Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  But just before noon she stood in front of Francie’s desk, frowning, holding a sheet of paper.

  Francie rose, leaning forward on her hands. “Bad, is it?”

  Toni sighed. “Afraid so.” She handed the sheet to Francie. Francie glanced at it briefly, seeing the words “sex” and “promotion” and “inappropriate” and “retaliation.”

  She closed her eyes for a second. “Just tell me.”

  “It’s bad enough that a full investigation will have to take place, Francie,” Toni said. “The procedures, as you know, are iron-clad. They don’t leave us much room for our own opinions.”

  “Does he have proof?”

  “He says he does. He says he has emails, texts, conversations with friends. Maybe something from another junior associate.” Toni slumped against the desk. “You’re going to have to take a leave of absence, Francie.”

  The news hit Francie hard. She lived to work. She loved the law. And they were going to lock her out for this bullshit? It just wasn’t fair. But in the back of her mind she knew this was coming. She’d written the damn procedure. And maybe, just maybe, she deserved this in some twisted way.

  “When?”

  “End of the week, I guess. I’ll see what I can talk Roger into.”

  “No, please. Don’t plead my case with Roger. That will look like you’re biased. The end of the week is fine. Really, Toni. I’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll still earn your salary. It’ll just be held until you come back.”

  “If I come back.” Francie grimaced.

  Toni turned and shut the door. “Tell me now, Francie. Is there any truth, even a smidgen, to any of his allegations?”

  Francie raised the sheet and read through it quickly. There was little new in it, although he’d added some details as if that made it sound more believable. She lowered it and met Toni’s gaze.

  “He’s a disgruntled employee who didn’t get his promotion.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Who doesn’t like taking orders from women.”

  Toni nodded, lips tight. She was the soul of discretion but Francie knew she understood. She had to deal with the workplace crap every day herself.

  Francie asked, “How long will the leave of absence be?”

  “Until we’re done. I don’t know. Three weeks? Four?” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Francie. Really I am.”

  After lunch Francie asked Alice to come into the office. She worried about the young woman. What would she do while Francie was gone? She was just a little fragile.

  “Shut the door, please, Alice.”

  Alice closed the door and sat down in front of Francie’s desk, looking expectant with her notebook in hand.

  “The prenup is done. Here you go.” Francie pushed it across the desk. Alice set the yellow pad with the draft in her lap. “There’s something else.”

  The young woman paled, eyes widening. “Is it me— my— clothes?”

  “No, no. You’re fine just the way you are, Alice. It’s me.”

  “You?”

  Francie nodded. “I have to take a leave of absence. There have been complaints made against me, and while they’re investigated, well, I can’t be here.”

  “Against you? I don’t believe it.”

  “It can happen to anyone, Alice. Out of the blue.” Francie grinned. “Even the perfect amongst us.”

  Alice smiled, getting the joke. Then she frowned again. “But what? What complaints? You never do anything wrong.”

  “If only that were true.” Francie hesitated, not only because telling Alice was difficult, but also because she knew her own behavior wasn’t exemplary. My name is Francine Bennett and I am a flirt and I enjoy it. There was no looking away from that. She’d improved her relationships with men over the years but there were moments she wasn’t proud of. But she had to tell Alice the truth, what was happening. She hoped Alice could keep it to herself but she had no illusions about office rumors. Greg was probably spreading them already.

  “Someone, a male associate, has accused me of sexual harassment.”

  Alice froze. Her mouth dropped open and she whispered, “What?”

  Francie nodded. “Pretty weird but what’re you going to do? I wrote those procedures last fall. I know what they say. So, I’m out at the end of the week.”

  Alice’s eyes began to well. A tear spilled down her cheek. “This is so unfair. And what about me? What will I do while you’re gone? How long will it be?”

  “Alice. Please don’t cry.”

  Francie went around the desk and knelt next to her, putting an arm around her thin shoulders. Alice gulped, tried to stop crying, and swiped the back of her hand across her eyes. “I’m— okay,” she whispered, although she clearly wasn’t.

  “Everything will work out. This guy— look, I’m going to tell you who it is but you can’t tell anyone, okay?” Alice nodded. “It’s Greg Leonard. Yup, that guy. Anyway, it’ll probably be about three weeks. It takes some time to get people to corroborate his story, or disprove it. I’m not going to be involved in any of that. Just know that I did nothing wrong. He’s made up some bullshit but he’ll get caught in it.”

  Alice bit her lip.

  “Okay? We’ll find you someone else to work with, someone you like.”

  “Okay. I don’t like everybody, you know.”

  Francie smiled. “Neither do I. Now we have some work to do this week so let’s get on it.”

  When Alice left to type up the prenup, Francie stared at the stack of work files and pushed them aside. Instead she decided to dig a little more into the Pugh family. They intrigued her: Harlan, the hard case, and Claudia, the head case. She logged into the background check system, the same one that Alice had checked earlier. She knew a few tricks to get deeper data. She would check Lexis/Nexis too, see what legal action they’d been involved in.

