People hear “deposition” and picture something dramatic. The reality is usually quieter — and weirder — than TV makes it look. I had one this week that’s a good window into how this stage of a case actually works.
The Case
I’m representing a client in a negligent therapy lawsuit. The defendant is the owner of a therapy clinic. The allegation is that the clinic’s practices crossed clear professional ethical lines.
Specifically, the conduct at issue involved a therapist telling a patient something along the lines of: “If you don’t do what I tell you to do, I’m going to report you to probation and parole.”
In other words: holding the patient’s freedom over their head to coerce compliance.
That is not how therapy is supposed to work. It violates the professional code of ethics. It can cost a therapist their license.
What the Deposition Looked Like
I was deposing the clinic’s owner. Court reporter at the table, my client’s case being built one question at a time. And here’s the strange part: I was asking questions everyone in the room already knew the answer to.
I knew the answer. The owner knew the answer. The opposing lawyer knew the answer. The court reporter — taking it all down — knew the answer.
But I still had to ask.
So I asked: “Is it appropriate for a therapist to tell a patient that if they don’t comply, the therapist will report them to probation and parole — essentially holding the patient’s freedom over their head?”
He gave me the answer everyone knew: no. It’s not appropriate. It violates the code of ethics. You can lose your license over it.
Why I Have to Ask Anyway
This is one of those things that makes practicing law fascinating in a quiet way. The whole point of a deposition is to build a record. Trials happen months or years later. Juries weren’t in the room when the events occurred. Judges weren’t either. Everything that’s eventually decided gets decided based on what’s in writing somewhere.
So when I ask a question I already know the answer to, it’s not because I’m confused. It’s because that answer needs to exist on the official record, under oath, with the witness unable to walk it back later.
It’s tedious. It’s also the entire game.
What This Means If You’re Considering a Case
Litigation isn’t a TV courtroom drama. It’s a series of slow, deliberate steps where information gets locked in — piece by piece — into a record that eventually decides everything.
If you’ve been harmed by a licensed professional in Kentucky — a therapist, a doctor, a counselor, anyone whose job comes with ethical obligations — the case isn’t built in one dramatic moment. It’s built in a thousand small ones, including questions that already have obvious answers.
That’s actually good news. It means the truth doesn’t have to be hidden or proven through some courtroom miracle. It just has to be put on the record, in order, one question at a time.
