Chapter 5 - The Deposition of Mark Vance
The legal conference room on the thirty-second floor of the City National Bank Tower had a panoramic view of the harbor, but the air inside was thick with tension, expensive perfume, and the sharp scent of ozone from the laser printer in the corner.
Mark sat across the wide glass table, flanked by three senior litigation attorneys from his father's firm. He looked terrible. He had lost ten pounds in two weeks; his expensive Italian suit hung loosely over his shoulders, and the dark circles under his eyes were bruised and purple.
I sat beside Attorney Vance, holding a yellow legal pad and a pen. I wasn't required to attend his civil deposition, but I had refused to sit in the waiting room.
"State your full name for the record," the court reporter said, her fingers hovering over her stenography machine.
"Arthur Mark Vance Junior," my husband said, his voice raspy.
"Mr. Vance," Attorney Eleanor Vance began, leaning forward over her crossed arms. "I direct your attention to the afternoon of August 14th—twelve days prior to your parents' anniversary party. Did your mother, Evelyn Vance, visit your private residence on Elm Street?"
Mark’s primary lawyer, a sleek man named Sterling, interjected immediately. "Objection. Counsel is fishing into private marital domestic activities unrelated to the civil property division."
"Overruled by order of Special Master Jenkins dated yesterday," Attorney Vance said without looking at him. "Answer the question, Mr. Vance."
Mark swallowed hard, his eyes flicking to me for a fraction of a second before darting back to the polished glass table. "Yes. She came over to drop off Toby’s clothes."
"Did you accompany your mother down to the basement area of your residence while she was there?"
"I... I don't recall," Mark murmured.
"Let me refresh your memory," Attorney Vance said, pulling a document from her stack. "This is a transcript of an encrypted text message thread recovered from your personal mobile device under forensic discovery warrant 409. At 2:14 PM on August 14th, you sent a text to your mother that read: 'The key to the tool bench is under the red planter. Make sure you put the hex driver back in my truck when you're done.'"
Mark’s lawyer closed his eyes and let out a long, silent breath.
"Did you send that text, Mr. Vance?" Attorney Vance asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
Mark’s hands began to shake on the glass surface. "She told me... she told me she wanted to fix the loose wheel casing on Toby’s old tricycle so we could donate it to the church drive!"
"Your son hasn't ridden that tricycle in four years, Mr. Vance," Attorney Vance pointed out. "It was sold at a yard sale in 2024. What were you actually unlocking for her?"
"I didn't know!" Mark suddenly shouted, leaning across the table, his face flushing dark, ugly red. "I didn't know what she was doing with the tools! She said the wheelchair was an eyesore! She said we were enabling Toby’s weakness by letting him sit in that chair when he should have been doing his physical therapy steps! She said a Vance man doesn't roll into a room—he walks!"
"So you gave her the key to the hex drivers," Attorney Vance said coldly. "Knowing your son was going to sit in that chair twelve days later at a public venue with a twenty-foot concrete ramp."
"She’s my mother!" Mark yelled, tears finally spilling out of his eyes. "What was I supposed to do? Tell her no? You don't say no to her! You don't know what she’s like when you cross her! She would have ruined my standing at the firm! She would have taken my name off the partnership trust!"
"So you traded your son’s safety for your partnership share," I spoke up, my voice cutting through his outburst like a razor blade.
The conference room went dead silent.
Mark looked at me, his lip trembling, his professional mask entirely destroyed. "Claire... please. You don't understand how it was growing up in that house. Everything had to be perfect. Everything. If I had a scrape on my knee, she wouldn't let me down for dinner. If I cried, she locked me in the linen closet until I stopped."
"You're thirty-four years old, Mark," I said, leaning across the table until I was looking directly into his red-rimmed eyes. "You're a grown man. And when your mother reached for that tool to hurt your nine-year-old boy, you handed her the key."
Mark buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent, desperate sobs.
His lawyer, Sterling, tapped his pencil on his pad. "We... we would like to request a fifteen-minute recess to discuss settlement terms."
"There is no settlement, Mr. Sterling," Attorney Vance said, packing her papers into her leather briefcase with sharp, decisive snaps. "We’re going to trial on Monday. And my client will be asking for full legal and physical custody, a complete liquidation of the joint marital estate, and a permanent protection order that extends to every member of the Vance family for the next eighteen years."
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She stood up, touching my shoulder gently. "Let's go, Claire. Toby’s waiting at the park."
As I stood up and walked toward the door, I didn't look back at the man I had spent ten years loving. He was still sitting at the long glass table, surrounded by his high-priced lawyers, weeping into his silk cuffs while the sun reflected off the cold, empty harbor below.
