Chapter 9: The Deposition in the Grand Study
Two days later, exactly at 2:00 p.m., the heavy oak doors of the grand study swung open to admit Vanessa Cross and her high-priced legal representative, a slick, impeccably groomed attorney named Harrison Vance who wore an expression of manufactured condescension. Vanessa had clearly spent the intervening days plotting her revenge; she was dressed in an ostentatious Chanel pantsuit, her hair styled to perfection, her face masked in cold, unyielding arrogance. She walked into the room as though she were reclaiming a kingdom rather than facing a financial reckoning.
“I hope you’ve brought your checkbook, Mrs. Whitmore,” Harrison Vance drawled smoothly, settling into an armchair and opening a leather briefcase. “My client has suffered irreparable humiliation, not to mention the social fallout of having her wedding canceled via text message by a cowardly groom who couldn't face her like a man.”
Daniel didn't flinch. He sat quietly beside me at the mahogany desk, his hands resting calmly over the manila folder containing the federal indictments of Vanessa’s parents.
“Let’s dispense with the theatrical posturing, Counselor,” I said, my voice dropping the temperature in the room by ten degrees. I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “Your client is demanding two million dollars for emotional distress while concealing federal felonies, fabricating a false background, and committing systematic domestic abuse against household employees under this very roof.”
Harrison Vance scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Unsubstantiated gossip and disgruntled employee hearsay. None of that would hold up in a civil court for thirty seconds.”
“Would federal wire fraud and interstate fencing charges hold up?” I asked smoothly, sliding the certified copies of Arthur Cross’s federal prison records and the art gallery fencing indictments across the table toward the attorney.
Vance glanced down at the top page. The color drained from his smug, polished face as his eyes scanned the federal seal and the docket numbers linking Vanessa directly to her family’s illicit financial network.
Vanessa leaned over her lawyer’s shoulder, her eyes widening in sheer terror as she recognized the documents. “Where... where did you get those?” she gasped, her voice losing all its manufactured authority.
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“From the same place I secured the audio recordings of you abusing my staff and the security footage of you hiding a diamond bracelet in a housekeeper’s pocket,” I replied, my gaze locking onto hers with unyielding force. “You see, Vanessa, you made one fatal miscalculation. You thought because I wore a secondhand uniform and a gray wig, I was someone you could step on. But in America, power doesn't shout—it observes.”
