Chapter 6 - The Deposition
Three weeks later.
The high-rise legal offices of Pendelton & Associates sat bathed in the cool afternoon sunlight overlooking the Chicago riverfront.
In the primary deposition room, Brendan Morrison sat behind a long glass table, flanked by a public defender provided by the state. His expensive suits were gone, replaced by a simple, ill-fitting grey jacket. He looked ten years older. His hair was thinning, his cheeks hollow, his eyes surrounded by deep, dark circles of perpetual exhaustion.
Across the table sat Arthur Pendelton and two senior litigation partners.
I sat in the center, wearing a comfortable white wool maternity dress. I was seven months pregnant now, my belly round and high, my health restored after weeks of peaceful rest at the Lake Geneva estate.
The court reporter sat at the end of the table, her fingers poised over the stenography machine.
“Mr. Morrison,” Arthur began, setting a thick blue folder onto the glass table. “We are here to record your formal deposition regarding the civil asset recovery suit filed by Vantage Apex Global, as well as the terms of the marital dissolution agreement proposed by Miss Vance.”
Brendan didn't look at Arthur. His eyes remained glued to my face—searching for any trace of the soft, submissive woman who used to cook his meals, organize his closet, and apologize whenever his mother raised her voice.
He found nothing. My face was a calm, impenetrable surface of cool marble.
“Cassidy...” Brendan rasped, his voice trembling. “Please. Can we just talk for five minutes? Without the lawyers?”
“Miss Vance is here as the Executive Chairwoman of Vantage Apex, Mr. Morrison,” Arthur cut in sharply. “You will address her as such.”
Brendan swallowed hard, a tear spilling over his lower lid and trailing down his cheek. “Cassidy... I’m sleeping on my cousin’s couch in Joliet. My mother is living in a senior state home. Jessica is working as a waitress at a diner near the airport. We have nothing left. They froze my checking account. I can't even afford a real lawyer.”
“You diverted two hundred and forty thousand dollars of corporate capital for personal use, Brendan,” I said softly, speaking for the first time. “That is a felony. The fact that Arthur has agreed to settle the civil recovery without demanding immediate prison time is more generosity than you deserve.”
“I don't care about the money!” Brendan cried out, leaning across the table, his hands clasped together in a desperate plea. “I care about you! I care about our baby! Please, Cassidy... let me be a father. Let me see my daughter when she’s born. I’ll work anywhere. I’ll sweep the floors in your headquarters! Just don't erase me from her life!”
I looked down at the legal agreement resting on the table in front of me.
Clause 8: Complete surrender of parental rights and future claims to the Vance family estate.
I looked back up at Brendan.
“When I was five months pregnant, Brendan,” I said, my voice steady and quiet, “I had severe morning sickness. I asked you to stay home one Saturday evening to help me because I couldn't get out of bed. Do you remember what you told me?”
Brendan’s lips quivered. He didn't answer.
“You told me that your mother was hosting a dinner party at the country club, and that if I couldn't handle a simple pregnancy without whining, I wasn't built to be a Morrison wife,” I continued. “You left me alone in that apartment for twelve hours while I lay on the bathroom floor.”
Brendan covered his face with his trembling hands, sobbing silently.
“And three weeks ago,” I added, “when your mother poured filthy, freezing water over my head and over the baby inside me, you didn't just stand there. You laughed.”
I picked up the pen resting beside the legal document.
“A father protects his child, Brendan,” I said quietly. “He protects the mother of his child. You didn't fail as a husband because you didn't have money. You failed because you didn't have a heart.”
I signed my name along the bottom line of the document with a smooth, fluid stroke.
I slid the paper across the glass table toward his public defender.
“Sign the surrender, Brendan,” I said softly. “If you sign it, Arthur will drop the criminal fraud charges against your sister and reduce your civil restitution terms to a manageable monthly plan. You will be free to rebuild your life. But you will never step within one mile of my daughter again.”
Brendan stared at the black ink of my signature on the white paper.
May you like
He knew he had no choice. If he fought the suit, Arthur’s legal team would ensure he spent the next ten years in a federal penitentiary.
With a shaking hand, Brendan picked up the pen, pressed his thumb against the barrel, and wrote his name on the line beneath mine.
