Chapter 4 - The Deposition
Three days later, the air-conditioned conference room on the forty-second floor of the Bell & Vance legal building was blindingly bright.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping panoramic view of the city skyline. At the center of the thirty-foot mahogany table sat a professional court reporter with a stenotype machine and a digital video camera pointed directly at the witness chair.
I sat at the head of the table, dressed in a tailored navy blazer, my hair neatly pinned back, revealing the fading pink burn mark along my jawline. Marcus Bell sat to my right, while Arthur Vance sat to my left.
Across the table sat Diane and Vanessa.
They looked broken. Diane was wearing a wrinkled blouse from a thrift store, her hair unwashed and pulled into a messy bun. Vanessa sat beside her, devoid of any makeup, her designer confidence completely shattered, looking small and defeated.
Beside them sat a court-appointed public defender named Thomas Kline, who looked like he had already consumed four cups of cheap coffee and knew he was fighting a losing battle.
“This deposition is being taken in the civil matter of Clara Vance vs. Diane Vance and Vanessa Reed,” Marcus Bell announced into the microphone. “Case file 44-B, charging Grand Larceny, Identity Theft, Wire Fraud, and Unlawful Detainer.”
Thomas Kline cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. Bell, my clients are prepared to sign a full surrender of any claims to the Oakridge property if your client agrees to drop the civil damages and withdraw the criminal affidavits filed with the District Attorney.”
Arthur Vance chuckled softly, setting his gold fountain pen on his notepad.
“Mr. Kline,” Arthur said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. “Your clients do not have 'claims' to surrender. They owned zero percent of the Oakridge estate. They are currently facing sixteen felony counts of financial fraud and one count of felony assault.”
“I am her mother!” Diane burst out, tears welling in her tired eyes. “Clara, look at me! How can you do this to your own mother?! I raised you!”
I leaned forward, placing my hands flat on the table, my gray-green eyes locking onto hers with unwavering, icy focus.
“You didn't raise me, Diane,” I said, my voice steady, quiet, and sharp. “My grandmother raised me in that house while you were off spending Richard’s stolen money in Europe. And when Richard died and you came crawling back to my door five years ago, I gave you a roof over your head for free.”
“I made a mistake!” Diane sobbed.
“No,” I corrected her firmly. “A mistake is dropping a plate. Throwing a bowl of scalding hot soup into my face because I refused to let your stepdaughter forge my signature on an $800,000 mortgage is an act of violence.”
I pulled a crisp white folder from my briefcase and opened it.
“These are the complete digital logs from the security cameras I installed in the house six months ago,” I continued, swiping a tablet across the table to Thomas Kline. “They show Vanessa photographing my jewelry, copying my credit card numbers, and searching my private office drawers while I was at work.”
Vanessa’s face went dead white. “You... you were spying on us?!”
“I was protecting my property from thieves residing in my home,” I said simply. “And as a forensic accountant, Vanessa, I don't miss a single penny.”
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Thomas Kline looked at the tablet screen, scrolling through the mountain of timestamped video files and financial cross-references. He let out a long, heavy sigh and leaned over to whisper in Diane’s ear.
“Sign the full disclosure agreement,” Kline whispered frantically. “If this goes to a criminal jury trial with this video evidence, you are both going to state prison for at least ten years.”
