Chapter 5 - The Deposition of Eleanor Holland
The temporary custody order gave Blake breathing room, but in the brutal calculus of family law, temporary orders were merely the opening skirmish. The formal evidentiary hearing scheduled for January would decide permanent custody, the liquidation of the marital estate, and parental rights.
Blake wasn't waiting for January.
On Tuesday morning, Blake and Marcus convened in the eighty-third-floor conference room of Marcus's firm overlooking the frozen expanse of Lake Michigan. Across the expansive mahogany table sat Eleanor Holland, dressed in an armored sheath of charcoal wool, her pearls gleaming, accompanied by her own high-priced personal attorney, Robert Sterling—Harold’s older, more calculating brother.
Because Eleanor had inserted herself into the custody proceedings by submitting third-party affidavits regarding Blake’s parental fitness, Marcus had exercised his right to depose her under subpoena.
A court reporter sat at the end of the table, fingers hovering over the stenograph machine.
"State your name and address for the record," Marcus said quietly.
"Eleanor Vance Holland," she said, her voice dripping with aristocratic ice. "Twelve-forty-eight Sheridan Road, Lake Forest."
"Mrs. Holland, you signed an affidavit on December tenth stating that Ethan Carlson was a 'hyperactive, uncontrollable child' who frequently inflicted emotional distress upon his mother. Did you write that statement yourself?"
Robert Sterling leaned toward the microphone. "Objection as to form."
"You may answer, Mrs. Holland," Marcus said.
Eleanor shifted her posture. "I dictated my observations to my daughter's legal counsel. The boy has always been difficult. He takes after his father's side of the family. Common, uncouth, undisciplined."
Blake sat beside Marcus, taking notes with a blue fountain pen. He didn't look up. He didn't react. He knew that Eleanor’s arrogance was their greatest weapon. Narcissists always hung themselves if you gave them enough conversational rope.
"When you say 'common,' Mrs. Holland, what do you mean?" Marcus asked.
"I mean he does not possess the Holland temperament," Eleanor said dismissively. "The Hollands are founders of this county. My grandfather chartered the first bank in Waukegan. We expect excellence. Ethan is clumsy. He stutters when he's nervous. He spilled juice on a four-thousand-dollar designer gown on Vera's birthday. A proper child from a proper family knows how to carry a glass."
"And what is the proper punishment for a six-year-old child who spills juice on a dress?" Marcus asked, his tone deceptively mild.
"He needed discipline!" Eleanor snapped. "Blake is never home. He's off playing hero in courtrooms while Vera was left to manage everything. The boy needed to understand that actions have consequences. He was placed on the patio to reflect."
"In twenty-six-degree weather?" Marcus pressed. "Without a coat?"
"It builds character," Eleanor said coldly. "In my day, children were sent out in the snow all the time. A little cold never killed anyone. He was in no danger."
Marcus slid an eight-by-ten glossy photograph across the table.
It was the ER trauma bay photo of Ethan’s mottled, purple-gray feet, wrapped in warming sensors.
Eleanor glanced at it and pushed it away with the tip of her manicured finger. "Dramatics. Blake coached the doctors to make it look worse than it was. He’s a litigator. He manufactures evidence for a living."
"Let's talk about manufacturing evidence, Mrs. Holland," Marcus said, leaning back. "Let's talk about Blue Harbor Developments."
Robert Sterling shot straight up in his chair. "Objection! Relevance! This deposition was noticed under Rule 202 regarding minor child custody, not corporate finance."
"It goes directly to motive, bias, and the witness’s credibility," Marcus countered smoothly. "Mrs. Holland swore under oath that Blake Carlson was financially neglecting his family, forcing Vera to seek financial support from her parents. We have the right to test that factual claim."
Marcus pulled a stack of banking records from a leather binder. "Mrs. Holland, on October fourteenth, a wire transfer in the amount of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars was initiated from Blake and Vera Carlson's joint account to an account held by Blue Harbor Developments at First Midwest Bank. Are you a signatory on that Blue Harbor account?"
Eleanor’s eyes flickered. A tiny twitch appeared beneath her left eye. "I... my husband handles corporate filings."
"Are you a signatory, Mrs. Holland? Yes or no? You are under oath."
"I may have signing authority for emergency business expenses," she muttered.
"And was it an emergency business expense when, three days after receiving that wire, you used the Blue Harbor account to purchase a forty-two-thousand-dollar diamond tennis bracelet from Harry Winston on Michigan Avenue?"
The room went deathly still. The only sound was the rhythmic, soft clacking of the court reporter's machine.
Robert Sterling turned to look at his client, his eyes wide with horror. "Eleanor... what is he talking about?"
Eleanor's jaw tightened until her teeth ground together. "My husband's business transactions are private."
"They ceased being private when your daughter forged Blake Carlson’s name on a secondary home equity line of credit to fund your jewelry purchases and keep Dick’s shell company from collapsing before the federal grand jury convened," Blake said, speaking for the first time.
His voice was like a heavy blade falling.
Eleanor turned her gaze onto Blake, her aristocratic veneer completely shattering. "You think you're clever, don't you, Blake? You think because you passed the bar and wear an expensive suit that you're one of us? You're a cop's son from Peoria! You were nothing before you married Vera! We let you into our homes, we introduced you to our friends, and the moment things get difficult, you turn on us like a mongrel!"
"Eleanor, stop talking!" Robert Sterling shouted, slamming his hand on the table. "I am instructing the witness not to answer!"
"I don't care!" Eleanor hissed, her face contorting with decades of bottled vitriol. "He took my grandson! He took Ethan! Ethan belongs to the Holland family line! Not some middle-class nobody who thinks he can drag our name through the dirt!"
Marcus smiled, looking directly at the court reporter. "Please ensure every single syllable of Mrs. Holland’s statement is transcribed exactly as uttered."
Marcus turned back to Eleanor. "Mrs. Holland, did you instruct your daughter Carrie to approach Ethan at Lake Forest Country Day School on Tuesday afternoon and threaten him with maternal incarceration if he told the truth to the court investigator?"
Eleanor stared at Marcus. The realization of what she had just done—the tirade she had just unleashed on the record—began to settle into her eyes. The arrogance melted away, replaced by an ugly, hollow panic.
"I... I have no knowledge of Carrie's actions," she whispered.
"We have high-definition video surveillance from three separate angles, Eleanor," Blake said quietly. "Including the audio captured by the school's directional security microphones. Carrie told Ethan, quote, 'Your father is a monster who wants to tear this family apart, and if you help him, you'll never see your mother again.'"
Blake stood up, buttoning his jacket. He looked down at his mother-in-law with an expression of profound pity.
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"You spent your whole life pretending that pedigree was a substitute for character, Eleanor," Blake said. "Now you’re going to find out what the law does to people who mistake money for immunity."
***
