“Did you agree?” Merle asked.
“I said perhaps. Many of the cases are very complicated, terrorists and anarchists. I am at a stage in my life when I don’t really want any more work that doesn’t pay well.” He glanced at Francie. “You understand, madame.”
“Of course. I’ve been at that stage for decades.”
“Does it pay at all?” Merle asked, curious about Legal Aid in France.
“The state pays a flat rate. It does not attract the best talent, I have to say. That attorney that Monsieur Pugh had before us, the rumor is he has fifty clients in that prison. It is ridiculous. There is no chance he is giving them his best.”
Yvon looked in the mirror and pulled the car into the traffic. “Now, shall we find a café for lunch and discuss matters?”
They found a bustling brasserie nearby with a variety of beers and ales on tap. Francie and Merle exchanged glances over the menu as Yvon ordered himself a glass of Belgian blond ale from a waiter. They knew lunch in France generally included a glass of wine or whatever but this always seemed to Merle to indicate that lunch would be a leisurely affair.
“You don’t have to be back at a certain time?” Francie asked, picking up on her sister’s expression.
“Oh, no. Pascal wants to go out to dinner, but that’s later.”
Yvon was enjoying his cold ale. “This is not your usual type of place for lunch?” he asked, smiling. “I always come here when I visit the prison.”
“A bonus for all that misery,” Francie said.
The menu was a vast offering of pub food. He recommended moules frites or a hamburger. Merle ordered the mussels and fries but Francie decided on a smoked salmon salad. He insisted they have a glass of wine. “It is done, ladies.” As they waited for their food he broached the subject at hand.
“Now, it is a delicate situation that this Monsieur Pugh has found himself.”
Merle nodded. “We call it a pickle in the US.”
“A pickle? Like this?” He laughed, waving a limp dill slice. “Well, it is one then. What can we do for him?”
“First we try to find Sami, the roommate,” Francie said.
“And then the friends,” added Merle.
Yvon nodded. “Of course. Sami will be—“ He made a tooting sound and waved his hands like a bird flying away. “It is probable he gave Reece the drugs, as the prisoner has stated.”
“You believe him then?” Merle asked. “About his innocence?”
Francie peered at the lawyer. “You seemed to be picking him apart in there.”
“Innocent—guilty. We shall see,” Yvon said, hiking his shoulders. “It makes no difference. Now we must find evidence. From the friends, yes. And teachers, neighbors, all the people he knew in Paris.”
Merle sipped a rather nice rosé, her favorite wine. “What is the strategy then?”
“Prepare for trial, madame. That is our only strategy.”
“By searching out alternate theories about the drugs?” Francie asked.
He nodded. “The police have not released any information about the drugs to the defendant’s legal team, the other guy or me. There is always something to be gained from knowing about the analysis, the chemical basis of the products.”
“Like where it came from?” Merle asked doubtfully.
“Maybe, maybe not. But still, they sometimes match it to other seizures. It has happened. The heroin in particular has a sort of identification to it, the make-up of the additives. And the cocaine.”
“Do you have investigators, Yvon?” Francie asked.
“We have access to them. Whether we use them depends on the resources of the client.” He looked pointedly at Francie again.
“I’ll have to ask,” she said. “It’s not a bottomless resource.”
“Bien sûr. But we must do what we can. Talk to mama.”
Nineteen
Pascal was waiting for them when they returned from the trip to the prison, leaning against the building, checking his phone. Merle and Francie walked around the corner from the little plaza and there he was.
“Ah,” Francie said involuntarily. She glanced at Merle, embarrassed, but her sister wasn’t paying any attention. She had her eyes on Pascal.
The sky had cleared and sunshine broke through for a late afternoon pick-me-up. The discussion in Yvon’s car dwindled as their ideas for exonerating Reece Pugh had run their course. The lawyer promised to work on the authorities, get them to open up about the evidence against Reece, how they happened to be at that apartment, who phoned in the tip, anything else that might tie Reece, or someone else, to the drugs. Francie said she would start sniffing around the University, trying to find some of the friends Reece mentioned, although they only had first names. Merle was quiet, as if she knew they were just going through the paces and Reece Pugh was doomed with a capital D.
