The Deposit Slip

7





Jared left his car on the far side of Ashley Central Park. He planned to start at the bank. The building would tell him nothing and he knew he couldn’t question the bank employees without a subpoena, but starting at the bank seemed appropriate. He had parked here, a few blocks away, because he also felt like taking a walk downtown after so many years away from Ashley.

Crossing the park to reach Main Street, Jared thought about Erin—her isolation on her father’s farm and the imprint of sadness behind her eyes. He heard again the strain of uncertainty in her voice when she assured him that she “had to know.” Her face reappeared in his mind, especially the expression when he elicited the brief laughter.

Jared reluctantly stopped the last train of thought. She was a potential client, and there were rules about that.

How long had it been since he’d dated anyone, though? Or thought about dating someone? He shook his head.

Lawyers in love: it was an oxymoron. A third of his law class ended up marrying classmates. The same percentage of Paisley lawyers ended up marrying secretaries—if not the first time around, the second. Because who else did you see, working day and night and spending weekends looking down onto the city streets from the office?

He’d thought about dating Jessie when he first met her at Paisley. She was bright, empathetic, full of energy. Attractive too, though in a different way than Erin—less on the surface and more in how she carried herself. But he’d recoiled at following the same pattern as all the other lawyers, and now he’d gone and hired her and there were definitely rules about that too.

Jared arrived at Main Street. To the north, the sidewalk sloped down into the retail stretch of Ashley. The familiar sight of downtown brought his mind back to the present. He turned and headed downhill.

It had been two, no, three years since he’d been back here. Another five years before that since he’d helped his mother pack to move away. Looking down the street, Jared thought the six blocks of downtown seemed little changed from when he would hurry down this sidewalk, allowance in hand, to buy the latest Marvel comic at Burnside’s Book Store. At age ten, Jared made the journey weekly until his father learned of the growing collection under his bed and forbade him from buying any more. Always the accountant, his dad lectured that they were a waste of money.

For a while, he and his best friend, Stuart, escaped the letter of the prohibition by gifting each other comics each week—reasoning that neither was buying comics for themselves. It was Jared’s first act of legal interpretation, and it ended badly. His dad, the final judge and jury of his young world, learned of the scheme and threw out the whole collection.

Ahead waited downtown’s unmistakable center—the four-story structure of the Ashley State Bank. Even after all these years, its dark red brick, rich as blood, still anchored Ashley’s downtown as though it were its beating heart.

The century-old Ashley State Bank building stood on the corner of Main and Sycamore. Except for its height, it reminded passersby of a church, with its dark red coloring, lighter red brick trim, and the date 1891 carved in deep letters in the capstone over the door. That wasn’t an accident: Ashley was known for its multitude of churches, and the bank was built the summer after the First Lutheran Church was finished on Willow Street. When completed, the bank immediately enjoyed a prestige that rivaled the Lutheran edifice. After all, it was, then and now, the tallest building in Ashley by two stories.

Jared stopped for a moment on the sidewalk facing the bank. The building carried the strongest memories of his childhood. This bank had become the fault line between him and his father—so much so that he felt an irrational reluctance to go in. He shrugged it off and ascended the steps to the front door, pushing through the heavy glass doors into the bank’s broad foyer.

As Jared stepped into the entryway, he slipped to his right, out of the way, and pulled out his wallet as though searching for something. He hoped to go unnoticed, not wanting to run into anyone he knew. As he pretended to search the wallet, Jared glanced at the tellers behind their counters and the half-dozen patrons in line and at a side table preparing deposit and withdrawal forms. To his relief, no one looked familiar.

Standing in the marble entryway, watching the line move forward now, Jared wondered how Paul Larson would have made his deposit three years ago. Stepping to the teller window and passing his funds under the cage bars? But that would be absurd—no one waited in line to pass a ten million dollar check to a bank teller. Especially if that check wasn’t legal in the first place.

Jared looked past the teller cages toward the back of the bank. A row of offices lined the far wall. He could make out names and titles of several vice-presidents. In the corner was the president’s office.

