Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  “Hi, Dylan. Listen, I need a recommendation for a good criminal lawyer here in Paris. Not for me, of course. I’ve been sent here by a kid’s parents back in Connecticut to help him out. He’s in prison. I can’t even get in to see him, I figure, without a French lawyer.”

  “I see. What prison?” Francie named it. “That’s too bad. Let me ask around for some names. We don’t do that here but the lawyers all know each other. These enarques, you know.”

  “These what?”

  “Enarques. That’s what everyone calls them. They all graduated from this elite university. That’s where they got the name, from E-N-A. École for National Administration. Then they go into top jobs in government and elsewhere. It’s like a club. Or maybe just a good criminal lawyer.”

  “Who speaks English well. My French is, well, terrible.”

  “Is this a good number to call you back?”

  Francie gave him her cell number. What the hell. What was she afraid of again?

  “I’ll try to get you some names this afternoon. Is that good?”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  Francie handed the phone back to her sister. Merle said, “That wasn’t so hard.”

  “I’m being stupid these days. I’ve never second-guessed myself in my life, you know. Except maybe about Tom Ramey. And now I’m doing it constantly. It’s crazy.”

  Francie paused, thinking she should really tell Merle about Tom’s connection to Reece. But she felt so tired, exhausted really. She hadn’t slept well. What did it matter anyway? Francie would have helped the kid anyway, as would her sister. Merle would want to see the letters, read all the dirty details. She just couldn’t muster the energy.

  Back at the apartment Francie said she was going to lie down for awhile. Merle looked at her watch.

  “It’s barely noon, Francie. What’s going on?”

  “I’m tired. I have jet lag.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Can’t I just rest a bit? We’ll go out later.”

  Merle left the apartment about two to meet with her new— potential— colleague in the lobbying consultancy. His name was Brant Prescott. He was an attorney but he didn’t practice in France. Like Annie, the oldest Bennett sister, he had an environmental law background and lobbied governments and other institutions on behalf of nonprofits and the general public, trying to impress upon them the benefit of clean air, water, and land. Annie had met him years before at some international conference and re-connected with him when she set up her consultancy in New York City.

  Business, she’d told Merle, was slow. But she was just getting started after working in an environmental law firm in Pittsburgh for years. She had good contacts though and assured Merle that Brant Prescott was one of the best.

  Merle still wasn’t sure what she had to offer her sister. Boots on the ground, Annie cried as if rallying the troops. Eyes and ears! The words echoed in Merle’s head as she rang the bell in the lobby of the modest building in Montmartre. The office of Défenseurs de la terre— Defenders of the Earth— was on the third floor. A voice, then a buzzer unlocked the door to the stairwell. By the time she reached the door of the office she was more than glad she’d worn her running shoes.

  Brant Prescott was about fifty— that is to say, about Merle’s age— with graying hair that spread in unkempt wings on the sides of his head, bushy eyebrows, and appeared to be enjoying French food. He wore a casual polo shirt, green, and khakis. He made Merle a cappuccino— decaf even— from a fancy machine in a corner of his office.

  “How is ol’ Ann Bennett these days? Wait, you’re the middle sister. The one whose husband—“ He bit off the words, with a tug of his cheek.

  “Died, yes. My husband was an investment advisor in Manhattan. Too many of these one morning, they say.” She held up her demitasse cup. Harry hadn’t died of coffee of course; it was his heart. But the mass quantities, plus a newfound exercise kick, didn’t help.

  “I’m sorry. It’s been awhile then?”

  “Yes, I’m doing fine now. Thanks.” Pascal was more than fine, she thought, smiling to herself.

  As they discussed Annie’s new business, her goals, potential roadblocks in France, Merle felt a familiarity and warmth in Brant’s company. He was a good person, that was easy to see, one who had dedicated his life to making the Earth better. Not an intense busybody or holier-than-thou type but just a good person. He was easy to like.

  He gave Merle the names of three government officials she could contact about Annie’s goals. In person was always better than email or the phone, he said. A little food and drink didn’t hurt either.