Pascal spotted them and pulled away from the building, his face alight. He and Merle were really the most lovey-dovey pair, Francie thought sourly. She didn’t begrudge them their romance, their relationship. How could she? Pascal had saved her life, and Merle had too. They deserved all the happiness in the world, all the love.
And yet. Being around them so much was grating. The touching, the little gifts, the long hugs. The sex! They tried to be quiet in the other bedroom but failed miserably, laughing and more after bedtime. It just made Francie feel— alone. She still hadn’t told Merle about the sexual harassment charge back at the law firm. She wasn’t sure she could. It was painful to be accused, and still more painful to be in the wrong. She couldn’t shake her guilt, her easy seductiveness that was so ingrained in her she worried she’d never be able to change. Why did she flirt so mercilessly? It wasn’t like she had nothing but her boobs going for her.
Right. There were always her freckles.
Maybe she’d get some counseling when she got home. Yes, she needed to talk to someone about this. She needed to understand.
Pascal had forgotten his key to the apartment, he said, bounding up the stairs with Merle’s key and unlocking the door. He waved them in gallantly, with a little bow. Francie smiled politely, hoping to discourage him from being so damn cute all the time.
They hung up their damp raincoats and took off their wet shoes. It was late afternoon. Too early for dinner. “Tea?” Merle asked. “And some of your yummy cheese, Francie? We have a baguette.”
Francie flopped in a chair. “Sure. Why not.” She really wanted a glass of wine, or maybe a walk down to Île Saint-Louis to see if the trees were in bloom. But cheese was an attractive alternative.
“Come pick out the fromage,” Merle called. “I don’t know what they are.”
Francie squeezed by Pascal in the tiny kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She chose three cheeses: a fresh goat cheese with a lavender flower rind, a semi-hard artisanal cheese called Cantal Fermier, meaning it is made in the farmhouse, and a Basque sheep cheese called Ossau-Iraty. She arranged them on a pretty yellow plate, added two knives, one butter knife, one sharp.
“There,” she said, showing them her masterpiece of cheese-boarding.
“Voilà!” Pascal agreed. “Très jolie. And I have done a hatchet job on the baguette.”
In the sitting room Pascal and Francie ate bits of creamy French delights while waiting for Merle to finish preparing the tea.
“Are you coming to dinner with us, Francie?” he asked, seemingly innocently. “It is a lovely resto nearby. Called Les Saisons.”
“Oh, I— I’ve heard of it.” Damn it. Merle was going to that special bistro without her. “No, I can’t tonight. Lots of work to do.”
“On a Friday night? Don’t be so American.” He smiled at her.
“Can’t help it.” She shrugged pleasantly. “It’s what I am. And this kid in prison needs help.”
“Are you getting him released?”
“Doubtful. The French system is a bit different, no bail because he might skip the country. So listen, I think he really is, or was, selling drugs at
his university. They found heroin, cocaine, weed, and pills in his apartment. Under his bed.”
Pascal’s eyebrows danced as he finished a bite of Basque cheese. “But you found a good lawyer, Merle tells me.”
“I hope he’s good.” She leaned closer. “Pascal, tell me. Is there any chance of getting him off? Can the American Ambassador help?”
“He was found in possession of all this? More than a small amount?”
“Much more.”
He grimaced. “Unless it can be proven that they were not his, I don’t know. Maybe someone else feels guilty and confesses? Even the Ambassador does not help drug dealers.”
“What I don’t understand is who tipped the cops. His roommate, he’s a Tunisian, is possibly the owner of the drugs so he wouldn’t tip off the cops. And they were inside the apartment already when Reece arrived home.”
“The police have many informants on the street. Especially les Stups. Could be anyone, a student, a shopkeeper, someone at the University.” He frowned as Merle arrived with the tea and began pouring from the porcelain pot. “That department has had its problems over the last few years.”