That’s where the transaction would have occurred. Somewhere in the back, in the privacy of an office, alone with an officer of the bank.

Jared recalled waiting in line before these same barred teller windows long ago. Twelve years old, he came each week clutching the tally from a day of mowing lawns and clipping hedges. He would inch forward in line, surrounded by the smell of cologned men with short, fat ties, the pungent sweat of overalled farmers, or the cloud of a graying woman’s perfume. At last, he would part with bills still moist from sweaty pockets, sliding them under the metal cage. He would watch as the bored teller converted the product of six hours of pushing a mower under a blazing sun into tiny smudged print on the page of his deposit book, then step away anticipating his pride at presenting the book to Dad waiting at home.

Those printed entries marked the weeks of summer—until his dad’s praise became a litany of expectations and the pride faded as Jared felt inadequate to meet them. By fourteen, the lectures and cajoling had become a daily occurrence, until Jared feared to even make a withdrawal, which might be seen by his father. At last, he took to hiding a portion of each week’s earnings in the back of a dresser.

Jared realized that he was staring at the teller window. He looked away to avoid notice. People kept entering and leaving the bank through the glass doors to Jared’s left. He couldn’t stand there much longer without drawing attention.

He turned and stepped back through the glass doors, taking a sudden deep breath on the sidewalk outside.

“Jared Neaton?”

A tall, sandy-haired man mounted the steps, and it took Jared a moment to place him. Willis Severson, a high school classmate. Jared greeted him cautiously. They were never close, and Jared wanted to move on before others coming or going from the bank were drawn to them. He avoided answers that would engage too much conversation. It wasn’t hard: Willis was mostly interested in telling his own history. Only half paying attention, Jared heard that Willis had never left the area, was married with three kids, and lived in nearby Merritstown now. When Willis paused for a breath, Jared jumped in to apologize about an appointment and headed past him down the steps.

Reaching the street level, Jared turned uptown, moving away from his car. The library was only a few blocks farther on, and he wanted to confirm what Goering had said about the law. Using the library computer and Internet connection, he would do a Westlaw search. Time was not on his side here, and he had to find some answers quickly.





From half a block’s distance, Mick looked through the telephoto lens pressed to the narrow opening in his car window. Neaton stood fifty yards away in front of the bank door, though through the lens, his face looked as near as the dashboard.

After Rachel’s call, Mick had downloaded Neaton’s picture from the online Hennepin County Bar Directory and raced north from Minneapolis to Ashley. Given the three-hour drive, he knew he was unlikely to catch the lawyer at the Larson farm, but figured Neaton would come into Ashley afterward. The trick was where to pick him up.

The bank seemed the surest bet. Mick parked with a clear line of sight and waited. Ten minutes ago, he’d felt the satisfaction of seeing Neaton approach along Main Street before climbing the bank steps and disappearing inside.

Now as Neaton emerged from the red stone building, Mick watched another figure approach him on the steps, his hand outstretched. Mick focused in as the two men merged, snapping a long series of shots.

In less than two minutes, Neaton parted from the other man and descended the steps. Mick lowered the camera and raised his car window shut, looking away as the lawyer walked past his position on the other side of the street.

Now what? Stop in the bank to figure out what Neaton was up to? No, he thought. His client would be very disappointed if Mick couldn’t report on all of Neaton’s activities in Ashley. He had to stay with Neaton for now—at least until he left town.

In his side-view mirror, Mick watched Neaton move away up the street. He lifted his cell phone and punched in a speed dial number. “Hello? May I speak with the Mr. Grant? . . . No, he’ll know what it’s about. Just tell him it’s Mick calling.”





Two hours passed in the cool of the library. Jared clicked on another Minnesota case summary and scanned it quickly. It gave the same answers as the last four.