  She spent a happy two hours immersed in the lives of the Pughs. Harlan, she discovered, was more than a hard case. He’d actually gone to prison twenty years ago for insider trading when he worked on Wall Street. He served eighteen months in a white collar prison, no doubt perfecting his backhand. He’d been hit with a large fine for that time, $2 million, although how much he’d actually made on his insider deals was a well-kept secret. Some gossips claimed he’d hidden millions in the Caymans or some other off-shore tax shelter. Others claimed he was bankrupt.

  Apparently he went with the bankruptcy story during the divorce proceedings. He’d been forced to offer spousal support that made him angry. And child support that he agreed to reluctantly, using the fact that he wasn’t Reece’s biological father as an argument. He’d lost that battle. Still, both support decrees were minimal for someone who probably salted away millions. No wonder Claudia was bitter.

  She held a series of low-paying jobs since the divorce, at nonprofits, art galleries, and gift shops. Her stint as a real estate agent wasn’t spectacular but paid enough to live on, barely, since the support stopped.

  Reece’s misdemeanors— shoplifting, weed, and the like— were already known through the other background check. Nothing new.

  In the end there wasn’t much. A marriage, a son, a stretch in the slammer, a few juvenile delinquency raps, a divorce. Francie shut down the search engines and took out another legal pad. Time to brainstorm getting Reece out of prison.

  She scribbled down a series of strategies. First on the list was ‘Call the French Ambassador.’

  Within moments she’d found the phone number and dialed. This task turned out to be harder than it should be. Getting through to a high-ranking official in the French embassy in Washington, DC, was next to impossible. She kept calling back, hoping to reach a different clerk, someone with some compassion, or something. No dice.

  She was probably approaching it the wrong way. Maybe she should call their Congressman and have that office call the French embassy. The Congressional representative from their part of Connecticut was a lovely woman but her staff hemmed and hawed, clearly b
affled by the request. They took down the information and promised to get back to Francie ‘as soon as possible.’ Which she knew could be tomorrow or next month or never.

  No, she would have to find a French lawyer herself. She should call Merle. She checked her watch. Nearly midnight in France. She closed her eyes and thought of Merle’s garden in the moonlight, sparkles on the acacia tree, the frozen leaves hanging on the dormant pear, the frost on the windowpanes. The sound of wind through the hillsides, the bare grapevines, the calm of evening. It felt so peaceful, so idyllic. And so cold apparently. Poor Merle, she was probably shivering under the down comforter with Pascal, playing footsie in the dark.

  Pascal: could he help? He was a policier, part of the national police force. He must have contacts with prisons and prosecutors and courts. He must know policemen and judges. He would help, she was certain, if he knew what the deal was.

  What was the deal with Reece? Was he a drug dealer? Was he guilty? Could his crime be negotiated down, plea-bargained? That hadn’t worked for Merle’s old boyfriend, the infamous Jimmy J, who got himself in hot water in France a couple years ago. Would the American ambassador in Paris help? Had he or she even been approached?

  Then it hit her. She could go to France— to Paris. Now she had the time. She could find a lawyer for Reece, on the spot, in person. She could visit the kid in that notorious hell-hole where they were keeping him. Demand better conditions. Make sure he was safe. He deserved better. He deserved an advocate like herself.

  Because what else was she going to do for three or four weeks? Mope around her apartment, eat cheese, drink wine, binge Netflix, and get fat?

  I don’t think so, lawyrr grrls.

  Eleven

  Francie couldn’t stop obsessing about Paris. The days plodded along but her mind floated, dangerously unmoored, half a world away. But she had to get the ball rolling here first. She called Merle at noon on Tuesday.

  “Hey, a bit busy here at work, but what was the name of that criminal lawyer you used a few years ago?”

  Merle hummed. “For James? You don’t want him.”

  “No, for you. When all that business with the house and the squatter was going on?”

  She had to go look up his name: Antoine Lalouche. She gave Francie his phone number and asked what was going on.

  “I’ve been asked— it’s an odd story, I’ll tell you later— to help this kid who is in jail in Paris. He needs a lawyer.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Drugs, so, yeah. Is this Lalouche good?”

  “I liked him. The kid’s in jail in Paris? You’re going to need a Paris lawyer.”

  “Maybe he can refer me. I’m doing a favor for the parents.” Was that what she was doing? Hmmm. “Hey, how’s everything over there?”

  Merle said her book she now called Odette and the Great Fear was going well. She was almost done with it. She was having to go work in the library though because her cottage was so cold she couldn’t keep her fingers from freezing up.

  It seemed already too late to call Antoine Lalouche but Francie dialed anyway to leave a message. She wasn’t really supposed to be making overseas phone calls about personal matters but it was legal work— right? What were they going to do— suspend her?

  The offices of Lalouche et Dupuis were closed for the day. French lawyers probably didn’t work long hours like American ones. Oh, to be a French lawyer. Eat perfect little meals at long, leisurely lunches in sidewalk cafés, drink espresso in dainty cups, dress carelessly with starched perfection in the French way. Probably just a dream but a delicious one.

  Francie left a message in slow, deliberate English. She felt like a dolt afterwards but how was she to know if they spoke English? She told them she was looking for representation for an American and left her phone number. Surprisingly, Monsieur Lalouche returned the call an hour later.

