Chapter 9 - The Deposition
Three months later.
The high-rise conference room at Vance, Sterling & Croft offered a panoramic view of the city skyline. The long glass table was polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the bright morning light.
I sat at the center of the table, dressed in a tailored charcoal blazer. Beside me sat Marcus Thorne and my father.
Across the table sat Ben, dressed in a cheap, ill-fitting suit he had bought for his court appearances. He looked twenty pounds lighter, his eyes sunken, dark circles carved deep into his skin. Beside him sat his criminal defense attorney, a weary man named Howard Stern, who looked like he hadn't slept since the indictment was handed down.
Linda was not present. She was currently wearing an electronic ankle monitor at her home, awaiting her criminal trial for felony child abuse after her bail was set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars—a sum that had forced her to take out a high-interest second mortgage on her house.
Gary had taken a plea deal two weeks earlier: two years of probation, fifty hours of community service, and a permanent criminal record for perjury, a conviction that had instantly cost him his position at his father-in-law's auto shop.
This meeting was for the final settlement of our divorce and custody proceedings.
Howard Stern cleared his throat, opening a thin folder. "Mr. Thorne... Mrs. Miller... my client is prepared to sign the full, uncontested divorce decree today. He is waiving all claims to the marital residence, all claims to joint financial assets, and agrees to the child support schedule proposed by your office."
"And custody?" Marcus Thorne asked sharply.
Howard looked at Ben, who was staring down at his knuckles on the glass table.
"My client agrees to sole legal and physical custody remaining entirely with Clara Miller," Howard said quietly. "He requests supervised visitation rights—two hours every second Saturday at a court-designated facility."
"No," I said.
The single word cut through the quiet room like a razor.
Ben looked up, his eyes bloodshot, his lips trembling. "Clara... please. She's my daughter too."
"You lost the right to call her your daughter the second you stood in that kitchen and chose your mother's lie over her burns," I said, my voice steady, cold, and utterly free of malice. "You lied to the paramedics while she was screaming in my arms. You lied to the police while her skin was peeling off in the hospital."
I slid a single piece of paper across the polished glass table toward him.
It was a termination of parental rights petition.
"You sign this today, Ben," I said. "Or we go to trial on the civil damages suit for intentional infliction of emotional distress and failure to protect a minor. My father's firm will pursue every asset you, your mother, and your brother own until you are bankrupt for the rest of your natural life."
Ben looked at the paper. Tears spilled from his eyes, dripping onto his cheap tie.
"Clara..." Ben sobbed, his voice cracking into a pathetic, desperate whine. "My mom... she's going to prison. The lawyer says she's looking at three to five years. My family is destroyed."
"Your family destroyed itself," I said. "The day you decided a two-year-old child was acceptable collateral damage to protect your mother's ego."
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Ben looked at his attorney. Howard Stern didn't speak. He simply gave a small, slow nod—the nod of a lawyer who knew his client was facing total annihilation if he refused.
Ben reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pen, and signed his name on the line.
