Chapter 6 - The Deposition’s Trap
Z
The conference room on the fourth floor of the downtown legal building smelled of expensive leather, floor wax, and arrogance. High above the gray streets of Knoxville, the rain streaked across the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, blurring the lights of the city below.
Grant sat across the polished mahogany conference table, looking impeccably groomed in a tailor-made navy suit, his silk tie pinned with a understated silver bar. Preston Carroway sat beside him, surrounded by sleek tablets and leather-bound legal pads, looking as relaxed as a man who had already won the war and was just waiting for the surrender terms to be signed.
I sat on the opposite side beside Marcus Vance. I wore my secondhand cream blazer over my simple black dress—the same clothes I had worn in court. But I didn't feel weak anymore. I didn't feel small.
"Let the record reflect," the court reporter droned, her fingers hovering over her stenography machine, "that this is the deposition of Grant Arthur Bellamy in the matter of Bellamy v. Bellamy, Case Number 24-FA-809."
Carroway leaned forward, crossing his hands. "Before we begin, Vance, I'd like to state on the record that this deposition regarding my client's income is an absolute waste of judicial time. The court has already granted temporary physical custody to Mr. Bellamy. His financial stability is well-documented. If this is an attempt by your client to squeeze higher temporary maintenance out of my client, it will be met with a motion for sanctions."
Marcus Vance didn't even look up from his brown leather folder. He casually unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen.
"Duly noted, Mr. Carroway," Marcus said dryly. "Shall we begin?"
Grant smirked, adjusting his cuffs. "Go ahead, Marcus. I have a 2:00 PM lunch meeting with my investment advisor, so let's make this quick."
Marcus adjusted his glasses and picked up the first sheet of paper. "Mr. Bellamy, please state your current position and annual gross compensation at Bellamy Logistics."
"Senior Vice President of Operational Logistics," Grant said smoothly, his voice dripping with casual confidence. "Base salary is one hundred and forty-five thousand dollars annually, plus performance-based quarterly bonuses."
"And you have held this executive position for how long?"
"Five years. Since my uncle’s passing."
"Fascinating," Marcus said, flipping a page. "And as Senior Vice President, you have sole authorization over secondary vendor payments and municipal shipping subcontracts, correct?"
Carroway frowned, leaning toward Grant. "Objection. Scope. This deposition is regarding personal income for child support calculations, not corporate operational hierarchy."
"It goes directly to my client's claim regarding undisclosed executive bonuses and hidden liquid assets, Your Honor—sorry, force of habit—Mr. Reporter," Marcus said, smiling tightly. "I'm establishing the structure of Mr. Bellamy's true compensation package."
"Answer the question, Grant, but keep it brief," Carroway grunted, clearly annoyed.
"Yes," Grant said, puffing out his chest slightly. "I oversee all vendor disbursements above fifty thousand dollars."
"Excellent," Marcus said. He pulled a thick white paper from his folder and slid it across the polished table. "I hand you Exhibit A. Do you recognize this document, Mr. Bellamy?"
Grant casually looked down at the paper. The smirk on his face flickered for a fraction of a second, then vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense stillness.
"It’s a standard corporate disbursement form from 2021," Grant said, his voice losing a degree of its polished shine. "So what?"
"Is that your signature at the bottom, authorizing a payment of one hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars to 'Apex Transit LLC'?"
"Objection!" Carroway barked, half-rising from his chair. "Corporate filings from three years ago have zero relevance to a temporary custody evaluation!"
"Oh, they are deeply relevant, Mr. Carroway," Marcus said, his voice dropping into a chilling, calm register. "Because Apex Transit LLC is a shell corporation registered in the state of Delaware, whose sole managing director is listed as... Grant Arthur Bellamy."
Grant’s face drained of color. The blood retreated from his lips so fast he looked ghost-like under the bright fluorescent lights. "That... that was a subsidiary structure setup for tax optimization under my uncle’s direction."
"Tax optimization?" Marcus chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound. He pulled a second, much thicker document from his bag—the printout from Arthur Miller’s flash drive. "Or was it the vehicle you used to siphon off two point four million dollars from the Knox County School District fuel subsidy grant between 2018 and 2023?"
"What the hell is this?" Carroway yelled, grabbing the paper from Grant’s desk. As Carroway’s eyes scanned the detailed bank routing numbers, the offshore transfer dates, and the sharp red ink digital signatures, his own confident expression completely collapsed. He looked at Grant, his eyes wide with sudden horror. "Grant... what is this?"
"It’s... it’s fake," Grant stammered, his hands beginning to shake violently as he pointed a finger at me across the table. "She made this! Her father was an accountant, he was a disgruntled ex-employee who went crazy before he died! She’s trying to blackmail me!"
"Careful, Mr. Bellamy," Marcus warned, his pen poised. "You are under oath. And as of ten o'clock this morning, these exact digital files, along with the physical ledgers kept by the late Arthur Miller, were formally hand-delivered to the Financial Crimes Division of the Internal Revenue Service and the United States Attorney’s Office for the Eastern District of Tennessee."
The silence that fell over the room was absolute.
The court reporter stopped typing. The rain beat violently against the windowpanes.
Grant looked at me. For the first time in six years, he didn't look at me like I was a poor, pathetic girl he had rescued from a small-town life. He looked at me with absolute, paralyzing horror.
"Audrey..." Grant’s voice cracked, sounding small, pathetic, and frail. "Audrey, please... we have a son. You're going to destroy my family."
I leaned across the table. I looked directly into the eyes of the man who had tried to take my child because his clothes were worn, because his mother worked late, because we didn't live in a townhouse with designer furniture.
"You destroyed my father, Grant," I said, my voice as steady as granite. "You stole from the public school system that educates your own son. And then you tried to use my poverty—a poverty created by your lies—to rip Nolan away from me."
May you like
I stood up, pulling my secondhand blazer closed around myself.
"My lawyer will handle the rest," I said cold and clear. "And Grant? Don't bother showing up at Nolan’s school tomorrow at three o'clock. The FBI will likely be at your office long before then."
