“Can you read me the account number?”
She heard Mrs. Finstrude calling to her husband, asking whether he had her reading glasses. Then she was back on the line. She read the number.
Jessie jotted it down and thanked Shelby for her help. As soon as she set down the phone, she opened the trial notebook to Exhibit 1: a photocopy of the deposit slip.
As Jessie traced the numbers she had written on her pad against those on the photocopy, she felt like she was scanning a potential winning lottery ticket.
The first three numbers matched; the next three also.
She dropped the phone and screamed aloud in the empty farmhouse.
Jared couldn’t believe the words Jessie had just uttered. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. I’m on my way now to pick up the check from Shelby.”
Jared’s mind raced like an uncoupled locomotive. They had the account. And it was an Ashley State Bank account.
He wondered why this possibility hadn’t occurred to him before. The farmer had used the number for his wife’s old personal checking account, perhaps the account they used for household costs. Was it sentiment? A good luck charm? Perhaps, Jared thought. But he thought it was more than that. He had a sense of Paul Larson. The farmer had kept this money because he believed he deserved it—for what he had suffered in the war, and the crippling loss of the wife he loved. Using her account to store the money was just the right thing to do. An affirmation of his belief, hope, that she would approve.
With an account number, they had the necessary proof that the bank received the money. They still didn’t have proof of the critical element that the bank retained the money—that Paul Larson didn’t remove the money sometime after its deposit. But in view of Grant’s lies about receiving the funds in the first place, there was a fair chance they could convince the jury Grant was lying on this point as well.
“Jessie, send notice to Whittier that Shelby Finstrude is a new witness on our list. Then retrieve the check and produce a copy to Whittier immediately. Tell them it’s our new Exhibit 2.”
At dawn, Marcus listened to the chirping of birds in the pines and ash surrounding the cabin and wondered how much longer he could go with only a few hours of rest each night. Even the mild sedatives he’d been taking since returning from New York had grown impotent to bring him sleep.
He knew Proctor had warned him not to call again following their conversation last night, but each hour the vacuum of communication grew more agonizing.
Whittier was now staying at a motel in Mission Falls and commuting each day to Marcus’s cabin to prepare for trial. Marcus was helping plan the defense, but knew that Whittier could sense his distraction and indifference.
The fact was that the bank could still win this lawsuit. The Spangler statement fell far short of the evidence Neaton needed to actually prevail. Still, Grant was right: they could not try this case, though for reasons of which the man was unaware.
Marcus still had told no one about the subpoena seeking the Paisley trust account. Too many people at Paisley knew about the settlement and the unusual and secretive measures Marcus had insisted upon in the matter—including personally depositing the settlement check into the trust account. He’d be unable to hide the evidence if it came out at trial. Questions would circulate, and someone at the firm would eventually press for more information.
Marcus rose and padded through the silent house to the kitchen. He poured himself some orange juice and then sat at the large dining room table, now strewn with deposition transcripts, document notebooks, and legal research printouts.
Whittier was in the loop about the VA money, but knew few details—including how Marcus had cashed the Veterans Administration check through the Paisley trust account. The junior partner had no information about Anthony Carlson in Washington, or the man’s recruitment to prevent government audits from detecting the accidental overpayment of funds to Paul Larson.
All Whittier really knew was that Marcus was helping Grant to keep an overpayment on a VA check issued to Paul Larson, following the farmer’s death. And of course Whittier knew that his share of the proceeds was five hundred thousand dollars and a guaranteed recommendation for partnership. It was a sum twice that due to Carlson.
The sun now began reflecting off the ice on the lake visible through the picture window. Marcus walked closer to the glass, orange juice in hand, to admire it. But today it failed to move him.
Once he’d made the decision to hire Proctor, he thought this would all sit easier. Some moments it did. Other times his ambivalence tortured him until he longed for the act to be irrevocably done to banish the specters of doubt.
Whittier and Grant could not know about Proctor or what was about to occur. Marcus wouldn’t allow anyone else into that innermost circle of knowledge. It was not shame, he insisted to himself, but simple pragmatism. They might suspect when it was all done, but no one could be certain.
He finished the orange juice and set the glass on a corner desk to the right of the window. Each day he followed the same interminable pattern. After Whittier arrived around nine o’clock, they prepped for trial until late afternoon, when the junior partner finally left. Too unsettled to prepare his own meals, Marcus drove to Mission Falls for supper, returning in the early evening. Then the wait would begin again for some word from Proctor Hamilton that this agony was finally over. Until, in the early morning hours, Marcus would finally crawl into bed for another sleepless night.
Marcus looked at his watch. Eight o’clock in the morning. Whittier would be here within an hour. Another long day of waiting.
Richard Towers’s Honda Accord offered a new rattle as he drove down Main Street in downtown Ashley. Sounded like the muffler this time. But then his mechanical skills ranked just below his prowess with computers and all things technical. He’d have it looked at when he got back to St. Paul.
The echo of four church gongs sounded the hour. Richard had told Mr. Neaton he’d arrive in the early afternoon, so he was running a little late.