Hunched before the library computer, Jared’s research confirmed what Mort Goering had told him about Minnesota law on deposit slips. A bank account was a contract between the depositor and the bank—it obligated the bank to repay any money placed in the account. A deposit slip showed money went somewhere—but didn’t prove that a bank account actually existed, that the depositor owned that account, or that any money deposited in that account remained there and was never withdrawn. Unless Jared could find other evidence to prove each of these propositions, Erin’s deposit slip was a dead end.

He leaned back and shook his head. So there it was. This was going to be an old-fashioned discovery battle, against well-funded attorneys who always played hardball.

He took a deep breath, stretched, and looked around. The library still smelled of that strange mix of new print and musty old tomes. Jared wished he could bottle it. During the worst days of high school, when his world was collapsing, he would hide out here on Saturday afternoons. That smell had become home to him.

The date on the computer screen reminded Jared again that time was very short. He still had to review Goering’s files in his car. If possible, he needed to find an expert who could help him understand what bank records might exist to prove the deposit. He also should see what he could learn from witnesses in Ashley. And he only had a day or two to do all that and decide if he would take the case.

The critical witnesses would be those who could confirm the details of the deposit or the account and help him trace the money. Jared imagined it like a rock dropping in water. The point of the impact was the moment of the transaction—the most crucial witnesses at that center would be Paul Larson, deceased, and the bank employee who handled the transaction. The next ring out would be anyone Larson confided in, or other bank employees who learned about the transaction. After that, who else? Anyone who could confirm that the account existed and it was owned by Paul Larson.

It was nearly five o’clock. He hadn’t even decided where to stay. He picked up some cases from an adjacent printer and headed for the front door.

“Jared!” a voice called as he reached the entryway.

He turned to see her small form, standing behind the front desk. “Mrs. Huddleston.”

Jared felt genuine pleasure at seeing her. As she came around the desk to give Jared a hug, he thought how deeply a person’s face marked the passage of time. In his memory, she still perched on the edge of middle age. Now she was the image of the elderly librarian.

“The ghost of Ashley,” she said quietly and smiled, looking him up and down.

Her voice still carried the heavy lilt of her roots—a second generation immigrant who spoke only Norwegian until she went to school. She was one of a handful of people in town Jared felt real guilt about never visiting.

“I didn’t see you when I came in,” he said. “Thought you may not work here anymore.”

“Retire?” She waved a hand around the room. “As long as I’ve been here, they’ll likely stuff me and exhibit me in the entryway someday. I’ve kept up with your exploits, Jared. Your father, you know. He comes in here often. Talks about your cases incessantly. He’s very proud of you.”

Jared couldn’t hide his surprise. He hadn’t spoken with his father in months.

“I don’t suppose you’re looking into that case with young Ms. Larson, are you?” she went on. “Now, close your mouth, Jared. The lawsuit isn’t a secret in this town, at least for people who get the paper. I read her last attorney quit a few weeks ago.”

It was strange enough being back in town. Jared didn’t want it to circulate that he was here investigating Erin’s case.

Mrs. Huddleston saw his look and shook her head, placing a finger to her lips. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” she said. “But you know, it’s good to think that someone might be looking out for that girl. Her case has stirred things up a bit, Jared. I haven’t seen anything like this since . . .”

She hesitated and embarrassment mixed with kindness in the elder woman’s eyes. Jared forced a smile. “That was a long time ago, Mrs. Huddleston.”

She looked for a moment as though she was pondering a reply, but instead reached out and squeezed Jared’s arm. It was a tender gesture—like so many she had extended in the past. He felt a release of some of the tension that had been building since he’d arrived in town.

“It’s so good to see you again,” she said with a smile. “Give me a call if you want to get your bearings in town, a refresher on who’s who.” She wrote her number on a piece of paper, and Jared took it with a thank-you. He left with a promise to return and catch up.

Standing on the grass beside the library steps, Jared saw the sun settling into the pines across the street. He looked farther uptown, in the direction of his dad’s house. No, he thought. He’d check in with his dad tomorrow. With relief at his decision, he turned the other way and began the long walk back to his car.