The Deposit Slip

by Todd M Johnson

  “Sidney, I want to bring Whittier into the loop.”

  “You what?”

  “Neaton probably won’t find Spangler in Athens. It’s a big city and Spangler’s likely to try to avoid contact. But things are getting too complicated to leave him out. Whittier’s too smart, and he’s going to figure this out.”

  “No! No way! Our deal was that Whittier stayed out of it, Marcus. You promised me you could handle that.”

  “Things have changed,” Marcus said softly, trying not to rile him further. “Now I need his full participation.” Marcus was glad Grant was not in the room to see his grip on the pen in his hand.

  “It’s too dangerous. I don’t know Whittier. I don’t trust Whittier.”

  Marcus couldn’t tell Grant the truth—that Whittier had overheard too much of his conversation with Mick’s New York man this morning to stay out of the loop now. “Things have gotten more complicated.”

  “You’ve lost control of this, Marcus. You’re going to get us caught. You’ve screwed this thing up so badly, you’re—”

  “Shut up, Sidney.” There was a moment of shocked silence. Marcus pressed on. “Now I’m going to tell you what we’re going to do, Sidney, and you’re going to listen. I’m going to bring Whittier into this thing. I’m going to tell him as much as I have to. And you’re going to shut up. You’re going to follow my instructions. We’re going to get through this, but you’re going to start to listen.”

  “You can’t talk to me—”

  “I can, Sidney, because I’m not your lawyer here. I stopped being your lawyer the day you brought me the check. Since that day, I’ve been your partner, Sidney—your partner. Now, as your partner, I’m going to do what’s best for both of us. I’m bringing Whittier into the loop.”

  The silence throbbed in Marcus’s ear. “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  More silence. “It’s coming out of your share,” the banker said at last.

  Marcus gently hung up the phone.

  Franklin Whittier III sat across from him on one of the twin couches of the hotel room that Marcus had rented to complete some tasks away from the halls of Paisley. Marcus had already explained the information he needed Whittier to send to Mick’s man. While the junior partner opened his laptop to obey, Marcus made a call to an offshore banker to complete the wire transfer.

  Ten minutes later, job done, Marcus appraised Whittier, still working over the laptop. The young attorney had taken their earlier discussion remarkably in stride. Whittier’s face had shown puzzlement when he arrived at the hotel room. Marcus had explained as much as necessary about the case—most of which had been kept from Whittier since the spring. He uncoiled the story slowly, carefully—prepared to back away quickly if the Paisley attorney demurred or showed hesitation about getting involved. He did neither.

  “What are you offering me?” was all he said when Marcus finished.

  Marcus handed him a printout with a number on it. “And support for full partnership next spring.”

  “All right,” Whittier responded without a pause.

  Marcus marveled at the young man. No hesitation, not a wrinkle of doubt. Amazing.

  Whittier finished the email and packed his laptop. With just a nod to Marcus, he picked up his coat and left the room.

  Marcus lingered a moment more. In the empty room, he pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket—the one containing the phone listing for Mick’s man in New York. Running his finger over the number, Marcus recalled how close he’d come to calling this man last January, back when Sidney Grant was telephoning him every other night. “I’m doing my part,” the banker had whined, “but you’ve got to do more.” Grant even threatened to reveal the lawyer’s identity to Paul Larson and his role in hiding the funds.

  Toward the end, even Marcus had grown impatient with the farmer. Each evening before heading home from the office, Marcus had found himself opening his locked desk drawer and examining the paper on which this man’s number had been recorded. Every night, he would finally slide the drawer shut, locking it again with a resolution of finality—only to open it again at the end of the following night.

  He’d come so close to making that call.

  The cycle only stopped the evening Sidney Grant called—hoarse with excitement—declaring, with a mix of curiosity and glee, “Larson had an accident.” Marcus had discarded the number the next day.

