Chapter 7 - The Deposition
Three months later.
The deposition room on the twentieth floor of the law building was bright, sterile, and cold.
David sat across the table beside his high-priced defense attorney, Jonathan Vance (no relation to my lawyer, Eleanor). David looked hollowed out. He had lost weight, his sharp suits sat loosely on his frame, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.
Without his corporate title, his club memberships, and his sleek house, he looked remarkably small.
"State your full name for the record," the court reporter droned.
"David Thomas Whitmore," he muttered.
For four hours, Eleanor Vance systematically dismantled David’s defense. She presented the medical records from 2004, the signed consent forms, the wire transfer logs, and the text messages David had sent me over the years—messages filled with subtle, emotional abuse blaming me for Leo’s condition.
"Mr. Whitmore," Eleanor said, leaning forward on the table. "When you told your wife on October 12, 2012, that 'if she had taken better care of her health during pregnancy, your son wouldn't be in a wheelchair,' were you aware that your own genetic mutation was the sole cause of his paralysis?"
David’s attorney stepped in immediately. "Objection. The witness is not a medical expert."
"He doesn't need to be an expert to answer whether he knew," Eleanor countered smoothly. "Answer the question, Mr. Whitmore."
David stared down at the polished wood table. His hands were clenched into tight fists. "I... I was angry."
"That wasn't the question," Eleanor said firmly. "Did you know?"
"Yes," David whispered.
"Speak up for the microphone, please," Eleanor said relentlessly.
"YES!" David yelled, slamming his hand on the table. "Yes, I knew! Are you happy now?!"
"And did you intentionally allow your wife to believe she was responsible for eighteen years?"
David covered his face with both hands. "I couldn't accept it, okay?! I couldn't look at my boy every day knowing that I broke him! Knowing that my blood did that to him! It was easier... it was easier if it was an accident. It was easier if it was her fault!"
The room fell into an absolute, chilling silence.
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I sat beside Eleanor, watching him crumble. I didn't feel anger anymore. I didn't feel satisfaction. I felt a profound, distant sense of pity for a man so overwhelmed by his own cowardice that he chose to destroy his family rather than face his own reflection.
Eleanor slowly closed her folder. "No further questions."