“Like what— corruption?”
He nodded. “Suddenly an ordinary detective buys a luxury home in Provence. That sort of thing. Drugs go missing from evidence. Look it up, it was in the newspapers.”
Merle sat down on the sofa next to him, cradling her tea cup in both hands. “Is that an angle to pursue? Narcotics cops set him up? Planted evidence?”
“But why?” Pascal asked. “Is he a bad person?”
“I don’t think so,” Merle said. “Is he?” She looked at Francie.
“His friend— who got me into this— says he’s kind of a screw-up but decent. A little pot smoking, some shoplifting, but nothing terrible. Petty, juvenile stuff. Not dealing. His parents aren’t the most supportive but obviously they feel he’s worth saving.”
“But they do not come to France to visit him in prison?” Pascal asked.
Francie’s turn to grimace. “They’re divorced and kind of fighting still. His mother says she might come but she’s strapped for money.”
“I thought the father was some Wall Street guy,” Merle said.
“He was but he got caught insider trading and went to prison. He lost his trading license for five years.”
“And then Reece isn’t really his son either,” Merle said.
Pascal raised his eyebrows again. “Oh?”
“Reece is his son,” Francie said. “He raised the boy. They raised him. But he was conceived with the help of a sperm bank.” She sighed and faced Pascal. “It turns out that my ex-husband is his biological father. That’s how I got involved.”
He startled. “Your ex-husband?”
“Yup, I was married. You never met him. He died last year. We’ve been divorced for ages. Before we were married he apparently made— donations.”
“Ah ha,” Pascal said. “This is very tangled.”
“At some point my ex and Reece started corresponding.”
“Emails?”
“Real letters, believe it or not. From all over the world, wherever Tom was flying. He was a pilot.”
Merle explained, “He mentioned Francie in the letters. Reece’s roommate tracked her down when Reece got arrested.”
They drank tea and contemplated all that. Francie could see what a crazy connection it was between her and Reece Pugh, through Tom and a lot of time-traveling. And now, having met Reece, seeing his scabby hands and cut ear, watching him bawl, she wondered. Was this worth it?
He seemed like any other stoner/screw-up, off to Paris to play and do dope. The 21st Century version of the Lost Generation. Had he brought it all on himself? Part of her didn’t want to pull out the stops for Reece. She’d be putting her own reputation on the line for a kid who had clearly messed up.
But part of her still wanted justice, and the truth to come out. Even the screw-ups of the world deserve a defense. Especially the screw-ups. They’re the ones that don’t have a clue how to help themselves.
Pascal had spread goat cheese on a slice of baguette and sat back, a thoughtful look on his face. Francie hoped he had an idea because they were thin on the ground. She waited, sipped lukewarm tea. He continued to look pensive.
“What is it?” she asked finally.
“I don’t know. I have some people to talk to at the headquarters.” He raised a hand to caution her. “I don’t want to get the hopes up.”
Merle grinned at Francie who said, “Anything you can do, Pascal, is most welcome. We need any and all glimmers of hope.”
“No promises. I just talk to some guys.”
“Of course.”
“Meanwhile we will Google that corruption thing,” Merle said. “I love a good Google.”
The lovebirds went out to the fabulous restaurant about seven-thirty. Francie spent some time changing her clothes before they left and told them she needed to clear her head so was going for a walk. They all went down the stairs together then called out, “Bonsoir!” and went their separate ways.
The spring air was moist and heavy, laced with exhaust and the rank smells of the Seine. Francie headed toward the river anyway, going down the steps to walk along the lower quai, the sidewalk along the water, despite banana peels and fish odors. She liked looking at the houseboats and the bicyclists and the occasional large freighter tied up on the edge. The night sky turned purple and a crescent moon rose over the Louvre, the old palace of kings long dead.
She tried to shun thoughts altogether, to truly clear her head. The determined walking helped, keeping the pace focused her. The cobblestones were no challenge for her new walking shoes yet she did almost twist her ankle by walking too briskly. A picture of Merle and Pascal sitting at their table, in candlelight, sharing bites of delicious food and drinking amazing wine, popped into her head. She banished it. She wasn’t jealous of her own sister. Stop.
