Chapter 12 - THE DEPOSITIONS
Four days later, we sat in a sunlit conference room on the forty-second floor of the Vance & Partners skyscraper in downtown Chicago.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows offered a sweeping view of the city skyline, but the atmosphere inside the room was tense and frigid.
Across the long glass table sat Margaret and Paige, both clad in orange county jail jumpsuits, their wrists bound by light transport chains. Their defense attorneys—two overworked public defenders assigned by the court after their private accounts were frozen—sat beside them looking exhausted and overwhelmed.
Frank Vance sat at the head of the table, opening a thick leather binder.
"This is a recorded deposition for the civil asset recovery and criminal fraud proceedings in State v. Margaret Vance and Paige Vance," Frank announced, adjusting his glasses. "Present are lead counsel Frank Vance, plaintiff David Vance, and victim Gwen Vance."
Margaret looked across the table at me, her eyes red-rimmed and sunken, her manicured facade entirely shattered. "David... please," she rasped, her voice trembling. "You can't let them do this to us. I'm your mother. Paige is your sister. We made a mistake, but we're family!"
"Family doesn't lock a woman in a storage pantry, Margaret," Frank snapped before I could even answer. "Family doesn't forge power of attorney documents while a soldier is taking mortar fire in a combat zone."
"I didn't forge anything!" Paige yelled, her voice echoing off the glass walls. She looked haggard, her hair messy, her designer lifestyle stripped away in less than a week. "Mom told me it was legal! Mom said David gave her permission to handle the money!"
"Shut up, Paige!" Margaret hissed, turning on her daughter. "You were the one who demanded the truck! You were the one who spent thirty thousand dollars on clothes and trips to Miami!"
"Because you told me the money was ours!" Paige screamed back, turning to her public defender. "Tell them! Tell them she forced me to do it!"
I sat completely still, watching the two of them tear each other apart across the table. There was no loyalty, no love, no family bond—only two parasites fighting over the scraps of a host they had bled dry.
Gwen sat beside me, her hand held firmly in mine under the table. She didn't flinch. She didn't look down. She watched them with a quiet, calm strength that made my heart swell with pride.
"Here is the offer," Frank said, pulling a stack of legal documents from his folder and sliding them across the table. "You will execute a full transfer of all real estate titles, shell company assets, luxury vehicles, and personal valuables back to David and Gwen Vance immediately. In exchange, the state prosecutor will recommend a sentence of twelve years for Margaret, and seven years for Paige, with possibility of parole after five."
May you like
Margaret gasped, clutching her chest. "Twelve years?! I'll die in prison!"
"Then you can take your chances with a jury," Frank replied coldly, shutting his binder with a heavy THUD. "Where the state will ask for twenty-five years without parole. You have ten minutes to sign."
