in his chair, his face red.

Marcus wondered what had happened to the privileged class in this country. The generations that followed in the footsteps of wealth inherited the money, the numerals after their names, and nothing else. Paper thin appearances—nothing else.

When he’d hired Whittier, he’d hoped it would guarantee seven figures of work annually from his father’s company, Whittier Chemicals. He’d also hoped he’d gain a presentable protégé in court and with clients, someone who didn’t just look good in a suit. Franklin Whittier III: Cornell undergraduate and Columbia Law. The family lived in a five-million-dollar house on Lake Minnetonka and styled themselves as latter day royalty.

Look what they’d produced. Trash.

Or maybe that was an overstatement. Whittier could be tenacious; he was sharp, he worked hard, and he was manageable. And the seven figures worth of work did arrive at Paisley in his wake.

No, Whittier’s problem was that he was all aggression and little style or restraint. Unchecked, that was a recipe for anarchy.

Marcus turned back to address the speakerphone. “What else?”

“It looks like he’s got the entire Goering file in his car,” Mick continued. “My contact doesn’t know if he’s actually accepted the case or not, but it looks like he’s got the whole file with him.”

“Anything else?” Marcus asked the investigator.

“No,” Mick went on. “I haven’t had a chance to do any serious background. But at the bank they told me a few interesting facts.”

“Explain.”

“Neaton’s from Ashley. Grew up there.”

Marcus pursed his lips, uncertain. What impact could that have?

“But there’s more. His father, Samuel Neaton. He used to be the chief financial officer at the grain elevator. About twelve or thirteen years ago, he got caught with his hand in the till. It was a pretty big scandal for Ashley. Lots of heat. He was charged with embezzlement. He repaid the money, and the employer argued for leniency. He got three years in a minimum security prison down in Rochester. Happened when the younger Neaton was in high school. Sounds like they’ve been mostly estranged ever since.”

Marcus saw that Whittier was smiling at the news. Imbecile. That raised questions, but no answers. The only issue of importance was the extent of Neaton’s connections in Ashley and whether they would enable him to get further than Goering did.

“Where are you staying?” Marcus asked.

“Same place as Neaton: the Chatham Motel, at the edge of Ashley. I planned to follow him until he left town.”

“Good. We’ll be here at the office all weekend. Otherwise, call on my cell.”

As the speakerphone clicked off, Marcus leaned back in his chair.

“What do you make of Neaton?” Marcus asked. Whittier was perusing the room absently. It looked too much like pouting, Marcus thought. Childish and unseemly, especially for a junior partner at Paisley.

“He was two years behind me,” Whittier began. “He didn’t impress me. Seemed like a small-town boy trying to run with the big dogs. Little wallet, big dreams. Didn’t know he was from Ashley, though.”

The man had no other yardstick than money, did he? If it were that simple, Whittier would be the one sitting on this side of the desk.

“How about legal skills?” Marcus asked. “Trial skills?”

Whittier shrugged. “He had a pretty good string of jury wins working under Clay Strong. Strong gave him a lot of chances to try cases for someone so young.”

“Tell me about the Wheeler case.”

“Neaton got beat. He must have picked up the case after he left Paisley, because the trial was just a couple of months ago. The Bar article said it was an eight-week trial. Neaton represented a woman on a fraud claim against her financial adviser. New York lawyers represented the adviser. The judge wouldn’t let a key witness testify for Neaton’s client, and the jury found for the defendant. Neaton’s appealing. Rumor has it he took it on a contingent fee basis—rolled the dice.”

“And he left Paisley how long ago?”

“A couple of years.”

It must have been crushing, Marcus thought. Only two years out of the cocoon of the big firm and he bet it all on a case like that. New York attorneys must have given him a battering. What was the likelihood he’d take another tough contingent fee case so soon? Or have the resources to do it?

“So, what do you suggest we do, Franklin?” he asked, as much to assuage Whittier’s bruised ego as from genuine interest.

“Same thing we did with Goering. We swing for the face right away. Neaton won’t take another chance on a case so soon if he knows he’s in for a beating. Today’s Friday; Neaton’s got to decide if he’ll take the case by next Wednesday. That’s only five days. We just keep him ducking, and he won’t dare touch it in this short of time.”

Marcus nodded, though he felt less certain than Whittier. He didn’t like making strategic decisions without all available information. A vague recollection gnawed at him: hadn’t he worked with Neaton briefly soon after he arrived at Paisley? If so, why did he stop working with him?

But what did it matter? Whittier was right. If no attorney accepted this case in the next five days, it was over—he won. It was very tempting to bully Neaton out of the case before he got too interested.

He made his decision. “All right,” he said, and gave Whittier an encouraging nod. “Let’s bloody his nose and finish this.”