The conference room hums like a well-insulated aquarium. Fluorescents fuzz the edges of the ceiling tiles; the lake outside carries a winter sheen, minute shivers rolling in from the dam’s scheduled release. The window is double-glazed, but I still smell ozone each time the door opens, and cedar rides in from my coat—closet scent clinging like a decision I can’t unmake.
Tamsin sets her fountain pen on the table with ceremony. The court reporter powers up, soft keys already testing the day; her steno clicks build a metronome before we even begin. “Under seal,” Tamsin confirms to the room, voice low, measured. The rented blinds tick when the HVAC exhales.
Exhibit stickers begin to bloom across the table—yellow, blue, translucent dots with handwritten numbers—fruits of a season I never wished to grow. I place each sticker exactly where the page matters most: the signature block, the rider’s clause, the memo line that pretends to be care. The color makes our gray pile a garden I can inventory. In my notebook, I capture hash strings, page counts, and the scent of the paper—warm toner, faint glue—details that will never testify but keep me honest.
Mara sits straight. She has chosen a sweater the color of fog. The gel pen she brought to the bank rests by her hand like a familiar animal. When Tamsin asks if she’s ready, she nods without moving anything else.
“On the record,” the reporter says, and the clicks consolidate into rain.
“State your name for the record,” Tamsin begins.
“Mara Finch,” Mara says, steady.
“Do you understand that you are under oath and that this deposition is under seal?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need a break?”
“Not yet.”
I press my recorder’s red circle, even though the steno machine holds the official memory. Redundancy comforts me. I angle the mic away from the HVAC’s breath and toward the center of the table where truth will land.
“Exhibit One,” Tamsin says, sliding the clinic confidentiality rider under the camera dot I placed. She taps the rider’s subclause with the pen cap. “Please read the underlined portion.”
Mara reads, enunciating the phrase I memorized months ago: “‘Third-party stipend acknowledges continuing support for medication and housing not to be reported for tax purposes; beneficiary to maintain discretion to avoid reputational harm to donor.’”
“Did you receive money pursuant to this rider?”
“Yes.”
“For what purposes?”
“Rent. Medication.”
“Were there conditions beyond discretion?”
“No.”
“Did anyone threaten you if you stopped receiving funds?”
“Yes.”
Tamsin pauses. The court reporter’s hands do not. “Describe the threats,” Tamsin says.
“They said I’d have to ‘learn fiscal independence the hard way’ if I talked about where the rent came from. They said clinics like mine ‘lose slots’ for people who make messes.”
“Who said that?”
Mara looks at Tamsin first, then at me, then down at Exhibit One. “The rider’s messenger,” she says. “I was told names were above me.”
Tamsin nods. We keep names sealed and let the documents carry weight. “Exhibit Two,” she says. I pass the bank deposit image across the table. The date stamp swims in the fluorescent light. The sticker clings to the corner like a flag.
“Do you recognize this document?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“A statement showing a rent payment labeled ‘education support.’”
“Does it match the timing of your lease?”
“Yes.”
“Did you perform any educational service for the payer?”
“No.”
“Who told you to refer to yourself as ‘education’?”
“No one told me. The memo line just said that.”
The court reporter’s keys keep the day moving forward, rain on glass. I check the lake level out of reflex; the ring on the stones has blurred darker, two inches into the noon promise. The HOA listserv buzzes my pocket—Reminder: drones restricted near wildlife; camera neutrality benefits all—and I dismiss it without looking, keeping my eyes on the ledger of our own weather.
“Exhibit Three,” Tamsin says. I pass the intake photo thumbnail printout—metadata thick as a spine. We keep the face fuzzed, the date legible. The plastic sleeve reflects a blink of my face back at me, a ghost that refuses to attend.
“Do you recognize the person in this photo?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it, under seal?”
Mara’s jaw flexes once. “Me.”
“Is the date accurate?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone accompany you to that intake?”
