Chapter 9: The Deposition
The deposition was scheduled for a Tuesday, three weeks after the filing.
Patricia prepared me for four hours the day before, sitting across from me at her office table with a yellow legal pad and a directness I had come to rely on.
"They will try to make you feel small," she said.
"That is the strategy.
They will ask about your performance reviews, your absences, your interpersonal conflicts.
They will use neutral language to suggest you were difficult.
They will imply that Greg's comments were misread."
"I've been managing that for twelve years," I said.
"I know," she said.
"But this time, you don't have to manage it alone.
I'll be beside you.
If a question is improper, I'll stop it.
Your only job is to answer what is asked, nothing more, nothing less, and to stay calm."
"What if I don't stay calm?" I asked.
"Then you take a breath and you ask for the question to be repeated," she said.
"That's all.
Nobody expects you to be a machine.
They just can't use your emotion against you if you don't give it to them."
---
The deposition room was beige and windowless and smelled faintly of printer ink.
Greg's attorney was a man named Clifford Marsh.
He was in his late fifties, unhurried, with the manner of someone who had done this so many times that nothing surprised him anymore.
He started with the easy questions.
How long had I worked at the company.
What my role was.
Who I reported to.
Then he shifted.
"Would you describe your relationship with Greg Harmon as adversarial?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"I would describe it as one-sided."
Marsh made a small note.
"Can you explain what you mean by that?"
"I did my work," I said.
"Greg made comments.
I didn't respond to the comments.
That isn't adversarial.
That's endurance."
Marsh moved to the retreat.
He framed it carefully — the retreat was a standard annual event, attendance was expected of all employees, the water park was chosen by a committee.
"Were you on that committee?" I asked.
He paused.
"I'm asking the questions."
"I know," I said.
"I'm noting that I wasn't."
Patricia didn't intervene.
She didn't need to.
Marsh tried three more angles on the retreat — that I had chosen to take the microphone, that my actions could be construed as disruptive, that the folder of documents I had brought constituted a premeditated attempt to embarrass a superior in a non-professional setting.
"I brought documentation of my own work," I said.
"To an event my employer required me to attend.
If that's premeditated, then so was twelve years of credit being taken without acknowledgment."
Marsh set his pen down.
"Ms.
Linda," he said, "do you believe Greg Harmon targeted you specifically because of your appearance?"
"I believe Greg Harmon targeted me specifically because I was good at my job," I said.
"And because he needed someone to be less than him in order to feel like enough."
The room was very quiet.
Marsh picked his pen back up.
He asked four more questions.
They were shorter than the ones before.
When it was over and we were in the elevator, Patricia looked at me.
"That last answer," she said.
"Was it too much?" I asked.
"No," she said.
"It was exactly enough."
---
Two days later, the company's legal team called Patricia again.
The offer had changed.
Now it included Carol.
Full settlement for both of us.
Severance, references, written apologies, and — new addition — a mandatory review of workplace conduct policies across all departments, overseen by an independent third party.
And one more item.
Greg Harmon and Director Paulson would both be placed on administrative leave pending an internal investigation.
Patricia read the terms to me over the phone.
"It's not a public admission," she said.
"But it's real consequence.
They don't put two senior people on leave unless they believe the case against them holds."
"What does Carol think?" I asked.
"She said she'll sign if you sign," Patricia said.
I looked out my window at the street below.
A woman was walking a dog.
A child on a bicycle.
May you like
Ordinary Tuesday afternoon.
"Send me the documents," I said.
