Chapter 8 - The Deposition
Ten days before the trial, Marcus Vance scheduled a formal videotaped deposition of Eric Bennett at our attorney’s offices in downtown Asheville.
Under North Carolina civil procedure, both parties were permitted to conduct pre-trial examinations under oath.
The conference room was cold, quiet, and blindingly bright, lit by overhead fluorescent panels. A professional court reporter sat at the end of the long mahogany table, her fingers hovering over her stenography machine, while a video technician set up a camera on a tripod aimed directly at the witness chair.
Eric walked into the room wearing an expensive bespoke navy suit, accompanied by his lead Raleigh litigation attorney, a slick man named Henderson.
Eric looked older than he had during our divorce. His hair was thinning at the temples, dyed a dark brown that looked slightly artificial under the harsh lights, and deep tension lines were carved around his mouth.
He didn't look at me when he entered. He sat down in the leather chair, adjusted his silk tie, and smoothed his jacket.
Vanessa was not present. We had learned through private investigators that Eric and Vanessa’s marriage had disintegrated three years earlier under the weight of massive personal debt, leading to a bitter, expensive divorce that had left Eric financially overextended.
His sudden interest in Noah’s $3.4 million trust was no longer a mystery. It was a financial survival operation.
Marcus Vance leaned back in his chair, unbuttoned his suit coat, and looked at Eric with calm, predatory patience.
“State your name for the record, please,” Marcus began.
“Eric George Bennett.”
“Mr. Bennett, you have filed a petition seeking co-trusteeship and full financial oversight over the irrevocable trust holding the proceeds of your son Noah’s artwork. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Eric stated clearly, looking straight into the camera lens. “That is correct.”
“And you are seeking this control because you believe his mother, Laura Bennett, is incapable of managing these funds properly?”
“I believe Laura is an emotional, overly protective mother who lacks corporate financial experience,” Eric stated, his voice smooth and well-rehearsed. “A multi-million-dollar asset portfolio requires institutional management, professional wealth management firms, and balanced parental oversight. I have twenty-five years of corporate management experience. I am uniquely qualified to safeguard my son’s future.”
Marcus nodded slowly, as if agreeing with the logic. He picked up a slender manila folder from the table.
“Mr. Bennett, can you tell us how much money you currently owe in personal line-of-credit debt to First National Bank of Ohio?”
Henderson, Eric’s attorney, instantly slammed his hand onto the table. “Objection! Relevance! Mr. Bennett’s personal finances are completely outside the scope of this proceeding!”
“It is entirely relevant, Counsel,” Marcus replied calmly, without looking away from Eric. “Your client is seeking fiduciary control over a vulnerable minor’s multi-million-dollar trust. His personal financial stability and potential conflicts of interest are the central core of his fitness as a trustee.”
Marcus looked back at Eric, whose jaw had gone completely tight.
“Answer the question, Mr. Bennett. Under oath.”
Eric swallowed hard, his eyes flicking toward his attorney. “I... I have standard commercial debt notes associated with real estate investments.”
“The exact amount, Mr. Bennett?” Marcus pressed, his voice dropping into a hard, demanding register. “Is it $420,000?”
“It is approximately in that range,” Eric rasped under his breath.
“And is it true that your primary residence in Columbus is currently facing a secondary mortgage foreclosure warning?”
“Objection!” Henderson yelled again.
“I am asking the witness under oath,” Marcus said firmly.
Eric didn't answer. He stared at the polished mahogany table, his face turning an unhealthy shade of mottled red.
“Let’s move on to your relationship with your son, Mr. Bennett,” Marcus continued, shifting his paper gently. “You claim in your affidavit that Laura alienated you from Noah’s life following her move to North Carolina thirteen years ago. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Eric said, grabbing onto the narrative eagerly. “She withheld updates. She moved him hundreds of miles away to cut me out of his life.”
Marcus picked up a thick bound book—a comprehensive compilation of cellular phone records, text message archives, and certified mail logs spanning thirteen years.
“Mr. Bennett, in the year 2021, how many outgoing text messages did you send to Laura asking about Noah’s health, education, or artistic development?”
Eric cleared his throat. “I don't recall the exact number.”
“The answer is zero, Mr. Bennett,” Marcus stated flatly. “In the year 2022, how many times did you purchase an airline ticket to fly to Asheville to visit your son?”
Silence filled the room.
“Zero, Mr. Bennett,” Marcus answered for him. “In fact, between October 2018 and November 2026, you visited your son a total of two times—both times for less than two hours at a public coffee shop near the interstate.”
“I was working!” Eric suddenly snapped, losing his cool composure for the first time, his voice rising in anger. “I was working to pay child support! I was funding his life!”
Marcus leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, looking at Eric with absolute, piercing clarity.
“You paid $650 a month in basic court-ordered child support, Mr. Bennett,” Marcus said quietly. “While Laura worked forty hours a week, attended every therapy session, held his hand through every sensory crisis, paid for his art supplies, and built the foundation that allowed him to become an international master.”
Marcus picked up a final sheet of paper from the file—a high-resolution printout of a painting.
He slid it across the table, stopping it right in front of Eric.
It was a print of Outside the House.
Eric looked down at the paper. The image of the beige house, the warm windows, the two suitcases on the cold porch, and the tiny boy standing in the snow stared back at him.
“Do you recognize this house, Mr. Bennett?” Marcus asked gently.
Eric stared at the image, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes traced the details—the two suitcases sitting beside the staircase, the precise angle of the front door.
“That’s... that’s my house,” Eric whispered, his voice suddenly hollow.
“Your son painted that from memory, Mr. Bennett,” Marcus said, his voice echoing in the silent room. “The painting that just sold for $3.4 million—the money you are sitting in this room trying to take control of—was created by the four-year-old boy you threw out into the snow because you told your wife he didn't even understand what was happening.”
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Eric stared at the paper, his hands trembling violently. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
The color drained completely from his face, leaving him looking broken, frail, and exposed under the bright, unforgiving lights of the camera.
