Chapter 7 - The Deposition
The winter dragged on, giving way to the cold, crisp air of early spring. The legal storm surrounding Vance Global Enterprises reached its climax inside the grand, marble-walled deposition room of the Suffolk County District Courthouse.
I sat at the long wooden table beside my chief counsel, wearing a black tailored blazer. Across the table sat Vivienne.
She looked entirely hollowed out. The four months she had spent inside the Suffolk County House of Correction had stripped away every lingering trace of her high-society glamour. Her hair was pulled back into an unwashed, limp ponytail, her skin was sallow, and she wore an oversized, orange prison jumpsuit with her wrists handcuffed to a leather waist belt.
Her high-priced defense attorney, a sharp-looking man named Donald Vance (no relation), sat beside her, shuffling frantically through a stack of defense motions.
A video camera sat on a tripod at the end of the table, its small red recording light blinking silently.
“This is the formal deposition of Vivienne Vance in the matter of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts versus Vivienne Vance,” the assistant district attorney announced into the microphone. “State your name for the record.”
Vivienne stared across the table at me, her hazel eyes filled with a mixture of burning hatred and complete, hopeless defeat.
“Vivienne Vance,” she whispered, her voice raspy.
“Miss Vance,” her attorney interjected quickly, touching her arm. “I remind you that you have the right to decline answering specific questions regarding the wire transfers under the Fifth Amendment.”
“She can decline all she wants, Donald,” I said, my voice steady and unyielding. “The paper trail is complete. The court doesn't need her confession to send her to federal prison for thirty years.”
Vivienne leaned forward, the steel handcuffs clinking loudly against the wooden table.
“Why are you doing this to me, Evelyn?” Vivienne hissed, her voice trembling with venomous rage. “I’m your sister! You have the company back! You have your money back! Why do you want to destroy me?”
I looked at her without a single trace of emotion.
“You destroyed yourself, Vivienne,” I said. “When you walked up to that altar wearing Mother’s emeralds, you weren't thinking about family. When you signed the authorization forms to keep me heavily sedated in a dark room for four years, you weren't thinking about family. You thought I was a ghost who would never speak again.”
“I did it for the family legacy!” Vivienne shouted, slamming her cuffed hands onto the table. Her attorney gasped, trying to pull her back, but she pushed him away. “Father left us millions in hidden debts! If the public found out that the estate was broke, the stock would have crashed! I had to take your trust to keep the firm afloat!”
“You used fifteen million dollars of my trust to build your private chalet in St. Moritz,” Uncle Richard noted quietly from the back of the room, pulling a financial statement from his folder. “You spent three million dollars on custom jewelry and six million dollars on political bribes to keep St. Jude’s off the state inspection lists. None of that went to the company, Vivienne.”
Vivienne froze, her breath hitching in her throat as the cold truth of her actions hung exposed in the air.
The assistant district attorney leaned forward. “Miss Vance, the prosecution is offering a formal plea agreement. If you plead guilty to all counts of grand larceny, kidnapping, and corporate fraud, the Commonwealth will recommend a sentence of twenty-five years without the possibility of parole.”
Vivienne looked at her attorney, her face pale. “Twenty-five years? Donald... do something! I can’t go to prison for twenty-five years! I’m thirty-one years old!”
“It’s the best deal you’re going to get, Miss Vance,” Donald said heavily, looking down at his papers. “If we go to trial before a jury, with your sister’s medical testimony and the confession from Dr. Pendelton, you are looking at life imprisonment.”
Vivienne turned her eyes back to me, tears finally spilling over her cheeks, dripping onto her orange jumpsuit.
“Evelyn... please,” she whimpered, her arrogant voice completely broken. “Please... talk to the prosecutor... tell them to lower the sentence... I’ll give up everything... I’ll sign whatever you want...”
I picked up my pen, closed my leather notebook, and stood up from the table.
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“You signed my death certificate four years ago, Vivienne,” I said, looking down at her one last time. “Consider yourself lucky that the Commonwealth is letting you keep your life.”
I turned my back on her, walking out of the deposition room as her desperate sob echoed against the cold marble walls behind me.
