Jared wanted to blow his anger back across the line. Curse his mentor and hang up. He looked up at Jessie, who was still standing in front of his desk. She was frozen, her face blanched white.
“I’ll send Jessie to pick up the check” was all Jared could muster before dropping the phone into its cradle.
Jessie was nearly in tears—fear or rage, Jared was unsure—as he packed her out the door to Clay’s office with a promise to say nothing.
All the plans and arrangements Jared had been listing in his mind between other clients’ work came apart. Ten thousand dollars: it couldn’t sustain him, the office, and the case—not even close. Deposition costs alone could be five or six thousand dollars. Travel. Payroll for Jessie. Plus there was all the personal and firm debt he already had to carry.
The pain and anger knifed through him. Never this, not from Clay.
But there was no looking back.
14
Mrs. Huddleston cradled the cup of tea on her lap, observing Jared scan a printed list. She had handed him the sheet when he arrived at her home that morning, Saturday, almost before he said hello. There were thirty-eight names on the list, each with a date recorded next to it.
In a phone message to Mrs. Huddleston the evening before, Jared had told her that he was coming back to Ashley this morning and asked if she could help him identify current and former employees of Ashley State Bank over the past four years. Jared knew the librarian was efficient, but he hadn’t expected such details in a matter of hours.
“I spoke with Shelby; she lives two doors down,” she explained. “She doesn’t work at the bank, but her niece Jillian did, until last month. Jillian worked in human resources at the Ashley bank the last couple of years. They let her go, and she’s still unhappy about it.”
“How’d you put this together so quickly?”
Mrs. Huddleston shrugged matter-of-factly, though Jared detected the pride in her voice. “Shelby was home, and I went over to her place last night. She called someone and made some notes. I suppose it might have been her niece. I suppose it’s also possible,” she added, looking out the window indifferently, “that Jillian might still have an old employee list from the bank.”
Jared smiled. He’d told Mrs. Huddleston they couldn’t contact any bank employees—the judge would skin him if that came to light. As it was, Stanford would scream anyway if he knew the source of this information.
Current bank employees on the list were identified by date of hire, former employees with the additional notation of their termination date. “Could Shelby or her . . . contact,” Jared asked, “identify what jobs these people held?”
Mrs. Huddleston nodded. “I imagine that could be arranged, though I could probably tell you most of them as we sit here.”
Mrs. Huddleston moved to the couch next to Jared. While Jared jotted notes on the list, she proceeded to identify each of the witnesses’ jobs at the bank. She knew three-quarters of them. When she’d finished, she disappeared into the kitchen to get herself and Jared more tea.
The small-town difference, Jared thought. He’d banked at the same Wells Fargo branch in the Twin Cities for seven years and doubted he could identify a single teller by name. Mrs. Huddleston not only knew their names, she could recite their job titles, their tenure, and probably half of their children’s ages.
The file from Goering’s office revealed that after a struggle with Paisley, Erin’s former counsel had received a similar list of current and former bank employees. Jared didn’t trust that Paisley list for a moment. This information on his lap he could rely upon. And it would enable him to rapidly narrow the list of those he really should depose.
“Mrs. Huddleston, did you know Paul Larson?” he asked as she returned.
She patted her gray hair and set down her tea. “Jared, please call me Carol. You add ten years to my age every time you start out with a ‘Mrs.’ But yes,” she continued, “I knew Paul. I suppose if you work in a library for forty years, there aren’t too many people in a town like Ashley you don’t know.”
Jared asked her to describe the man.
“Paul was quiet. Closed off. He could come across as flinty—hard, I mean. But he was always courteous to me. Always returned his books on time. Before your time, he used to go to First Lutheran—your old church—back when his wife was still alive. Now, she was a darling girl.”
“You knew Mrs. Larson?”
“Oh yes. She grew up here, you know. She was younger than me, but I knew her family.”
“What was it like when she died?”
“Paul took it very hard, of course. The whole town was at the funeral. I remember how sad it was seeing young Erin. I remember she clung to her father’s hand. I can still picture it, because he held her fingers so tightly in his.” She shook her head. “I don’t think Erin really understood.”
“Paul had been away at the war, you know,” Mrs. Huddleston continued after a moment of silence. “He was injured and came back a hardened man. Only times I saw him different were around his wife—or with his daughter. He softened like butter around them. After his wife died—well, I don’t recall him at church more than a half-dozen times after that. Although, I recall he showed up a few times shortly before his accident. Mostly, though, I saw him when he came to the library.”
“Do you know if he had any friends?”
“I have some notion, but let me check around and get you a list. Since this bank lawsuit, half the town claims they were Paul’s friends, and they’re all certain they know the inside story. I wouldn’t waste your time following those rumors.”
Rushed as he felt, Jared resisted the ache to leave. He forced himself to sit back and chat with Mrs. Huddleston for a while longer. Jared genuinely cared about this lady. It was her questions he wanted to avoid. But he knew they were the price of admission to this case in Ashley—and they were better coming from Mrs. Huddleston than others who masked curiosity as concern.
