Chapter 6 - The Deposition of Warren Vance
In late January, the civil deposition of Warren Vance took place in a high-rise conference room overlooking Lake Mendota.
Because Marcus Vance (the contractor whose nose Blake had broken) had officially filed a civil assault lawsuit against both Blake and Vance Development Corporation, Warren was legally compelled to sit for a videotaped deposition. Sarah Lin attended as an observer representing my interests, and I chose to sit beside her.
My father entered the room flanked by three high-priced defense lawyers. He looked noticeably older than he had two months ago. His hair had thinned, his posture was slumped, and the tailored suit seemed to hang loosely on his frame. But his eyes still held that cold, arrogant arrogance that had dominated my childhood.
When he saw me sitting across the long glass table, his lips compressed into a thin, white line.
"Emily," he said coldly as he took his seat. "You don't need to be here for this."
"I have every right to be here, Warren," I replied quietly. "I want to watch."
"Quiet, please," the court reporter announced, adjusting her recording equipment. "We are on the record."
Marcus Vance’s attorney, a sharp litigator named Michael Vance (unrelated), began the questioning. For two hours, Michael systematically walked Warren through the history of Blake’s violent outbursts, presenting bank statements, canceled checks, and non-disclosure agreements one by one.
"Mr. Vance," Michael asked, holding up a copy of a bank transfer from 2018. "Did you transfer seventy-five thousand dollars from your personal account to Sarah Jenkins four days after she filed a domestic violence complaint against your son?"
Warren adjusted his silk tie, looking supremely unbothered. "I provided financial assistance to a young woman who was leaving a relationship with my son. It was a gift."
"A gift accompanied by a ten-page non-disclosure agreement prohibiting her from speaking to law enforcement?" Michael asked smoothly.
"My attorneys drafted standard privacy paperwork," Warren replied smoothly. "We are a high-profile family in this city. We value our privacy."
"Privacy," Michael repeated, nodding slowly. "Is privacy also why you deleted thirty minutes of security footage from the Milwaukee construction site where Kevin Rodriguez suffered a shattered pelvis?"
Sterling jumped up from his chair. "Objection! Counsel is asking questions related to an ongoing, unproven criminal investigation!"
"Answer the question, Mr. Vance," Michael said calmly. "Did you or did you not access the security system on October 14th, 2019?"
Warren stared at Michael, his jaw working silently. For decades, Warren had been the man who asked the questions, gave the orders, and determined what was true and what was false. To be interrogated like a common criminal in a room full of lawyers was a humiliation he could barely endure.
"I managed my company's security systems as I saw fit," Warren said, his voice dropping into a raspy growl.
"Let's talk about November 12th of last year," Michael said, switching folders. "The birthday party for your granddaughter. You were present when Blake struck your two-year-old granddaughter, Lily, correct?"
"It was a minor tap," Warren said instantly, repeating the scripted lie his family had used since the beginning. "Blake was disciplining her."
"A minor tap," Michael repeated. He picked up a large, color printout of the medical photograph taken at the pediatric clinic—showing the vivid, red handprint swelling across Lily’s delicate, small face. Michael walked over and laid the photograph directly on the table in front of Warren.
"Does this look like a 'minor tap' to you, Mr. Vance?"
Warren glanced at the photo for a fraction of a second, then quickly turned his eyes away toward the window.
"Look at the photograph, Mr. Vance," Michael demanded, his voice rising in authority. "Look at your two-year-old granddaughter's face."
"I've seen the picture," Warren snapped, his composure finally beginning to fracture.
"In your sworn deposition from 2012 regarding your daughter Emily's car accident," Michael continued, relentless as a sledgehammer, "you stated under oath that Emily was driving the vehicle that struck Martha Gable. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Warren growled.
"And yet," Michael said, pulling out a freshly unsealed affidavit, "we now have a sworn statement from the responding officer from 2012, stating that you pulled him aside in the driveway and offered him five thousand dollars in cash to list Emily as the driver on the official accident report instead of Blake."
The room went dead silent. The only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner and the steady click of the court reporter's machine.
Warren’s attorney looked down at his papers, visibly wincing. Even Sterling knew when a witness had been completely, irrevocably destroyed.
Warren looked across the table at me. His eyes were wide, filled with an animalistic mixture of rage, shame, and desperation.
"Emily," he rasped, his voice trembling for the first time in my memory. "You did this. You brought these people into our lives. You brought this down on us."
I leaned forward across the glass table, looking into the eyes of the man I had spent my entire life trying to satisfy, trying to protect, and trying to love.
May you like
"No, Dad," I said, my voice quiet, firm, and entirely devoid of anger. "You brought this on yourself. You thought you were protecting Blake. But you were just building his scaffold. And today, the trapdoor opened."
Warren opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He looked down at the photograph of my daughter’s bruised face sitting on the shiny glass table between us. For the first time in his life, Warren Vance had no explanations, no legal maneuvers, and no money left to fix what he had broken.
