Chapter 5 - The Deposition
The deposition took place in a neutral conference room at the downtown courthouse. Emily was not present. It was just me, Marcus, Rachel, her attorney Davis, and a court reporter.
Rachel looked pale, having spent a month in county lockup, but she still tried to project an air of victimhood. She wore a plain grey blouse, her hair tied back simply. When I walked into the room, she looked at me with wide, pleading eyes, silently begging for mercy. I looked right through her.
Davis cleared his throat and opened his briefcase. "Gentlemen, let's be reasonable. We are prepared to offer a plea deal. Misdemeanor child endangerment. Rachel will accept three years of probation, mandatory parenting classes, and a quiet, uncontested divorce where she retains fifty percent of the marital assets as per the standard division, voiding the prenuptial agreement due to emotional distress."
Marcus laughed. It was a cold, terrifying sound. "Davis, you have a lot of nerve."
"The evidence is circumstantial," Davis shot back smoothly. "You have contact burns and a traumatized child who has a documented history of therapy. I can put an expert on the stand who will testify that children with grief trauma often self-harm. My client was trying to save Emily from the iron. It was a tragic accident."
Rachel dabbed at her dry eyes with a tissue. "I love Emily, Jack. I was trying to protect her."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the mahogany table. "You're a monster."
"Mr. Reynolds, please control your client," Davis warned.
"Oh, I'm fully in control of my client," Marcus smiled, pulling a sleek silver laptop from his bag. He opened it and turned the screen to face Rachel and Davis. "Before we discuss any deals, I think you both should hear something we retrieved from the Amazon Cloud server attached to the Reynolds' home network. It seems the motion detector in the laundry room was triggered at 5:42 AM on the morning of the incident. It recorded three minutes of high-definition audio."
Rachel froze. The tissue dropped from her hand.
Marcus pressed play.
The audio was crisp. First, there was the sound of a scuffle. The dragging of feet. Then, Rachel’s voice, sharp, vicious, and completely devoid of the sweet tone she used in public.
"You think you can steal from me? You little brat! I lock that pantry for a reason!"
Then, Emily’s voice, crying, begging. "I'm sorry! I was just hungry! Please, Rachel, I'm sorry!"
The sound of the heavy iron being slammed onto the metal ironing board. The click of the heat dial turning.
"Hungry?" Rachel's recorded voice hissed. "You want to act like a street rat? I'll treat you like one. Put your hands out."
"No! Please!"
"Put them out, Emily, or I swear to God I will lock you in the basement for a week!"
A terrifying scream of absolute agony ripped through the laptop speakers. It was a sound that will haunt my nightmares until the day I die. It was the sound of my daughter's hands burning.
Marcus pressed pause. The conference room was so silent you could hear the hum of the air conditioning.
Davis, the high-priced shark attorney, slowly closed his briefcase. He didn't look at Marcus. He didn't look at me. He looked at Rachel with profound, utter disgust.
"Davis?" Rachel whispered, her voice cracking. "Do something."
Davis stood up, adjusting his tie. "Marcus, I will be advising my client to plead guilty to all charges. Aggravated child abuse, torture, and domestic battery. We ask for the mercy of the court."
"There will be no mercy," Marcus said coldly. "She signs the divorce papers today, forfeiting all assets. Or we play this audio for a jury, and I make sure she spends the next twenty years in a maximum-security prison."
Rachel began to sob—real, ugly, desperate tears. "Jack! Please!"
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I stood up, buttoned my jacket, and looked down at the woman who had destroyed my home.
"Enjoy the cell, Rachel. I hear they don't let you lock the pantry."
