the light. It was a printed form with faded purple type across the center. She leaned closer to read it.
It was a bank deposit slip drawn on the Ashley State Bank. The colored machine-print lettering was faded, but legible. The top line was a deposit date of February 10, 2008, a little over three years before. The second line appeared to be an account number.
Printed at the bottom of the form was a deposit total. Erin read the number again and again—then realized that she had sat down once more.
The deposit total was 10.3 million dollars.
2
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
HENNEPIN COUNTY COURTHOUSE
MINNEAPOLIS, MINNESOTA
Twenty minutes after eleven, and the bench was still empty. Lawyers’ time means nothing to a judge, Jared Neaton thought. Two lawyers—him at a hundred seventy-five dollars an hour, his overdressed opponent three times that—that was over two hundred dollars in billings for a judge twenty minutes late.
Phil Olney pushed Jared with his elbow. “When’s he coming?”
“Soon,” Jared assured him. But in the courtroom, the judge was the master of the universe. He’d arrive when he arrived. No point in fighting it—you just had to learn to adjust.
“Counsel?” It was Blake Desmond, his opponent, seated at the next table, offering him a piece of paper that had slid onto the floor.
Jared thanked him with a nod, but thought, Don’t get friendly with me now. When Jared entered the courtroom half an hour ago, Desmond wouldn’t even accept his hand. He was one of those lawyers who had to show his client how tough he was. His type prowled the halls of the five Tigers, the biggest firms in the Twin Cities. With his thousand-dollar suit and Gucci shoes, Desmond exemplified the worst of the breed.
Jared glanced at his client. It had only been three days since Phil’s world took a significant turn for the worse—when he’d stumbled over a second set of books his brother, Russell, had been keeping for the check cashing business they ran. The records revealed a secret bank account in Russell’s name holding $110,000 from the brothers’ business.
That discovery was upsetting enough. The crowning insult was the new Lexus Phil saw in Russell’s garage when he went over to his house to confront him. With a wife, two kids under six, and a mortgage two months overdue, Phil’s fury almost got him jailed.
He arrived at Jared’s office on the advice of another of Jared’s clients. Over three long days and nights, Jared had earned every penny of Phil’s three-thousand-dollar retainer check preparing a motion for a temporary restraining order to freeze bank accounts, pulling together affidavits, summarizing financials, preparing the backstory, and organizing an argument why the court should grant the TRO.
The arrival of this case—and retainer—had been welcome. Jared needed the money, and not having to wait thirty days to earn it was especially good news this month.
The panel door behind the judge’s bench opened. A matronly calendar clerk stepped through, a docket sheet clutched in her hand.
“Mr. Neaton,” she called, as she dropped into her seat, “are you still with Paisley, Bowman, Battle, and Rhodes? Because we have you listed at the Paisley firm.”
“No,” Jared answered, explaining that he was on his own now. The Neaton Law Firm.
Desmond stiffened slightly and turned to Jared. “When were you with Paisley? Did you know Michael Strummer?”
“Two years ago, and yes,” Jared tossed back, before turning to dig into his briefcase for an imaginary document. It was too late for respect.
Jared glanced at his fidgeting client, then settled back in his chair and tried to look calm enough for both of them. It took practice to project confidence while waiting for a motion he was likely to lose.
Another nudge from his client. The panel door behind the judge’s bench was opening again.
“All rise,” the calendar clerk croaked. A heavy-lidded court reporter holding a stenography machine trudged into the room, followed by a young, eager-looking law clerk.
Judge Kramer entered last. Stout and slow, a long black robe draping his enormous belly, he ascended the steps to his chair, then dropped with an audible grunt.
“You may be seated,” the bailiff called. The judge, out of breath, sucked air in restrained gulps.
Jared looked to his opponent, sitting bolt upright at the table to his right, jotting final notes on a pad. Farther along sat Russell, looking straight ahead and as rigid as his brother was shaky.
Jared looked back up to the bench. The judge, his breath recovered, had opened his file and was paging the briefs from Jared and Desmond,