Chapter 7 - The Depositions
On Thursday at 2:00 PM, the atmosphere inside Conference Room 12B of the Dirksen Federal Building in downtown Chicago was thick with cold, calculating hostility.
Sitting across the wide mahogany table was Brittany’s court-appointed civil defense attorney, a sharp, cynical litigator named Richard Vance, alongside Julian Reed’s private corporate counsel.
Brittany sat between them wearing a faded orange Cook County Department of Corrections jumpsuit, her hands handcuffed to a heavy leather waist belt. Her hair was greasy, her face pale and sunken without her expensive makeup. She looked at me not with remorse, but with a burning, desperate hatred.
“Mrs. Wilson,” Richard Vance began, leaning over his leather binder, his voice dripping with condescending velvet. “My client has already entered a conditional plea agreement in her criminal proceeding. However, regarding this civil asset freeze petition filed by your estate... we believe the one hundred and eighty-four thousand dollars in transfers were legitimate administrative fees authorized under a verbal agreement between you and my client.”
I sat at the head of the table, flanked by Sarah Chen and Daniel Brooks. I didn't offer a smile.
“Verbal agreement, Mr. Vance?” I asked, my voice carrying a quiet, lethal precision.
“My client claims you verbally authorized her to manage estate upkeep in exchange for housing,” Vance asserted smoothly. “Without a written refusal on file prior to September, these transfers constitute a gray-area domestic reimbursement, not civil embezzlement.”
Daniel Brooks chuckled softly, reaching into his leather briefcase.
He pulled out a heavy black digital audio recorder, set it flat on the glass table, and pressed the play button.
The crystal-clear, high-definition recording filled the conference room:
“He’s an idiot, Julian,” Brittany’s voice echoed through the speaker, recorded by my guest room micro-camera during a late-night phone call two weeks prior. “Ethan has no idea I redirected the trust checking account. Once I get the old woman to sign the Power of Attorney, we sell the lakefront property for two-point-four million, wire the proceeds to the Nassau account, and leave Ethan with the tax debt.”
Julian Reed’s voice had replied clearly: “Make sure the old woman doesn't check her quarterly statements before the 30th.”
Brittany’s response was cold and triumphant: “She won't check anything. She thinks I’m her sweet little daughter-in-law.”
The room fell dead silent.
Richard Vance slowly closed his binder, his face completely draining of color. He leaned over to Brittany, whispered two frantic sentences into her ear, and looked back at me.
“My client...” Vance stammered, his polished composure completely shattered, “my client will execute an immediate, unconditional surrender of all claims to the disputed funds and consent to the full civil forfeiture decree.”
I leaned forward, resting my hands flat on the polished table, looking directly into Brittany’s hollow blue eyes.
“You thought age made me blind, Brittany,” I whispered, every word sharp as a diamond scalpel. “You forgot that long before you entered my home, I spent twenty-eight years putting people far cleverer than you behind iron bars.”
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Brittany opened her mouth to spit a bitter response, but the two federal marshals standing behind her chair grabbed her shoulders, pulled her roughly to her feet, and marched her out of the conference room, her heavy shackles clanking loudly against the carpet.
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