Chapter 16 - The Deposition and the Tears of a Traitor
The air inside Conference Room 3B of the County Justice Center smelled of stale institutional coffee,
industrial floor wax,
and the sharp,
metallic tang of impending defeat.
It was a cold Tuesday morning in mid-November,
the frost clinging to the double-paned glass windows overlooking the courthouse plaza below.
Across the wide oak conference table,
Maren Wallace sat beside a weary,
middle-aged public defender whose leather briefcase was scuffed at every corner.
Maren was thirty-two weeks pregnant now,
her once-slender frame swollen,
her designer wardrobe replaced by a cheap,
oversized navy blue cotton dress purchased from a discount department store.
Her roots had grown out dark and ragged against her faded blonde hair,
her fingernails were bitten down to the quick,
and her skin possessed that dull,
waxy grayness of a person who had spent two months subsisting on instant ramen,
panic attacks,
and sleepless dread.
Beside me sat Arthur Vance,
his fountain pen poised above a legal pad,
his face carved from granite,
while the court stenographer’s fingers hovered over her silent black machine.
The assistant district attorney,
a razor-sharp prosecutor named Sarah Lin,
leaned forward against the table,
tapping the record button on the digital audio console.
“State of the record,”
Ms.
Lin announced,
her voice crisp,
clinical,
and devoid of warmth.
“This is the sworn deposition of Maren Wallace in the matter of State versus Gavin Holloway,
criminal indictment number 24-CR-8891.
Ms.
Wallace is appearing pursuant to a proffer agreement and conditional plea bargain.”
Maren flinched at the word ‘plea,’
her hands trembling on top of the conference table,
her knuckles white as she stared at her own clasped fingers.
“Ms.
Wallace,”
the prosecutor began,
sliding a thick stack of printed text logs across the polished wood,
“directing your attention to the date of May 14th of this year.
Did you or did you not accompany Gavin Holloway to the First National Title Agency in Fairview?”
Maren swallowed hard,
a dry,
clicking sound escaping her throat.
“Yes,”
she whispered,
her voice trembling so faintly that the stenographer paused and looked up.
“Speak clearly into the microphone,
Ms.
Wallace,”
the court reporter instructed.
“Yes,”
Maren repeated,
tears instantly welling in her sunken eyes,
spilling over her pale cheeks in slow,
uncontrolled tracks.
“Gavin and I went together.
He introduced me to the clerk as his business partner.”
“And what was the explicit purpose of that meeting?”
Ms.
Lin demanded,
her dark eyes narrowing with prosecutorial precision.
“Gavin had printed out the deed to Tessa’s house,”
Maren sobbed,
her voice hitching in her chest,
stealing a frantic,
guilty glance at me that I met with absolute,
unblinking silence.
“He told me...
he told me that Tessa was too naive to understand commercial real estate.
He said that her grandfather had left her an unencumbered goldmine,
and that if we created Oakhaven LLC,
we could pull out three hundred thousand dollars in equity without her ever realizing it until after the baby was born.”
“Did Gavin Holloway state what would happen to Mrs.
Tessa Morrison once the transfer was completed?”
Arthur Vance chimed in,
his deep baritone vibrating through the quiet room like a low bass note.
Maren buried her face in her hands,
her shoulders shaking violently,
her public defender gently nudging her elbow to remind her of the prison time hanging over her head.
“He said...
he said she wouldn't be able to fight it,”
Maren choked out through her sobs,
the words tearing from her throat like poison being purged.
“He said she was weak.
He said she was soft,
that she had never had to struggle for anything in her life because her family had always protected her.
He told me that once she had the baby,
she would be drowning in postpartum depression,
and that he would offer to take over all the household finances to 'relieve her stress.'
Then...
then he was going to file for divorce in the neighboring county,
claim the house was an LLC commercial asset,
and offer her a small cash settlement while we kept the property.”
The stenographer’s keys clicked rhythmically,
recording every syllable of the calculated conspiracy into the permanent public record.
“And what was your role,
Ms.
Wallace?”
the prosecutor asked,
her tone hardening into steel.
“Why did you accept twenty-five thousand dollars of premarital funds to furnish your townhouse?
Why did you place Mrs.
Morrison’s stolen heirlooms upon your mantle?”
Maren’s head dropped back,
her face flushed with a sickening mixture of guilt,
shame,
and pathetic desperation.
“Because I wanted her life!”
she suddenly wailed,
the truth bursting out of her like an infected wound finally lanced.
“I spent eleven years standing in her shadow!
Tessa always had the beautiful house,
the stable family,
the adoring parents,
the grandfather who handed her an estate on a silver platter!
I worked sixty hours a week at the design firm and could barely afford my rent!
When Gavin started coming to my apartment,
when he started telling me that he loved me,
that I was more passionate,
more ambitious than Tessa,
I believed him!
I wanted to be the one who had the craftsman house!
I wanted to be the one with the perfect nursery and the perfect husband!”
“And you were willing to leave a pregnant woman homeless to get it,”
Arthur Vance said,
his voice dropping into a register of icy,
devastating contempt.
Maren couldn't answer.
She could only weep,
her forehead resting against the cold oak table,
her tears soaking into the printed pages of the indictment.
Two hours later,
after the deposition had concluded and the sworn signatures were affixed to the plea agreement,
I walked down the marble hallway toward the courthouse elevators,
my long wool coat wrapped around my healing body.
Suddenly,
the sound of hurried,
shuffling footsteps echoed behind me,
followed by a desperate,
gasping voice.
“Tess!
Tessa,
please,
just five seconds!”
I stopped,
turning slowly to find Maren standing twenty feet away,
breathing heavily,
clutching her swollen belly,
her makeup completely washed away by hours of crying.
Her public defender stood twenty yards back,
looking on with weary exasperation,
knowing his client was violating every shred of common sense.
“Do not take another step toward me,
Maren,”
I said,
my voice ringing out clear,
sharp,
and steady through the courthouse rotunda.
“Arthur is standing right behind me,
and one word from him will have the bailiff take you directly to the holding cells.”
Maren stopped,
trembling from head to toe,
dropping to her knees right there on the polished marble floor,
folding her hands in front of her like a beggar in rags.
“Tess,
I am begging you,”
she cried,
strangers and courthouse clerks pausing to gawk at the pathetic spectacle.
“Please tell the prosecutor not to ask for prison time.
The plea agreement leaves the final sentence up to the judge.
I have no money,
Tess.
My parents have disowned me,
my landlord threw all my clothes into storage,
I’m living in a women's shelter on Fourth Street,
and I have a baby coming in six weeks!
If they send me to prison,
Child Protective Services will take my baby at birth!
Please,
Tess,
for the sake of the eleven years we were sisters,
show me mercy!”
I looked down at the woman who had hugged me while I was sick,
who had touched my pregnant belly while sleeping with my husband,
who had painted golden stars on my ceiling while plotting to rob my child.
I felt no anger,
no burning hatred,
and certainly not a single drop of pity.
I felt only the cold,
clarifying detachment of a woman who had walked through the valley of the shadow of death and emerged wearing iron.
“You stopped being my sister the moment you put your key into my front door with theft in your heart,
Maren,”
I said,
speaking every word with absolute,
uncompromising finality.
“You didn't care about my baby when you tried to steal her trust fund.
You didn't care about my shelter when you tried to deed my house to an LLC.
You made your bed in the gutter with a married man,
and now you will lie in it.
Whatever the judge decides for your future is between you,
the state,
and God.
Do not ever speak my name again.”
I turned my back on her,
stepped into the open elevator,
May you like
and watched the polished brass doors slide shut,
cutting off the sound of her wailing forever.