Despite a thickening of the falling snow, the street was busy. Students recently out from school wandered in packs in and out of storefronts, letter jackets and parkas predominating. Richard glanced quickly at the directions Jared had given him.
He must have missed the turn. At the next stop sign, Richard rolled to a stop, then cranked the steering wheel to the right, searching for a spot to review his directions more carefully.
As he completed the turn, he passed a truck parked near the intersection, directly in front of an American Legion Hall. Richard saw the driver behind the wheel, a gaunt man with a dark green John Deere hat.
Moments later, a tan sedan rolled past as Richard pulled into an open spot a few parking spaces farther ahead of the truck. Richard placed the Accord in park and picked up the directions sheet. He reread them carefully, trying to retrace where he had deviated from the instructions.
A man dressed in a dark jacket and slacks sidled past on the sidewalk to the right. The man’s chin was set back, his gait straight. His clothes were rough and unpressed. His boots were stained with mud, but his hands were clean and his face smooth.
Richard saw where he’d likely missed his turn. He reached for the shift lever to put the car back in Drive, casting a glance to his right hand side-view mirror.
The darkly dressed man was now passing within inches of the truck he’d observed in front of the Legion Hall. A quick look in the rearview mirror showed the truck empty, but the pedestrian had stopped and was peering into the back seat of the truck.
Richard did a U-turn and drove slowly back to the stop sign, planning to retrace his route on Main Street until he found the turn he’d missed. Stopped at the intersection, Richard noted the pedestrian now standing at the corner, to his left. The man stood a moment longer, then turned abruptly around and started walking back in the direction from which he’d come.
As Richard turned left onto Main Street, he felt the familiar discomfort agai
n. Only this one did not play cat and mouse at the edge of his awareness. Why was a man scrubbed for a dress parade wearing clothes for the field? Where had he been so recently that the mud still caked his boots? What was this man with unmistakable military bearing looking for in the truck?
Richard shrugged it off—incongruous observations of matters irrelevant to him were a daily experience, sometimes several times a day. He was used to accepting that he’d usually never know the why of his observations, only the what.
He spun the wheel to the left and drove on toward the Neaton house.
Five minutes later, he pulled in front of the tiny one-story home at the end of the cul-de-sac described by Jared Neaton. There were no cars in the driveway. Richard checked the address again before walking to the front door and knocking.
No one responded. He peered in through the living room window, confirming no one was around.
He checked his watch. It was closing in on four thirty. Jared had given him alternative directions to the Larson farm if he arrived too late to meet at the house. The snow was quickening, but Richard hoped to spend at least a few minutes with Jared and his trial team this afternoon and evening to share some of his thoughts and offer any help he could.
He slipped the envelope containing his bill and report into the mailbox, along with a separate envelope containing the Larson phone records his contact had finally delivered. Then he returned to his car and looked over the directions. They said it was only about a twenty-five minute drive to the farm from here. He’d confirm his reservation at the motel and then drive out to the farm. He should make it back into town by seven, hopefully before the worst of the storm settled in.
“You sure you got it?” Carlos asked, walking at Jared’s side, watching him push a wheelchair through the growing piles of slush on the sidewalk from the VA Hospital to the parking lot.
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Jared answered.
Jared looked up in frustration at the snow, beginning to fall with greater urgency. He had a full two-hour drive if the weather continued to worsen, on slick country roads.
The veteran had on his “bionic” leg and walked fairly well, though carefully through the wet snow. The nurse had insisted they bring the wheelchair to limit Carlos’s fatigue while he stayed at the farmhouse for his prep session. The plan was for Carlos to stay the night; then Jessie would drive him back to the VA Hospital in the morning.
Jared opened the back to his CR-V, surveyed the space for a second, and began shifting things around to make room for the wheelchair.
“That what I think it is?” Carlos asked when he pulled out a canvas case.
Jared nodded. “My old .22 and some ammo. Erin said my dad could do some target shooting at the farm this weekend, and he was so excited he put it in my trunk a couple of days ago.”
The wheelchair fit, but barely. Carlos headed toward the passenger side while Jared slid behind the wheel.
As he got into the car, Jared thought back to the advice Clay had given him before his first trial. “By the time a good attorney finishes his trial preparation,” Clay had said, “he is usually convinced of the justice of his case, and equally convinced that any fair-minded jury will agree with him. It doesn’t matter how bad the case really is, or if he’s the only person so certain. A good advocate, once prepared, must believe in the case he is about to present—or no one else will.”
Jared thought he was at that place now. Though there still were moments when doubts came crashing through, most of the time he felt amazed at how far they’d progressed. The discovery of the account number had to mean victory.
As he started the car, Jared saw how thickly the flakes had accumulated on his windshield. The wipers could still push it aside, but at this rate the visibility was going to be limited, and he’d have to take it slow. Hopefully Erin was already back from Minneapolis after picking up Cory at the airport.
