The power of grace in the deposition room

There is one deposition I can never forget. It happened in the case of a horrific in-custody death, and it has been a touchstone for me as I work to hold onto humanity in work that so often seems to demand the opposite.

Nathan, a father of three young children, had died from untreated sepsis after spending six days incarcerated at a local jail. As the infection developed, he complained to jail staff about severe pain in his legs, fever, a racing pulse and other alarming symptoms. Nathan used a used milk carton to collect blood he was coughing up and asked to be taken to the hospital. Deputies ignored his pleas, with one reportedly saying that Nathan was the type of person who comes to jail because he "wants to get free medical care," and that he should "get over it."

This jail was dangerously understaffed. No health care staff worked on site overnight, which was when Nathan's condition took a serious turn for the worse.

Shortly before dawn, Nathan was vomiting blood, sweating profusely and having trouble breathing. When the morning nurse arrived, Nathan told her he was afraid that he was dying. The nurse took no action, knowing she was the only medical staff on duty but fearing she would get in trouble if she did not timely complete distribution of morning medications. Nathan fell into a coma and died later that day.

After Nathan died, a pastor working at the jail was given a Bible with handwritten letters from other incarcerated men, describing what happened to Nathan. The pastor delivered the letters to Nathan's mother, Mary, who--already devastated by her son's sudden death--became furious that Nathan's obvious need for treatment was disregarded. She asked for information about what happened to her son and got no response.

By the time we filed a lawsuit on behalf of Mary and Nathan's children, the stage was set for an adversarial process, with an angry, grieving mother and a system closing ranks. We kept Mary updated about what we learned during discovery, including through video footage showing Nathan deteriorating in real time.

When it came time for our deposition of the morning nurse, Mary said she wanted to--needed to--attend. There was no persuading her to "leave it to the lawyers." She told us that she had to hear what the nurse would say, to be there for Nathan.

My colleague and I had split up the case's many depositions. She was set to take the nurse's deposition. I offered to attend the deposition as well, with my primary assignment being to support Mary and to prevent the inevitable emotional charge from disrupting the testimony. We discussed the plan at length, how Mary was there to observe, not interject.

The morning of the deposition, I was apprehensive. It was the first (and only) time I had forgotten to put on my wedding ring before going to work. Walking into the deposition room inside a sterile office building, we introduced Mary to the lawyer representing the county. He did not get out of his chair.

A few minutes later, the nurse entered the room behind her attorney. That attorney walked directly to Mary, who stood up with wide eyes. The attorney said to Mary, "We are here today for a case proceeding, but I want you to know that I am sorry about what happened to your son." She then stepped aside, and the nurse stepped forward. "I am also sorry about what happened to Nathan," she said. I braced for how Mary might react--until I saw her shoulders loosen as she spoke directly to the nurse: "Thank you for saying that. Today, honesty is the best policy. We will get through this together."

With eyes welling, Mary left the room. I followed her to the elevator bank. She turned and put her head on my shoulder. I'd been with her when she cried before, but this time the feeling was different--catharsis rather than upset. A visible wet spot marked my suit jacket. Mary inhaled audibly, and said "Aaron, I can finally begin to heal."

Mary gathered herself, looked at me, and nodded with an air of remarkable strength. We returned to the deposition room and listened as the nurse testified about the stress she felt working at the jail, and her memory of what had occurred in the hours before Nathan died.

The case settled a few months later.

More than a decade on, I still think about Mary's courage and grace. I have come to consider, and value, creative departure from the standard adversarial back-and-forth in litigation, whenever a client's goals and needs call for it. And I have gratitude for an opposing counsel who carefully, expertly balanced compassion and zealous representation--making possible a rare moment of deep humanity inside a deposition room.