  “How long are you in Paris?” he asked.

  “A few weeks. I have a cottage in the Dordogne, I’m just renting here for a short stretch. In the Marais. My younger sister is here with me.”

  “Oh, I love that old quarter. Down the alleys, the little museums. There is a Canaletto at the Musée Cognacq-Jay that I adore. Have you been there? It’s not well-known.”

  He provided a number of enticing suggestions for things to see and do in Paris. His enthusiasm was endearing and made Merle eager to search out the lesser known haunts. As they wound up the conversation he mentioned he might have a dinner party soon and Merle and her sister should come.

  “I invite lots of English-speakers. Everyone wants to keep our language skills up,” he said merrily. “So many discussions. It’s like we’re French!”

  Merle thanked him and made her way down the stairs and the street through the heart of Montmartre, looking in windows at scarves and cheap jewelry, fancy pastries and ordinary bread, imports from Africa and baskets from the Mediterranean. There was so much to see, it was a feast.

  When she returned to the apartment, ready for a glass of wine, Francie was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone.

  “What is it?” Merle kicked off her shoes and massaged her feet.

  “Dylan texted me the name of a lawyer. He says he talked to this one and he’d love to take the case.”

  “That’s great. Did you call him?”

  Francie shook her head. She was hunched over, like the weight of the world sat on her shoulders.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She sighed. “He texted me.”

  “So?”

  She flopped back on the bed and covered her eyes with her arm. “It’s nothing, Merle. Nothing at all, compared to the story of Reece Pugh.”

  “What about Reece Pugh?”

  Francie opened her eyes and rolled over to face her sister. “Let’s get a glass of wine. It’ll take awhile.”

  Sixteen

  Merle held her wine glass with both hands. It was untouched, Francie noticed, the sure sign of a rapt listener. Her sister’s eyes were wide, locked on her, holding her down on the sofa until the story was done, keeping her focused.

  In the silence Merle released a breath. She raised her eyebrows. “Wow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That was out of left field,” Merle said, getting her voice back. “When was the last time you heard from Tom?”

  “A few years ago. He needed some old tax returns, I think. Not a friendly call. But not unfriendly, you know.”

  “And when do you think all this happened— when he found out about Reece?”

  “I’m not sure. Don’t you have to be eighteen to get that sort of information from the sperm bank?”

  “Probably. How old is Reece?”

  “Twenty-three or so. They could have been corresponding for four or five years. The letters aren’t dated but I think they go back at least a year before Tom’s death.” Francie eyed Merle. “Do you want to see them?”

  “You have them?!”

  “I took photos.” She got out her iPad and located the photographs. “Here you go. This is the first one.”

  Francie fiddled with the stem of her wine glass, swirling the dark red liquid, as Merle read through the letters. Francie had the letters almost memorized, at least bits and piece
s. She could hear Tom’s voice in them now, after multiple read-throughs, his pet phrases like “but, you know, whatever” and “you know how men are.” He obsessed over certain movies and liked to quote them for effect. He would let loose Schwarzenegger’s “I’ll be back!” whenever he was leaving on a trip. Now of course he would never be back with the living. His favorite ‘Gladiator’ line seemed like a forewarning now: “I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next!”

  Hearing it now, in her head, Francie shivered. Was her taking on his son’s troubles Tom’s vengeance? He never did marry that cocktail waitress from Texas. He just bounced from girlfriend to girlfriend, each one starry-eyed for the cocky pilot until his dark side emerged. Only Francie had been dumb enough to marry the bastard.

  Merle cleared her throat, causing Francie to look up. She smiled. “He sounds like he changed a little.”

  “Really? In what way?”

  “Softened? Became more of a human being. Had a real connection with somebody he cared about?”

  Francie frowned. She hadn’t thought of Tom that way. She still considered him a top-drawer asshat.

  “He sounds,” Merle continued, “I don’t know, sad. Kinda lonely. Otherwise why write all these letters to a son he never knew?” Francie shrugged. “While he was jetting around the world he wrote honest-to-God letters? Bizarre but wonderful, don’t you think? Have you read any of Reece’s letters?”

