Chapter 4 - The Deposition Room ShowdownThe conference room at Vance & Sterling Forensic Law was designed to intimidate. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooked the financial district, polished granite tables reflected the harsh overhead lighting, and the air conditioning was kept deliberately crisp to keep witnesses uncomfortable.
When David, Richard, and their desperate defense attorney, a rumpled man named Henderson who looked like he specialized in traffic court rather than federal white-collar crime, walked into the room on Thursday morning, they looked like ghosts.
David had dark circles under his eyes, his shirt collar was slightly askew, and his arrogant swagger had been entirely replaced by a hunted, paranoid twitch. Lorraine wasn't present—her doctor had wisely provided a medical excuse regarding high blood pressure, though we all knew she was just hiding from the state tax investigators.
I sat at the opposite end of the mahogany table, flanked by Victoria and two junior associates, wearing a sharp charcoal blazer and holding a pristine leather-bound portfolio.
“Let’s place this deposition on the record,” the court stenographer announced, her fingers hovering over her machine.
Henderson cleared his throat nervously, flipping open a folder. “My clients are here in good faith to resolve this unfortunate domestic misunderstanding regarding temporary asset division—”
“Stop right there, Mr. Henderson,” Victoria interrupted smoothly, leaning forward with a predator’s smile. “There is no domestic misunderstanding. There is a multi-count federal indictment for bank fraud, tax evasion, money laundering, and grand larceny. Let’s look at Exhibit A.”
Victoria slid a massive, color-coded flowchart across the table toward David and his lawyer.
The chart mapped out every single dollar David had stolen from my pre-marital accounts, tracing it through three different shell companies managed by Richard’s wealth firm, and finally landing in Vanessa Cole’s downtown apartment lease and jewelry store receipts.
David stared at the paper, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
“You... you hacked my private tracking logs?” David whispered, looking up at me with horror.
“I didn't have to hack anything, David,” I replied evenly, my voice cutting through the silent room like a scalpel. “You used the same password for your secret corporate offshore accounts that you used for our shared Netflix profile. ‘Golfing2018.’ You were never half as smart as you thought you were.”
Henderson turned to David, his eyes widening in pure disbelief. “You used what as a password for federal embezzlement funds?!”
“It was secure!” David stammered defensively, panicking. “Nobody checks Netflix profiles for financial routing numbers!”
“Forensic accountants do,” I said softly, standing up from my chair and buttoning my blazer. “Every single transaction, every forged signature on the joint account waivers, every fraudulent loan application your father and sister processed—it’s all documented, verified, and submitted to the U.S. Attorney’s office.”
Richard slammed his fist on the table. “You’ll ruin us! We’re family!”
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I stopped at the door, turning back to look at the man who had chuckled while his son abused me at a Christmas dinner table.
“Family,” I said quietly, “means sharing. And right now, you’re going to share a prison cell.”
