Chapter 15 - The Deposition of Richard Sterling
While Arthur sat in a freezing cell at the Baltimore detention center, the legal cleanup of his former life was proceeding at breakneck speed.
In a high-security deposition room at the Department of Justice headquarters in Washington, D.C., Richard Sterling sat under the glaring lights of a video camera, his hands trembling slightly as he sipped from a paper cup of water. Across the table sat United States Attorney Sarah Jenkins, flanked by two FBI financial investigators.
“Mr. Sterling,” Jenkins began, her voice professional and sharp as a scalpel. “Let us discuss the events of Thanksgiving night at the residence of Arthur Vance-Sterling. In your initial sworn statement to the FBI, you indicated that you were dining in the formal room when you heard a commotion in the kitchen.”
“That is correct, Ms. Jenkins,” Richard said, dabbing his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. “We were having a holiday dinner. We heard a loud crash—like pottery or glass breaking—followed by Mrs. Vance-Sterling crying out in distress.”
“And what did you and the other nineteen senior partners at your firm do upon hearing an eight-month-pregnant woman crying out in physical distress, Mr. Sterling?” Jenkins asked, leaning forward over her legal pad.
Richard swallowed hard, his eyes dropping to the table. “We... we remained seated. Arthur had told us earlier in the evening that his wife was emotionally unstable and prone to dramatic outbursts for attention. We assumed he was handling it.”
“You assumed he was handling it,” Jenkins repeated coldly. She clicked a remote control, activating a television monitor mounted on the wall. “Let’s play Audio Clip 4-B, extracted from the victim’s smashed smartphone.”
The room filled with the crackling, distorted audio of Arthur’s voice from that dreadful night: “No emergency vehicles are coming to this house. The entire neighborhood would gossip. I am up for managing partner next month. I will not have sirens flashing outside our dinner party.”
Jenkins paused the recording and stared at Richard. “That statement was made less than twenty feet from your dining table, Mr. Sterling. Are you telling this office, under penalty of federal perjury, that twenty trained legal professionals did not hear a man refusing emergency medical care to a bleeding woman?”
Richard broke. He slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. “We heard him, Ms. Jenkins. God forgive us, we heard him.”
“Why didn't you call 911, Mr. Sterling?”
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“Because Vanguard & Sterling was three weeks away from securing a fifty-million-dollar corporate merger contract with a major pharmaceutical conglomerate,” Richard confessed, his voice cracking with shame and terror. “If one of our senior partners was arrested for domestic violence during a dinner party we were attending, the scandal would have tanked the merger. We looked the other way. We waited for the dessert course to finish so we could leave without getting involved.”
Jenkins wrote a single note on her pad before looking up with eyes like chipped ice. “Your firm’s contract with the Department of Justice was terminated last week, Mr. Sterling. And as of this morning, the Attorney General has authorized a full federal investigation into Vanguard & Sterling for corporate conspiracy and failure to report violent felonies involving federally protected persons. I suggest you hire independent defense counsel. You are going to need it.”