He backed up, glancing at the car clock. It was nearly six o’clock, fully dark, and the car was buffeted by growing gusts of wind. Jared grimaced once more before gingerly maneuvering the CR-V out of the VA Hospital lot for the long drive to Erin’s farm.
Jessie looked out the kitchen window as headlights emerged from the blanket of white that obscured everything more than one hundred feet from the side of the house. The car stopped, the lights went out, and Erin emerged from the driver’s side.
The young woman getting out of the passenger door must be Cory. They pulled a red backpack from the car trunk and then slipped and slid the short distance to the side entrance into the kitchen.
“It’s awful out there,” Erin said as she removed her coat. She stomped the clumps of snow from her boots in the entryway and then made introductions.
Cory’s cheeks were flushed from the wind and cold outside. Jessie thought she looked even younger than her twenty-one years. She was dressed in clothes more appropriate for touring southern Europe than the arrival of a Minnesota winter.
Seeing her in person, Jessie was drawn back to Jared’s description of their time in Athens. She wondered how Cory had processed the truth about the threats told to her by Mrs. Huddleston. Was she angry at Jared? Frightened? If she was concerned about the risk of testifying, Jessie saw no signs of it in her face or eyes.
After Cory had shed her coat and boots near the door, Erin led her through the kitchen into the living room, toward the staircase leading to her second-floor guestroom while Jessie returned to preparing supper. She heard the rising howl as the wind began to gust. Already Erin’s car was disappearing under growing piles of wet snow, and the forecast called for the winds to pick up as the night got colder, freezing the snow on the roads.
Jared was supposed to be here within the hour, but she wondered how long it would really take him to make it. It was a good night to be indoors, safe and sound.
The road looked familiar—but then all these country roads were starting to look familiar—two lanes covered with white. Visibility was down to a hundred feet or so. Richard wished again he knew how to use the GPS on his cell phone.
He’d been roaming these roads for nearly an hour now. The sun was fully gone and no stars or moon were visible through the low, heavy clouds overhead. He’d considered calling Jared or Jessie to guide him in, but what would they tell him when he could see no landmarks? As much as he’d hoped to make it to the Larson farm tonight, perhaps it was time to turn around and try to find his way back to Ashley.
A car emerged from the white cloud ahead, moving fast. Then it was past, spraying a mix of slush and snow across the slapping wipers of the Accord. The car, visible in Richard’s headlights for only a moment, seemed faintly familiar.
He drove another quarter of a mile, then came to a T intersection with a road to his right. Richard turned onto the road, hoping this might lead to the Larson driveway.
A few hundred yards down this turnoff, he passed a truck parked at an angle on the opposite side of the road, resting partially in the shallow ditch. Another hundred yards beyond the truck and the Accord headlamps shone on fencing bordering a small turnabout. A dead end.
Richard turned the car around. As he approached the truck in the ditch once more, he slowed. The vehicle was disappearing under mounting snow, but its hood remained nearly dry. It must have been driven recently, he thought. Then he realized where he’d seen the truck before, or one like it, in front of the Legion Hall.
It was the same color; looked like the same model. Richard pulled up alongside the vehicle and rolled down his passenger window. The truck windows were nearly covered over with snow, but it appeared empty.
The snow underfoot was slippery as Richard walked across the front of his Accord toward the parked truck. He brushed aside the snow clinging to the driver’s side window and shone a penlight from his key chain onto the seat. There was nothing there. He did the same to the back windows.
A John Deere hat was visible on the back seat. It rested on an unzipped, empty gun case.
The wind tugged at his coat, an
d Richard felt the cold keenly. He quickly retreated to the warmth of his car.
Why would a hunter be out on a night like this? Richard looked around in the darkness. The visibility was too poor to see any distance, but the shadow of tall woods loomed across the field on the far side of the parked truck.
The car that passed earlier . . . in the momentary flash of his headlights, Richard had an impression that it was tan. The same color as the car that passed him before the pedestrian appeared at the Legion Hall.
Worried at the accumulating snow, Richard put the Accord in Drive and drove slowly back to the T intersection—where he turned left to retrace his route to Ashley.
The Larson farm had proven too elusive to find in this snowstorm, but Richard knew that he had to be within a mile or so. The hunter. The tan car.
The connections were so vague—like pieces so different they seemed unlikely to fit the same puzzle. He drove on, pondering what he should do.
Erin, Jessie, and Cory finished their dinner of leftovers. Cory spent the meal telling about her trip—particularly her week in Venice and working her way down the coast of Italy.
While Erin and Cory cleared the dishes to the sink, Jessie put on her coat and gathered the full trash bag to carry to the bin across the driveway.
It was growing colder, the snow less wet and the flakes smaller. As the wind gusts snapped at her hair, Jessie felt the touch of the flakes drifting onto her eyelashes and melting as they brushed her cheeks. She looked across the fence at the brown fields that had disappeared under a cushion of snow. It was supposed to be warmer in a few days, and all this could be melted. But fall was losing the struggle, and she knew that soon enough these fields would be knee deep in the permanent white cover of winter.
The Deposit Slip Page 27