Chapter 7 - The Deposition
The deposition took place in a neutral conference room at the Cook County Courthouse three weeks later.
The room was sterile, illuminated by buzzing fluorescent panels overhead. A court reporter sat at the end of the long mahogany table, her fingers hovering over the stenograph machine, while a videographer adjusted a small camera mounted on a tripod.
My mother sat across from me, flanked by two expensive civil attorneys she had hired using the last of her private reserves. She wore a dark blue suit and her signature pearl necklace, trying desperately to project the image of an elegant, grieving matriarch.
My father sat beside her, looking frail and hollowed out, his once-imposing stature reduced by two months of relentless corporate collapse.
Sarah sat to my right, a thick black binder resting unopened in front of her.
“We are on the record,” the videographer announced.
My mother’s lead attorney, a slick man named Henderson, leaned forward. “Mrs. DeLuca, please state for the record your relationship to the minor child, Renata DeLuca.”
“I am her grandmother,” Carmen said, her voice smooth and carefully practiced for the camera. “I have loved her since the day my son brought her home. Our family has always maintained rich traditions, and it breaks my heart that my son has severed our bond over a minor holiday misunderstanding.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow. “A minor holiday misunderstanding, Mrs. DeLuca?”
“Yes,” Carmen lied seamlessly, offering a sad, practiced smile to the camera. “Mauricio became overly sensitive on Christmas Day. We merely asked Renata to assist with light household chores to teach her responsibility, as we do with all our grandchildren.”
Sarah didn't argue. She simply opened her black binder and pulled out a high-resolution color copy of the drawing Renata had made on Christmas morning.
She slid it across the table, placing it directly in front of my mother.
“Mrs. DeLuca, do you recognize this artwork?” Sarah asked smoothly.
Carmen glanced down at the paper, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second. “It... it appears to be a child’s drawing.”
“It is a child’s drawing,” Sarah agreed. “Made by six-year-old Renata on December twenty-fifth. Can you describe what is depicted?”
Carmen swallowed hard, her manicured fingers hovering over the edge of the paper. “It shows our family.”
“Does it?” Sarah countered, leaning forward. “It shows you, your husband, your daughter Paola, and her two children standing together under the sun. And standing fifty yards away, separated by an empty white expanse, is a tiny figure labeled 'Renata.' Why do you think a six-year-old child drew herself completely isolated from your family, Mrs. DeLuca?”
Henderson stepped in immediately. “Objection! Speculation. The child’s artistic choices are irrelevant to my client’s legal rights.”
“Let’s move to Exhibit B,” Sarah said, completely ignoring Henderson. She pulled a printed transcript from the binder and slid it across the glass. “This is the certified transcript of the audio recording taken from the kitchen security camera inside your estate on Christmas Day.”
My mother’s face went completely, ghostly white.
My father snapped his head toward her, his eyes wide with shock. “Security camera? Carmen... you had cameras in the kitchen?”
They had installed a smart home security system six months earlier to monitor the estate staff, completely forgetting that the wide-angle lenses recorded full audio and video stored automatically on a cloud server—a server to which I still held master administrative access as the former head of DeLuca Development.
Sarah read aloud from the transcript, her voice echoing clearly in the silent room:
“'Paola's girls are our real granddaughters. Renata needs to understand the difference.'”
Sarah lowered the paper, fixing her cold, piercing eyes on my mother.
“Is that what you call teaching responsibility, Mrs. DeLuca? Or is that the systematic emotional abuse of a six-year-old child because she doesn't share your bloodline?”
Carmen stared at the paper in her hands. The court reporter’s fingers clicked rapidly against the keys, recording every suffocating second of silence.
Her slick attorney, Henderson, leaned over to look at the transcript, then closed his binder. He looked at my mother, shaking his head slightly.
May you like
The illusion was over. The performance was finished.
“We... we are withdrawing the petition,” Henderson announced quietly to the court reporter. “Off the record.”
