Chapter 7 - The Deposition
Z
By the middle of December, the Ohio winter had set in with a bitter, relentless cold. Grey clouds hung low over Columbus, dusting the streets with sporadic snow flurries.
Inside Courtroom 4B of the Franklin County Hall of Justice, a formal court-ordered deposition was underway. This was part of the emergency discovery process for the civil suit and asset recovery proceedings filed by our legal team against Rebecca and Tyler.
Because Rebecca’s bail had been set at fifty thousand dollars cash or surety—and with all of her accounts frozen and Tyler unable to secure a bail bondsman without liquid collateral—she had spent three full weeks in the Delaware County Women's Detention Center.
When the bailiffs led Rebecca into the deposition room in handcuffs and belly chains, wearing a baggy bright-orange jumpsuit with county lettering across the back, I barely recognized her.
Her manicured nails were chipped and bare. Her hair, usually styled immaculately at an expensive salon, was pulled back into a messy, dull ponytail. The arrogance, the smug smiles, and the dramatic flair that had defined her entire adult life had been completely stripped away by three weeks of jail food, concrete walls, and strict prison discipline.
Her court-appointed defense attorney, a weary woman named Brenda Walsh, sat beside her, whispering hushed instructions into her ear before the court reporter began recording.
Across the table, Mark Vance adjusted his microphone and opened his laptop.
"For the record," Mark announced, his voice echoing in the small room, "this is the deposition of Rebecca Collins-Miller in the matter of Collins v. Collins-Miller et al., Case Number 24-CV-08912. Present are the plaintiff, Richard Collins, accompanied by counsel; the defendant, Rebecca Collins-Miller, accompanied by counsel; and Daniel Collins acting as financial asset representative."
Rebecca kept her head down, staring at her handcuffed hands resting on the wooden table.
"Mrs. Miller," Mark began, his voice calm, methodical, and completely clinical. "I'm going to show you Plaintiff's Exhibit C. This is a printed record of an online transaction executed on October 14th of this year, transferring forty-one thousand five hundred dollars from your parents' primary high-yield savings account into an account designated as Apex Global Logistics LLC. Do you recognize this transaction?"
Rebecca swallowed hard, her mouth visibly dry. "I... I invoke my Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination on advice of counsel."
"Understood," Mark said smoothly. "Let's turn to Plaintiff's Exhibit D. This is a text message sent from your cell phone number to your father, Richard Collins, dated November 3rd. The message reads: 'Dad, thanks so much for helping us out with the car deposit! You're the best dad in the world!' Mrs. Miller, did your father ever give you verbal or written permission to use forty-eight hundred dollars from his home equity line to make a down payment on a luxury SUV?"
Rebecca looked up at her attorney, Brenda Walsh, who gave her a slight nod.
"No," Rebecca whispered, her voice so faint the court reporter had to ask her to repeat it.
"Louder for the record, please," Mark requested.
"No!" Rebecca snapped, her eyes suddenly flashing with a desperate, bitter spark. "He didn't explicitly say yes to that specific payment! But he always gave me money whenever I asked! For my entire life, whenever I had a problem, Dad wrote a check! He set the expectation that his money was my safety net!"
Dad sat right beside Mark, holding his breath, his knuckles white as he listened to his daughter explain her twisted logic to the court record.
"So," Mark continued without missing a beat, "it is your testimony under oath that because your father was generous to you in the past, you felt entitled to secretly access his private retirement accounts and transfer over one hundred and thirty thousand dollars without his knowledge?"
"Objection to form," Attorney Walsh stated tiredly. "Argumentative."
"She can answer the question," Mark insisted.
Rebecca stared at Mark, her face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. "You don't understand how this family works! Daniel was always the golden boy who got good grades and did everything right! I was the one who stayed close to home! I was the one who brought my son over to see them every single week! I gave them a grandson! I deserved financial security just as much as Daniel deserved his stupid college degree!"
"So you stole your mother's medical funds out of a sense of emotional entitlement?" Mark asked coldly.
"IT WASN'T STEALING!" Rebecca screamed, rattling her steel hand cuffs against the table as she leaned forward, her face turning crimson. "IT WAS MY INHERITANCE! THEY WERE GOING TO LEAVE IT TO ME ANYWAY! WHY SHOULD I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL THEY DIE TO USE IT WHEN WE WERE STRUGGLING RIGHT NOW?!"
The room fell into an absolute, stunned silence.
The court reporter paused, her fingers hovering over the steno keyboard. Brenda Walsh squeezed her eyes shut in sheer legal agony, realizing that her client had just shouted an absolute, clear confession of intent directly into the official court record.
I looked at Dad.
Dad wasn't flinching anymore. He wasn't crying. The final, remaining illusion he had harbored about his daughter—the desperate hope that she was merely confused, misled by her husband, or suffering a temporary lapse in judgment—was crushed under the weight of her own horrifying words. She didn't view him as a father. She viewed him as a bank account with a pulse, and she was annoyed that he was taking too long to die.
Dad slowly leaned forward toward the microphone in front of him.
"Rebecca," Dad said, his voice deep, quiet, and echoing with absolute finality.
Rebecca glared at him, breathing heavily, tears of rage welling in her red eyes.
"For thirty-five years," Dad said, looking directly into her eyes without a single trace of hesitation, "I blamed myself whenever you failed. When you dropped out of school, I blamed the teachers. When your first marriage failed, I blamed your ex-husband. When you couldn't pay your bills, I blamed the economy. I spent my whole life making excuses for you, and in doing so, I ruined you."
Rebecca scoffed, turning her face away, but Dad kept speaking.
"I ruined you by making you believe that you could destroy everything around you and never have to pay for it," Dad continued, his voice shaking with intense emotional weight. "Well, today is the day that stops. You aren't getting an inheritance, Rebecca. Not now, and not when I die. Every single cent of my estate is going into a irrevocable educational trust for Mason and Noah, managed entirely by your brother Daniel. You will never touch another dollar of my money for as long as you live."
Rebecca looked back at him, her lips trembling, sudden genuine terror flashing in her eyes as she realized the full, permanent scope of what she had lost.
"Dad..." she whimpered, the defiant rage suddenly draining out of her, replaced by the pathetic panic of a child who realized the game was over. "Dad, please... don't do this..."
"The deposition is concluded," Mark Vance announced, shutting his laptop with a loud, definitive click.
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The two sheriff's bailiffs stepped forward, grabbed Rebecca by her arms, and hoisted her out of her chair. As they led her out of the courtroom, her heavy chains clanking against the floor, she began to sob hysterically, calling out my father's name over and over into the empty marble hallway.
Dad didn't look back once.
