Chapter 8 - THE DEPOSITION
Before the criminal trial concluded, there was one final piece of legal housekeeping required for the civil asset forfeiture. I was required to sit in on a deposition via video link to confirm the forgery on the loan documents.
I sat in Caldwell’s office, staring at the large monitor on the wall. The screen flickered to life, revealing a drab, gray interrogation room at the federal detention center. David sat at a metal table, wearing a faded orange jumpsuit. His hair was buzzing short, his face gaunt and pale. He looked ten years older, stripped of the expensive suits and the arrogant posture that had defined him. He looked small.
His court-appointed lawyer sat next to him, looking exhausted.
When David looked at the camera, his eyes locked onto mine through the screen. There was no anger left in him. Only a hollow, desperate emptiness.
"Ms. Miller," the federal prosecutor began, his voice echoing through the speakers. "I am going to show you Exhibit A, a loan origination document from Vanguard Mutual. Is that your signature on the bottom line?"
"No, it is not," I said clearly.
"Mr. Mercer," the prosecutor turned to David. "Did you forge your wife's signature on this document to secure a five-hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit?"
David stared at the screen, staring at me. He swallowed hard. "Yes."
"Did you also forge her signature on the incorporation documents for Apex Holdings LLC?"
"Yes."
The deposition lasted an hour. With every "yes," David hammered another nail into his own coffin. He admitted to everything. He admitted to the money laundering. He admitted to the affair. He admitted to planning to move Emily into the house while I was unaware.
When the prosecutor finally concluded the questioning, the room fell silent.
"Are we finished?" David's lawyer asked, shuffling his papers.
"Yes, we are done here," the prosecutor said.
Before the connection was severed, David leaned forward, his face filling the screen.
"Sarah," he said, his voice cracking. "Sarah, please. Just tell me you forgive me. Please. I can't survive in here knowing you hate me."
It was the ultimate narcissist's plea. Even now, facing fifteen years in a cage, he was seeking my validation to ease his own guilt. He wanted me to absolve him, to carry the emotional weight of his crimes so he could sleep better at night.
I looked at the pathetic, broken man on the screen.
"I don't hate you, David," I said, my voice completely flat, devoid of any anger or sorrow. "I don't feel anything for you at all. You are nothing to me."
I reached forward and pressed the button on the console, cutting the video feed. The screen went black.
Caldwell, sitting quietly in the corner of the room, let out a low whistle. "Ice cold, Sarah. I love it."
May you like
I stood up, grabbing my coat. "I have a contractor meeting at the house, Harrison. We're installing a new kitchen island today."
"Of course," Caldwell smiled. "Have a good afternoon, Ms. Miller."
