Chapter 3 - The Deposition
The conference room on the forty-second floor of the downtown legal tower was wrapped in glass, offering a panoramic view of the city skyline.
Outside, a light summer rain streaked the windows. Inside, the air was cold, smelling of fresh carpet, dry-erase markers, and bottled water.
It was two weeks after the funeral.
I sat at the long mahogany table wearing a simple black wool dress that fit properly, my hair tied back in a neat bun. Beside me sat Eleanor Vance and her junior associate.
Across the table sat Garrett, Samantha, and three corporate defense attorneys.
Garrett looked terrible. His skin was sallow, dark purple bags hung beneath his eyes, and his designer suit looked loose on his frame. He refused to look me in the eye, staring intently at the water glass sitting in front of him.
Samantha, however, was practically vibrating with rage. Her fingers tapped frantically against her designer purse, her sharp eyes glaring at me across the table as if she wanted to tear me apart with her hands.
“We are on the record,” the court reporter announced, her fingers hovering over her stenography machine. “This is the deposition of Garrett Whitmore in the matter of Audrey Whitmore v. Garrett Whitmore, Family Court Case 2026-DV-4401.”
Eleanor leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Eleanor began, her voice smooth and conversational. “Let’s start with the morning of July 26th. What time did you arrive at St. Jude’s Hospital?”
Garrett cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. “Around eight in the morning.”
“And at that time, were you informed by the attending physician, Dr. Aris Thorne, that your wife had suffered a severe uterine laceration during her emergency C-section and was at high risk for internal hemorrhaging?”
Garrett glanced at his lead attorney, who gave him a subtle nod.
“I... I was told she was recovering,” Garrett said carefully. “I don't recall the specific medical terms.”
“You don't recall?” Eleanor picked up a printed sheet of paper. “This is the audio transcript from the nurse’s station at 8:14 AM. The nurse specifically told you, and I quote: 'Mrs. Whitmore cannot stand for prolonged periods, her blood pressure is unstable, and she requires bed rest for at least seventy-two hours.' Do you deny hearing that statement?”
“I was under immense stress,” Garrett said, his voice rising slightly. “My father had just passed away. The entire city was looking to our family. I may have misheard—”
“You misheard?” I spoke up, breaking my silence.
Garrett’s head snapped toward me.
“You misheard the nurse, Garrett?” I asked, leaning across the table. “Is that why, when I told you in the cathedral hallway that my stitches were tearing and I was bleeding through my dress, you told me sitting down was disrespectful to your father’s memory?”
“Objection,” Garrett’s lawyer interjected quickly. “Counsel, control your client.”
“Let her speak,” Eleanor countered coldly. “Mr. Whitmore, did you or did you not sign an Against Medical Advice release form by forging Dr. Thorne’s signature stamp?”
Garrett’s jaw worked tightly. He looked at his lawyer, but his lawyer simply lowered his head. There was no defense against the handwriting analysis report sitting in our file.
“I signed the papers,” Garrett admitted quietly, his voice hollow. “I wanted my family together for my father’s funeral. Is it a crime for a man to want his wife by his side during the hardest day of his life?”
“It is a crime when you force her there under threat of taking her child,” Eleanor stated flatly.
Samantha couldn't contain herself any longer. She slammed her hand down on the table, making the water glasses rattle.
“This is a shakedown!” Samantha shouted, pointing a red-nailed finger at me. “She’s a opportunistic gold-digger! She planned this whole thing! She recorded us in our private moments, she staged that pathetic scene at the altar to humiliate us on live television, and now she’s trying to steal my family’s money!”
Eleanor didn't even flinch. She simply turned to a new page in her binder.
“Ms. Whitmore,” Eleanor said calmly, addressing Samantha. “Since you’ve brought up money, let’s talk about Luxe Living LLC, a boutique interior design firm registered under your name.”
Samantha froze. Her finger slowly lowered.
“According to bank records subpoenaed from First National Bank,” Eleanor continued, reading from the page, “over the past eighteen months, Luxe Living LLC received six transfer payments totaling four hundred and fifty thousand dollars from the Whitmore Charitable Foundation.”
Samantha’s face turned bright red. “That... that was for consulting fees! I decorated the foundation’s headquarters!”
“You decorated a three-room office for half a million dollars?” Eleanor asked, raising an eyebrow. “Because according to the invoices, four hundred thousand of those dollars were spent at high-end jewelry stores in Paris and Milan. Invoices that were approved by your brother, Garrett, in his capacity as trustee.”
Garrett looked up at his sister in pure shock. “Samantha... what is she talking about?”
“Garrett, don't listen to her!” Samantha stammered, panic evident in her voice. “It was an administrative allocation! Our father approved it before he died!”
“Your father was in an ICU coma when the last transfer was signed,” I said softly, looking at Samantha with pity. “You stole from a foundation meant to build low-income housing for single mothers. Just like Garrett stole my medical freedom because he cared more about news cameras than whether I lived or died.”
The conference room fell into an uncomfortable silence.
Garrett’s lead defense attorney leaned over, whispered something urgently into Garrett’s ear, and then addressed Eleanor.
“We request a ten-minute recess,” the attorney said.
“Take twenty,” Eleanor replied, closing her binder. “Because when we come back, we’re going to discuss the federal tax filings for the Cayman offshore accounts.”
Ten minutes later, Garrett’s attorney walked back into the room alone.
“Mr. Whitmore and Ms. Whitmore have left the building,” the attorney announced, looking exhausted. “They have instructed us to accept all of your settlement terms in full.”
He set a signed document on the table.
“Full legal custody to Audrey. The ten-million-dollar trust for the baby. The house title transfer. And the public written statement.”
May you like
I looked at the signed document, feeling no rush of victory, no excitement—just a profound, heavy sense of relief.
“Tell Garrett,” I said, standing up from the table, “that he can keep his father’s gold casket and his family legacy. Maya and I have everything we need.”