She walked faster, off to that bridge with the locks. Which pont was it? How far down the Seine? She craned her neck as she passed under a bridge, unable to see any locks. She kept going and suddenly, there she was at the bottom of the steps where she’d seen Dylan Hardy. Where she’d talked to him after so many years.
Bounding up the steps with uncharacteristic speed, Francie reached the top, breathing hard. She had to put her hands on her hips and bend forward, catching her breath. Gasping, she straightened, telling herself she needed to get into shape for once in her life. Maybe she’d start jogging like Merle.
She glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention to her wheezing then walked to the jumble of locks. They were all still there: no surprise. What did she think had happened? A crackdown on love? She walked across the bridge to the center, near a large statue of a soldier or king, somebody on a horse, where on the spit of the island below she’d seen that flash of white or pink trees, a portend of spring. From up on the bridge the tree was invisible so she walked down another set of steps to the grassy park in the middle of the river.
Walking all the way to the pointy end of the island she looked in vain for a flowering tree. There was a gnarled old one that may have recently bloomed but nothing now. Not even a smushed pile of old petals. She frowned. How long had it been since she’d seen it? Since she arrived in Paris? A week, not more. Yet, the bloom was off. That wasn’t true, was it? The bloom wasn’t off Paris. She still loved Paris. Red tulips bloomed in a bare bed nearby, looking sad against the dirt. Monotone, ruby red, they didn’t thrill her the way the idea of a pink tree did.
She sat down on a bench. Maybe it was time to go home. Paris hadn’t really helped her dilemma at home, or her feelings about it. And Reece Pugh wasn’t going to be a cheer-me-up story. His mother would be angry or frustrated or disappointed or distraught, but she wasn’t going to get her son out of this mess soon. His friend Dewey would be sad but he’d live. Francie scoffed at her own bravado, thinking she could just waltz in and fix things. It was so American, this feeling that
your force of will or personality or intellect could bend things your way. That you were innately superior somehow. It was so French to feel despondent about changing anything. She felt more than half French tonight.
So what’s your plan, Lawyrr Grrl?
The lights came on in the park, along the pathways and the elaborately-carved ramparts of the old bridge, glowing in the twilight. The sight was insanely beautiful, the violet sky against the lamps tinging everything golden. It was a scene out of a movie, or a Cinderella fantasy.
And the light in your plan, Lawyrr Grrl? Will the bulb over your head ever come on?
She forced herself to think, to be practical. She would try to locate Sami and talk to neighbors in Reece’s building. She would find the girls from New Jersey, plus the party girls. They might be into the drug scene. His professors from the two classes could be helpful. It wasn’t much.
She couldn’t ask Claudia Pugh for money for investigators, not without doing a little legwork of her own. It was a money pit. She couldn’t bill Claudia for her detective work. In a way it was on the side, not really legal work. So she’d spend a couple days at it, talking to people. It would be interesting to discover what people thought of Reece anyway.
Then she’d go home. She couldn’t help Reece with his legal affairs. She’d been a fool to think she could. He had Yvon Caillaud now, and she was just in the way. No, a couple days of asking around, then she’d head back to the lion’s den of Ward & Bailee Esquire.
As she stood up she wondered what was happening back home. Alice hadn’t emailed as she promised. Time for a nudge.
Twenty
Return of Lawyrr Grrl
Blog tagged Pollyanna, Rain, Rats
So there she was, glamorous American Lawyrr Grrl, swanning around Paris in her fancy red raincoat, the wind in her hair, and—
Also the rain in her hair, and in her socks, and down her collar. Mud splashed against her pants from a passing bus. Hands slick and filthy from brushing off said mud. But she kept her cool, head high as she shivered all the way back to the apartment and took a hot shower to warm up. The conclusion of another terribly glamorous day in the City of Light.
Blame it on Paris (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 7) Page 13