Chapter 4 - The Deposition of Lies
Two weeks later, the deposition was held in a high-rise conference room in downtown Denver.
The room was dominated by a long, polished mahogany table overlooking the snow-capped Rocky Mountains. I sat at the head of the table in a motorized wheelchair, my right leg extended horizontally in its heavy white fiberglass cast, my attorney Evelyn Vance sitting to my left.
Across the table sat Sutton, dressed in an expensive, conservative navy blue dress that her defense lawyer had undoubtedly picked out to make her look like an innocent suburban churchgoer. Beside her sat our parents, Stellin and Richard, both looking haggard, aged, and thoroughly terrified.
Sutton’s criminal defense attorney, a pompous man named Harold Sterling, adjusted his gold cufflinks and cleared his throat into the video recording microphone sitting in the center of the table.
“Let the record reflect,” Sterling began smoothly, “that we are gathered for the civil deposition regarding Mitchell v. Mitchell. My client, Sutton Mitchell, wishes to reiterate her profound sadness regarding her sister’s unfortunate, accidental slip on the resort premises.”
Evelyn Vance didn't even look up from her legal pad. “Mr. Sterling, save the theatrical press releases for the evening news. We are here under oath. Let’s begin with the defendant.”
Sutton sat up straight, crossing her hands in her lap, putting on her best wide-eyed, victimized expression.
“Sutton,” Evelyn began, her voice smooth and lethal. “On the evening of October 14th, did you or did you not state to the gathered guests that pushing your sister down the stairs was 'just for content'?”
Sutton’s lawyer nudged her arm.
“I... I was joking!” Sutton stammered, her voice pitching up into a defensive squeak. “I was trying to lighten the mood! Everyone was so tense because Fallon kept complaining about her stupid leg brace all morning! I was just making a joke to break the ice!”
“A joke,” Evelyn repeated calmly. “So when your heel made contact with the back of Ms. Fallon Mitchell’s left ankle while your right hand exerted thirty pounds of downward force against her shoulder blade, that was part of the punchline?”
“I didn't push her!” Sutton shrieked, losing her composure instantly. “She tripped! She’s clumsy! She’s always been jealous of me because I’m the pretty one, because I was getting married, because Mom and Dad love me more!”
My mother gasped softly beside her, grabbing Sutton’s hand. “Sutton, sweetie, shh—!”
“No, Mom! It’s true!” Sutton raged, pointing an acrylic nail directly across the table at my face. “She ruined my wedding! Alden left me because of her! The resort kept sixty thousand dollars in non-refundable venue fees! My styling business is ruined because people are leaving horrific comments on my Instagram page! She destroyed my entire life over a stupid bruised knee!”
I sat quietly in my wheelchair, watching my sister unravel. The sheer, narcissistic entitlement was staggering. She didn't care that I had undergone four hours of bone reconstruction surgery. She didn't care that I was confined to a wheelchair for six months. She cared that her Instagram comments were negative.
Evelyn Vance calmly reached into her briefcase, pulled out a thick stack of financial subpoenas, and slid them across the polished mahogany table directly toward my father.
“Mr. Richard Mitchell,” Evelyn addressed my father, who instantly stiffened in his leather chair.
“What is this?” Dad demanded, his voice trembling.
“Those are financial audit subpoenas issued by the District Court,” Evelyn stated flatly. “We have uncovered that when Fallon was eighteen years old, you illegally transferred four thousand dollars from her minor custodial savings account into your personal checking account to purchase designer handbags and luxury spa packages for Sutton.”
“That was sixteen years ago!” Dad yelled, his face turning an angry purple. “I was her father! I had legal administrative signature authority over that joint account!”
“You had a fiduciary duty as a custodial trustee under the Uniform Transfers to Minors Act,” Evelyn corrected smoothly. “Compounded with statutory interest over sixteen years, alongside the documented history of emotional abuse and financial coercion, we are adding counts of civil conversion and breach of fiduciary trust to the lawsuit.”
My mother buried her face in her hands, beginning to sob hysterically. “Fallon, please! Stop this! We are your family! We gave you life! How can you do this to your own mother and father?!”
I leaned forward in my wheelchair, resting my elbows on the mahogany table, looking directly into my mother’s tear-stained eyes.
“You didn't give me a life, Mom,” I said, my voice quiet, steady, and terrifyingly cold. “You used my life as a carpet for Sutton to walk on. Whenever I accomplished something through hard work, you dismissed it as 'unladylike.' Whenever Sutton failed, you stole my resources to patch up her ego. You told me I was 'tough' so you wouldn't have to feel guilty about treating me like garbage.”
I turned my eyes to Sutton, whose face was completely devoid of its former arrogance.
“The video of you pushing me has been handed over to the District Attorney,” I told her. “The felony assault trial begins in two months. And this civil suit will ensure that every single dollar our parents stole from me—and every dollar you earned off your social media 'content'—will go directly toward paying my medical bills and my lost wages.”
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Sutton stared at me, her lips trembling, finally realizing that no amount of tears, no paternal intervention, and no social media spin was going to save her from the consequences of her actions.
“This deposition is concluded,” Evelyn Vance announced, standing up and shutting her briefcase.
