Chapter 6 - The Deposition
In early spring, the prosecution informed us that Elena’s legal team was pressing for a plea deal that would allow her to serve less than five years in a minimum-security facility, citing her "lack of prior criminal record" and "documented mental health struggles."
District Attorney Richard Vance (no relation) met with Dad and me in his downtown office. The mahogany walls were lined with heavy law books, and the city skyline towered outside the tall windows.
“If we accept this deal, she pleads guilty to felony child endangerment, and the attempted murder charges are dropped,” DA Vance explained, leaning against his desk. “It saves Leo from having to testify in open court. A trial will be brutal. Her defense attorneys will try to paint Leo as an unstable, attention-seeking teenager who manipulated his own device to get back at a strict stepmother.”
I felt a surge of hot anger ignite in my chest. “She tried to kill me, Mr. Vance. She didn't just endanger me. She watched me suffer every single day, smiled at me, kissed my forehead, and then turned the insulin off. She recorded it. She made money off it.”
“I know, Leo,” the DA said softly. “I believe you. The physical evidence proves it. But taking this to a jury means putting you on the stand. They will grill you. They will pick apart your life, your mother’s death, your medical history.”
Dad stood up, his jaw set like granite. “We are not taking a deal. My son spent years being silenced by that woman. He will not be silenced by her lawyers now. If he wants to speak, we fight.”
I looked at my father. The quiet, passive man who had let Elena run our household had vanished entirely. In his place stood a fierce, protective advocate who was ready to wage war for my justice.
“I want to testify,” I said, my voice steady and unwavering. “I want her to sit in that courtroom, look me in the eye, and hear me tell the world what she did.”
Two weeks later, the deposition took place in a sterile conference room. Elena was brought in wearing an orange jumpsuit, her hands cuffed at the waist. Without her designer clothes, hair extensions, and carefully applied makeup, she looked remarkably small, hollow, and ordinary.
When her eyes met mine, she attempted to pull off her old trick: she squeezed out a single, tragic tear and whispered, “Leo... my sweet boy...”
“Save it, Elena,” I said coldly, placing my hands flat on the table.
For three grueling hours, her defense attorney grilled me. He questioned my memory, asked if I had ever felt jealous of the attention Elena gave to her social media followers, and even suggested that I had learned the passcode by watching her type it in.
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I didn't break. I answered every question with absolute precision. I presented my medical journals, my blood glucose logs, and explained the mechanics of the pump software better than her own expert witness could. Every time her attorney tried to twist my words, I brought the focus back to the cold, undeniable digital data—the timestamps that matched her morning routine down to the second.
By the end of the deposition, Elena was no longer looking at me with pity or affection. Her face had twisted into a scowl of pure, unadulterated hatred. The illusion was completely shattered. She wasn't a tragic mother; she was a defeated abuser who had finally been outsmarted by her victim.
