Chapter 6 - The Deposition
Marcus was denied bail. The unprovoked attack, combined with the audio recordings of his plot to unlawfully imprison me in a psychiatric facility, made him a severe flight risk and a danger to society.
He attended the civil deposition in handcuffs, wearing a bright orange county jumpsuit. His father, Gerald, sat next to him in a sharp suit, though Gerald looked entirely gray and exhausted.
We sat across from them in the sterile conference room of Diane's law firm. A court reporter sat at the head of the table.
"State your name for the record," Diane began.
The deposition was a bloodbath. Diane didn't just question them; she surgically dismantled them.
"Mr. Sterling," Diane addressed Gerald. "On the night of October 12th, did you advise your son on how to fake physical injuries on his wife's body to ensure her involuntary commitment to a psychiatric ward?"
"I plead the fifth," Gerald muttered, sweating profusely.
"Let the record reflect the witness invokes his Fifth Amendment privilege," Diane said smoothly. She slid a document across the table. "Marcus, is this your signature on a two-million-dollar business loan taken out against your wife's startup without her consent?"
Marcus glared at me, his jaw clenched. "She gave me verbal authorization."
Diane smiled, a terrifying, predatory expression. "Interesting. Because on the date this document was signed, your wife was attending a cybersecurity conference in London. We have her flight records, hotel receipts, and badge scans. How exactly did she give you verbal authorization to a notary in Chicago?"
Marcus fell silent.
"Furthermore," Diane continued, sliding another thick folder toward Gerald. "We have provided these documents to the FBI. They outline your logistics company's involvement with offshore accounts tied to illegal gambling. It seems, Gerald, you needed my client's company not just for the capital, but as a clean shell to wash your dirty money."
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Gerald’s high-priced defense attorney slammed his hand on the table. "This deposition is over!"
"It certainly is," my father said, leaning back in his chair. "Because the federal marshals are waiting in the lobby."
