Diary Entry #19: The Deposition
I was deposed today.
The notice came through the brokerage’s legal counsel, which made it feel both more serious and less real. As if danger arrives more politely when it is forwarded by someone else. The subject line said: Notice of Deposition — Patricia Vaughn. The attachment said I was required to appear and give testimony in connection with a contested matter in the probate of Doris M. Kessler.
Contested.
That word stayed with me all weekend.
Contested means someone is fighting.
Contested means the dead are not finished speaking.
Contested means paper is being examined.
I hired a lawyer.
Not because I thought I was innocent. Because I knew I was not.
Her name was Miriam. She worked with the brokerage on licensing issues and had the brisk, unromantic manner of a woman who has seen too many people ruin themselves by telling the truth badly. She met me in the lobby of the building where the deposition was being held and said, “Answer only what is asked. Do not volunteer. Do not explain. Do not be helpful.”
“I understand.”
“No,” she said. “You don’t.”
The room was smaller than I expected. A conference table. A court reporter. A camera in the corner, though I did not know if it was recording. Daniel Okafor sat on one side with a paralegal. His expression was the same as it had been in his office: patient, watchful, and unwilling to be charmed.
Miriam sat beside me.
I was sworn in.
The oath was short.
It felt enormous.
The court reporter asked me to state my name.
I said it.
Patricia Vaughn.
My own name sounded like something I was trying to sell.
Daniel began gently.
He asked my full name. My address. My license number. My brokerage. How long I had been a licensed real estate broker. Whether I was a notary public. Whether I knew Doris Kessler. Whether I had listed her property.
I answered each question.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
Then he opened a folder.
The same folder.
Or one like it.
“Ms. Vaughn,” he said, “did you provide access to 31 Fenwick Road to a woman known to you as Plum?”
Miriam shifted beside me.
I looked at Daniel.
I thought of the white envelope.
I thought of Plum’s fingers closing around it.
I thought of the key log.
I thought of the word Showing.
I thought of the lockbox report.
I thought of the basement.
I said, “I signed out a key for a showing.”
“Did you personally accompany her?”
The room went still.
I could have said no.
I could have said I don’t remember.
I could have said I need to consult counsel.
Instead, I heard myself say, “Yes.”
Miriam did not react.
Daniel did not react.
The court reporter’s fingers moved.
“Were you present,” Daniel said, “when Ms. Plum accessed the property?”
“Yes.”
“Did the key leave your possession?”
“No.”
“Did you open the lockbox?”
I looked at him.
His face was unreadable.
“I don’t recall,” I said.
“You don’t recall.”
“No.”
“Do you recall entering your code?”
“No.”
“Do you recall Ms. Plum entering your code?”
“No.”
“Do you recall anyone else entering it?”
“No.”
He turned a page.
“Then how do you explain the lockbox record indicating your code was used at twelve forty-three p.m. on Friday?”
My mouth was dry.
“I can’t.”
“Is it possible someone else used your code?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you give your code to Plum?”
“No.”
“Did you write it down where she could see it?”
“No.”
“Did you enter it in her presence?”
“I don’t recall.”
Daniel leaned forward slightly.
“Ms. Vaughn, you testified that you were present when Plum accessed the property.”
“Yes.”
“And that the key never left your possession.”
“Yes.”
“Yet the lockbox was opened with your code.”
“I don’t know how.”
“Do you understand how unusual that is?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand how concerning?”
“Yes.”
“Then help me understand.”
I looked at Miriam.
She said nothing.
I looked at Daniel.
“I can’t,” I said.
He studied me.
Then he asked the question I had been waiting for.
“Did you give Plum the Kessler key?”
I thought of the envelope.
I thought of my desk.
I thought of Len across the office.
I thought of Plum saying, It’s a black pearl. Small gold hook. It belonged to my mother.
I thought of myself handing it to her.
I said, “No.”
The word left my mouth and became part of the record.
Daniel’s eyes flickered.
Not triumph.
Not satisfaction.
Something closer to disappointment.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You did not hand her the key?”
“No.”
“You did not sign it out to her?”
“I signed it out for a showing.”
“To whom?”
“I don’t recall.”
“You don’t recall.”
“No.”
“But you recall being present.”
“Yes.”
Miriam touched my arm.
“Can we take a break?” she asked.
Daniel looked at me.
I nodded.
We stepped out.
In the hallway, Miriam said, “You’re lying.”
I said nothing.
“Whatever you’re protecting, it’s not worth perjury.”
I almost laughed.
She had no idea.
When we went back in, Daniel asked only a few more questions. Whether I had notarized any document connected to the estate. Whether I had seen any document bearing Doris Kessler’s signature. Whether I had any reason to believe Plum had acted improperly.
I said no.
No.
No.
Each no felt heavier than the last.
At the end, Daniel closed the folder.
“Thank you, Ms. Vaughn.”
The court reporter stopped typing.
The room seemed to expand again.
As Miriam and I were leaving, Daniel said, “Ms. Vaughn.”
I turned.
He stood near the table with his hand resting on the folder.
“If you remember anything,” he said, “you can still call me.”
“I will.”
“Even if it changes what you said today.”
I looked at him.
“I understand.”
He nodded.
Then, quieter, almost to himself, he said, “I hope you do.”
I left the building into cold daylight.
Miriam said, “You’re not out of this.”
“I know.”
“You may be in deeper than you realize.”
“I know.”
She looked at me.
“Do you?”
I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to say I understood exactly what I had done.
But that would have been another lie.
That night, I sat at my kitchen table with the deposition transcript request form and a glass of wine I did not drink. My hands would not stop trembling. I kept seeing the court reporter’s fingers. I kept hearing my own voice saying yes and noand I don’t recall.
I opened this diary.
I tried to write the truth.
I did not know what shape it had anymore.
I answered every question honestly.I answered every question honestly.
I was present when Plum accessed the house.I was present when Plum accessed the house.
The key never left my possession.The key never left my possession.
I did not give her the key.I did not give her the key.
I put it in her hand.
I watched her close her fingers around the envelope.
I signed the log.
I wrote Showing.
I let her go alone.
I lied.
I lied.
I lied.
I keep writing that sentence because it is the only one that does not move when I look at it.
I lied.
Under oath.
In a room where people believed they were searching for the truth.
I told myself I did it to protect myself.
I told myself I did it because Plum frightened me.
I told myself I did it because Daniel would not have understood.
All of those things may be true.
None of them make it clean.
The red thread is warm tonight.
Not hot.
Warm.
As if it approves.