Chapter 7 - The Deposition
The legal process was excruciatingly slow. Summer turned into fall. The trees in upstate New York turned brilliant shades of red and gold. The Millers moved into a small rented house on the edge of town, far from the prying eyes of the neighborhood.
The company’s legal team was ruthless. They used every trick in the book to delay, to obfuscate, to destroy the Millers’ credibility. They demanded every single record of Hannah’s life for the past ten years—her bank statements, her medical records, her social media posts, even her therapy notes. They tried to paint her as a gold-digging, unstable woman who had brainwashed her own father.
The deposition was scheduled for mid-October. It was held in a cold, windowless conference room in a downtown office building.
Frank went first.
The lead lawyer for the defense was a woman named Victoria Voss. She was famous for destroying witnesses on the stand. She was cold, brilliant, and absolutely without mercy.
For six hours, she grilled Frank. She went through his entire life. She brought up a DUI he had gotten in 1978. She brought up a time he had been suspended from the plant for three days in 1999 for insubordination. She tried to paint him as a lifelong liar and troublemaker.
Frank held up. He was old, he was tired, but he was honest. He admitted his mistakes. He admitted he had been a coward. He admitted he had looked the other way.
And then Voss went in for the kill.
“Mr. Miller,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You claim you are testifying out of the goodness of your heart, out of a desire for ‘justice.’ But let’s look at the facts. Ten years ago, you kicked your own daughter out of your house because you were ashamed of her pregnancy. You didn’t speak to her for a decade. You didn’t even know you had a grandson.”
She leaned across the table, her eyes locking onto his.
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Miller, that this entire lawsuit is just a cynical plot by you and your daughter to extort millions of dollars from my client? Isn’t it true that Hannah promised you a cut of the settlement in exchange for your ‘testimony’? That you’re selling your soul for a check?”
The room went silent. Hannah’s lawyers objected, but the damage was done.
Frank looked at Voss. He looked at the court reporter. He looked at the camera recording every word.
And then he smiled. It was a sad, tired smile.
“Ma’am,” Frank said, his voice ringing clear through the conference room, “you wanna know what my soul is worth? I sold it ten years ago for a pension check and the approval of a man I didn’t even respect. I spent a decade in hell, knowing I let a good boy die because I was scared. You think any amount of money can buy that back? You think I want their money?”
He leaned forward, his voice rising with a moral authority that silenced everyone in the room.
“I’m here because a ten-year-old boy asked me to tell him about his father. I’m here because Ethan Clarke’s voice came out of a computer speaker and forgave me for the worst thing I ever did. I’m here because if I don’t speak up, then Ethan really did die for nothing. And then I really am the worst kind of man.”
He pointed a finger at Voss.
“You can keep your money. I don’t want it. If we win, every single dime goes to a foundation in Ethan’s name to help workers in dangerous plants. Every penny. I don’t need it. I’m an old man with a bad heart. I’m gonna be dead in ten years anyway. But I’ll be damned if I’m gonna die with Ethan’s blood still on my hands.”
He sat back.
“So go ahead, Ms. Voss. Ask me about my DUI. Ask me about my mistakes. I’ve made plenty. But on this? On Ethan? On the truth? You will never break me.”
There was silence. Even Voss was taken aback. She had expected a broken old man she could bully. She had found a prophet.
When Hannah testified the next day, she was equally powerful. She told the story of living in the bus station. She told of washing dishes until her hands bled. She told of raising Owen alone. She played the entire recording of Ethan’s voice for the room.
By the end of the day, even the court reporter was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
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Voss knew she was losing. She could feel the momentum shift. After the deposition, she cornered Hannah’s lead lawyer in the hallway.
“Tell your clients we want to settle,” she said, her face tight with defeat. “We’re not going to trial. The PR is already a disaster. It’ll only get worse in front of a jury.”
