The deposition took place three weeks before trial.
Elias insisted I wait outside.
“He performs when you’re in the room,” he said. “Today we want him comfortable.”
The conference room was on the ninth floor of a beige legal building that smelled faintly of copier toner and old carpet. I sat on a hard wooden bench in the corridor, legs crossed, hands folded loosely in my lap, while inside the room Julian took the oath.
A court reporter’s machine ticked beyond the glass.
Julian had arrived in a charcoal suit with his flashy attorney and the air of a man attending an inconvenience. He barely looked at me as he passed. If he noticed my silence, he mistook it for fear.
Inside, Elias began exactly as planned.
Slowly.
Painfully.
He asked about Julian’s education. His employment history. The name of his law firm. His salary. Average monthly household expenses. Retirement accounts. Bonus structures. Basic things any junior associate could have asked.
He fumbled with papers.
Dropped a pen.
Mispronounced the name of a banking platform on purpose.