Chapter 7 - The Deposition
Three months later.
The federal courthouse in downtown Dallas was a soaring structure of glass and white granite.
I walked through the double doors of Conference Room 4B wearing a sharp navy-blue suit, my hair pulled back into a neat chignon. A fine, pale scar ran from my left jawline down toward my collarbone—a permanent mark of that night in the bathroom, but no longer a source of shame.
Sitting across the long conference table was Vance.
He was wearing a dark orange federal inmate jumpsuit, his hands restrained by steel handcuffs attached to a waist chain. His hair, usually meticulously styled, was thin and unkempt. The arrogant, untouchable heir to Vance Capital looked small, defeated, and exhausted.
Beside him sat his lead defense attorney, a high-priced corporate lawyer who looked thoroughly miserable to be there.
Behind me stood Marcus and Rachel Chen, along with my civil attorney, Victoria Sterling—ironically, a distant cousin of the very Sterling family Vance had tried to impress the night of the party.
"Good morning, Vance," I said, taking my seat at the head of the table.
Vance looked up, his dark eyes flinching slightly as he saw the scar on my jaw.
"Sarah..." Vance stammered, his voice lacking any of its former thunder. "You... you look good. Sarah, please, you have to talk to your brother. This whole federal RICO charge is a massive misunderstanding. My father handled the offshore accounts! I was just an employee! I didn't know—"
"Mr. Mercer," Victoria Sterling interrupted firmly, setting her pen on the table. "This is a formal civil deposition regarding the liquidation of marital property and victim restitution. You will speak only when a direct question is put to you by counsel."
Vance swallowed hard, leaning back in his chair, the steel chains clinking softly against his jumpsuit.
Victoria opened a thick binder.
"Under the proposed global plea agreement negotiated with the United States Attorney’s Office," Victoria stated, "Mr. Mercer will plead guilty to one count of federal wire fraud and one count of felony domestic violence, receiving a stipulated sentence of twelve years in a federal penitentiary."
Vance’s attorney cleared his throat. "We are requesting that the restitution order be limited to liquidated corporate assets, preserving Mr. Mercer’s personal trust fund."
I leaned forward, placing both hands flat on the wooden table.
"No," I said, my voice steady, clear, and absolute.
Vance’s lawyer blinked. "Mrs. Mercer, the trust fund was created before—"
"The trust fund was capitalized using funds drawn from Vance Capital Group in 2021," I corrected, looking directly into Vance’s eyes. "The exact year I uncovered the first set of altered tax returns. Every dollar in that trust is fruit of the poisonous tree."
Vance stared at me, his jaw trembling. "Sarah... if you take the trust, I won't have anything when I get out. I’ll have no home, no capital..."
"You’ll have exactly what I had when I was lying on that bathroom floor, Vance," I told him, without a trace of anger or malice—only cold, pristine truth. "You’ll have your own choices. And twelve years to think about them."
Vance looked at his attorney, hoping for a lifeline. The lawyer simply closed his briefcase, shaking his head slightly.
"Sign the agreement, Vance," his lawyer advised softly. "If this goes to a jury trial with the audio recording and the domestic violence charges, you’re looking at twenty-five years minimum."
May you like
With trembling, handcuffed fingers, Vance picked up the pen.
He signed his name on the final line of the federal forfeiture agreement, handing over his wealth, his estate, and his freedom in six strokes of dark ink.
