Authors: Eliza Kennedy
I sit down, and Kostova gives me a genial smile. “We’re waiting on Philip then?”
“He wasn’t able to get out of New York before the storm hit,” I explain.
Kostova looks surprised. “I thought he was exaggerating. So it’s just you and me today?”
“And my local counsel,” I say, gesturing to Gran.
Kostova looks at me closely. “I don’t remember seeing you at any of the other depositions.”
“This is my first time defending.”
“A rookie!” He smiles indulgently. “I’ll go easy on you.”
We clip on our microphones. Gran pokes me. “Why did you tell him that?”
“Because he asked? I don’t know, Gran. What does it matter? He seems all right.”
She shakes her head grimly.
The camera starts rolling, and the stenographer swears Pete in. I glance at my e-mail.
So basically, my teenage years were consumed by academics and massive amounts of sex. But as I got older, it began to bother me that I never fell in love. Why could I adore a woman’s body but have no romantic feelings for her? Had my book of sculptures warped me? I liked many of the girls I slept with, but I never felt a strong emotional connection. Was I a bad person, some sort of sociopath?
It worried me. A lot. Ultimately, I didn’t find an answer to the question of why I couldn’t fall in love, but I found a way to make peace with it.
We all have, as far as I know, one go-round on this planet. One chance to experience what it means to be human. And I know people will disagree, but for me, being human is about enjoying sex. It’s what stops the nagging internal voice. It’s what makes us feel both alive and immortal. And there’s nothing wrong with anyone—man or woman—who enjoys having sex with lots of different people. I started doing some research into the subject and found a wealth of scientific evidence that humans aren’t engineered for monogamy. It’s a myth that has been perpetuated by all our sociocultural institutions—religious, political, artistic. We’ve been taught to believe—
Is this what museum curators do all day—sit around concocting elaborate sex conspiracies? Shouldn’t they be, I don’t know, unearthing priceless relics and writing little informational placards to stick on walls?
I skim a few paragraphs about hunter-gatherer societies and polyamorous primates. Then:
Everything I read was consistent with how I felt. I couldn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t have the freedom to do as I pleased, as long as I didn’t hurt anyone else. As long as I was honest, as long as I didn’t deceive any of my partners into thinking that love was on the table, what I was doing was okay. More than okay. It was right.
But then I met you.
“Counsel will now state their names for the record,” the stenographer says.
“Daniel P. Kostova of Kostova, Carey and Gray, LLP, representing the plaintiffs.”
It’s almost laughable. I mean, count on an academic to come up with a high-flown justification for sticking his dick into every available hole, right?
“Ms. Wilder?”
I look up. “What?”
“You need to introduce yourself,” Kostova tells me. “If you want something to appear in the record, you need to make sure it shows up on the transcript.”
“Of course,” I say. “Sorry. Lillian Wilder, of the firm Calder, Tayfield and Hartwell, attorneys for defendant Energy, Enter—EnerGreen Energy, Incorporated. With me is Isabel Curry, local counsel for the, uh, the defendant.”
A rookie? Who, me?
Kostova turns to Pete. “Can you state your name for the record, sir?”
“Peter A. Hoffman,” Pete says nervously.
Kostova leans back, crosses his legs, smooths his tie down over his belly and smiles at Pete. “Mr. Hoffman, we were introduced off the record, but let me introduce myself again. My name is Daniel Kostova, and my firm represents the plaintiffs in a class action pending before Judge George Forster in the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Louisiana. I’m going to be asking you a series of questions about that case today, but first I’d like to run through a few ground rules with you, which I think will make this deposition go real smoothly. The sooner we’re finished here, the sooner we can get out there and enjoy some of that beautiful Florida sunshine. Of course,” he chuckles, “it’s raining right now, but with any luck that’ll soon change. So, Mr. Hoffman, what do you say?”
He is utterly focused on Pete. His every gesture is leisurely, friendly, relaxed.
Pete nods. “All right.”
Kostova beams at him. “Now sir, have you ever been deposed before?” My phone vibrates.
—Did you read my e-mail?
