“Can you help me deposit this check, please?”
Monica Taylor pushed the paper carefully across the polished stone counter with both hands.
The teller did not immediately touch it.
Her eyes moved first to Monica’s worn gray sneakers, then to the two plastic grocery bags resting against the base of the counter, then to the inexpensive brown jacket Monica had owned for nearly twelve years. Only after completing that silent inventory did the teller finally look at the check.
Her name tag read KAREN ALRECH.
Karen picked up the check between two fingers.
Her eyes found the amount.
$8,000.
Then they found the signature.
Jaylen Taylor.
Karen looked back at the elderly Black woman standing in front of her.
“You’re depositing this?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Karen’s mouth tightened.
“Where did you get it?”
“My son wrote it.”
“Your son.”
“Yes.”
Karen looked at the check again.
Then at Monica.
Then at the grocery bags.
A faint smile appeared at the corner of her mouth, but there was nothing friendly in it.
“Your son writes you eight-thousand-dollar checks?”
“He does every month.”
Karen laughed.
It was not a small involuntary chuckle.
It was loud enough for the customer at the next teller window to turn his head.
“A woman comes in here dragging grocery bags and tells me her son writes her eight thousand dollars every month.”
Monica’s hands tightened around the edge of the counter.
“I’ve been depositing those checks here for eleven years.”
Karen glanced toward another teller.
“Lisa, are you hearing this?”
The teller at the next station leaned sideways.
She looked at Monica.
Then at the check.
Her lips pressed together.
Monica felt the first sting of humiliation settle beneath her ribs.
“Can you please just process it?”
Karen turned back.
“No.”
Monica blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no.”
Karen set the check flat on the counter.
“I’m not depositing a check that looks suspicious just because you tell me your son wrote it.”
“It isn’t suspicious.”
“That’s for us to determine.”
“My account is right there. You can look.”
Karen’s eyes hardened.
“You don’t tell me how to do my job.”
Monica slowly removed her hand from the counter.
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“Yes, you were.”
The security guard near the entrance had begun watching them.
Monica noticed him in the reflection of the glass partition.
Karen picked the check up again.
“Who is this Jaylen Taylor?”
“My son.”
“I heard you the first time. What does he do?”
“He works in business.”
Karen gave another short laugh.
“In business.”
Monica said nothing.
Karen leaned closer.
“Do you understand that people go to prison for passing counterfeit checks?”
Monica stared at her.
“This is not counterfeit.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“My son wrote it.”
“Then maybe your son has some explaining to do too.”
Monica’s voice dropped.
“Give me my check back.”
Karen’s fingers closed around it.
“No.”
“That belongs to me.”
“Not anymore.”
The entire lobby seemed to become quieter.
Monica could hear the faint instrumental music coming through the ceiling speakers.
She could hear the clicking of keyboards.
She could hear her own breath.
Karen looked at her computer.
“I’m flagging this transaction for review.”
“For what?”
“Possible financial crime.”
Monica stared at her.
“What financial crime?”
Karen lifted her chin.