17
SCARLETT SAT FACING the window in a downtown Los Angeles skyscraper. The grey smog was especially thick this Monday morning, obscuring the San Bernardino mountain range that rimmed the city. Dark, tempestuous storm clouds threatened rainfall, and a hail line was forming low in the sky. Scarlett shuddered in her light wool suit jacket. Everything about the day was foreboding.
“State your name for the record, please.” Peering at her from under bushy eyebrows, the attorney for the defense began his line of questioning for the deposition.
“Escarlata Sandoval.”
A court reporter sat at the end of the long conference table in the defense counsel’s office. Her job was to type everything that was said.
“Occupation.”
“Unemployed.” She shot a sharp glance at Lucan and David, who were sitting