  After Paul Larson’s death, Marcus had told Mick the truth—that he’d never called the New York contact. But he’d never responded to Grant’s repeated suggestions these past nine months that Marcus had killed the farmer. He left that possibility hanging ripe in the air—never acknowledging that Paul Larson’s death really must have been an accident: a wonderful, timely gift of fate. If Grant wanted to assume the event was the work of Marcus, so be it.

  As he stood to head home, Marcus thought how relieved he was that he’d never crossed that line. Having the New York man deal with Paul Larson would have been an act birthed of panic. This situation was different. Neaton’s discovery of Spangler was disturbing and required action—but nothing so extreme as the overwrought banker’s idea of a solution. Mick’s man from New York would get the job done using more limited means. After all, everything in its right measure.

  32

  Jared sat outside a small café, a cup of sweet coffee on the table before him, just outside the fence surrounding the ruins of the ancient marketplace in the shadow of the towering Acropolis. It was unseasonably warm for this time of year, and the noon sun drew sweat from Jared’s exposed face and arms.

  He’d arrived in Athens three days earlier. The first two days were spent traveling to each of the Athens youth hostels with a picture of Cory—a photo Mrs. Huddleston scanned from the library’s copy of her senior yearbook. Most of the hostel managers accepted Jared’s explanation that he was Cory’s brother, each volunteering that she was not a guest. Two had cost Jared fifty Euros apiece for the same information.

  He reached the seventh hostel a few yards away, early on the morning of this, his third day. This one cost a hundred Euros—probably because the young manager’s eyes flashed instant recognition. It took several minutes of haggling and reassurances before the cautious manager took the note from Jared’s hand. Rubbing his beard, he nodded nervously at the picture, adding in near-perfect English, “She paid through tonight, but she is out.”

  Since that conversation, Jared had nursed coffee and snacks the rest of the morning, occasionally walking to look in the windows of shops next to the hostel but fearing to leave for longer than a quick trip to the restroom.

  Despite the manager saying she was staying through tonight, his reluctance caused Jared to fear he might be lying—or might warn Spangler to Jared’s presence. He would stay near the hostel entrance until he saw her return. This journey had cost too much to take a chance of missing her now.

  The late-afternoon sun was drifting low on the horizon, casting shadows over the patio. Still seated at the café, Jared now felt a growing chill. Out of the sunlight, his clothing—so warm in the morning sun—was now damp and cold. He glanced around to see if one of the shops sold sweatshirts.

  There she was at last.

  Moving hurriedly up the street, a small backpack slung over one shoulder and a shopping bag in her right hand, she was, except for less makeup, a perfect match for the yearbook photo.

  Jared dropped a five Euro note on his table and jogged the short distance to the hostel entrance. “Cory?”

  Nearly in the door, she looked over her shoulder with a puzzled expression that faded rapidly to dismay. “I’m busy,” she said. “I mean I’m in a hurry.” She moved into the entryway.

  Jared stepped closer. “Cory, Athens is a long way from Minnesota. I came all this way just to talk to you. I only need half an hour of your time. Please.”

  He could see that she was a sweet girl, unused to refusing courtesy. She stared hard at Jared, trying to convey her discomfort. But he did not move o
r speak, and shortly the defenses fell from her eyes. “Just half an hour,” she said in a voice of reluctant surrender.

  Jared had prepared this pitch like a closing argument—the story of the case, Paul and Erin Larson, and finally Sylvia Pokofsky’s testimony. Seated at a breezy restaurant table, as the shadows deepened further and a few dinner patrons began to arrive, the explanation took more than the promised half hour. As he finished, Jared looked into Cory’s eyes hoping he wasn’t conveying how close he was to desperation.

  Cory’s face remained a study of indifference—until Jared mentioned Pokofsky. Her eyes faltered there, and he wondered if she was trying to recall whether Pokofsky knew enough to prevent any further denials.

  She looked out over Jared’s shoulder toward the Acropolis, where the evening lights were beginning to shine in the deepening dusk. “All right,” she conceded with a sigh. “What do you want to know?”

