Chapter 7 - The Deposition
Three weeks later, I sat across a narrow conference table in the county courthouse annex, staring directly at Ethan across a row of legal pads and microphone cables.
He looked hollowed out. The expensive suits were gone, replaced by standard-issue county jail scrubs. His hair was unwashed, his shoulders slumped, and the arrogant, entitled smirk he had worn for eleven years had been permanently erased from his face.
Sitting beside him was a public defender appointed by the court—a tired-looking man who clearly wished he was anywhere else in the world.
My legal team, led by Andrew Mercer, sat on my right.
“This is a formal pretrial deposition in the matter of State of Maine v. Ethan Vance Caldwell,” the court stenographer announced, her fingers hovering over her machine. “State your name for the record.”
“Ethan Vance Caldwell,” he muttered, staring down at the scuffed wooden table.
“Mr. Caldwell,” Andrew began, his voice calm, steady, and dripping with professional authority. “Directing your attention to the night of Friday, October fourteenth. Did you or did you not manually override the electronic locking system of Freezer 12 at Morgan Atlantic Refrigeration?”
Ethan looked up, his bloodshot eyes darting toward me for a fraction of a second before looking away. “I... my mother suggested—she told me it was just a practical joke to scare her into signing the property transfer papers—”
“Mr. Caldwell,” the prosecutor interrupted sharply, leaning forward across the table. “Are you testifying under oath that locking your wife inside a minus-six-degree commercial freezer with the intent to let her freeze to death was merely a practical joke?”
Ethan swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively. He looked at his public defender. The lawyer gave him a microscopic, hopeless shake of his head.
“I want a plea deal,” Ethan whispered, his voice cracking.
“There are no plea deals for premeditated murder, Mr. Caldwell,” the prosecutor replied coldly. “The audio recordings from your study, the digital logs from your home IP address, and your own signed financial ledgers leave zero room for negotiation. You are pleading guilty or you are going to trial facing life without parole.”
Ethan buried his face in his cuffed hands, his shoulders shaking with ragged, humiliating sobs.
I watched him quietly from across the table.
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There was no rush of triumph. No burning desire for theatrical revenge. Just a profound, liberating sense of finality. The parasite that had sucked the life, energy, and resources out of my company and my soul for over a decade was finally being cut away.
“Let the record show,” the stenographer’s voice droned mechanically, “that the defendant has declined further statement at this time.”
