Chapter 5 - The Deposition
Three days later, the air-conditioned conference room on the fortieth floor of Whitaker, Sterling & Vance offered a panoramic view of San Diego Bay. But inside, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Across the long glass table sat Brielle Montgomery and her attorney, Marcus Sterling—a sharp-suited, television-frequent lawyer known for defending influencers and disgraced athletes. Brielle was dressed in a conservative navy blazer and a modest white blouse, completely devoid of makeup, attempting to play the role of a contrite, misled ingenue.
I sat between Preston and his senior associate, wearing a sharp black suit of my own, my mother's gold locket resting against my collarbone.
"Let the record show," Marcus Sterling began, leaning into the microphone of the court reporter, "that my client, Miss Montgomery, is attending this voluntary deposition in good faith to assist in the resolution of the civil claims brought by Mrs. Holt."
"Mrs. Whitmore," I corrected firmly. "I have officially restored my maiden name."
Marcus inclined his head slightly. "Very well. Mrs. Whitmore. However, my client wishes to make it clear that she had zero knowledge of Mr. Holt’s fraudulent activities. She was under the impression that Mr. Holt was legally separated, that the Harbor Ridge property was held in his sole name, and that the financial gifts he provided her were from his personal earnings."
"Is that so?" Preston asked smoothly. He pulled a thick binder from his briefcase and slid it across the table. "Miss Montgomery, please turn to Exhibit D."
Brielle hesitated, looking at her lawyer before opening the binder.
"Exhibit D consists of four hundred text messages retrieved from Mr. Holt’s encrypted messaging app, backed up to the cloud server he so conveniently funded with trust money," Preston explained. "Specifically, I draw your attention to a message sent on June 12th of last year. Three days before my client’s mother passed away."
Preston read aloud from his own copy: "'Gavin, when is the old woman going to kick it? You said the trust transfers to us as soon as she's gone. I'm sick of hiding in La Jolla. I want the house on Harbor Ridge.'"
Brielle’s face flushed red. She shifted uncomfortably in her leather chair.
"And Mr. Holt’s response," Preston continued mercilessly: "'Working on it, babe. The doctors say a week at most. Once she's gone, I'll get Claire to sign the deed transfer while she's too hysterical to read the fine print.'"
Marcus Sterling cleared his throat loudly. "Text messages can be taken out of context—"
"Let us look at Exhibit F then, shall we?" Preston interrupted, turning the page. "Bank transfers from Holt Consulting into an account registered under B.M. Luxe LLC—a company owned entirely by Miss Montgomery. Total transfers over eighteen months: eight hundred and forty thousand dollars. Coincidentally, the exact amount missing from Eleanor Whitmore’s medical care fund."
"I... I didn't know where that money came from!" Brielle snapped, her calm, victimized facade cracking open. "Gavin told me it was profit from his investments!"
"Really?" I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table, looking straight into her eyes. "You didn't know? Because according to the wire transfer logs, three of those transfers were executed from a laptop logged into your private IP address at two in the morning. You didn't just accept stolen money, Brielle. You helped him move it."
Brielle’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She turned her head wildly toward her attorney. "Marcus! Do something!"
Marcus looked at the documents in front of him, then at the mountain of digital evidence Preston had compiled. His slick, confident smile had vanished entirely. He leaned over and whispered frantically into Brielle’s ear for nearly two minutes.
Brielle’s eyes widened in horror as she listened.
"Mrs. Whitmore, Mr. Whitaker," Marcus said, turning back to us, his voice significantly lower now. "My client... my client wishes to discuss the possibility of a settlement."
"Settlement?" Preston raised an eyebrow. "This is not a negotiation, Mr. Sterling. This is a courtesy notice before the U.S. Attorney’s office adds Miss Montgomery as a co-conspirator in the federal indictment for wire fraud, money laundering, and grand theft."
Brielle began to cry—not the subtle, elegant tears of a victim, but ugly, hysterical sobs. "Please! I don't want to go to prison! I'll give everything back! The car, the bags, the jewelry! I'll give it all!"
"You will surrender every asset purchased with trust funds immediately," I said, my voice ice-cold. "You will sign a full confession detailing Gavin’s financial manipulations, which will be submitted to the prosecutor’s office. And you will execute a legally binding non-disclosure and non-disparagement agreement, ensuring you never speak my family's name again."
"And if I do all that?" Brielle gasped, clutching a wet tissue. "Will you drop the civil charges?"
"I will recommend to the federal prosecutor that they accept your cooperation in exchange for a reduced sentence," I said. "Whether you go to prison, Brielle, is up to the judge. But I guarantee you will leave this city with exactly what you brought into my house: nothing."
May you like
Brielle crumpled in her chair, weeping openly as her lawyer slid the agreement documents toward her and handed her a pen.
I stood up, leaving the conference room without looking back. As the glass door swung shut behind me, I felt a massive, suffocating weight lift off my chest. The predators were being brought to heel. Now, it was time to rebuild.
