Chapter 7 - THE DEPOSITION
Three days later, in a sterile glass-walled conference room on the ninth floor of the County Courthouse, Grant Mercer sat across from us in an orange orange jumpsuit.
His polished hair was greasy and unwashed. His face was pale, stubble covering his jawline, the arrogant smirk that he had worn at the dinner table three nights ago entirely erased. Heavy steel handcuffs chained his wrists to a metal loop anchored in the center of the table.
His high-priced criminal defense attorney, Charles Montgomery, sat beside him, looking thoroughly defeated.
"This is a formal offer of plea mitigation," Daniel Ross said, laying a three-page document in front of Montgomery. "We are offering your client one opportunity to avoid a maximum twenty-five-year state prison sentence."
Grant glared at me through the glass, his eyes filled with a desperate, animal hatred. "You ruined my life, Margaret. You stabbed me in the back."
"You stabbed yourself, Grant," I said, leaning back in my chair with my arms crossed. "You were just stupid enough to leave the knife at the scene."
Charles Montgomery skimmed the plea document quickly, his eyebrows rising higher with every line. "Full surrender of all Mercer family trust assets? Total forfeiture of all corporate stock? Complete surrender of all real estate holdings, including the main estate?"
"That's absurd!" Grant yelled, trying to jump up, but the heavy chains rattled loudly, yanking his wrists back down to the table. "That estate is worth nine million dollars! My father built that!"
"Your father built it on a foundation of debt that my late husband paid off," I reminded him quietly. "And under the civil damages suit Claire filed yesterday for intentional infliction of emotional distress, battery, and unlawful restraint, that estate is already encumbered by a federal lien."
"If Grant accepts this plea," Lillian Sterling explained calmly to Montgomery, "the prosecution will drop the First-Degree Embezzlement charges down to Grand Larceny with a non-violent designation. He will serve seven years in medium security instead of twenty-five in maximum."
"Seven years?!" Grant whimpered, looking at his lawyer. "Charles, do something! You can't let them do this to me! I won't survive in prison!"
"Grant," Montgomery whispered, leaning close to his client, his voice tight with reality. "They have the Panama access logs from your personal laptop. They have the forensically verified photos of your wife's injuries taken by a former federal investigator. They have five bank officers ready to testify to wire fraud. If you go to trial in front of a jury in this county with Margaret Hale acting as special advisory counsel to the prosecution... you will die in prison."
Grant’s mouth opened. He looked at his attorney, then looked at Lillian, then at Daniel Ross, and finally at me.
He searched my face for any sign of pity, any soft corner of maternal hesitation he could manipulate, any trace of the polite, quiet old mother-in-law who had sat meekly at his dinner table three nights ago.
May you like
He found nothing. Only the cold, smooth granite of a veteran prosecutor who had seen a hundred men just like him cry when the cell door finally locked.
"Where..." Grant’s voice trembled, breaking into a cracked sob. "Where do I sign?"