“No.”
“Did anyone pay for it?”
“Yes.”
“From what account?”
“From the same entity that paid rent.”
“Did you sign a confidentiality rider at intake?”
“Yes.”
“Does Exhibit One reflect that rider?”
“Yes.”
Tamsin glances at me. I log timestamp 10:18, note calm tone, add no speculation in the margin, underline it twice. I can feel the old donor salons breathing somewhere beyond these walls, their live-captioned toasts practicing lines about “mature choices” and “mission purity.” I keep those voices outside the seal and focus on the small sound Mara makes when she turns a page, the paper whisper of someone moving from being handled to handling.
“Exhibit Four,” Tamsin says, “a redacted email header chain. Do you recognize the alias in the ‘from’ line?”
“Yes.”
“What does the alias match in your records?”
“The rent payments and the rider.”
“What does the subject line read?”
“‘Continuation of care—do not 1099.’”
“Did you request that wording?”
“No.”
“Did anyone explain ‘do not 1099’ to you?”
“No.”
“What did you think it meant?”
Mara inhales, then shakes her head. “I don’t guess. I saved it.”
I look up. She refuses the invitation to speculate and it changes the room’s air. We’re building a bridge that can hold weight: receipts only, no extra planks.
“Exhibit Five,” Tamsin says. “A copy of the lease. Does your signature appear here?”
“Yes.”
“Does it list the landlord account we saw in Exhibit Two?”
“Yes.”
“Has rent ever bounced?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met the payor in person?”
“No.”
Tamsin reaches for another tab, then halts, recalibrating. “Exhibit Six is the phone log. Did you receive calls asking for ‘status updates on adherence’?”
“Yes.”
“What did you understand ‘adherence’ to mean?”
“Medication compliance.”
“Did anyone ask you to change clinics?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They said ‘branding’.”
“Did you change clinics?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because my doctor knows my meds and I don’t owe ‘branding’ my body,” she says, and the reporter looks up for a heartbeat, the only time her rain breaks into weather.
—Micro-hook—
Tamsin lets the last sentence breathe, then continues. “Please turn to Exhibit Seven.” I slide the certified trust excerpt across the table, the one I underlined—removal for dishonesty. We keep names covered; clauses care more than signatures.
“Have you read the portion highlighted?” Tamsin asks.
“Yes.”
“What does it say about ‘qualifying dependents’?”
“That any dependent, including financial reliance, triggers oversight, penalties, and possible removal for dishonesty.”
“Based on your experience with Exhibits One through Four, did you have financial reliance on the payor?”
“Yes.”
“Over what period?”
“Eighteen months.”
“For what categories?”
“Rent and medication.”
“Did the payor ask for public acknowledgment in return?”
“No.”
“Did the payor ask for silence?”
“Yes.”
“Did you agree?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed to live and I needed my meds.”
The room settles around the shape of that sentence. I squeeze the pen clip with my thumb until it bites. Love asks for trust; safety requires documentation. The paradox sits beside my water glass and minds its manners.
Tamsin marks the line in her outline where motive tightens. “For clarity,” she says, “have you ever been anyone’s dependent under tax law?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Under the trust’s definition, which includes financial reliance, did you qualify as a dependent?”
“Yes.”
“Did the payor know that?”
Mara’s fingers rest on Exhibit Seven. “They should have,” she says. “They wrote it.”
The reporter’s keys ratchet up—rain on a tin roof now. I note 11:02, statement tying reliance to clause, circle it. My skin remembers donor rooms where a rook logo winks from cufflinks and door handles; here the only rook is a cufflink abandoned on a chair from a previous tenant, a mere glint, a warning.
Tamsin softens her voice. “We will not ask you about family history besides what you already said. Under seal means no one gets to parade your mother through a salon she never attended. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need a break?”
“No,” Mara says. “I want to finish.”
“Exhibit Eight,” Tamsin continues. “Notice of escrow support independent of the payor. Please read the bolded line.”
