Chapter 10 - The Depositions
By early June, the legal proceedings against Reid had accelerated into the discovery and deposition phase. Because the federal fraud charges tied to Project Atlas involved millions of dollars drained from corporate pension funds, the prosecution’s case was airtight, supported by the digital ledgers and offshore communication records I had retrieved from the basement server room.
Eleanor Vance called me into her downtown office on a humid Tuesday afternoon to go over my formal deposition schedule.
“You won't even need to testify about the financial mechanics, Mara,” Eleanor said, smoothing down a stack of legal documents across her polished glass desk. “The federal investigators have traced every wire transfer straight to Reid and his co-partners. He’s looking at a mandatory federal sentence of somewhere between twelve and fifteen years.”
I sat across from her, holding a paper cup of lukewarm office coffee, feeling a strange mixture of vindication and profound fatigue.
“What about the family court side of things?” I asked. “Is his defense team still trying anything with custody?”
Eleanor let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Reid’s defense attorneys dropped him last week after he tried to blame them for mishandling his asset concealment strategy. He has no legal standing left regarding Owen. You were granted full legal and physical custody last Tuesday by Judge Abernathy, and Owen’s name has been formally transitioned to your household.”
A sudden, warm wave of relief washed over me. No more threats. No more midnight letters from high-priced divorce lawyers. No more weaponized anxiety.
“Does Reid know?” I asked quietly.
“He knows,” Eleanor said, her expression softening. “He requested a brief meeting with me last Friday to deliver a message for you.”
I stiffened, the coffee cup freezing halfway to my lips. “What kind of message?”
Eleanor reached into her leather portfolio and pulled out a single, neatly folded piece of yellow legal paper. She didn't hand it to me immediately; instead, she slid it across the desk face down.
“He wanted you to know that you wouldn't survive without his income, and that the house would eventually go into foreclosure because you don't understand the corporate loans tied to the mortgage,” Eleanor recited calmly. “Standard narcissistic panic, Mara. He’s trying to retain control from inside a concrete cell because control is all he ever had.”
I looked down at the yellow paper, then pushed it back across the desk without touching it.
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“Tell him I don’t need his corporate loans,” I said steadily. “And tell him to keep his paper. We’re done reading his scripts.”
Eleanor smiled—a genuine, admiring grin—and tore the yellow paper in half, dropping it straight into the shredder beside her desk.
