Chapter 7 - The Deposition Under Oath
Evelyn’s face turned the color of curdled milk. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," I whispered. "Get out of my house. Now."
The confrontation on Maple Street set off an avalanche. By Monday morning, the battle shifted to the neutral, sterile battlefield of a downtown deposition conference room.
The room was freezing, smelling of industrial carpet cleaner and dry toner. Marcus sat across the long mahogany conference table, flanked by two high-priced corporate defense attorneys who looked visibly exhausted. Marcus was wearing a tailored suit that hung slightly loose on his shoulders; the stress of the past week had stripped away his handsome, carefree arrogance, leaving him hollow-eyed and twitchy.
I sat beside Clara, dressed in a sharp navy blazer, my hands resting calmly on the table. Beside us sat Paul, our forensic accountant, with three thick cardboard banker’s boxes stacked neatly beside his chair.
"We are on the record," the court reporter droned, typing rhythmically on her machine.
Clara leaned forward, adjusting her reading glasses. "Mr. Vance, let’s begin with Exhibit C. On June 14th, while Mrs. Vance was admitted to St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital for emergency labor suppression, you authorized a transfer of $85,000 from the Vance Family Holdings joint contingency account. Can you explain the purpose of that withdrawal?"
Marcus cleared his throat, glancing nervously at his senior attorney, who offered only a solemn nod.
"It was... an investment," Marcus lied, his voice gravelly. "A high-yield luxury charter partnership in the Mediterranean. Standard asset diversification."
"Really?" Clara smiled, sliding a piece of glossy paper across the mahogany table. "Because Exhibit D is the receipt from the Monaco Yacht Club. It lists that exact $85,000 as payment for the VIP owner’s suite aboard the *Seaborne Siren*, reserved under the names Marcus Vance and Tiffany Ross. Is Tiffany Ross a certified financial asset manager, Mr. Vance?"
Marcus’s jaw clamped shut. Sweat beaded along his hairline. "I... it was a client entertainment expense."
"A client expense?" Clara continued relentlessly, not giving him a second to breathe. "And was the $22,000 Cartier diamond necklace purchased on July 2nd also a client entertainment expense? What about the private helicopter transfer to Ibiza?"
"Objection," Marcus’s attorney interjected weakly. "Counsel is badgering the witness."
"I am establishing a pattern of willful, fraudulent dissipation of marital assets while the client’s legal spouse was medically incapacitated!" Clara barked, her voice commanding the entire room.
Clara slammed another file onto the table. "Furthermore, Mr. Vance, Paul’s team has cross-referenced your Cayman shell corporation, *Blue Horizon LLC*, with the tax returns of your brother David’s logistics firm. Do you recognize this document?"
Marcus leaned over, looked at the document, and physically recoiled. The color vanished from his lips.
"That's... that's proprietary internal correspondence," Marcus stammered, panic finally cracking his voice wide open.
"No, Mr. Vance," Clara replied coldly. "That is an email between you and David, explicitly stating your plan to siphon three million dollars out of your father’s corporate trust—funds legally earmarked for your children's medical trust fund—to cover your gambling debts at the Bellagio and fund your European getaway with Miss Ross."
Marcus gripped the edge of the conference table, his knuckles turning white. He looked directly at me for the first time all morning, his eyes burning with frantic terror.
May you like
"Sarah... you can't show this to the board," he choked out, completely breaking decorum. "If my father's board of directors sees this, they’ll strip my shares! They’ll fire me! I’ll lose everything!"
"You already lost everything, Marcus," I said softly, looking him dead in the eye without a trace of remorse. "You just haven't realized it yet."