  “Were you there the night Paul Larson deposited his check?” he asked, trying to mask his urgency.

  “I was at the bank the night he came in and . . . something strange happened.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  The girl settled back in her chair and sipped her coffee. Jared watched her anxiously. He’d forgotten how young college students now looked to him, how close to the surface they carried their emotions. She did not speak at once and for a moment Jared feared she was withdrawing—building new defenses. Then she began.

  Weeknights were always quiet at the bank, Cory said. It was usually just her, Cheryl Morrow, and Leigh Kramer who processed the day’s transactions, looking for errors and bundling the checks for transfer to the Federal Reserve. When she first began her internship, Cory was uncomfortable working evenings in the cool stillness of the ancient bank building. Ensconced at the small desk they had nestled into a corner for her behind the vault door, surrounded by marble and oversized wooden desks, she told how she felt like a laborer in a tomb.

  But it was just for three months. A chance to pad her resume with this unpaid internship as she completed her last year of junior college—before applying to St. Olaf.

  That night, both Cheryl and Leigh were sick. Fortunately, it was a Monday evening following a slow day. Starting at four o’clock, Cory had whittled away at the day’s transactions. Normally they would be done by ten, but tonight, working alone, it was nearing one thirty as Cory completed the final check.

  As she placed the check bags in the messenger pickup cart, Cory was startled by the sound of multiple footfalls in the back hallway. One set of steps was heavy, slow, and irregular; the other a hurried, staccato rhythm.

  Two men emerged around the hallway corner into the lights covering the back counter area. The first shed a coat, and a cloud of snow fell from the jacket as he laid it across his arm. It was Sidney Grant, the bank president. The other man was of similar height, but with broad shoulders drawn firmly back. He wore a fur-lined denim jacket and walked with a limp. Cory did not recognize him.

  Cory’s corner was dark and, she realized, invisible to the men as they approached. She felt awkward, uncertain how to announce her presence.

  “This isn’t necessary, Paul,” Sidney Grant said, stopping among the desks. “It’s better with this kind of thing to keep the record light.”

  “I want a receipt,” Paul answered. His face was shadowed from Cory’s angle, but she heard his low thick voice clearly. It reminded her of her father when he was very tired. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  The tension between the men made Cory shrink farther behind her desk.

  The bank president walked to one of the teller windows and turned on the computer monitor. After a moment, he moved the mouse, clicking several times on the cursor before typing on the keyboard. “Give me the account number you want again,” he said over his shoulder. Paul pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and read an eight-digit number, while the banker pecked at the keyboard.

  Finished typing, Mr. Grant began searching the teller station, among the cubbies and cupboards underneath. He straightened and turned, his face puzzled—when he saw her. “Cory?” he called and his voice faltered. “How long have you been there?”

  “I started at four p.m.,” she said, not knowing how else to answer.

  The other man—Paul—was staring too, his arms limp. Facing Cory, she saw that a stubble shadowed his face. His eyes were gentle, Cory thought, but tentative.

  The banker spoke again in clipped words. “Go in the back and get me some deposit slips.”

  Cory stepped around the desk, stumbling over her purse. Her stomach churned anxiously as she made her way to the supply room and came back with a set of slips. Mr. Grant snatched them away and returned to the teller station, slipping one of the deposit tickets into the printer and clicking on the cursor. Cory saw that Paul had taken a step in her direction and was looking at her with concern.

  “Do you know my daughter?” he asked.

  “I, I don’t know.”

  “Erin Larson. She graduated from high school four years ago.”

  Cory was not thinking clearly, but the name sounded familiar. “Yes, I think so. She was a couple of years ahead of me.”

  “Paul,” the banker interrupted, “come on. We’ll finish in my office.”

  Paul smiled at Erin before turning to follow the banker. Cory could see that Mr. Grant now held a deposit ticket in his hand. With a grim glance at Cory, the banker led Paul into his office, shutting the door solidly behind them.

