Chapter 5 - The DepositionThe federal holding facility on the Lower East Side smelled of bleach, damp concrete, and institutional despair.
In a sterile, windowless conference room illuminated by harsh fluorescent lighting, Richard sat at the center table wearing an orange jumpsuit, his wrists handcuffed to a steel loop bolted into the wooden surface. The designer suits, the arrogance, the smug smiles—all of it was gone. His hair was unwashed, his skin had a sickly grey pallor, and his eyes darted around the room with paranoid exhaustion.
Seated across from him were two federal prosecutors, a court stenographer, and Arthur Collins representing my legal interests.
I stood quietly in the shadows near the back door, watching him through the glass partition.
“Mr. Vance,” lead federal prosecutor Sarah Jenkins said, sliding a certified document across the table. “We have reviewed the supplemental forensic evidence provided by your former business partner, Thomas Reed. These files detail systemic embezzlement, falsified corporate valuations, and documented coercion dating back eight years.”
Richard didn't look at the papers. He stared down at his handcuffed hands, his lower lip trembling.
“It’s fabricated,” he muttered, his voice weak and pathetic. “Emily... Emily is behind this. She’s a vengeful, unstable woman. She manipulated the evidence—”
“Mr. Vance,” Arthur interrupted calmly, stepping forward into the light. “You might want to look at page twelve of the supplementary file. Specifically, the notarized confession and financial audit regarding the estate transfer of the late Mrs. Reed—your former mother-in-law.”
Richard’s head snapped up. His eyes widened in absolute, unadulterated horror as he stared at Arthur. 🐍
“How... how did you get that?” Richard choked out. “The notary... he moved to Argentina!”
“People talk, Richard,” I said, stepping out of the shadows and walking slowly toward the conference table.
The heavy metal door clicked behind me as I entered the room. Richard flinched back as if he had been struck by lightning, his chair scraping loudly against the concrete floor.
“Emily,” he whispered, his voice turning into a frantic, whimpering plea. “Emily, please! Don't do this! We were married! We shared a life! Drop the additional charges—tell the prosecutors you’ll settle! I’ll sign whatever you want—I’ll give you every penny I ever made!”
I stopped right beside his chair, looking down at him with absolute, frozen detachment.
“You already did, Richard,” I said softly. “Every penny you stole, every asset you hid, and every illegal contract you signed now belongs to the Vance & Reed Foundation for Domestic Survivors. Your name has been legally expunged from the corporate registry. By the end of this week, the courts will legally change the name of your ancestral family estate back to my mother’s maiden name.”
Richard slumped forward, burying his face in his cuffed hands, finally breaking down into hysterical, ugly sobs.
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“You ruined me,” he wept. “You destroyed my life.”
“No, Richard,” I said, turning toward the door as the federal prosecutor began reading his formal indictment charges for the record. “I just stopped letting you destroy mine.”
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