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“What time?” Torres asks.
“Morning slack, most of the time.”
“Why then?”
“Because every hand on the grounds was watching the chutes, loading stock, or getting ready to compete. Nobody pays attention to a man walking through the trailer rows when everybody else is carrying tack.”
The AUSA taps his pen against the legal pad. “Who received the packets?”
“Different people. Sometimes Neil gave me a trailer number and told me where to leave it. Sometimes a man met me.”
“Names?”
“The ones I know are in the statement.”
“And the receipts?”
“I signed them.”
“Your own name?”
“Carrick. Every time.”
His pen stops again. “Vogt allowed you to create a paper trail?”
“He wanted proof I’d done what he ordered. He figured the signatures belonged to a convicted felon violating parole. If anything surfaced, the trail ended with me.”
Torres watches me for a moment. “Tell him about Prescott.”
“It was outside a sale barn after dark. Neil had a phone in his hand when I got there. He held the screen in front of my face long enough to make sure I read it.”
“What was displayed?”
“A compliance page. Green approval bar across the top.”
The AUSA turns to a clean sheet. “Exact language.”
“I don’t have exact language.”
“Give me what you remember.”
I close my eyes long enough to see the screen again. Neil’s thumb along its edge. The green bar. Black type beneath it.
“Route exception approved. High Mesa was listed as the carrier. S.H. appeared in the approval field.”
“Anything else?”
“There was a destination code and a date. I can’t swear to either one.”
“But you can swear to High Mesa and S.H.?”
I open my eyes.
“Yes.”
"Do you remember anything else on that screen?" the AUSA asks.
"No."
