Chapter 7 - Depositions and Reckoning
Room 402 of the Marion County Civil Courts Building smelled of lemon furniture polish, old paper, and institutional tension.
A long oak table dominated the center of the room. At the head sat a court reporter with her stenography machine, her fingers poised above the keys. I sat beside Samuel Brooks, dressed in a sharp charcoal blazer I had bought with my first paycheck advance from my new logistics job. Sophie was safely with Aunt Evelyn at the children’s museum downtown.
Across the table sat Arthur Vaughn and Vanessa Vaughn, flanked by their defense attorney, Walter Higgins—a sweaty, rumpled man whose cheap polyester suit looked like it had been slept in.
Vanessa had attempted to maintain her glamorous Carmel facade, but the cracks were undeniable. She wore an oversized black turtleneck and dark sunglasses, which Samuel immediately forced her to remove for the official video record. Beneath the makeup, her eyes were hollow, sunken, and wild. Her hands were tucked under the table, but I could see her shoulders trembling every few seconds.
Arthur looked ten years older than he had on Christmas Eve. He was slumped in his wooden chair, wearing an ill-fitting gray suit, his thinning white hair uncombed, staring at his folded hands like a condemned prisoner.
"This is the deposition of Arthur Vaughn in the matter of *Claire Vaughn v. Arthur Vaughn, Vanessa Vaughn, and Atelier V LLC*," Samuel began, his voice ringing through the quiet room with clinical precision. "Witness has been sworn. Mr. Vaughn, state your full name for the record."
"Arthur James Vaughn," my father mumbled.
"Speak into the microphone, Mr. Vaughn," Samuel commanded sharply.
"Arthur James Vaughn!" he barked, his old irritation flaring for a fraction of a second before dying out under Samuel’s piercing glare.
Samuel stood up, resting one hand on a thick manila folder. "Mr. Vaughn, I hand you Exhibit C. Can you identify this document?"
Arthur squinted through his smudged reading glasses. "It’s... it’s a satisfaction of mortgage certificate."
"Issued by Midwest Financial on October 28, 2021, correct?"
"Yes."
"Confirming that the residential mortgage on 742 Maplewood Drive was paid in full, zero balance remaining, correct?"
"Yes."
"Now, Mr. Vaughn, I hand you Exhibit D through O," Samuel continued, dropping a three-inch stack of bank statements onto the table with a loud *thud*. "These are records of thirty-six consecutive monthly transfers of twelve hundred and fifty dollars from your daughter, Claire Vaughn, to your checking account between November 2021 and December 2024. Totaling forty-five thousand dollars. Did you receive these funds?"
Arthur swallowed hard, glancing desperately at Higgins.
Higgins cleared his throat. "My client asserts that these funds were categorized as reasonable room and board contributions—"
"I didn't ask you, counselor," Samuel snapped without breaking eye contact with Arthur. "Mr. Vaughn, did you receive these funds under the explicit verbal and written representation to Claire that they were required to prevent the foreclosure of your primary mortgage?"
Arthur’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.
"Answer the question, Arthur," Samuel said, stepping closer. "Under penalty of perjury."
"I... I told her the house needed to be paid for," Arthur whispered hoarsely.
"Did the house have a mortgage?"
"No."
"Did you take that forty-five thousand dollars and immediately wire it to the commercial account of Atelier V LLC?"
"Higgins, object!" Vanessa hissed suddenly from beside him, her nails digging into the table. "Don't answer that!"
"Silence, Ms. Vaughn!" the court reporter warned.
"Mr. Vaughn," Samuel pressed, his voice dropping into a lethal, low register. "Did you transfer your daughter’s money to Atelier V?"
"Yes," Arthur croaked, burying his face in his hands. "Yes, I did."
"And did you do so knowing that Claire was working sixty-hour weeks at a convenience store to earn that money?"
"I was trying to help Vanessa!" Arthur cried out, looking up with wet, pleading eyes. "Vanessa had an opportunity! She was going to be big! She promised me she’d pay it all back as soon as she landed a commercial contract!"
"And did she?" Samuel asked cleanly. "Did Vanessa Vaughn or Atelier V ever repay a single dollar of that forty-five thousand?"
"No," Arthur whispered.
Samuel turned his predatory gaze across the table to Vanessa. She shrank back against her chair, her face draining of color.
"Ms. Vaughn," Samuel said, pulling a new set of documents from his briefcase. "Let us turn to Exhibit P. This is your personal financial ledger, produced under emergency subpoena from Chase Commercial. In the thirty-six months you received Claire’s money, your business reported negative operating revenue in thirty-two of them."
Vanessa clenched her jaw, refusing to speak.
"In March of 2023," Samuel read, "you received a twelve-hundred-and-fifty-dollar transfer from Arthur Vaughn. Forty-eight hours later, you executed a debit of twelve hundred dollars to 'Carmel European Motors' for the personal lease of a Porsche Macan. Is that correct?"
"My vehicle is a legitimate marketing expense," Vanessa spat, her voice trembling with venom. "I have to project an image of luxury to attract high-net-worth clients!"
"Funded by your sister’s minimum-wage night shifts," Samuel noted calmly for the record. "And in August of 2023, another twelve-fifty transfer was immediately followed by a payment to 'The Club at Prairie View' for annual social membership dues. Was that also a legitimate corporate necessity?"
"You don't understand how high society works!" Vanessa yelled, slamming her palms onto the oak table, completely abandoning her composure. "You have to be seen in the right rooms! You have to mingle with the right people! I was building an empire! I was this close to signing a half-million-dollar development deal! Claire was just working at a gas station—what was she going to do with that money anyway? Buy more cheap clothes from Walmart?"
The deposition room fell into a dead, horrifying silence.
Even Higgins, her own defense attorney, slowly slid his chair an inch away from her, staring down at his yellow legal pad in profound embarrassment. The court reporter’s fingers flew across the keys, immortalizing every single narcissistic word into the official record.
I looked across the table at my sister.
For years, I had feared her sharp tongue, her effortless elegance, and her cruel dismissals. But sitting there under the harsh fluorescent lights, stripped of her stolen money and her polished lies, she looked utterly grotesque. She looked small, hollow, and pathetic.
"Thank you, Ms. Vaughn," Samuel said quietly, closing his folder. "You have just established the willful, malicious, and unconscionable nature of your conversion under Indiana Code 34-24-3-1. Which, as your attorney surely knows, entitles my client to treble damages—three times the actual loss—plus mandatory attorney fees."
Higgins’s face turned an ashen shade of gray. He reached over, forcefully grabbed Vanessa’s arm, and pulled her toward him.
"We need a recess," Higgins croaked, his voice cracking with panic. "Mr. Brooks... we need a fifteen-minute recess in the hallway. Right now."
May you like
Samuel smiled, stepping back and gesturing toward the door. "Take all the time you need, counselor. But the settlement number goes up by ten thousand dollars every thirty minutes."
***
