He wanted them under oath.
The deposition took place in a sterile conference room. My parents, out on bail, looked haggard. Erica was there in an orange jumpsuit, shackles on her wrists.
Michael was the inquisitor.
He played the recording of the 911 call I had made from the hospital. He showed the photos of my bruises.
Then, he turned to Erica.
“Did you say, ‘I bet if I really tried, I could make it quiet’?” Michael asked.
“I was joking!” Erica shrieked, her voice shrill and panicked. “I didn’t mean to kill it! I just wanted to see if she was lying! Sarah is always the center of attention! She was faking being hurt!”
“So you kicked her to prove a point?”
“Yes! She deserved it for ignoring me!”
Michael turned to my father.
“Mr. Miller, why didn’t you call 911 immediately after your daughter was knocked unconscious?”
My father shifted in his seat. “We… we told her to get up because… well, Erica gets upset easily when people are hurt. We didn’t want Erica to feel bad. We thought Sarah was being dramatic.”
The silence in the room was deafening. Even the court reporter paused, looking up in horror.
“So,” Michael said, his voice deadly quiet, “your priority was the feelings of the attacker, not the life of the bleeding victim?”
My mother mumbled, staring at the table, “Sarah is tough. She’s always been the drama queen. We didn’t think…”
“No,” Michael said, closing his folder. “You didn’t think. You just protected the monster you created.”
