Chapter 11 - The Deposition Prep
The air inside Marcus’s office smelled of stale roasted coffee and heavy legal paper. Outside the tall windows, gray afternoon clouds were rolling in over the downtown skyline, casting a flat, washed-out light across the cherry-wood conference table. I sat across from Marcus, a stack of spiral-bound bank statements and forensic accounting summaries spread out before me like a map of a territory I had already survived.
"He's going to try and rattle you on the timeline," Marcus said, not looking up from his legal pad as he uncapped a black fountain pen. "Richard’s new counsel, Henderson, specializes in discrediting plaintiffs by making them look erratic. They'll lean hard on the jewelry store incident. They want to paint you as the aggressor who ambushed him."
"I have the text messages from his assistant confirming the meeting time at the store, and the receipt from the jeweler," I said, my voice steady. I reached into my leather tote and pulled out a manila folder, sliding it across the polished wood. "And here are the server logs showing when he transferred the subsidiary funds into the offshore holding account. The dates align. He moved the money forty-eight hours before our anniversary dinner."
Marcus took the folder, flipping open the tab to inspect the printouts. A slow, approving nod settled his features. "Good. Keep that exact wording during cross. Don't editorialize. Don't let Henderson bait you into talking about the emotional toll. If he asks why you waited until that afternoon to return the ring, you state the simple fact: you waited until the forensic audit was verified by the firm."
We spent the next two hours running through the mock examination. Marcus played the part of opposing counsel with cold precision, firing sharp, rapid questions designed to test my recall of corporate bylaws and asset dispersion percentages. Every time he pushed, I checked my breathing, kept my posture upright, and answered with the exact, unvarnished figures documented in the files. There was no room for hesitation, and no space for the old habits of second-guessing myself that Richard had cultivated over years of subtle gaslighting.
"He's going to look at you across that table tomorrow and try to use your history against you," Marcus said, setting his pen down and leaning back in his leather chair. "He’ll use every quiet evening, every shared asset, every vulnerability you ever confided in him. Are you ready for that?"
"I'm ready," I said, sliding the remaining papers back into my bag and closing the zipper with a quiet, decisive click. "The person he thinks he's sitting across from doesn't exist anymore."
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We verified that the flash drives containing the audio files from the board meetings and the encrypted email chains were fully backed up and secured in the firm's vault. Marcus stood, extending a hand across the table. We shook firmly, the transaction professional and absolute. As I walked out of the office and down into the damp evening air, the streetlights were just beginning to flicker on along the concrete, and for the first time in months, the weight in my chest felt entirely gone.
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