After half an hour, Mrs. Huddleston finally ventured into the topic. “How was it visiting your father?”
“Fine.”
“He worries about you.”
Jared wanted to say it didn’t matter, but answered politely, “I know.”
“Before his troubles, Jared, your father was such a proud, driven man. I swear I never saw that man sitting still. If he passed you on the street, you’d never get more than a hello. I saw him at the library occasionally. Always hurrying.”
Mrs. Huddleston was right. Growing up, his dad was a coiled spring. At sports events he was nowhere to be seen in the stands. Jared came to know that he was usually stalking the sidelines beyond the bleachers. He never got vocal—Jared was deeply thankful for that—but his emotion shouted from his face, his hunched shoulders, his restlessness.
“I hardly knew your father then,” she went on. “I’ve come to know him a lot better now. I think he’s changed. Don’t you?”
The phone rang before Jared was forced to respond. Mrs. Huddleston excused herself to answer it. When she returned, Jared was standing near the door. In her absence, he’d felt the anxiety creeping in. He didn’t want to talk about his father; it was a distraction he couldn’t afford just now. He apologized, but said he had to get started on some things. They’d talk more soon.
Mrs. Huddleston smiled knowingly. “I’ll see what I can find out for you this weekend about Paul’s friends.”
Jared’s hand was on the knob when he felt Mrs. Huddleston’s hand rest on his forearm.
“Jared, it’s not easy for your father here in Ashley. Not everyone is so . . . forgiving. You might want to ask yourself why a proud man like your father, after the shame he suffered in Ashley, would choose to come back here. And you might want to know why he stayed—even after your mother left him.”
Jared checked into the Chatham Motel again for the weekend. Since the moment he’d learned that Clay’s money would not be there to support them, his urgency about the case had bordered on panic. He didn’t know if it was eve
n possible to get out of this now, short of bankruptcy-dealing sanctions—but he needed to know as soon as possible if he had any chance to win the case.
Jared opened his motel room, tossed his bags on the bed, and headed back to the car.
Other than neighbors, Erin had few ideas about persons her father might have confided in. The best options were Pastor Tufts at the First Lutheran Church and two men her father apparently met regularly at the Legion Hall. The latter had been at Paul Larson’s memorial service, Erin recalled.
Fifteen minutes after leaving the motel, Jared was walking under the changing hues of the trees lining Mill Street. As on the previous weekend, Jared chose to leave the car near the city park and walk the rest of the way to his destination. Despite the anxiety and rush he felt about launching this case, his return to Ashley still held unexpected aspects of warmth. The familiar streets of the town felt at odds with the past years of grind—law school, the intensity and politics of Paisley, the insecurity of his own practice, the numbing crash of the Wheeler trial. Coming back here, he admitted, offered a rare interval of peace, which he especially felt on these walks.
At some level, Jared knew it was a fantasy, that the Ashley he embraced at this moment was an illusion that would disintegrate with the fragility of smoke. It had before. Still, he lingered in it. What could it hurt? And what other option did he have? This kind of peace had been rare for a long time.
As Jared approached the First Lutheran Church, however, the comfort he’d enjoyed being back here vanished. Seeing the familiar spire through the trees, he told himself it was because his father worked here. He was just concerned that the pastor—like Mrs. Huddleston—would raise questions about their relationship, he reassured himself.
But as he passed the dark gray stone arching the entry gate to the churchyard, Jared knew that a pastor’s questions were only a small part of his renewed anxiety. It was coming back here at all—to one of the places that spawned his anger that final year in Ashley.
The front door was unlocked and he entered. His footsteps echoed on the tile as he strode past the narthex on his way to the church offices. The pastor’s door was open, and Jared gave a brief knock on the frame.
He estimated that the pastor was somewhere in his forties, tall and slim with thick brown hair waved back. “Call me Bob,” the man insisted, waving Jared toward one of the two stuffed chairs in front of his desk.
The room resembled a library, with books from floor to ceiling and a mixed display of icons and African artifacts. The pastor wore jeans and a blue polo shirt and looked relaxed. Still, Jared could not set aside his own unease as he settled into his seat.
“You’re here to talk about Paul Larson,” the pastor began before Jared had a chance to speak.
Jared hesitated, unsure how much to share. It was usually best to say as little as possible with a potential witness, Clay had taught. Aggressive opposing attorneys could later grill them on every word you said and try to use it against you.
The only time it might be worth the risk was when you could bring someone to your side. “A witness who takes a stake in the justice of your cause is not only a supportive witness, but a passionate one too,” Clay had preached. “Wonderful combination, that. And you must never cynically believe such actions are manipulative. If, merely by how you describe the case, you can convince someone your client’s cause is just, that’s not manipulation. No, son, that’s just good lawyering.”
But knowing the right witness who could be influenced was always tricky, Jared had found, and knowing what would appeal to them, trickier still. At the moment, Jared knew nothing about this pastor, who looked back at him with an unwavering gaze.
