Hoping.
My hope is that I can help undo a little bit of the damage I’ve done. She asks a few questions then I explain more of my memories. Not everything but enough that the attorney understands I’m calling to be a witness.
I’m calling to take responsibility.
There are forms and processes. Legal steps that feelclinical compared to the weight of the crimes. By the time I hang up, my hands are trembling.
But the process is steadying. Taking action feels like you're in control. And for the first time in my life, I’m moving towards justice instead of running away.
The deposition is scheduled quickly. Too quickly. Tomorrow.
They want to get me on record in case I change my mind and who could blame them?
Downtown Austin seems different when you’re walking into an office that can change everything. The buildings stretch higher, the streets narrower like the world is closing in with each step.
The law office is polished and quiet, all glass walls and sharp edges, not a magazine out of place or a fast-food cup in sight.
The paralegal invites me into the conference room and offers me coffee or water from a glass pitcher sitting in the middle of the table.
Two male attorneys file in, looking like the models on the covers of billionaire romance books. Ties sitting straight against their chests, one button open on their suits, and watches that cost more than my four years of college combined. And that’s not an exaggeration.
But somehow it makes me feel like I’m in good hands. They know what they’re doing.
The dark-haired one with gray eyes, introduces the firm and his co-workers then goes on to tell me how the deposition works. There will be an attorney for the defendant on the call as well as the prosecution.
Nerves skitter up my spine.
“Oh… I didn’t know that.”
The attorney with the light brown wavy hair says, “We’re representing you, pro bono.”
Why do I need an attorney?
I can tell they’re a well-oiled machine as they follow up on each other’s questions, slowly revealing they have their golden goose. Me.
“The woman’s attorney you spoke with yesterday will also be on video. Just tell the truth and answer the questions honestly as you remember them. We’ll go through all the testimony first, before the deposition begins. Any questions?” The dark haired one asks.
The paralegal hands them each a file folder and turns on the recorder. They ask my name. I answer, “Anna Morrow.”
One asks, “Was that your name at the time of the events in question?”
“No sir. Annika Penchenski.”
He presses his lips together and they continue questioning me with recorder’s light flashing red, as it records. It feels like it’s capturing more than my words—it’s capturing me.
Every hesitation.
Every pause.
Every truth I’ve spent years avoiding.
By the time it’s over, my muscles are sore like I’ve run a marathon without moving an inch.
Breathing heavily, I collapse with relief, knowing the first step is behind me. I look in the backseat, my hockey gear staring back at me and I’m ready for the next one.
Meet Parker.
The rink is empty when I arrive and I let the cool airwrap around me in a way that settles into my heart. The scent of ice and metal makes my memories hit all at once. On the ice is where I always felt free and where I learned to harness control, power and speed.
