Chapter 6 - The Deposition
-6-
By the second week of January, the legal battlefield had shifted from emergency injunctions and property repossessions to the grueling, methodical process of formal discovery and depositions. Nathan’s high-priced divorce attorney—a slick, aggressive litigator named Harrison Vance (no relation to Marcus)—had initially attempted to fight our motions tooth and nail, filing countersuits, claiming spousal harassment, and demanding a fifty-percent split of all corporate assets.
That strategy lasted exactly until Marcus Vance submitted our forensic audit findings to the family court judge.
Once the judge saw the irrefutable paper trail of four hundred thousand dollars in corporate embezzlement, the secret offshore accounts, the forged expense reports, and the documented pattern of financial conversion designed to hide marital assets, Harrison Vance quietly advised his client to settle.
Of course, Nathan was too arrogant, too narcissistic, and too unhinged to listen to sound legal advice.
On a cold, grey Tuesday morning, the formal deposition took place in a sterile conference room on the thirty-fifth floor of Marcus’s downtown law firm.
I sat at one end of the long mahogany table, wearing a crisp charcoal pantsuit, flanked by Marcus and a court stenographer whose fingers rested quietly over her stenotype machine.
When the heavy glass door swung open, Nathan walked in accompanied by his attorney. Nathan looked like a shadow of his former self; the bespoke tailored suits had been replaced by a cheap, off-the-rack gray jacket that hung loosely on his frame. His hair was unwashed, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, carrying the permanent exhaustion of a man who had spent the last three weeks sleeping on a pull-out couch in his parents’ cramped, rented suburban apartment.
He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes glued to the floor as he slumped into the chair across the table.
“Let the record reflect that it is 9:00 AM on January 14th,” Marcus announced formally, addressing the stenographer. “We are commencing the formal deposition of Nathan Reed in the matter of Reed v. Reed and associated corporate fraud proceedings.”
Harrison Vance cleared his throat nervously, leaning toward his client. “Mr. Reed understands the gravity of these proceedings, counselor. We are prepared to expedite our responses.”
“Good,” Marcus said. He slid a thick, bound dossier across the table toward Nathan. “Mr. Reed, please turn to Exhibit 42-B. Can you identify the signature at the bottom of this wire transfer authorization dated November 12th?”
Nathan stared down at the paper, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out to touch the corner of the document. He didn't answer.
“Mr. Reed?” Marcus prompted sharply. “For the record, you must answer verbally.”
“It’s my signature,” Nathan muttered, his voice barely audible, sounding like a whipped dog.
“And can you explain to the court why eighty-five thousand dollars of corporate capital from Reed Hospitality Group was transferred to a personal account in the Cayman Islands under the fictitious corporate entity Apex Ventures?” Marcus asked, leaning back in his leather chair, locking his eyes onto Nathan.
Nathan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly. He glanced at his attorney, hoping for a lifeline, but Harrison Vance simply stared down at his legal pad, maintaining a strategic, silent distance from his client’s indefensible actions.
“I... I needed liquidity,” Nathan stammered, the arrogant façade finally crumbling completely. “The restaurant industry was volatile, cash flow was unpredictable, I wanted to secure a safety net for our family in case things went under!”
“A safety net?” Marcus laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Mr. Reed, bank records indicate that within forty-eight hours of that wire transfer hitting the Cayman account, fifty thousand dollars was withdrawn in cash and used to purchase a luxury condominium in Lincoln Park under the name of Brooke Lawson—your executive assistant and romantic partner.”
The conference room fell into absolute silence.
Nathan’s head dropped into his hands. His shoulders began to shake, not with the quiet dignity of remorse, but with the pathetic, raging frustration of a cornered animal realizing there was no way out of the trap.
“She ruined me,” Nathan suddenly whispered, his voice rising in pitch as he slammed his fist onto the mahogany table, making the water pitcher jump. “She trapped me! She manipulated me! If Elena hadn't been so cold, so obsessed with work, so emotionally distant, I never would have looked at another woman!”
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I slowly stood up from my chair, buttoning my jacket, and looked directly across the table into the bloodshot, tear-filled eyes of my soon-to-be ex-husband.
“You didn't look at another woman because I was cold, Nathan,” I said, my voice cutting through the sterile room like a surgeon's scalpel. “You looked at another woman because you are a weak, entitled parasite who couldn't stand being married to someone who was smarter, harder-working, and infinitely more successful than you will ever be.”
Nathan stared up at me, his mouth working silently, the mask of charm and sophistication permanently burned away to reveal the hollow, pathetic coward underneath.
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“You’ve lost everything, Nathan,” I concluded quietly. “Your business, your home, your mistress, and your reputation. And the most tragic part of it all? You did it entirely to yourself.”
I turned toward the door, nodding to Marcus. “I’m done here. Call me when the settlement papers are ready for my signature.”
