The emergency deposition was held in Judge Carver’s chambers, a small, wood-paneled room that smelled of old books and leather. Judge Carver, stern and unyielding, presided over the proceeding, his gaze sharp.
Arthur sat across from us, his face a mask of practiced indifference, flanked by his lawyers. Clara sat beside me, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the polished conference table. She looked more fragile than usual, her breathing noticeably labored.
“Mr. Kincaid, the court requests specific documentation regarding the acquisition of Carver Healthcare Real Estate,” Judge Carver stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “Specifically, the provisions relating to existing patient care contracts.”
Arthur’s lead attorney, O’Neill, cleared his throat. “Your Honor, Kincaid Global acted within its rights to reorganize assets. The patient contracts are under review by our new adjusters, as is standard practice.”
“Standard practice does not include the abrupt cancellation of critical care policies for existing patients,” Judge Carver countered, his eyes flickering towards Clara. “Especially not in the midst of ongoing litigation.”
Clara shifted in her seat, a faint tremor running through her arm. She had been without her specialized medications for two days. The stress was visibly impacting her.
I felt a surge of cold fury. Arthur knew exactly what he was doing. He watched Clara’s deteriorating condition without a trace of remorse, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
“Ms. Kincaid,” Judge Carver addressed Clara directly, “can you confirm the impact this policy cancellation has had on your immediate medical needs?”
Clara nodded, her voice a strained whisper. “Yes, Your Honor. My daily medication regimen has been interrupted. My specialists cannot proceed with scheduled treatments.”
“And the financial implications?”
“The cost of my medication is approximately $1,800 per day out of pocket,” Clara managed, her breath catching. “My immediate procedures are in the tens of thousands. My trust fund cannot sustain it.”
A sudden gasp escaped her. Her hand flew to her temple. Her eyes rolled back slightly.
“Clara!” I cried, reaching for her.
She slumped forward, her head hitting the polished conference table with a sickening thud. Her papers scattered across the floor.
A hushed silence fell over the room. Arthur’s lawyers exchanged nervous glances. Even O’Neill’s smug expression faltered.
Judge Carver immediately stood, his stern demeanor replaced by alarm. “Bailiff! Get a medic! Now!”
Her body lay limp, unmoving. Her skin was ashen. The rhythmic beep of a nearby medical device in the judge’s office suddenly seemed deafeningly loud.
Arthur stared at her, his jaw tightening. For a fleeting second, a flicker of something — concern? fear? — crossed his face before it was quickly suppressed.
The medics rushed in, their movements swift and efficient. They worked over Clara, checking her pulse, administering oxygen. Her frail form seemed to shrink further under their professional ministrations.
“She needs to be transported immediately,” one medic announced, his voice urgent. “Possible cerebral event. Critical.”
They carefully lifted Clara onto a stretcher, her head supported. As they carried her out, her hand brushed against mine. It was cold.
Arthur watched her go, his face impassive once more. His attempt to hold her financially hostage had just turned into a medical crisis. But he didn’t appear to be shaken. He was still Arthur, calculating and ruthless.
The room emptied, leaving behind the scattered papers and the lingering scent of antiseptic. My heart hammered in my chest. This wasn’t just litigation anymore. It was life and death.
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