Chapter 5 - The Deposition in OrangeTen days later, I was moved from the intensive care unit to a private recovery room. My body was healing slowly under the care of a team of burn specialists, and the baby’s vitals had finally stabilized into a strong, steady rhythm.
Through my legal counsel, I refused any plea bargains offered by Derek’s high-priced defense attorneys. Instead, I demanded a formal pre-trial deposition inside the Cook County Courthouse.
At 10:00 AM on a crisp autumn morning, I sat at the head of a mahogany conference table in the courthouse legal wing. I wore a modest navy-blue maternity dress, my hair neatly pinned back, my hands resting calmly over my round belly. Beside me sat my lead civil attorney, Victoria Sterling (Detective Sterling’s sister and a formidable trial lawyer), along with two court reporters.
The heavy door opened, and bailiffs escorted Derek and Beatrice into the room.
Both were dressed in orange county jail jumpsuits, their hands and ankles bound in heavy steel chains.
Derek looked broken. His dark hair was disheveled, his face gaunt, his eyes hollow with fear. Beatrice looked older, her sharp posture collapsed, her manicured elegance stripped away by ten days in a cold detention cell.
When Derek’s eyes landed on me—sitting tall, radiant, alive, and visibly holding our thriving baby—he gasped, stumbling backward against the bailiff.
“Hannah...” Derek stammered, his voice trembling violently. “Hannah... thank God you’re okay... I was out of my mind... Mom made me do it! She tricked me!”
“Shut your mouth, Derek!” Beatrice shrieked, turning on her son with venom. “You sniveling coward! You were the one holding the lighter!”
“Silence in the deposition room!” the bailiff commanded, shoving Beatrice back into her chair.
I didn't flinch. I watched them tear each other apart with cold, detached disgust.
Derek’s defense lawyer, a sleek man named Richard Vance (no relation to Derek), cleared his throat nervously.
“Mrs. Vance,” lawyer Vance began, pulling out a stack of proposed settlement papers. “My client is prepared to sign over all rights to the suburban house, forfeit his claims to the joint accounts, and agree to a complete waiver of parental rights if you agree to drop the aggravated torture charges.”
I leaned forward, looking directly into Derek’s terrified eyes.
“I don't need you to sign over the house, Derek,” I said, my voice cutting through the room like a razor. “I already bought the mortgage from the bank yesterday morning. And as for parental rights—no court in this country would ever let a monster like you within ten miles of my child.”
I pulled a crisp white envelope from my folder and slid it across the table toward his attorney.
“That is a subpoena served by the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” I declared. “Regarding the twelve million dollars in your father’s trust that you and Chloe Montgomery attempted to steal.”
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Derek’s face drained of all color. He looked at the paper, then at me, his jaw trembling in utter horror.
“Chloe was arrested two hours ago at O'Hare Airport,” Victoria Sterling added smoothly with a predatory smile. “And she just signed a full confession implicating both of you in pre-meditated attempted murder for hire.”
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