Chapter 7 - The Deposition
Six weeks later, the conference room on the forty-second floor of David Chen’s downtown law offices was blindingly bright. Sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the glossy walnut table around which nine people sat in rigid silence.
Across from me sat my father, my mother, and their court-appointed defense attorney.
In six weeks, my father had aged twenty years. The tailored Italian suits were gone, replaced by an off-the-rack navy blazer that hung loosely from his stooped shoulders. His firm had collapsed within three weeks of the video going viral; their clients had fled like rats from a sinking ship, terrified of being associated with a man facing federal charges for siphoning money from his disabled daughter.
My mother sat beside him, stripped of her platinum jewelry, staring down at her manicured nails with dull, hollow eyes.
Lauren was absent. She was currently out on bail, confined to a small rental apartment thirty miles outside the city, wearing an ankle monitor while awaiting her trial.
David placed a stack of financial binders on the table with a thud that made my mother jump.
“We are on the record,” David stated, nodding to the court reporter whose fingers hovered over the stenotype machine. “This is the deposition of Richard Vance in the matter of *Vance v. Vance*, civil action for breach of fiduciary duty, conversion, and fraudulent conveyance.”
My father’s attorney, an exhausted-looking public defender named Mr. Harris, raised a hand. “Mr. Chen, my client has already expressed his desire to reach an out-of-court settlement. The family has suffered enough public humiliation.”
“Your client’s concept of suffering is remarkably skewed, Mr. Harris,” David replied sharply. “For eighteen months, Emily Vance was denied high-intensity neurological physical therapy because her father claimed her trust had insufficient liquidity. Meanwhile, Richard Vance authorized sixty-two separate wire transfers from that exact account to ‘Lauren Vance Event Management LLC’—a dummy corporation created solely to fund his elder daughter’s personal social calendar.”
David opened the top binder and slid a document across the table.
“Mr. Vance, do you recognize this signature?”
My father didn't look down. His jaw worked silently.
“Answer the question, Richard,” David commanded.
“It’s mine,” Dad muttered, his voice hoarse.
“And this was an authorization to liquidate two hundred and fifty thousand dollars of Evelyn Vance’s municipal bonds to purchase a Cartier diamond necklace for Lauren’s twenty-fifth birthday, was it not?”
“Lauren needed an appropriate image,” Dad spat, suddenly looking up, his old bitterness flaring through his tired eyes. “She was moving in elite circles! She was going to marry into the Sterling family! Do you have any idea what that marriage would have done for our family’s standing? It would have secured our lineage for fifty years! Adam’s father controls half the commercial real estate on the Eastern seaboard!”
“So you traded your younger daughter’s spinal health for a social climbing connection?” David asked, his voice lethal in its calm precision.
“Emily was already sick!” Dad shouted, slamming his fist onto the table. Mr. Harris winced and grabbed his client’s arm, but Dad was beyond reason. “The doctors said the chances of a full recovery were less than twenty percent! Why should I throw hundreds of thousands of dollars into a black hole of useless therapy when Lauren had a real future? I made a business decision!”
My mother gasped, burying her face in her hands.
I sat across from him, my hands resting calmly on the wheels of my chair. I didn't cry. I didn't flinch. Hearing him say it out loud was horrifying, but it was also liberating. The monster was finally on tape, his cruelty preserved in black ink.
“A business decision,” I said softly.
Dad glared at me, his eyes wild with unrepentant spite. “Yes! A business decision! And you ruined it! Look at us! We’re broke! The bank is foreclosing on our country club membership! The Sterling family has blacklisted me! You took everything from us over a little shove at a dinner table!”
“A little shove,” David repeated, sliding a second document forward. “This is the neurosurgeon’s post-incident MRI report, Mr. Vance. That ‘little shove’ caused an acute L5 nerve compression that has set Emily’s recovery back by at least eight months. It caused permanent soft-tissue scarring in her left shoulder. That ‘little shove’ is classified under state penal code as aggravated assault causing severe bodily injury.”
David turned to Mr. Harris.
“Here is our settlement offer,” David said, his tone brooking no negotiation. “Richard and Eleanor Vance will surrender all remaining personal assets, including their investment portfolios, their private retirement vehicles, and the summer house in Maine. Everything will be transferred into Emily’s medical trust to reimburse the stolen funds. In exchange, Emily will decline to pursue punitive civil damages that would force them into involuntary bankruptcy.”
“And the criminal charges?” Mr. Harris asked quietly.
May you like
David smiled—a cold, terrifying baring of teeth. “The criminal charges for grand larceny are in the hands of the United States Attorney. We have no authority to drop them, and even if we did... we wouldn't.”
***
