Chapter 7 - Deposition Under Oath
The deposition conference room was deliberately chosen for its neutrality: a cold, soundproof suite on the eighth floor of the Ramsey County Courthouse.
Grant sat across from me, flanked by Harold Sterling and a second, younger defense attorney whose eyes never stopped darting toward the video camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.
Grant looked terrible.
The polished, silver-tongued corporate executive had unraveled. His suit hung loosely from his frame; his skin was sallow, his hair unwashed and carelessly combed. His eyes were bloodshot, surrounded by dark, bruised circles. He refused to look at me, staring instead at the yellow legal pad in front of him, his fingers relentlessly clicking the cap of a gold ballpoint pen.
*Click. Click. Click.*
Marjorie had not been permitted into the room for this portion of the deposition, relegated to a waiting area down the hall, though her presence hung over the proceedings like a toxic cloud.
“State your full name and address for the record,” the court reporter intoned.
“Grantland Arthur Whitmore,” Grant muttered. “412 Stonebridge Lane, North Oaks.”
Evelyn Vance adjusted her reading glasses, opened a massive black binder, and looked across the table. She didn't raise her voice; she didn't posture. Her voice had the flat, lethal cadence of a surgeon detailing an incision.
“Mr. Whitmore, I direct your attention to Exhibit D,” Evelyn began. “This is a certified report from the Minnesota Department of Health Genetic Identification Bureau, following your court-ordered DNA sample taken on October twenty-fourth. Do you recognize this document?”
Grant’s pen clicked once more, then stopped. “My attorney has reviewed it.”
“I didn't ask if your attorney reviewed it,” Evelyn said. “I asked if you recognize it.”
“Yes,” Grant whispered.
“Does this document confirm that you are the biological father of Tessa Ross, born November 3, 2013, with a statistical certainty of 99.998 percent?”
Harold Sterling leaned into his microphone. “The document speaks for itself.”
“I am asking the witness,” Evelyn snapped, her voice slicing through Sterling’s objection. “Mr. Whitmore. Are you the biological father of Tessa Ross?”
The silence in the room stretched until the hum of the fluorescent lights became deafening.
Grant’s hands began to shake. He looked up, his bloodshot eyes meeting mine for the first time. In them, I saw no remorse, no fatherly awakening—only the bitter, venomous hatred of an exposed narcissist.
“Yes,” Grant said.
“When did you first become aware of her existence?” Evelyn asked.
“When her mother told me she was pregnant,” Grant whispered.
“And who was her mother?”
“Julianna Ross.”
“An employee who reported directly to you at Whitmore Logistics?”
“She was an independent contractor,” Grant scrambled, his voice rising defensively. “She was not a direct report.”
“She was a twenty-three-year-old junior graphic artist whose contracts were approved exclusively by your office, were they not?”
“I don't recall the specific corporate structure from eleven years ago.”
Evelyn turned a page without looking down. “Did you pay Julianna Ross five hundred dollars a month between 2013 and 2015 to prevent her from filing a paternity action?”
“I provided voluntary financial assistance.”
“Did you stop that assistance when she requested medical funds for heart surgery?”
Harold Sterling slammed his palm on the table. “Objection! Relevance! Julianna Ross’s medical history has no bearing on the distribution of marital assets or the custody of Caleb and Mason!”
“It bears directly on the moral fitness of the petitioner seeking custodial rights, and on the systematic concealment of financial assets from the marital estate!” Evelyn fired back, her voice echoing off the glass walls. “The witness will answer.”
Grant swallowed. His collar seemed to be choking him. “I didn't have the liquid funds at the time.”
“You didn't have twenty-five thousand dollars?” Evelyn smiled—a terrifying, predatory smile. “Mr. Whitmore, I direct your attention to Exhibit G. Bank records from your personal account at Northern Trust showing that on August 14, 2015—the exact day Julianna Ross’s final medical appeal was denied—you purchased a twenty-eight-foot Sea Ray pleasure boat for eighty-four thousand dollars in cash.”
Grant flinched as if he had been slapped across the face.
“Dana,” Grant suddenly choked out, leaning across the table, ignoring his attorneys entirely. “Dana, please. Why are you doing this? I did what I had to do to protect our family! If Mother knew, she would have cut us off! Everything I did was for you and the boys!”
I looked at him. I felt no anger. I felt only a profound, liberating emptiness.
“You didn't do it for us, Grant,” I said, speaking directly into the record. “You did it for yourself. You let your daughter beg for food at our table. You told an eleven-year-old child she was useless. You made your sons watch you destroy their mother. You aren't a protector. You’re a coward who hid behind an innocent child’s silence for nine years.”
“Dana, you can't prove the offshore funds belong to the marital estate!” Grant yelled, his composure disintegrating entirely. “That is my mother’s money! It has always been my mother’s money! You won't get a penny of it! You hear me? Harold, tell her! She gets half the equity in the house and nothing else!”
Harold Sterling did not speak.
The old attorney looked down at his yellow pad, his face ashen, entirely unwilling to attach his name to Grant’s suicidal outburst.
Evelyn Vance slowly closed Exhibit G and pulled out a fresh, pristine blue folder labeled *Department of Justice: Criminal Division*.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Evelyn said softly, the words dropping like lead weights into the room. “Two hours ago, my office received confirmation that the United States Attorney for the District of Minnesota has opened a grand jury inquiry into the Bellwether Foundation for tax fraud, wire fraud, and the laundering of corporate revenues through offshore shell entities.”
Grant’s jaw dropped. The gold pen fell from his fingers, clattering loudly against the table before rolling off the edge and hitting the carpet.
“Your mother’s money is not going to Harold Sterling,” Evelyn concluded, leaning back in her chair and crossing her hands. “It is going to the federal government. What remains will be used to pay past child support for Tessa Ross, retroactive spousal support for Dana Whitmore, and the full college tuition trusts for Caleb and Mason Whitmore. We are done here.”
Evelyn stood up, gathering her papers.
I stood up with her.
As I walked toward the door, Grant lunged out of his seat, grabbing the lapels of Harold Sterling’s suit coat. “Harold! Do something! Harold, call the governor! Call somebody!”
Sterling pushed Grant’s hands away with a look of utter disgust. “Sit down, Grantland. It’s over. There is nobody left to call.”
I stepped out of the conference room into the bright, marble-lined hallway of the courthouse.
Sitting on a bench twenty feet away, dressed in her fur-trimmed coat, was Marjorie. She looked at me as I emerged, her eyes wide, waiting for the news that her money had prevailed, that the lower-class girl had been put in her place.
I walked past her.
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I didn't utter a word. I didn't smile. I simply held my head high, listening to the solid, steady click of my own boots against the marble floor, leaving Marjorie Whitmore alone on her bench to await the wreckage her son had brought home.
***
