Chapter 7 - The Deposition of Charlotte Whitaker
Two weeks later, the civil deposition room at the Manhattan Supreme Court was freezing cold.
Charlotte Whitaker sat across the long conference table, looking twenty years older. The tailored Chanel suits and diamond earrings were gone; she wore a drab beige cardigan, her graying roots showing plainly through her dyed blonde hair. Her hands shook so badly that she couldn't lift her glass of tap water without spilling it onto the laminate table.
Beside her sat a junior criminal defense attorney who looked like he wished he were anywhere else on earth.
"Mrs. Whitaker," Marcus Vance began, turning on the audio recorder on the table. "This is the continuation of the evidentiary deposition in the matter of *Montgomery v. Whitaker and Whitaker.* You are reminded that you are under oath."
Charlotte swallowed, her throat dry, her eyes sunken. "I understand."
"Let us discuss the morning of November 15th," Marcus said, clicking a pen. "The day after your son removed the magnolia suite from Clara Montgomery’s home safe. Records show that Grant Whitaker visited your residence in Westchester at 9:00 AM. What did he give you?"
Charlotte looked toward her lawyer, who gave a slow, hopeless nod.
"He… he brought a box," Charlotte whispered.
"What was in the box, Mrs. Whitaker? Speak clearly for the record."
"The bracelet," she choked out. "The magnolia bracelet."
"And did you ask him where he got it?"
"I… I assumed—"
"Do not tell us what you assumed," Marcus cut in, his voice sharp as a surgical scalpel. "Did your son state, in clear terms, that Clara Montgomery was in a coma at St. Jude’s Hospice when he took it?"
Tears of pure humiliation welled in Charlotte’s eyes. She clasped her trembling hands in her lap.
"Yes," she whispered.
"And what was your response upon receiving an heirloom stolen from a dying woman?"
Charlotte closed her eyes, tears leaking into the deep crevices around her mouth. "I told him… I told him it was about time."
"About time for what?"
"About time our family got what we deserved," Charlotte sobbed, breaking down into a coarse, ragged cry. "Clara always looked down on me! She had the old Dutch lineage, she had the real estate, she had the respect! Every committee we sat on, Clara was the chair, and I was the vice-chair! She gave millions away to sick children while her own son-in-law was struggling! I wanted something of hers! I wanted to show people that we were just as good as them!"
I sat at the end of the table, watching this woman unravel.
For nine years, Charlotte had made me feel small. She had criticized the way I folded napkins, the way I spoke, the fact that I spent my weekends reading books rather than attending vacuous charity brunches. She had treated my mother’s quiet elegance as an obstacle to her own social climbing.
And now, here she was: a petty, bitter, jealous woman whose life’s ambition had amounted to stealing from a sickbed.
"And Tiffany Lane?" Marcus pressed. "Why did you present this stolen bracelet to your son’s mistress at a public dinner?"
"Because… because Grant said Tiffany’s father was a managing partner at an private equity fund in Greenwich," Charlotte wept, dabbing at her running nose with a cheap paper tissue. "He said if we showed her that we treated her like royalty, her father would invest three million dollars to save Grant’s company. We needed her family’s money. The dinner was a show! It was all an act to lock her down!"
I let out a soft, dry laugh.
Charlotte looked up at me, her eyes pleading. "Ava… please. I’m an old woman. The press is camping outside my gate. My club revoked my membership yesterday. They took my name off the garden committee. I have nothing left!"
"You had a home, Charlotte," I said, speaking for the first time. "You had a son. You had a daughter-in-law who baked you bread every Sunday and drove you to your doctor’s appointments when Grant was too busy with his mistress. But none of that was enough for you. You wanted gold that didn't belong to you."
"Ava, please tell the prosecutor to drop the conspiracy charge," she begged, reaching across the table with her trembling hands. "They’re talking about three years in a state facility. I won't survive it! My heart can't take it!"
"You should have thought about your heart when my mother’s heart was stopping," I told her, my voice completely devoid of pity. "You will answer for every single thing you took."
I stood up, picked up my coat, and walked out into the corridor.
Marcus followed me a moment later, shutting the door on Charlotte’s muffled wailing.
"Her lawyer is finalizing a plea agreement right now," Marcus said, adjusting his coat. "She’s pleading guilty to receiving stolen property. She’ll get five years of strict probation, five hundred hours of community service, a fifty-thousand-dollar fine, and she will be permanently barred from serving on any non-profit or charitable board in the State of New York."
"And Grant?"
"The grand jury returned a true bill on all counts," Marcus said, his eyes solemn. "His bail was set at one million dollars. His accounts are frozen, and none of his friends would post it. He’s currently sitting in a cell on Rikers Island awaiting trial."
I walked to the large glass window at the end of the courthouse hallway, looking out over the city skyline. The rain had cleared, leaving the afternoon sky a piercing, clean blue.
The weight that had sat on my shoulders since the day my mother entered the hospital—the crushing, suffocating fog of grief, betrayal, and helplessness—was gone.
In its place was a quiet, unshakable strength.
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"Let’s go home, Marcus," I said. "We have an estate to rebuild."
***