  “To Tom? No. His mother read me a couple he wrote from prison.”

  “They must have been descriptive if they got you all the way to Paris to help spring him.”

  “They were. That prison is notoriously awful. It’s been written up by some EU Human Rights commission. Rats and crowded cells and violence.”

  “That’s what Pascal said. We have to get him out of there, Francie. At least until the trial.” She tipped her head, thinking. “Do we think he’s a drug dealer?”

  “Oh, I doubt it. His friend who contacted me didn’t think so. He called him a stoner but that’s all.”

  “I wish we had gotten in today. We need more facts.” Merle sighed. “So you called that lawyer that Dylan Hardy recommended?”

  “Not yet. I figured first thing in the morning was soon enough.” Francie looked at her watch and remembered the evening call from the Bordeaux attorney. It was just after five. “Unless lawyers work late here?”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  The phone rang on the other end of the line. Francie waited, counting the rings as she always did. She sometimes got angry around ring number five but always waited for somebody or a machine to pick up. Finally an automated voice said something in French. She replied, “Allo. My name is Francine Bennett and I would like to speak to —“ she held out her phone to read the text— “Monsieur Yvon Caillaud.”

  She put the phone to her chest and whispered to Merle. “Is that right, my pronunciation?” Merle shrugged. Back on the phone she continued, “I’m sorry if I said his name wrong. I’m American and got his name from a mutual friend, Dylan Hardy.” She said her number slowly and hung up.

  “They must be closed,” Merle said. “Let’s go get an early bite to eat. Are you up for that?”

  Francie felt strangely refreshed. Confession will do that to you. “Let’s do it.”

  One of Brant Prescott’s recommendations to Merle this afternoon was an out-of-the-way bistro nearby. Merle and Francie started giggling as they bumped into each other, each trying to follow directions on their phones. Finally they spied it down a shadowy alley. The sign looked like it was written in chalk on a blackboard: Les Saisons. The painted red wood of the old storefront was fresh and welcoming. But when they tried the door, it was locked.

  “It doesn’t even open until seven-thirty,” Francie said.

  Promising themselves they would come back another day they turned back to the busier tourist streets, finding a cozy wine bar that served a cheese and meat board. The sisters were astonished at their luck in finding something so delightful by chance. “But then maybe all restaurants in Paris are fabulous,” Francie said.

  “Of course they are. Just being in Paris makes everything taste delicious.”

  “France in general, I’d say.”

  Merle sighed. “There is the French effect. It comes over vulnerable young women.”

  “And old single ladies,” Francie said, smiling.

  The evening had cooled when they left the wine bar. Merle suggested they walk a bit, check out the action at the Hotel de Ville, the city hall of Paris, a venerable 19th century building with a huge plaza where events are often staged. She had heard about an ice rink set up there but when they arrived the plaza was empty. Just some teenaged skateboarders, and the usual lovers, arm-in-arm.

  “We’re too late or too early for everything,” Francie groused.

  “I guess we should do some research,” Merle suggested. “But we have to work anyway.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair. Working in Paris.”

  “Well,” Merle said, putting her hand through Francie’s arm, “we’re not working too hard, are we?”

  Francie’s cell phone rang as they approached the apartment again.

  “Madame Bennett? I am Yvon Caillaud from AV-Benoît, Avocats. Returning your call, madame. How may I be of service?”

  His voice was smooth and low, very soothing. Francie felt her anxiety fall away, just from his kind phone presence.

  “Ah, thank you so much for calling back. I am here in Paris, representing the family of a young American who has been arrested. He’s in Fresnes prison, awaiting, um, whatever comes next, bail, trial. The family wants to see if they can hire someone to help him. Is that something you might do?”

  “Bien sûr, madame. Monsieur Hardy explained some details to me and I am happy to help.” He suggested they meet the next day about eleven at his office. He promised to text her the address.

  She beamed at Merle. “Finally! Progress. We meet tomorrow morning.”

