Chapter 11 - The DepositionDiego’s deposition took place in a downtown law office with gray walls, bad coffee, and windows that did not open.
Perfect, I thought.
A room with no escape.
I was not required to attend, but Marisol allowed me to watch remotely from a separate conference room. Natalie watched with me, silent and pale. Marcus had wanted to come, but I told him this was not a work battle anymore.
This one was mine.
Diego sat at the table in a charcoal suit. He looked thinner. Less polished. His hair was still perfect, but his eyes carried sleepless shadows.
Elliot Price sat beside him.
Marisol sat across from him with one legal pad, one pen, and the calm expression of a surgeon washing her hands.
The court reporter swore him in.
Then Marisol began.
“State your full name.”
“Diego Arturo Alvarez.”
“Are you currently married to Valerie Alvarez?”
“Yes.”
“Did you attend a family dinner at your parents’ residence on the evening of May 14?”
“Yes.”
“Did you throw a ceramic plate that struck Valerie Alvarez in the head?”
Elliot objected to form.
Diego swallowed.
“The plate left my hand during an argument.”
Marisol looked up.
“That was not my question.”
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
One word.
The first brick fell.
“Was Valerie holding a weapon?”
“No.”
“Did Valerie strike you?”
“No.”
“Did Valerie threaten physical harm?”
“No.”
“Before you threw the plate, was there a discussion regarding her Capitol Hill condominium?”
He hesitated.
“Yes.”
“Who initiated that discussion?”
“My mother.”
“What did your mother want?”
Elliot shifted.
Diego stared at the table.
“She wanted to live there.”
“Did Valerie agree?”
“No.”
“Was Valerie asked to pay your mother twenty-four hundred dollars per month?”
“I don’t remember the exact amount.”
Marisol slid a transcript from the security footage across the table.
“Does this refresh your memory?”
Diego read it.
His face reddened.
“Yes.”
“Did you believe you had any ownership interest in Valerie’s condominium?”
“No.”
“Did you nevertheless contact a title company about transferring trust-owned property to a relative?”
Elliot objected again.
Diego’s mouth opened.
Closed.
“Yes.”
Natalie whispered, “Oh my God.”
Marisol continued, relentless.
“Which relative?”
“My mother.”
“Did Valerie authorize you to make that inquiry?”
“No.”
“Did Valerie know about it?”
“No.”
“Did you hire a private investigator to gather information about Valerie’s assets and routines?”
Diego looked at Elliot.
Elliot said nothing.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was concerned.”
“About what?”
“Her judgment.”
“Before or after she refused to transfer property?”
He glared.
Elliot touched his sleeve.
Diego answered, “Before.”
Marisol produced an email.
“Please read the highlighted sentence.”
Diego’s voice was barely audible.
“She won’t add me to the title. Grant poisoned her against family.”
“Who is Grant?”
“Valerie’s attorney.”
“Were you concerned about Valerie’s judgment, or were you frustrated she would not add you to the condo title?”
“Both.”
“Which came first?”
Silence.
The kind of silence that tells the truth before words arrive.
Diego finally said, “The title issue.”
I sat back.
There it was.
Not all of it.
Enough.
Marisol moved through the evidence like a blade through fabric.
The family group chat.
The title inquiry.
The private investigator.
The employer call.
The attempted settlement.
Victoria’s lobby visit.
Every time Diego tried to soften a fact, Marisol placed a document beside it until his softness had nowhere to hide.
Then she asked the question I had been waiting for.
“Did you love your wife?”
Diego looked startled.
Even Elliot looked confused.
“Yes,” Diego said.
Marisol nodded.
“Did you love her when you investigated her assets without her knowledge?”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
“Did you love her when you allowed your family to discuss taking her home?”
“Yes.”
“Did you love her when you threw a plate at her head?”
Elliot objected sharply.
Marisol waited.
Diego stared at the table.
“I was angry.”
“That was not my question.”
His voice cracked. “I don’t know.”
I felt nothing.
That surprised me.
No heartbreak.
No rage.
Just the quiet closing of a door I had been pushing shut for years.
Marisol leaned forward slightly.
“Mr. Alvarez, isn’t it true that what you called love was actually expectation?”
“No.”
“Expectation that Valerie would share her assets?”
“No.”
“Expectation that she would obey your family?”
“No.”
“Expectation that when pressured publicly, she would surrender?”
“No.”
Marisol lifted one sheet of paper.
“Then why did you write to your father, ‘After tonight she’ll understand refusing is not an option’?”
Diego closed his eyes.
Natalie covered her mouth.
I leaned forward, every nerve awake.
The room on the screen held its breath.
Diego whispered, “I was venting.”
Marisol did not blink.
“No further questions on that topic.”
By the end of the deposition, Diego looked like a man who had aged ten years in six hours.
When the video feed ended, Natalie broke down.
Not for Diego.
For herself.
“For all of us,” she whispered. “We were trained to think this was normal.”
I put my arm around her.
“So we unlearn it.”
Marisol entered our conference room fifteen minutes later.
She looked tired but satisfied.
“He hurt himself badly.”
“Will it be enough?”
“For divorce? Yes. For civil leverage? Very likely. For the criminal matter? That depends on prosecutors, but the evidence is strong.”
I nodded.
“And Victoria?”
Marisol’s eyes sharpened.
“Victoria will be deposed next.”
A slow smile spread across Natalie’s face.
May you like
I had never seen that expression on her before.
It looked like freedom learning to stand.
