Chapter 8 - The Deposition
The formal deposition for *Montgomery v. Vance* took place three weeks later in the walnut-paneled conference room of Sarah Sterling’s midtown firm.
I sat at the head of the table, wearing an impeccably tailored navy suit, my hair swept back into a sleek, professional chignon. Beside me sat Sarah and three junior associates surrounded by towering stacks of indexed evidence binders.
Across the table sat David and his court-appointed defense attorney—a tired, overworked man named Harold Klein, who looked like he would rather be literally anywhere else on earth.
David was unrecognizable.
In less than a month, he had lost twenty pounds. His tailored suits hung on his frame like wet laundry. His skin had taken on the grayish pallor of institutional living, and his hands trembled continuously—a permanent neurological twitch born of sleeplessness and sheer panic.
"We are on the record," the court reporter droned, her fingers poised over her stenotype machine. "In the matter of Montgomery versus Vance, Index Number 40192."
Sarah Sterling leaned forward, resting her forearms on the polished mahogany table. She didn't look angry; she looked like a surgeon preparing to make the first incision on an anesthetized patient.
"Mr. Vance," Sarah began, her voice calm and lethal. "Let’s start with the property located at 442 East 68th Street. Can you explain why thirty-five thousand dollars from the joint marital checking account was transferred to an interior design firm registered to Elena Rossi’s personal address in September of last year?"
David swallowed hard. His dry throat clicked audibly. He looked at his lawyer.
"Answer the question, David," Klein sighed, rubbing his temples.
"It was... it was an investment," David mumbled, staring at the blotter in front of him. "A speculative loan for a commercial staging business."
"A loan?" Sarah smiled, sliding a document across the table. "Then why did the purchase order specify a custom Italian leather sectional, a king-sized mattress, and three cases of vintage champagne delivered to Ms. Rossi’s private loft?"
David closed his eyes. "I don't recall."
"You don't recall?" Sarah turned a page. "Perhaps you’ll recall this audio recording from October 14th, retrieved from Ms. Rossi’s iCloud account, which was surrendered to the Department of Justice pursuant to her plea agreement."
Sarah tapped an iPad on the table.
David’s voice filled the room, crystal clear:
*“I just transferred another fifty grand from Claire’s trust dividend account. She won't notice until the quarterly statements in January, and by then, our Zurich entity will be liquid. Buy the sofa, baby. Buy whatever you want. It’s her money, but it belongs to us now.”*
David flinched as if he had been struck with a cattle prod.
"Mr. Vance," Sarah continued, her voice relentless, rhythmic, devoid of mercy. "Did you or did you not knowingly, intentionally, and systematically forge your wife’s signature on fourteen separate corporate authorization forms between June and November of this year?"
David’s lawyer reached out, placed a hand on David’s arm, and looked across the table at Sarah.
"We are prepared to stipulate to full liability on the financial claims," Klein said flatly.
"No, Harold, wait—" David gasped.
"Shut up, David," Klein snapped, turning on his own client with brutal professional exhaustion. "You’re facing fifteen counts of federal wire fraud. If we fight the civil claims, Ms. Sterling will refer every single deposition transcript to the federal prosecutor, and your sentencing guidelines will double. We’re done."
Klein looked directly at me.
"My client will sign the marital settlement agreement as drafted," Klein stated. "He will forfeit all claims to the marital residence, all claims to the shared equity portfolio, and all claims to spousal support. He will execute a full confession of judgment in the amount of three million, four hundred thousand dollars to cover the embezzled funds and legal fees."
Sarah looked at me.
I looked at David.
For five years, this man had made me feel small. He had made me feel as though my family’s wealth was a burden he graciously bore, that my quiet demeanor was an intellectual deficiency, that I was lucky to have a man so handsome, so dynamic, so capable of navigating the world on my behalf.
Now, he was nothing more than an ink stain on a court document.
"David," I said.
He slowly, painfully lifted his head. His eyes were wide, watery, and completely hollowed out.
"Do you remember what you told Elena in our bedroom?" I asked softly. "You said I was a placeholder."
A single tear spilled over his eyelid, tracking down his hollow cheek. "Claire... please don't."
"You were wrong," I said, standing up from the conference table. "I wasn't the placeholder, David. I was the architect. You were just the hired help. And you’ve been terminated."
I looked at Sarah. "Finalize the paperwork. I have a plane to catch."
May you like
Without waiting for his signature, I picked up my coat, stepped out of the conference room, and walked out into the crisp, clean air of an afternoon that belonged entirely to me.
***
