Chapter 7 - The Deposition
Two months later, my leg had healed enough for me to walk with a slight limp, discarding the crutches for good. The physical trauma was fading, replaced by a fierce, unyielding resolve.
Because David’s defense team had fallen apart, he was assigned a state-appointed panel attorney who desperately tried to salvage a plea deal. To force their hand, my cousin Elena scheduled a formal deposition. David was brought to the federal courthouse in a bright orange jumpsuit, handcuffed and shackled at the ankles.
I sat across the table from him in the conference room, flanked by my father and Elena.
David looked terrible. His hair was unkempt, his perfect suit replaced by prison scrubs, and the smug arrogance that had defined his face was replaced by a hollow, desperate anger.
"Hello, David," I said quietly.
He glared at me, his teeth clenched. "You think you’ve won, Sarah? You’re nothing without me. You’re a broken, fragile woman who couldn't even keep her own marriage together."
"Let the record show," Elena interrupted loudly, "that the defendant is attempting to intimidate the witness."
"Let him speak, Elena," I said, leaning forward. "David, you still think this is about a broken marriage. It’s not. It’s about a criminal enterprise. Today, we are here to review the evidence of your fraud before we go to a jury."
For the next four hours, I systematically dismantled him. I walked through every single document, every fraudulent wire transfer, and every piece of hidden camera footage. I spoke with the precise, unflappable authority of a seasoned prosecutor. Every time his attorney tried to object, I cited federal precedents that left them speechless.
The turning point came when Elena played the audio recording of the night of the assault.
The sound of my leg snapping echoed through the small room. Emma’s scream followed.
David looked down at the table, his shoulders slumping. Even his public defender looked sickened by the audio.
"David," I said, my voice deadpan. "If we go to trial, a jury will hear that sound. They will see the video of you standing over me. They will hear your daughter testify about what you did. You are looking at thirty years in a maximum-security facility. Or, you can sign the full confession, accept a plea of fifteen years, and give up all parental rights permanently."
David’s attorney leaned over, whispering frantically in his ear. “Take it,” I could hear the lawyer mutter. “If this goes to a jury, you’re done for life.”
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David lifted his head, his eyes filled with a venomous hatred. But beneath the hate, there was finally the realization that he was utterly defeated.
"Give me the pen," he spat.