  The next morning Pascal paused on the corner with Francie, across the street from an imposing Haussmann-Type building in a quarter across the river from the Marais. He had worked late last night, arriving just before Francie went to bed. He offered to get her to this morning’s appointment. Near the end of the Boulevard St-Germain-de-Près, they had walked just a couple blocks from the Métro but long enough for Francie to wish she’d worn her walking shoes.

  “Shall I go with you?” Pascal asked, gesturing to the door.

  “Thank you, Pascal, for escorting me. You may go now,” she said, smiling. In truth she would never have found the place. Her navigational skills were crap.

  “Are you late, early, or terribly prompt?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Terribly prompt. Oh, dear. Should I go buy a coffee or something?”

  Pascal laughed. “No. They will expect you on time. Good luck.” He waved and turned, striding back down the sidewalk in his leather jacket and black jeans that he always wore. His outfit wasn’t much different than Dylan Hardy’s, she thought, admiring the view. And why do I keep thinking about Dylan Hardy when there is serious work to be done?

  Squaring her shoulders she waited for the light, crossed the Boulevard, and reached the entry door. Baffled by the instructions over the mail slots she almost called Pascal back. Then she saw the name of the law firm: AV-Benoît. She pressed a buzzer next to it, was greeted by somebody in French, said her name, and asked for the lawyer. With a sigh of relief she pushed open the entry door at the sound of another buzzer.

  No different than New York, she told herself. They speak English, they’re lawyers, we’re all lawyers. We can do this.

  She’d worn the suit she brought especially for prison and attorney visits, a navy skirt and blazer. The skirt was rather tight, accentuating her backside, but this was France. She wore a simple pink shell underneath, no jewelry. Exiting the elevator, she smoothed the skirt, dismayed to see wrinkles remained from packing her clothes in her suitcase. Presentation was key, wasn’t it? Sh
e wouldn’t abide a disheveled appearance from a lawyer herself.

  She glanced at her reflection in the glass door for a moment before entering the offices. Her hair was pulled back and looked neat and serious. Her lipstick was still bright. Her nails were freshly polished. Still she felt an unease, a lack of confidence, and told herself to stop. She looked fine. It wasn’t a beauty contest.

  As she waited in the outer offices for the attorney to collect her, she sat down and tried to calm her nerves. Too much coffee? She sighed silently and looked down at her clothes again. There was a large brown coffee stain on her shell, right in the middle of her chest. Horrified, she pulled the lapels of her jacket together, trying to hide it, just as someone said her name.

  In front of her stood a short, middle-aged man with wild gray-brown hair, smeared glasses, in shirt sleeves and a loose tie. His suit pants were creased from sitting and there was— thank you Jesus— a coffee stain on his white shirt.

  “Madame Bennett, bonjour.” He held out his hand and she shook it. It was warm and soft. “I am Yvon Caillaud. It is very nice to make your acquaintance.”

  “Please, call me Francie. Or Francine.”

  He blinked, smiling. “Which do you prefer?”

  “Francie. Thank you for seeing me, monsieur.”

  “You must call me Yvon. We are colleagues, d’accord?”

  “Yes.” She made a note to ask Merle for a simple French phrase book. What did whatever he said mean? She followed Caillaud down a hall to an office overflowing with paperwork. Every surface was piled high. He made no excuses for it, which made her like him more. Paperwork in the motherland of bureaucracy had to be massive.

  She sat in a comfortable leather chair, one of the few clean items in the office. He sat behind his large wood desk, resting his arms on a clear spot on his blotter. “Now, what are we to do about Monsieur Pugh?”

  “Yes, it is a problem. I was hoping you could accompany me to the prison so we could talk to him.”

  “Of course. And we shall. But I have done some preparatory work in advance of our meeting today.” He searched briefly for a manila file folder and found it behind him on a credenza strewn with identical file folders. He opened it and picked up a sheet of paper. “Monsieur Pugh has been a guest of the republic since nineteen December of last year. Correct?”