Chapter 4 - The Deposition
Three weeks later, we were sitting in a high-rise conference room in Englewood for a court-ordered temporary orders deposition.
The weather outside was brutal—a January blizzard blowing across the Front Range, plastering snow against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the heat was set to seventy-two, but the room felt like a freezer.
Dana sat across from me beside her attorney, Richard Thorne. Thorne was a polished, silver-haired man in a three-piece suit who had built a career representing wealthy executives in South Denver. Beside him, Dana looked sharp—wearing a navy blazer, her hair styled, trying to project the image of a polished corporate director.
On my side sat Patricia Souza and Karen Vance.
The court reporter adjusted her microphone. “We are on the record.”
Thorne started aggressively. He opened by painting me as an inflexible, career-obsessed architect who had emotionally abandoned the marriage years ago, forcing his client to seek emotional fulfillment elsewhere.
“Mr. Callaway,” Thorne said, leaning forward with his hands clasped, “isn't it true that in 2024 you traveled for three straight months on commercial design projects in Wyoming?”
“I took three four-day trips to Jackson Hole to supervise a residential build,” I replied calmly. “During those months, I arranged for my mother to assist with childcare, and I paid the household expenses in full.”
“And during those trips, you left Mrs. Callaway alone with the emotional burden of managing the home?”
“She was working from home three days a week,” I said. “And as the financial records show, while I was in Wyoming, she was using our joint credit card to book spa packages at the Four Seasons in Denver under the name Owen Barrett.”
Thorne cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. He quickly shifted gears.
“Let’s discuss the marital residence,” Thorne said smoothly. “My client is requesting an immediate order to list the property on the market. Holding a eleven-hundred-thousand-dollar home with a mortgage of four thousand dollars a month is financially unsustainable for Mr. Callaway on his independent income alone.”
Patricia leaned toward her microphone. “We object to the characterization of sustainability. Mr. Callaway’s business income has grown eighteen percent year-over-year. Furthermore, Mr. Callaway is the sole designer and builder of eighty percent of the home’s improvements, giving him a non-financial equitable claim to retention.”
“Sentimental value doesn't pay a mortgage, Ms. Souza,” Thorne scoffed. “Mrs. Callaway needs her liquid share of the equity to secure appropriate housing for her time with the children.”
“Appropriate housing?” Patricia picked up a sheet of paper from Karen’s stack. “Mrs. Callaway has already signed a secondary lease on a three-bedroom townhouse in Highlands Ranch—four minutes away from Mr. Owen Barrett’s current address.”
Dana’s eyes snapped toward Patricia. “That lease is private!”
“It was submitted as part of your credit check, Mrs. Callaway,” Patricia said calmly. “Which our forensic team obtained via standard subpoena. What’s interesting is the security deposit for that luxury townhouse.”
Patricia passed a document across the polished oak table to Thorne.
“A twelve-thousand-dollar cashier’s check,” Patricia continued, her voice echoing in the quiet room. “Drawn from the Meridian Creative Partners account on December 22—two days before Mrs. Callaway brought Mr. Barrett into my client’s living room on Christmas Eve.”
Thorne glanced at the document, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. He shot a quick, sharp look at Dana beside him. It was obvious she hadn't told her attorney that she had used corporate-masked marital funds for the security deposit after receiving legal counsel.
“My client...” Thorne began, stumbling slightly, “...merely secured housing in anticipation of the inevitable marital breakdown.”
“Your client committed intentional dissipation of marital property while actively plotting a psychological ambush on two young children during a religious holiday,” Patricia countered brutally. “We will be asking Judge Miller for an offset of the entire sixty-eight thousand dollars from Mrs. Callaway’s equity share, as well as full temporary possession of the residence for Mr. Callaway.”
Dana slammed her hand on the table. “He can't keep my house! I picked out the kitchen counters! I paid for the landscaping!”
I leaned forward, looking my wife straight in the eye across the table.
“You didn't pick out those counters, Dana,” I said, my voice dead calm. “I drew the blue prints on my drafting table while you were in Scottsdale with Owen. You don't care about the house. You just want the cash to pay off Owen’s debts.”
“That’s enough,” Thorne said quickly, putting his hand over Dana’s arm before she could respond. “We need a ten-minute recess.”
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Dana stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floorboards. She hurried out of the conference room into the hallway.
I watched her go, realizing something profound in that moment: the woman I had spent twelve years loving didn't exist anymore. What sat across from me was a stranger backed into a corner of her own creation.
