Chapter 12 - The DepositionThree weeks later.
The air-conditioned conference room on the fourteenth floor of a downtown Houston high-rise was bright, sterile, and cold. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the city's concrete sprawl stretched out under a hazy grey sky.
Victoria Vance sat at the head of a long mahogany table, flanked by two assistant district attorneys from the state’s special prosecution unit. Sitting across from them was Mariana.
She looked entirely different from the broken girl Teresa had lifted out of the chicken coop.
Mariana wore a clean cream-colored blouse and dark trousers provided by her mother. Her dark hair was neatly combed back, and though her skin was still pale and her cheekbones remained sharp from months of starvation, her eyes were clear.
Beside her sat Elena Alvarez, holding her daughter’s hand tightly under the table.
Teresa sat in the quiet corner of the room, observing as a silent witness. She had paid Victoria Vance’s retainers out of her own savings, ensuring Mariana had the fiercest legal defense state money could buy.
"Mrs. Alvarez-Mendoza," the lead prosecutor, a sharp-eyed woman named Assistant AG Clara Vance, began gently. "We need your official statement regarding the timeline of events beginning on October 14, 2020."
Mariana swallowed hard. She adjusted the collar of her blouse, her fingers briefly touching the small raised scar on her collarbone where the cardiac monitor sat.
"Six years ago, I had the accident," Mariana began, her voice trembling slightly before finding its footing. "When I woke up in the Houston hospital, my head hurt so badly I couldn't remember my own phone number. I knew who Rodrigo was, but everything else was a fog. I asked for my mother... over and over."
She paused, looking toward Elena, who squeezed her hand in encouragement.
"Rodrigo came into my room early the next morning," Mariana continued. "He told me my mother had visited while I was sleeping and left. He said she told him she didn't want the burden of taking care of a 'broken girl.' He told me she said I brought disgrace on the family by marrying a rancher instead of staying in Houston."
A heavy silence filled the room. The court reporter’s fingers flew rapidly across her machine keys, capturing every word.
"And you believed him?" Clara asked softly.
"I had a traumatic brain injury, ma'am," Mariana whispered, tears glistening in her eyes. "I couldn't hold a thought for more than a few minutes. I was terrified, confused, and entirely dependent on him. He brought me to San Pedro, took my car keys, my phone, and my ID. Whenever I asked to use the landline, he told me my family had changed their number and moved away."
"When did the physical isolation turn severe?"
"About eight months ago," Mariana said, her jaw tightening. "I was cleaning his desk and found a box of old mail. There were dozens of unopened letters from my mother... birthday cards, Christmas notes, letters begging me to call. When I confronted Rodrigo, he flew into a rage. He accused me of betrayal. That’s when the locks went on the doors."
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Teresa covered her mouth with her trembling hand in the corner of the room, struggling to keep her sobs quiet.
"Thank you, Mariana," Clara said solemnly. "That is more than enough for the grand jury."