—i cant talk right now
—It’s important, Lily.
Kostova is running through the basics, the things every lawyer says at the beginning of a deposition. I glance over at the transcript scrolling on the stenographer’s computer screen.
Q: Now, Mr. Hoffman, I would ask that you please answer all my questions verbally. A nod or a shake of your head won’t show up on the transcript.
A: Yes, sir.
Q: If you need a break at any time, you let me know.
I look down at Will’s e-mail.
At first, I tried to tell myself that there was nothing different about you. But when I woke up beside you after that first night, I didn’t want to leave. So I stayed. For the best three days of my life.
Then work separated us, but I was still so happy. This is it, I thought. I’m in love, at last. I was wrong about sex and emotions and monogamy—about everything. This is what people mean when they say that you just know.
When we got back together, I knew immediately that you’d strayed. I could see it on your face. I was instantly filled with an immense, jealous rage. I wanted to find the guy and hurt him. It was terrifying. I was so furious with you. For two weeks I’d been with no one, looked at no one, thought of no one but you. And you betrayed me.
I was in love, but I didn’t know what to do. It seemed hopeless.
Don’t laugh, but the Stoics helped me figure it out. I realized that I was suffering because I was trying to control something that was out of my control. You. You and your desires and preferences and impulses. You and your body. I was never going to be happy, never at peace, until I let go of that urge to control you.
I’d made an error by assuming that love was incompatible with freedom. But my love for you didn’t give me the right to deny you the pleasure you sought. You should be free to do what you want. And so should I.
And so I did, terrified but curious. And it was fine. It didn’t change my love for you at all. The two coexisted, and it was you, Lily, who taught me this.
I asked you to marry me because I want to be with you forever, enjoying life to the fullest and letting you do the same. But I made a mistake. I didn’t tell you any of this. At first I didn’t think it was necessary. Based on the way you lived your life, I assumed that you understood—that you got the freedom thing. I soon realized that it wasn’t that simple—that there was a lot more going on inside your head than you were letting on. But things were going so well between us that I decided I could tell you later, ease you into it.
Yesterday morning, it all came crashing down. I realized we were going to have this wonderful party, this glorious celebration. We were going to say our vows in front of our families and friends, and be united in their eyes. But there would be no marriage of true minds, because of everything that I knew and you didn’t, and everything you knew and thought I didn’t.
So I told you. I really did think that after the shock wore off, you’d understand. That it would make sense to you. I see now that I was wrong.
Talk to me, Lily. I have a lot more to say.
Love,
Will
I stare at the screen for a long time. When I look up, everyone is staring at me.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said,” Kostova says carefully, “shall we do the usual stips?”
I feel myself turning pink. “Um …”
“The usual stipulations,” he explains. “The rules that we’ve agreed to for all the depositions in this case. That objections need not be stated on the record, except objections as to the form of the question. That the court reporter is relieved of the obligation to maintain the original transcript.” He pauses. “That sort of thing.”
I don’t know how to respond. My mind is half on Will’s e-mail. I don’t want to agree to something just so that I don’t look ignorant and inexperienced, but unfortunately I
am
ignorant and inexperienced, so … Also? I’m not a golden retriever, and I’d kind of prefer that Kostova not talk to me like one.
Meanwhile, the seconds are ticking away while everyone is waiting for me to answer, and I’m sitting here like a … a golden retriever.
“It’s fine,” Gran mutters.
“Very well,” I say. “We agree.”
“Could you speak up?” the stenographer says. “I’m having trouble hearing you.”
“I said, we agree.”
My goddamn phone vibrates again. This time it’s Philip.
—Wilder. Are you at the deposition? What’s happening?
—we just started. are you ok?
—I’m perfectly fine. These doctors are catastrophists. Who’s with you?
—nobody
—Lyle didn’t find someone to fly down?
I’m about to tell him the truth, but I hesitate. What if I do and he kicks the bucket for real? I can’t have that on my conscience. So I pick the first name I think of—a scary-brilliant female partner who I have a secret crush on.
—i meant im alone right now. raney moore is coming. shes on her way from the airport
—Good. She’s excellent. Let her take the lead.
