The Climate-Controlled Chill

The fluorescent bulb in the corner of the ceiling has been flickering for exactly 72 minutes. I know this because I have been staring at it to avoid looking into the eyes of the man across the table. He is wearing a suit that likely costs more than the 12 building permits I signed off on last week, and he is currently dissecting the most humiliating moment of my physical existence as if he were reading a grocery list. My hands are cold. They are always cold in these rooms. There is a specific kind of AC-driven chill that only exists in legal offices and hospitals, a climate-controlled sterility designed to keep evidence from rotting and humans from feeling too comfortable.

Lily N. sits next to me, or rather, I am Lily N. and I am sitting here, but I feel like an observer watching a ghost. As a building code inspector, I am paid to find the hidden failures in structures. I look for the hairline cracks in the foundation, the 2-inch gap where there should be none, the faulty wiring that threatens to spark at 2 in the morning. I am used to being the one with the flashlight and the clipboard. But today, the flashlight is pointed directly at my own ribcage. The opposing counsel, a man who has likely never stepped foot on a construction site without a hardhat provided by a PR firm, leans forward. ‘Let’s go back to the moment of impact,’ he says. His voice is smooth, like sanded pine. ‘Describe the sound it made. Again.’

Searching for Pre-Existing Cracks

I spent 2 hours this morning just talking about my medical history before we even got to the accident. He asked about a twisted ankle I had when I was 12. He asked about the 22 days I spent in physical therapy three years ago for a minor strain. He is looking for a pre-existing crack in my foundation so he can claim the collapse wasn’t his client’s fault.

Changing the battery in my smoke detector at 2 am last night was a mistake. I was already on edge, and that persistent, rhythmic chirping felt like a countdown. It’s funny how a tiny piece of plastic can demand so much attention with a single, high-pitched scream. I stood on a stool, my knees clicking-a sound the lawyer would later ask me to quantify on a scale of 1 to 10-and realized that my balance isn’t what it used to be. The fall changed the way I inhabit my own skin. But in this room, with the court reporter’s fingers flying across the keys at a rate that must be at least 212 words per minute, my skin is just evidence. My pain is a line item.

The Uncompensated Labor

There is a profound uncompensated labor in this. We talk about the 32 percent of a settlement that goes to fees, or the 22 months a case takes to resolve, but we never talk about the hours of sleep lost to the rehearsal of pain. I am a professional. I inspect buildings. I know when a joist is overloaded. Right now, I am the joist. I can feel the weight of the legal system pressing down on me, looking for the point where I finally snap. The lawyer asks me if I’ve ever been diagnosed with anxiety. I want to tell him that I wasn’t anxious until I met him, until I had to sit in this chair and defend the fact that I am hurt.

It’s a strange contradiction. You have to prove you are broken to get help, but the act of proving it breaks you a little more. I thought the 12 staples in my leg were the hard part. I was wrong. The hard part is the 2nd hour of being told that your memory is unreliable because you can’t remember if the sun was at a 42-degree angle or a 52-degree angle when you fell.

I remember the 52 minutes I spent in the MRI machine, the thumping sound of the magnets mimicking the sound of the debris hitting the floor. I thought that was the hard part. I thought the 12 staples in my leg were the hard part. I was wrong.

The Structural Reinforcement

This is why you don’t do this alone. If I didn’t have someone in my corner to object when the questions turn into harassment, I would have walked out of this room 42 minutes ago. You need an advocate who understands that while this is a ‘case’ to the court, it is a life to the person sitting in the swivel chair.

I chose a suffolk county injury lawyer because I needed someone who recognized that my structural integrity was worth defending. They knew that the deposition would be the hardest day of the process, and they spent 12 hours over the last week preparing me for the traps that were being set. They didn’t just look at the law; they looked at the human being being crushed by it.

I digressed earlier about the smoke detector, but there’s a connection. When the battery dies, the device doesn’t stop working entirely; it just alerts you that it can no longer protect you. I felt like that battery today. I was chirping, trying to signal that I was at my limit, but the lawyer just kept poking at the casing. He wanted to see if there was any power left in me to fight back. My attorney, however, knew when to call for a break. At exactly 3:12 pm, he stood up and said we were done for the hour. That small act of intervention felt like a structural reinforcement.

The Final Report

As we pack up, the opposing lawyer offers a tight, 2-second smile. It’s the kind of smile you give a waiter when you’re sending back an overcooked steak. He isn’t a monster, I suppose; he’s just a man doing a job that requires him to be a ghost. He doesn’t have to live with the 22-inch scar or the 12-dollar-an-hour pain that wakes me up at night. He just has to file a report. I watch the court reporter pack her machine. She has recorded 12,222 words today, and not one of them can truly capture the sensation of the floor disappearing.

Refusing the Facade

I walk out into the hallway and the air feels different. It’s 52 degrees outside, and the sun is setting. I feel lighter, but also hollowed out. I realized midway through the questioning that I had been holding my breath for nearly 62 minutes. My ribs hurt from the tension. My attorney pats me on the shoulder and tells me I did well. I believe him, but I also know that ‘doing well’ in a deposition just means you survived the 2nd most traumatic event of your year.