Chapter 5 - The Deposition
Three months later.
The deposition room on the forty-fifth floor of the federal courthouse in downtown Atlanta smelled of brand-new carpet, ozone from high-speed copy machines, and cheap coffee.
Outside the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the autumn sun cast long, golden shadows across the city skyline.
Sitting across from me at the wide mahogany conference table was Preston Waverly.
In ninety days, my father had aged fifteen years. His silver hair was thin and completely unkempt. The expensive designer suit he wore hung loosely on his sunken frame, his collar gaping around his neck. His hands, resting on the polished table, had a faint, uncontrollable tremor.
Beside him sat his defense attorney, a sharp, gray-haired man named Arthur Vance—his former partner who had agreed to represent him personally in the civil lawsuit.
On my side of the table sat Naomi, holding a thick leather folder containing forty-two trial exhibits, and beside her sat Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance, the lead federal prosecutor on the criminal tax fraud case.
A court reporter sat at the end of the table, her fingers hovering over the keys of her stenotype machine.
"We are on the record," Naomi announced, her voice echoing in the quiet room. "This is the deposition of Preston Waverly in the matter of Claire Waverly v. Preston Waverly, et al., Case Number 2026-CV-88412."
Naomi pulled a high-definition tablet from her briefcase, tapped the screen, and slid it into the center of the mahogany table, directly in front of my father.
Displayed on the screen was a still image from the St. James Hotel video—the exact frame where Preston’s fist made contact with my left cheekbone, my face contorted in agony, my cream-satin dress already stained with blood.
"Mr. Waverly," Naomi began, her tone dry, methodical, and icy cold. "I am showing you what has been marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit 4. Do you recognize the individual depicted striking my client in this photograph?"
Preston stared at the screen. His jaw clenched hard, the muscles along his temple pulsing. He didn't answer.
"Mr. Waverly," Naomi repeated, leaning forward. "You are under oath. Is that you striking your daughter, Claire Waverly, in the face with a closed fist on October 14th?"
"Objection to form," Arthur Vance cut in routinely. "The photograph speaks for itself."
"Let him answer, Arthur," Naomi said, her eyes locked on my father. "Answer the question, Preston."
Preston pulled his hands back from the table, interlocking his trembling fingers. He slowly lifted his head, his bloodshot eyes meeting mine across the table.
For three months, I had wondered what I would feel when I finally sat face-to-face with him in a room where he had no power. I thought I would feel anger. I thought I would feel fear.
Instead, I felt nothing.
Looking at him was like looking at an old piece of furniture that had been discarded in the rain—decayed, hollow, and utterly meaningless.
"Yes," Preston rasped, his voice sounding like dry gravel being crushed underfoot. "That is me."
"Did my client strike you before you hit her?" Naomi asked.
"No," Preston whispered.
"Did my client verbally threaten you?"
"No."
"Did my client possess any weapon or pose any physical threat to anyone in that ballroom?"
"No."
Naomi flipped open her leather folder, pulling out a set of certified medical records stamped by the Fulton County Medical Examiner's office.
"When you struck Claire Waverly," Naomi said, her voice rising slightly, "you caused a comminuted fracture of her left zygomatic arch, a severe laceration to her upper lip requiring eight internal sutures, and a grade-two concussion. After inflicting these injuries, you grabbed her by her hair and dragged her thirty feet across a marble floor. Is that correct?"
"Objection—"
"I asked him a question, Arthur!" Naomi snapped, slamming her hand down on the table with a loud CRACK that made both attorneys jump. "Did you drag your injured daughter across the floor, Preston?!"
Preston closed his eyes tightly. A single, heavy drop of sweat rolled down his temple, tracing a deep crease in his cheek.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice barely audible to the court reporter.
"And why did you do that, Mr. Waverly?" Naomi asked softly, leaning in close. "Why did you drag your daughter out into the hallway?"
Preston opened his eyes. He looked at me—at the faint, barely visible white scar above my lip, at the clear, steady light in my eyes.
"Because she was ruining the evening," Preston said, the old, arrogant cruelty flickering briefly in his raspy voice. "She didn't belong there. She was an embarrassment."
Naomi didn't look angry. She smiled—a slow, terrifying curve of her lips.
She turned to the federal prosecutor sitting beside her. "Mr. Vance, I believe the defendant has just provided a full on-the-record admission of intentional, unprovoked aggravated battery."
Assistant U.S. Attorney Vance stood up, adjusting his dark suit jacket. He pulled a thick navy-blue document from his briefcase and set it directly on top of the tablet in front of my father.
"Preston Waverly," the federal prosecutor said, his voice deep and solemn. "As of 2:00 p.m. today, a federal grand jury for the Northern District of Georgia has returned a fourteen-count indictment against you for federal wire fraud, conspiracy to commit tax evasion, and obstruction of justice."
Arthur Vance turned pale, grabbing his client’s arm. "Marcus... wait a minute—"
"I'm not finished, Arthur," the prosecutor said coldly. "In light of Mr. Waverly's sworn admission of violent felony battery here today, the magistrate judge has signed a federal arrest warrant. He is deemed a flight risk and a danger to the community."
The heavy double doors of the deposition room swung open.
Two uniformed United States Marshals walked into the room, their leather duty belts creaking in the silence. One of them pulled a pair of heavy steel handcuffs from his belt.
"Preston Waverly," the lead Marshal said, stepping up behind my father’s chair. "Stand up and place your hands behind your back."
Preston looked at the Marshals, then at his lawyer, then at the federal indictment lying on the table. The reality of his complete, absolute ruin finally smashed through his wall of arrogant denial.
He didn't stand up. His legs simply gave out.
The Marshals grabbed him by his arms, hauling his frail, shaking body out of the leather chair. The metallic CLICK-CLICK of the handcuffs locking around his wrists echoed through the high-ceilinged room like a gunshot.
As they turned him toward the door, Preston looked back at me over his shoulder.
His lips moved, trembling violently. "Claire... please... tell them... tell them I'm your father..."
I sat still in my chair, looking at him with calm, quiet eyes.
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"My father died three months ago in the St. James Hotel," I said softly. "You're just a stranger going to prison."
The Marshals led him out of the room, his leather shoes dragging uselessly against the polished hardwood floor, echoing into the long, empty corridor outside.
