Chapter 7 - Under Oath
The deposition room was small, bright, and smelled of stale coffee and carpet cleaner.
My father sat at the far end of the table, his lawyer—a nervous young man named Miller—whispering frantically in his ear. Dad looked smaller than he had in Emily’s kitchen. His golf shirt had been replaced by a gray suit that looked a little too loose around his collar, and his perfect hair was slightly disheveled.
Emily sat next to him, her fingers drumming a frantic, irregular rhythm on the laminate wood of the table. She kept her eyes on her lap, refusing to look at me, but her face was flushed, her jaw tight with an anger that was practically vibrating.
Sarah Vance sat opposite them, her tablet open, her voice calm and clinical as she began the questioning.
“Mr. Mercer,” Sarah said, looking at my father. “You are currently a trustee of the Regional Health Board, is that correct?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice flat.
“And you were the executor of your mother, Helen Mercer's, estate?”
“I was.”
Sarah pulled a document from her folder—the forged waiver. “I am showing you Exhibit A. This is the waiver of heirship filed with the Mesa County Probate Registry on October 14th. Is that your signature at the bottom as witness?”
“Yes.”
“And is that your daughter Megan’s signature above yours?”
Dad hesitated. His lawyer leaned over, whispering something, but Dad shook him off. “Yes. It is.”
“Mr. Mercer,” Sarah said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, soft register. “We have submitted this document to a forensic handwriting analyst certified by the state. Their report—which has been filed with the court—states with ninety-nine percent certainty that the signature is a digital trace, created on an electronic device and printed onto the page. Did you witness Megan sign this document physically?”
Dad’s eyes darted to the video camera in the corner of the room. He swallowed hard, the movement of his throat sharp and pronounced.
“She... she knew about it,” he said. “We discussed it.”
“That wasn't my question, Mr. Mercer,” Sarah said, her voice like a hammer hitting an anvil. “Did you witness Megan Mercer sign this document in your presence? Yes or no?”
“Richard,” his lawyer warned. “Be careful.”
“She gave her consent!” Dad shouted, his composure finally snapping. He slammed his hand against the table, the sound echoing through the small room. “Megan was going to medical school on a whim! Emily was in crisis! She was losing her home! The money was needed to keep this family stable! I made a decision as the head of this family!”
“So, you did not witness her sign it,” Sarah said, her pen clicking as she made a note. “And you forged her signature to access the funds.”
“I did what was best for my family!” he sneered.
“Your family,” Sarah repeated. “But not Megan. Megan is your daughter, is she not, Mr. Mercer?”
Dad didn't answer. He turned his head away, his face turning a dark, dangerous red.
Sarah turned her eyes to Emily.
“Mrs. Vance-Croft,” Sarah said. “On Saturday, October 24th, at approximately 10:30 AM, did you strike your sister Megan in the hand with a metal fork?”
Emily’s head snapped up. “It was an accident! We were arguing! She was being dramatic about the childcare contract, and the fork... it just slipped.”
“The medical report states that the tines of the fork penetrated the skin to a depth of half an inch, requiring antibiotic treatment and causing localized nerve damage,” Sarah said, her voice entirely devoid of sympathy. “That’s a very forceful slip, Mrs. Vance-Croft. And did you, after this 'slip,' attempt to block her from leaving the house while your father stood in front of the door?”
“She was hysterical!” Emily cried, her eyes filling with tears that looked entirely practiced. “We were trying to calm her down! We’re her family! We love her!”
“You love her so much that you stole her three hundred thousand dollars,” I said, speaking for the first time.
The room went completely silent.
My father looked at me, his eyes filled with a hatred that was cold, deep, and final. “You ungrateful little bitch,” he whispered. “After everything we did for you. After the roof we put over your head.”
“That roof was paid for by the money I earned working double shifts while Emily slept, Dad,” I said, my voice steady, my hand resting on the table, no longer shaking. “I paid my rent. I paid for my food. I paid for Emily’s groceries. You didn't give me a roof. You gave me a cage.”
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I stood up, looking down at the two of them—the people who had defined my life’s limits for twenty-four years—and felt nothing but a clean, empty space where my fear used to be.
“I’ll see you in court,” I said.