Mara reads without quiver: “‘Support is neither conditioned on nor contingent upon testimony.’”
“Did you sign this yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Does this change whether you’re telling the truth today?”
“No.”
“Does it change your ability to continue rent and medications if the payor stops?”
“Yes. I’m covered.”
Tamsin nods once, then sets Exhibit Eight down like a final card you only play when the room has earned it. “No further questions at this time,” she says.
The reporter looks at me. “Any statement for the record?”
I glance at Tamsin. She tilts her head a fraction. “Only this,” I say. “We reserve all rights under the seal.”
“Noted,” the reporter says, and the rain slows.
We break for water and apples because blood sugar is as real as perjury. Out the window, the lake brightens one gradient toward silver; the dam’s choreography pushes ripples shoreward, obedient little soldiers. I check the HOA listserv again. Reminder: filming permits required on waterfront walkways. A reply: Let’s remain camera-neutral and child-neutral. I forward the thread to Tamsin with a single word: Eyes. She replies from across the table without looking at her phone: “Curtains hold.”
We reconvene for the close. Tamsin assembles the exhibits into a neat ladder, edges even, stickers like traffic lights you can trust. “Final housekeeping,” she says. “Digital copies of Exhibits One through Eight plus the audio of today’s session—sealed digital package.” I pull the labeled flash drive from a static bag, the tamper sticker crisp under my thumb. The drive is cold, angular, uncharmable.
“Hash?” Tamsin asks.
I read the string from my notebook. The reporter repeats it back into her rain. Tamsin holds open a manila envelope pre-printed with the court’s sealing legend. I slide the drive in; the paper sighs. She peels the tamper label and seals the flap flat with her palm.
“Chain of custody?” the reporter asks.
“Counsel to clerk by hand within the hour,” Tamsin says.
Mara watches the envelope like it’s a small animal we’re returning to the wild. She picks up her fog-colored sweater sleeve and rubs the seam once, then lets her hands fall still. “Do people ever open those just to peek?” she asks.
“Not legally,” Tamsin says. “Not safely.”
“Okay,” Mara says. She stands, steady in all the places she shook last week. “Then I’m finished.”
“You’re not finished,” I say, and I hate the truth of it even as I honor it. “But this part is.”
The court reporter powers down; the rain stops on command. The sudden quiet has weight. I hear the building settling—ductwork ticking, distant elevator cables breathing. The rook cufflink on the abandoned jacket catches a seam of light and throws it back onto the table like a tiny lighthouse.
We walk Mara to the elevators. The hallway smells of coffee and carpet glue. She presses the button; the arrow glows. “Do I avoid the lake path?” she asks.
“For today,” Tamsin says. “Choose routes with fewer eyes.”
“Got it.” Mara takes a breath that looks like ownership. “Thank you for the boring miracles.”
“Boring miracles are my favorite kind,” I say, and the elevator opens with a bright chime that feels too cheerful for the work we just did.
Back in the room, I pack the analog camera, align my duplicates, and tuck the recorder against my palm. The envelope sits between us, sealed, ordinary. We leave the blinds half-tilted; the lake winks a thin coin of light into the glass. My phone buzzes again—a calendar block I didn’t accept: Stakeholder Listening Session: Family Narratives. The sender is a long string of nothing. I delete it.
Tamsin lifts the envelope. “Clerk,” she says.
“Clerk,” I echo.
We step into the hallway and the blast of HVAC greets us like institutional weather. In the stairwell, the echo makes our shoes sound like a procession. The outside door coughs us into cold light. The lake has climbed another ring; the stones look slick and newly sure.
I walk with Tamsin toward the Annex to log the seal by hand, and I end with the question lodged under my tongue like a seed I’m not ready to swallow: Can this envelope stay closed long enough to hold the next move—before donors, drones, or a rook with a key decides that camera-neutral means truth-neutral?