Chapter 7 - The Deposition from Hell
Following Megan’s arrest outside the preschool, the Peterson empire’s foundation didn't just crack—it imploded.
The Cook County state's attorney refused to drop the charges. Megan spent thirty-six hours in the county detention center before a bond court judge set her bail at twenty-five thousand dollars cash, accompanied by mandatory electronic ankle monitoring.
Worse for the Petersons, Tariq’s forensic audit had been approved by Judge Martinez. The commercial freeze was executed with brutal efficiency.
By mid-January, we were seated in the twenty-fifth-floor conference room of Marcus Vance’s firm for the formal depositions in the divorce and financial fraud proceedings.
Mark sat across the wide glass table, flanked by a completely defeated Arthur Pendelton. To Mark's right sat Carol Peterson, who had been subpoenaed as a managing partner of Peterson Asset Management.
Carol looked ten years older. The salon-perfect silver blowout was gone, replaced by hastily pinned hair. Her designer clothes looked loose on her frame, and her trademark arrogance had deteriorated into a jittery, bitter exhaustion.
Mark wouldn't look at me. His eyes remained glued to the legal pad in front of him, his fingers compulsively picking at a frayed seam on his cuff.
Marcus tapped the recording device in the center of the table. "This is the deposition of Mark Peterson and Carol Peterson in the matter of Peterson v. Peterson. Present for the Petitioner: Marcus Vance and Chloe Peterson. Present for the Respondent: Arthur Pendelton, Mark Peterson, Carol Peterson. The court reporter is present and the witnesses have been sworn."
Marcus turned his attention directly to Carol.
"Mrs. Peterson, let's begin with the Thanksgiving dinner on November twenty-fourth. You stated on social media that the petitioner, Chloe Peterson, suffered a 'mental crisis' and 'abducted' your granddaughter. Do you recall making that statement to three thousand followers on Facebook?"
Carol swallowed, glancing at Pendelton.
"It was an emotional evening," Carol whispered, her voice trembling. "I was distressed."
"Did you or did you not witness your daughter, Megan Peterson, strike five-year-old Lily Peterson with enough force to leave deep contusions?" Marcus asked, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a blade.
Pendelton raised a hand. "I advise my client to invoke her Fifth Amendment rights regarding any pending criminal matters involving Megan Peterson."
Marcus smiled—a cold, shark-like grin. "Duly noted. Let's move to the commercial matters, where the Fifth Amendment won't save your assets."
Marcus slid a thick ledger across the table, stopping directly in front of Carol.
"Mrs. Peterson, do you recognize this document?"
Carol squinted through her reading glasses. "It appears to be a corporate loan agreement."
"It is a four-hundred-thousand-dollar mezzanine financing agreement for your family brownstone on Dearborn Street," Marcus said. "Secured by the accounts receivable of Chloe Peterson’s design firm. Tell me, Mrs. Peterson, when did Chloe Peterson agree to pledge her corporate revenue to pay off your second mortgage?"
Carol’s eyes darted toward Mark, her face draining of all color. "I... I don't handle the corporate paperwork. Frank and Mark handle the commercial side."
"Mr. Peterson," Marcus pivoted to Mark. "Did Chloe Peterson sign this document?"
Mark didn't answer. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
"Mr. Peterson, I remind you that you are under oath," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a stern, unforgiving cadence. "Did Chloe Peterson execute that digital signature, or did you access her private business terminal on August fourteenth of last year and forge her credentials?"
"Mark, don't answer that," Pendelton interrupted hurriedly.
"He has to answer it, Arthur," Marcus shot back. "Because if he doesn't, the federal banking compliance officers sitting in the lobby right now will take his deposition under a grand jury subpoena by Friday afternoon."
Mark dropped his pen. His hands were shaking. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, fixing his gaze on me for the first time in two months.
"Chloe, please," Mark choked out, his voice cracked and pathetic. "It was just a temporary bridge loan. Dad was going to lose the brownstone. The bank was threatening foreclosure. We were going to replace the funds as soon as the River North property sold! I did it for my parents!"
"You stole from my company to fund your parents' vanity," I said, my voice dead, flat, and absolute. "You stole from your daughter's future to pay for Carol's country club dues."
"It's family money!" Carol suddenly shrieked, losing her composure entirely. She slammed her wrinkled hands onto the glass table. "Everything we have belongs to this family! You came into our lives with nothing! You had no pedigree, no heritage, no standing! Mark elevated you! You should have been honored that your little decorating business could help save the Peterson name!"
The room fell into stunned, horrified silence.
The court reporter’s fingers flew across the stenotype machine, recording every venomous, incriminating syllable Carol uttered.
Pendelton buried his face in his hands, letting out a soft, defeated groan. He knew the case was over. In thirty seconds of unhinged entitlement, Carol Peterson had admitted on the record to knowing about the fraudulent commingling of funds, destroyed any defense Mark had against commercial fraud, and handed us absolute leverage over every asset the family possessed.
Marcus leaned back in his leather chair, crossing his hands over his notepad.
May you like
"Well," Marcus said softly. "I believe that concludes our questions for the morning. Arthur, I suggest you take your clients into the hallway and discuss our settlement terms. Because if this goes to trial on Monday, your clients aren't just losing custody and their real estate. Mark is going to federal prison."
***
