Chapter 8 - THE DEPOSITION
The civil deposition took place in a stark, glass-walled conference room in downtown Charlottesville.
Wade sat across the table, dressed in a grey suit that looked slightly too big for him. His face was pale, his hair cut short, his eyes darting nervously toward his high-priced defense attorney, Richard Vance (no relation to Clara).
Marjorie sat in the corner of the room on a leather couch, clutching her handbag like a weapon, glaring at me throughout the proceedings.
I sat at the head of the table beside Clara and Avery, wearing a dark blue suit, my grandmother’s diamond ring resting securely on my left middle finger—a quiet symbol of my independence.
The court reporter adjusted her machine. “We are on the record.”
For the first two hours, Clara systematically dismantled Wade’s defense.
She forced him to admit under oath that he had never contributed personal capital to the purchase of the Linden Street building. She forced him to acknowledge that his name was not on the original LLC filing.
Then came the financial records.
“Mr. Ellis,” Clara said, pulling up a bank document on the screen. “Can you explain why twelve thousand dollars was transferred from the Rose & Rye catering account to a jewelers in Richmond on April 14th?”
Wade swallowed hard, looking at his lawyer. “That was... a corporate gift expense.”
“A corporate gift?” Clara raised an eyebrow. “For whom?”
“For an investor,” Wade muttered.
“You mean Miss Avery Sloan?” Clara asked, gesturing toward Avery sitting across the table. “The woman sitting in this room whom you presented with a stolen antique diamond ring that belonged to your wife’s grandmother?”
Wade’s attorney stepped in. “Objection. Character assassination.”
“It goes directly to the misuse of corporate funds for personal deception, Counsel,” Clara countered smoothly. “Mr. Ellis, did you or did you not use company funds to re-set that diamond into a new gold band?”
Wade leaned forward, his hands trembling on the table. “It was an investment in our future! If I secured Sloan Hospitality, we would have been made for life!”
“By stealing from your wife?” I spoke up, my voice calm, flat, and penetrating.
Wade’s eyes snapped to mine. The fake composure he had maintained for two hours began to crack.
“I did everything for us, Megan!” Wade suddenly shouted, leaning across the table, ignoring his lawyer’s frantic hand gestures. “You were content sitting in that tiny kitchen making pies for pennies! You had no ambition! I built a brand out of your mother’s dead bakery!”
“My mother’s bakery was debt-free, honest, and loved by this community before you ever stepped foot inside it, Wade,” I said, looking him straight in his bloodshot eyes. “You didn't build a brand. You built a house of cards out of lies, forgery, and theft. And now it’s blown away.”
Marjorie stood up from the couch, her face purple with rage. “Don’t you speak to my son like that, you ungrateful little—”
“Mrs. Ellis! Sit down or leave the room!” the court reporter warned sternly.
Wade sank back into his chair, breathing heavily, looking at his attorney, who was slowly closing his briefcase with a look of utter defeat.
His attorney leaned over and whispered in Wade’s ear: “We’re done here. We need to take a plea deal before the criminal court gets this transcript.”
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Wade looked across the table at me, seeing for the first time that there was no mercy left in my eyes. No compromise. No weakness.
He was completely, utterly beaten.