—ok
—Do exactly as she says. And keep me updated.
—ok
Kostova is starting with the basic stuff—Pete’s education and work history. He’s so amiable, so very pleasant. I’d tell him every bad thing I ever did. He has turned his body toward Pete, shoved a hand in his pocket. Just us folks sittin’ around on the porch, havin’ ourselves a lil ole chat.
Q: I’d like to ask you about your preparation for this deposition. Did you meet with counsel?
A: Yes.
Kostova asks Pete several more questions about the prep: how long did we meet, when, who was present. Then: “Did you review any documents in preparation for your deposition?”
I intervene. “I’m going to instruct the witness not to answer that question.”
Kostova breaks off to stare at me. “On what ground?”
“Attorney-client privilege,” I reply. “My discussions with Mr. Hoffman in the course of preparing for this deposition are privileged.”
“Of course they are,” Kostova says. “Which is why I didn’t ask about discussions. I asked a yes or no question, seeking facts. Did he look at documents. Not, what were the documents? Not, did your counsel select them? Did you—”
He’s right. I jumped in too soon. “Fine,” I say. “I just don’t want—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Counselor! You’ve accused me of attempting to invade the privilege, a serious impropriety. I’m entitled to defend myself.”
He goes on and on. When he’s finished, I say, “I beg your pardon. I misunderstood you. Mr. Hoffman, you may answer.”
“Can you repeat the question, please?” Pete says in a small voice.
They proceed, and slowly the heat drains out of my face. I glance over at Gran. She’s glowering at me.
My phone vibrates. I have a new e-mail, subject line: Addendum.
You asked me this morning about our sex life. Honestly, I don’t know if I can explain it, except to say that what we have between us is new to me. I’m not used to caring. I’m not used to feeling so strongly. Sometimes I can let go and enjoy myself. But other times I get nervous. Overwhelmed. I wanted to talk to you about it, but … I thought there would be time later. For everything. It’s another example of why I should have been honest. Why we both should have been honest. Love, Will
Kostova is trying to soften Pete up. It’s working. Pete’s answers are becoming longer and longer.
Q: What was your job title at Allied Gas?
A: I started as a payroll specialist. Eventually I was promoted to assistant director of finance.
Q: Did your duties change?
A: They sure did. Before I left I was overseeing a team of, oh, about six other accountants responsible for managing payables.
Kostova moves on to the duties of accountants at publicly traded corporations. “Would you say, Mr. Hoffman, that accountants play an important role in ensuring that the information disclosed about a corporation to its shareholders is essentially accurate?”
“Objection,” I say.
Kostova turns to me. “What is the nature of your objection?”
This catches me off guard. I’ve never seen a lawyer interrupt his own line of questioning to challenge an objection. “I’m objecting to the form of the question.”
“Obviously. And what, in your opinion, is the defect in the form of my question?”
“Why are you—”
“If the question is truly objectionable,” he continues, with elaborate patience, “I wish to correct it. I assume that you are not interposing objections simply to coach your witness, or to otherwise disrupt this deposition. So I would like you to tell me the basis for your objection.”
“I’m not coaching my witness,” I retort. “The question was vague. I don’t understand what you mean when you use terms like ‘important’ and ‘essentially accurate.’ I don’t think—”
“You don’t understand ‘important’ and ‘essentially accurate’?” He laughs. “Why don’t we let the witness decide whether he has a similar problem with basic vocabulary? He is the one whose comprehension matters, after all.”
“Mr. Kostova, it’s my job to object when I feel that the question is flawed.”
“Let’s move on,” Kostova says. “Madam Stenographer, would you read back the question?”
The stenographer peers at the computer screen and reads Kostova’s last question in a monotone: “Would you say, Mr. Hoffman, that accountants play an important role in ensuring that the information disclosed about a corporation to its shareholders is essentially accurate?”
“Yes,” Pete says.
Kostova asks a few more questions and gets a few more answers. Then he asks, “Would you say that the primary purpose of an accountant at a publicly traded corporation is to ensure that information disclosed to the public is accurate?”