Chapter 8 - The Deposition
The air inside Conference Room 4B at the Bexar County Civil Courthouse was stiflingly hot.
I sat at a long polished mahogany table beside Mr. Harrison. Across from us sat my father, his high-priced defense attorney Mr. Vance, my mother, and Sarah.
My father looked ten years older than he had at Christmas dinner. His tailored suit hung loosely on his frame, his shirt collar was unbuttoned, and deep gray circles shadowed his eyes. My mother sat motionless, staring at her lap, her hands wrapped around a wad of tissue paper. Sarah sat next to her, wearing a plain gray sweater, her eyes red-rimmed and hollow, completely devoid of the smug arrogance she had displayed three months ago.
A court reporter sat at the head of the table, her fingers hovering over the stenography machine.
"We are on the record," Mr. Harrison announced calmly, setting a stack of audited financial manifests on the table with a soft thud. "This is the deposition of Arthur Mitchell in the matter of Emily Mitchell v. Arthur Mitchell, Trustee."
Mr. Harrison adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and looked directly across the table at my father.
"Mr. Mitchell," Mr. Harrison began. "Please state for the record your relationship to the plaintiff, Emily Mitchell."
"I am her father," my father muttered, his voice raspy and barely audible.
"Speak up for the reporter, please," Mr. Harrison requested politely.
"I am her father," he repeated, louder this time, a flash of his old anger sparking in his eyes.
"Thank you," Mr. Harrison said, opening the first exhibit folder. "Mr. Mitchell, I show you Exhibit A—a custodial bank account application opened at First National Bank in August of 2010, funded with $200,000 from the estate of the late Thomas Mitchell. Do you recognize your signature as custodian on this document?"
"Yes."
"And was the explicit terms of this trust that the funds were to be held for the sole health, education, and maintenance of Emily Mitchell until her twenty-fifth birthday?"
"Yes."
Mr. Harrison pulled out Exhibit B—a thick stack of withdrawal slips spanning seven years.
"Mr. Mitchell," Mr. Harrison continued, his tone as cold and precise as a surgeon's scalpel. "I draw your attention to thirty-four separate wire transfers and check issuances from this account totaling $185,420. Can you please point to a single transaction in this binder that was used for the health, education, or maintenance of Emily Mitchell?"
My father’s attorney, Mr. Vance, shifted uncomfortably in his leather chair. "Form objection. The witness may answer if he knows."
My father stared at the paper. His throat worked as he swallowed hard, but no sound came out.
"Let me rephrase," Mr. Harrison said smoothly. "On March 14th, 2017, a withdrawal of $24,000 was executed from Emily's trust account. On the memo line of the cashier's check, in your handwriting, it says: '2017 Audi A4 - Sarah.' Did Emily Mitchell receive that vehicle?"
"No," my father whispered.
"Who received that vehicle, Mr. Mitchell?"
"...Sarah," he choked out.
"And on November 8th, 2019, a wire transfer of $12,500 was executed to European Luxury Tours. Was Emily Mitchell on that trip?"
"No."
"Who went on that trip, Mr. Mitchell?"
"...Sarah and her mother."
Sarah let out a soft, choking sob, covering her face with her hands. My mother didn't even look up.
Mr. Harrison leaned forward, resting both hands flat on the table. "Mr. Mitchell, did you ever at any time inform Emily Mitchell that you were liquidating her trust fund to pay for her sister’s personal expenses?"
"I... I considered it family money," my father stammered, his eyes darting frantically toward his attorney. "We were raising two daughters! Sarah had special needs, private coaching, social obligations—"
"Did you inform Emily?" Mr. Harrison cut him off cleanly.
"No," my father admitted, his head dropping toward his chest.
"And when Emily was forced to take out $45,000 in federal student loans to pay for her university education, did you tell her that her trust fund had been drained?"
"No," he whispered. "I told her the stock market crashed."
"I have no further questions for this witness at this time," Mr. Harrison said, turning his page calmly. "We are ready to move directly to summary judgment."
My father's defense attorney leaned over, whispering frantically in my father's ear. Five minutes later, Mr. Vance cleared his throat and looked across the table at Mr. Harrison and me.
"Mr. Harrison... Miss Mitchell," Vance said, his voice stripped of all legal posturing. "My clients would like to request an immediate recess to discuss full settlement terms."
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I sat tall in my leather chair, looking at my father, my mother, and my sister. For twenty-eight years, they had forced me to pay for their love, forcing me to earn a crumb of affection through absolute financial and emotional submission.
Now, for the first time in my life, the bill had been presented to them. And they had no choice but to pay it in full.