  “Pardon me, madame. It is a late hour here but I stopped in for some business on my desk and found your telephone message.”

  His English was perfect.

  “Thank you for calling back. I represent the parent of a young American who was arrested in Paris. He is currently in the Fresnes Prison, I understand, and has been there for about three months, awaiting trial on drug charges. I don’t have all the facts as we have only had a few letters from him while in prison.”

  M. Lalouche sniffed. “Not a pleasant stay.”

  “Yes. I’m looking for an attorney to help get him out of there, on bail or whatever you call it there, as he awaits trial.”

  “What is his name please?”

  Francie supplied all the information she could, his name, address at the prison, age. His parents’ names. She knew so little about Reece. Claudia hadn’t even given her an address for him in France.

  “I will see what I can do.” He sighed. “You realize I am in Bordeaux, some distance from Paris?”

  “I know that, Monsieur. I’m sorry to bother you but I didn’t know who else to ask. You helped my sister a few years ago. Merle Bennett from Malcouziac?”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s also an American— of course. She was accused of being involved in the death of the squatter in her house?”

  “Aah. Yes. I remember. How did that all turn out?”

  “My sister was cleared. She’s living there now.”

  “Very good. I will see what I can find out in Paris then.”

  “Merci, Monsieur. Bonsoir.”

  Antoine Lalouche was very proper, she thought, hanging up. She wondered if he cringed at her bad accent. She pictured him in French cuffs and a rigid collar and a tie clip with his precisely-cut custom suit. Not the sort of criminal lawyer you ran into very often in the US who were a somewhat rougher breed. American criminal lawyers may have fancy suits but were street fighters in her experience, at the very least comfortable with lies, violence, and fraud and the people who perpetrated them.

  Sometimes she wished she’d gotten into criminal work. It felt exciting compared to the boring fare of contracts, divorces, and family law that was her bread and butter. But it suited her, helping families navigate changes: births, deaths, marriage, and divorce— it was like a sociology class. Maybe she’d get a little of that excitement from helping a French lawyer help Reece.

  She automatically logged the time for the call into the program on her computer, as if it was billable. As she hit ‘save’ she stopped. What was she doing? Was Claudia Pugh going to pay her for this? Had she offered to hire Francie or just the criminal lawyer in Paris? That had never been clear.

  Some of her regular work got in the way that afternoon and by the time she finished that up it was five-thirty. She needed to talk to Reece’s mother but didn’t feel like calling Claudia right before the dinner hour; the woman might invite her over again. So she wrote herself a note, stuck it on her computer, and went home.

  That evening Francie did a quick study of the French criminal code, as much as she could find in English. She remembered Merle had said something about researching French law once but she’d flamed out. It was so dense, she said, so full of nuance that you wouldn’t understand if you hadn’t grown up in the culture and gone to law school there. After three hours on the internet Francie agreed. She still had only the roughest of pictures of the court system, the crime and punishment norms, the culture of police and justice. She hadn’t even gotten to prisons, pre-trial motions, or bail procedures.

  It was mind-boggling and ultimately a waste of time.

  A French lawyer was an absolute necessity.

  The next morning Francie made it through an associates meeting by sitting in the far back. She noticed Greg Leonard and two of his bros glance back at her and smirk but she looked away. They could smirk all they wanted while she was gone. The leave of absence was looking better and better. She might lash out at the jerk if she stayed here.

  Back in her office she saw the sticky note and called Claudia Pugh’s cell phone.

  “Good morning, Francie,” she said. She sou
nded perky today.

  “Hi, Claudia. So I started working on Reece’s case. I’m trying to find a lawyer for him in France. I got a lead on one criminal lawyer who I think will help.”

  “That’s great.” She paused. “I got another letter from Reece. Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Let me get it— This was written three weeks ago.” She cleared her throat.

  “Dear Mom,

  I don’t know if you’re writing to me or not but I’m not getting any mail. Not a postcard from anybody for three months now. Every day is just like the one before: up at five, hash, back to the cell, shower once in a blue moon, repeat. It’s so boring I could scream. But I’m trying to hold it together here.

  Today I finally got a visitor, some lawyer they assigned to me. He’s just super. Really, I am not a racist, you know that, Mom? Anyway this guy is Algerian or Moroccan or maybe Lebanese. He wears a suit with a checkered scarf on his head like that Palestinian guy. He speaks no English and I can’t understand his French which I guess is heavily accented. That’s what the guys in my cell tell me. We can finally write little notes to each other. They speak a weird kind of French too but their written French is more or less comprehensible.

  I don’t know what this lawyer told me. No idea. I just nodded. I asked for a translator and they said they would get one but he left before they did.

  Is there any way you could get me a real lawyer? My cellies say that this Arab lawyer is well-known around the prison for taking government money to defend prisoners then doing nothing. The only good news around here is my cellmates have quit beating me up. I give them everything I own, cigarettes I barter for food, stuff like that. So they like me now.”

  “That’s it,” Claudia added sadly. “Just a greeting and he signed off.”

  “He sounds a little better,” Francie said.