  Shaken, Cory gathered her coat and purse. She walked silently across the room toward the back hallway leading to her car.

  She stopped her story—or paused—Jared was unsure which. “Did you see what was on the deposit slip?” Jared asked.

  Cory shook her head.

  Jared watched her quietly for a moment. He felt lightheaded and was suddenly struck with how far his own disbelief in the deposit had grown. He had questions about her story—some serious. But this was it. It must be it.

  He opened his mouth to probe further, then stopped. As skittish as Cory appeared, he was apprehensive that the wrong word now would make her recant it all. Still, he couldn’t shy away from the next request; all of this could be meaningless if Cory didn’t agree to share her testimony.

  “Cory,” he began softly, “what you witnessed that night is critical to Erin’s case against the bank. In fact, without it, we probably won’t even get to trial. I imagine this is a very important trip to you. I’ll figure out a way to repay you and make another trip possible. But I want you to come back with me to Minnesota and make a record of what you saw.”

  Her face twisted in surprise. “But I said I didn’t see the deposit slip.”

  “It doesn’t matter. What you saw is ‘circumstantial evidence’ that the deposit slip was created. It’s the only real proof the deposit slip we have is real. Our only true chance to win this case.”

  Another half truth, Jared knew. Cory’s testimony might defeat summary judgment, but couldn’t win the case for them: that was a lost cause absent proof of the amount the banker placed on the slip that evening. But any hedging on the importance of Cory’s evidence could let her off the hook.

  Her eyes were still noncommittal.

  Jared felt his chances fading. “Cory, this isn’t just a case about that deposit. Erin Larson is trying to prove her father, Paul, was not alone in this and may even have been coerced into keeping the money. You’re the only witness right now that links this deposit to actions by Sidney Grant and the bank.”

  He saw that the reference to Erin’s father—or perhaps the negative reference to Sidney Grant—touched something in Cory. “For how long?” she asked reluctantly.

  “One week. Long enough to arrange for your deposition testimony.” And long enough, he didn’t add, for Marcus to savage you with cross-examination.

  Cory released a sigh of surrender, and Jared felt slammed with a jolt of excitement bordering on giddiness. He’d make it up to her, he told himself; s
he’d have other chances to travel. But this was it. Let’s see the Paisley boys get summary judgment in the face of this evidence.

  “I’ll arrange the plane tickets home,” Jared said, and there wasn’t a hint of his elation in his voice.

  33

  The light in his tiny room was unshielded and bright. Its walls a washed-out pink, the room held two cot-sized bunk beds, a sink, and a corner hook for clothing—nothing more. Mercifully, in view of its size, Jared had this hostel room all to himself.

  He tried to shape the rock that served as his pillow and then lay back to rest before supper. The flight from Athens to Minneapolis was at seven o’clock tomorrow evening. Jared had moved into Cory’s hostel as soon as she agreed to return with him. It was only forty Euros a night, which suited his thin wallet—but mostly he feared she might change her mind. From Cory’s facial expression when he told her, she understood that as well.

  With only one more day to enjoy the city, Cory planned to sightsee tomorrow. They would rendezvous at the hostel around three p.m., pick up their bags, and take the train to the airport together.

  Jared thought about following Cory all day to ensure she didn’t just leave. But how could he stop her anyway? Grab her luggage? He’d knocked on her door this evening to tell her he’d reserved the airline tickets, hoping that would cement her commitment to return and testify. Beyond that, it was out of his hands.

  Jared reached to his carry-on bag on the floor beside the bed and retrieved the two-page statement Cory signed tonight just before she went to bed. He’d drafted it from Cory’s description. It was short and unembellished, simply listing the important things Cory witnessed that night three years ago. He’d brought his notary stamp for this eventuality and notarized the document. It wasn’t quite kosher, notarizing something in a foreign country, but might pass muster with the judge. Mostly, Jared knew that witness testimony usually stabilized after being committed to writing.