For the past 2 ½ years, I’ve been involved in a public records lawsuit against Miami University. I can’t say much about it because we’re still in litigation. However, I thought I could at least write something short and sweet about my deposition. There will be more coming, which I imagine will be the opposite of short and sweet. I’m picturing a long-winded, fact-filled umami bomb. Also, I’ll be able to provide some interesting visual aids by then. For now, this will have to tide you over.
My deposition took place on Tuesday, August 26, 2025, on the 20th floor of the Rhodes State Office Tower, which is at 30 East Broad Street in downtown Columbus. The person who would be cross-examining me (because that’s what it is—a cross-examination) was a representative of the Attorney General’s office for the state of Ohio. I’d never been deposed by anyone before, let alone by someone in the AG’s office. I was a trembling, wide-eyed baby deer all dressed up in business attire and sitting at the end of a conference table. To the left of me was my lawyer. Picture a cross between David Spade and Stanley Tucci, one of whom should play him if this were ever made into a movie. To my immediate right was a court reporter and her tape recorder. Next to her was the lawyer for the AG’s office. Sitting next to that person, farther down the table, was a representative of Miami University, who is also a lawyer.
Every person who’s ever been deposed has most likely been given the same piece of advice by their lawyer. That advice is to listen carefully to each question, allow yourself some time to breathe while formulating the answer in your head, and then state your answer in as few words as possible. If you can answer in one or two words, you should absolutely do that. You’ll be glad you did, come transcript time. Also, don’t forget that you’ll be answering under oath, so you have to respond truthfully. That’s it. That’s all you need to know.
I’d like to add one more piece of wisdom that I picked up after the fact: you can take as long as you want to answer a question. There’s no buzzer that goes off. Nobody says, “Time’s up.” When the transcript comes back, all that it documents is your answer. It doesn’t say how long it took for you to come up with it.
Weeks later, the transcript arrived in my email inbox. I was inwardly cringing as I clicked on it, afraid to see if what I remembered saying that day corresponded in any way with the words that the court reporter had typed up. For the most part, I was relieved when I read my answers. Of course, they were the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I’m all about truth-telling. That’s what I do. But I was also happy to see that many of my responses were succinctly put. Nice going, you, thought I.
But then there were other times… 🤦🏻♀️
Here’s something about myself that you may not know: When I’m writing, I try to separate one thought from another thought through the use of complete sentences. But when I’m talking to someone…saying things out loud and whatnot…I find it harder to keep my thoughts separate. I tend to interweave sentences together, interrupting one sentence to insert another one if I think the situation calls for a few additional details and some backstory. Apparently, much to my lawyer’s delight no doubt, I’d felt the situation warranted some added filler several times that morning.
Another endearing trait of mine is that I occasionally will choose the wrong vocabulary word, especially when I’m speaking in front of a group of people. The word seems right at the time, and you don’t have a thesaurus at the ready so, you know, you just go with it and hope for the best. Alas, that happened during my deposition when I chose to use the word “reprieve” when describing a project related to my research that had been put on hold. If only I’d double-checked the ol’ Merriam Webster beforehand, I would’ve been reminded that the first definition of that word is “to delay the punishment of someone, such as a condemned prisoner.” That’s right. I told a roomful of lawyers that my side project and I had been granted a temporary stay of a death sentence. Cool cool cool.
You get the picture. Depositions are stressful. I can just imagine what my BP reading would have been if someone had sauntered by with a sphygmomanometer and strapped it to my arm. But I’ve also come to discover that depositions are a two-way street. While you, the person being deposed, are providing information to the opposing side that they may or may not try to use against you, they are also providing information to you about where the opposing side’s heads are. They do this through the questions they ask and, perhaps even more telling, the questions they don’t ask.
I can recall a dramatic moment during my deposition when I was asked if I remembered what someone had said during their deposition the day before. I said that I did. The AG’s lawyer probed further, asking me if I didn’t accept what they’d said, and I gave her my answer. I told her that what they said was different from what I’d been told originally. Her follow-up question initiated a back-and-forth between my lawyer and the AG’s lawyer having to do with my constitutional right to protect my sources. On that basis, my lawyer instructed me not to answer.
She moved on to another line of questioning.
What was particularly eye-opening about that moment is that there was an obvious question that didn’t get asked of me, one that I think would have occurred to anyone else if they’d been sitting in the room and likely one that my lawyer wouldn’t have objected to. My cross-examiner didn’t ask that question.
She didn’t want to know what I’d been told originally.
What she wanted to know was who I was talking to.
See what I mean? Telling.
Unfortunately, I won’t be able to take questions or comments at this time.
