Chapter 8: Deposition Weather
Civil and criminal tracks ran beside each other like parallel roads.
The development dispute’s attorneys, smelling blood in the water of Ryan’s arrest, issued subpoenas that brushed Mom’s name. Ruiz intervened to minimize her exposure while preserving the truth of the affidavit chain. Mom gave a short, clear statement: she had signed what her son-in-law asked her to sign at a kitchen table years ago, believing it routine; she had not understood the parcel’s later value; she had not agreed to be threatened with a bat when questions arose. The court reporter’s keys clicked. Ryan’s myth of the confused attacker lost another panel.
I sat through my own deposition in the family case with the same discipline I used on post—answer the question asked, do not volunteer, do not perform. Yes, I had believed him kind. Yes, the boot glass had ended that belief. No, I had not coached my mother. The opposing counsel’s implications slid off the medical timeline.
May you like
Afterward Ruiz said, “You’re good at not taking bait.”
“I’ve had practice,” I said, and meant years of marriage, not only rank.