Starting cautiously, Jared began by describing Paul Larson, his relationship with his only daughter, the difficulty of his death on Erin. He mentioned, in passing, that the farm was under foreclosure and would be lost given the paucity of her father’s estate. Then he launched into the pitch of the case.
“I’m here trying to help Ms. Larson recover some money we believe her father received before he died,” Jared said. “We have documents showing that he deposited it in the local bank—which denies the deposit, despite Mr. Larson’s written slip. So we need to find other proof. Maybe Mr. Larson mentioned the money? To you or to another pastor at the church?”
Pastor Tuft looked at Jared with a noncommittal smile on his face. The obvious questions seemed written there. Where did the money come from? Why was the bank contesting a simple deposit? But the pastor asked none of these things.
“Jared, you’re asking me to share something which Mr. Larson may have said in confidence to his pastor. That’s pretty private stuff, you know.”
“I hope his daughter reached you to grant permission to talk on behalf of the estate,” Jared responded gently.
The pastor shook his head. “It’s really not that simple.”
Waiting for more, the lecture to come, Jared began to bristle. For many years now, he’d had little patience for moralizing.
“Did you know Paul Larson?” the pastor continued, his eyes neutral.
“No.”
“Neither did I—at least not well. When he and his wife first attended this church, that was way before my time here. By the time I came to First Lutheran a few years ago, his wife had passed away and Mr. Larson seldom came. Frankly, I don’t know his daughter at all. I only met her at the memorial service.”
“Is there anything you’ll share?” Jared pressed. Assuming a no, he began to rise.
The pastor ignored Jared’s movement—as well as his words and the sharpness creeping into his tone.
“Did you know that Mr. Larson began coming to our church more often in the final few months before he died?”
“No.” Jared’s hands still held the arms of his chair, but he wasn’t rising now.
“He did. I believe it was quite a change for him. In fact, he struck me as someone looking for change in his life, struggling with some decisions. Change can be hard, even if you think you want it. It can be enormously difficult for the person changing. Sometimes, even harder on those you love. Don’t you think so?”
Jared just nodded. Where was he going with this? Were they still talking about Paul Larson? He watched the pastor’s gaze meander around the room for a moment, until it settled back on Jared.
“To answer your question, I don’t feel I can get into matters that Mr. Larson may have deemed confidential. Especially as they might relate to his family. Mr. Larson was, after all, a very closed man.”
The pastor rose, signaling the end of the conversation. “Please don’t think I’m unsympathetic. But under the circumstances, I’m afraid you’re going to have to find what you need another way.”
Jared emerged back into the afternoon sunlight, softening now as it filtered through the lengthening shadows of the trees lining the street. He began the walk back to the park where he had left his car.
He hadn’t gotten proof of the deposit. But the pastor’s last comment had inferred that Paul Larson spoke with his pastor about a confidential matter shortly before he died. Something for which he was seeking spiritual guidance. Evidence of a guilty conscience?
He pulled out his cell and dialed. Jessie answered at the office, and he filled her in on what Mrs. Huddleston and the pastor had said.
“So, are you going to schedule some depositions of the bank employees?” she asked when he’d finished.
“Yeah. But let me think about how to handle it overnight.”
“Okay. How about the pastor. You think the farmer told him something significant?”
“Maybe. It’s possible Pastor Tuft was just trying to impress me with how well he can keep a secret. But he didn’t strike me that way.”
“Or,” Jessie responded, “maybe Larson confided general things about how he was doing, problems at the farm. Nothing really important.”
“Yeah.” Jared hesitated, unsure whether to go on. He’d called Jessie to discuss the case out of habit, but he
was regretting it. She was already so sour on his taking the case.
It didn’t matter; she finished his thoughts before he could decide.
“You know, from what the pastor said, you could also conclude that his daughter knows more than she’s told us. You know, ‘confidences affecting his family.’ ”
Jared understood what Jessie meant. It was the prospect that most bothered him.
“What are you going to do?” she pressed again when Jared did not respond for a while.
“I think I’m going to try to find the two remaining witnesses on Erin’s list tonight after dinner. At the Legion Hall.”
“And, Jared,” Jessie said, as though she were about to launch into a complaint, “with the problems your client’s been having up there, you might want to be careful where you go at night.”
Not a complaint. Just concern. Though it was hard to contemplate anything dangerous about Ashley.
“I’ll be careful,” he promised, then hung up.
The basement bar at the Legion Hall was crowded and loud. From the base of the stairs, Jared saw veterans whose assorted tours must have covered the gamut from Korea through Afghanistan. The majority were men, but some wives or girlfriends also filled the lounge.
It was later than Jared planned—closing in on ten. He’d stopped at the motel after dinner to finish some legal research and answer some emails. After all, it seemed unlikely that the witnesses—Harry Sanderson and Victor Waye—would arrive much before midevening anyway.
Erin could give only a vague description of the men, so Jared walked to the bar to ask for them by name. The bartender raised his voice to answer.
The Deposit Slip Page 10