“That’s it,” Claudia added sadly. “Just a greeting and he signed off.”
“He sounds a little better,” Francie said.
She sniffed. “I guess.”
Francie hesitated then took a breath. “Claudia, I need to know if you see this as a real job, that is my part of it, finding your son a lawyer. Like, have you hired me? Or do you see it as a favor I’m doing for you? Because I can totally see it that way too.”
“Oh! Ah…” Claudia paused, sounding flustered. “I don’t see how you could just be doing us a favor when you didn’t even know me or Reece.”
“Well, I always try to help. But do you want to make this a formal hire? That’s my question.”
“Yes, absolutely. If you had been a friend that would be different.”
“I am sort of butting in though.”
“We want you to butt in. We have no idea what to do. We want you to work to find him a good lawyer. Whatever it takes. When I say ‘we,’ well, I spoke to Harlan. Kind of a victory actually. We rarely talk any more and we were quite civil. He agreed to kick in some money.”
“Wow. That was a change of heart.” Sort of like your own.
“I know. He said you called him and he was rude with you. I’m sorry. He can be short-tempered with everybody, mean really. Part of the reason we divorced. But underneath he’s not so bad. Kind of the bark is worse than the bite.” She took a sip of something. “So are we clear then? You’re hired, Ms. Bennett. Find us a French criminal lawyer, a good one, and get Reece out of that awful place.”
“I’ll do my best, Claudia. Um. One other thing. I will do what I can by phone. But there is a chance I might need to be on the ground there. What if I have to go to Paris? I’m not saying you would pay for all that. But I might have to go.”
Please say I can go. Please please please.
“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Travel would be awfully expensive.”
“No, no. I won’t bill you for my trip to Paris, Claudia. I didn’t mean that. I’ll be honest— going to Paris wouldn’t be a hardship. I would only bill you for the time I put into finding the lawyer and helping him or her get Reece out. And it’ll just be as a liaison so I won’t bill you my usual rate. The real money will go to the French lawyer. But to find one, if this lead doesn’t pan out— well, I might need to be there. There is only so much I can do from here.”
“I see. Well, if you can spare the time and the money. No surprise bills for five-star hotels and champagne?”
“No, ma’am. Just for legal work. No expenses whatsoever. I give you my word.”
“All right then. But I’ll need daily updates. From wherever you are. Is that possible?”
“I’ll email you every day— if I go. I was thinking. Have you talked to the U.S. Ambassador in Paris?”
“No. Would that help?”
“Maybe. But that’s another thing that’s better in person.”
“Who is our ambassador?”
“Her name is Sheryl Brightson. That’s all I know. I’ll let you know if I decide to go.”
“Will it be soon? Every day he’s in that awful place, I just can’t stand it.”
“If I go, yes. It will be soon.”
That evening Francie did more research. She looked up French lawyers who specialized in criminal cases. There were many listed but she knew nothing about any of them. She pinned her hopes on Antoine Lalouche’s recommendation. She dove into the background of Sheryl Brightson, the U.S. Ambassador. She was fairly new on the job, just six months in, and a political crony of the President. Weren’t all ambassadors? To get a plum job in Paris though, she probably was a huge donor.
It appeared Ambassador Brightson was involved in the most expensive divorce in Florida history. Her ex-husband had owned an NFL franchise among other things. What she had going for her besides that, a bunch of sons, and a newfound love of the President, was not immediately known.
Not much in common with Francine Bennett, in other words. She would have to put on her thinking cap to find an ‘in’ there. How did you find out about other embassy personnel? A conundrum. She kept clicking around. One of the names on the embassy website sounded familiar. Had she gone to college with someone by that name? She would check tomorrow. Her eyes hurt.
In the morning she had a message on her voicemail from Antoine Lalouche. He referred her to a Paris law firm by the name of Broussard Frères. She put through the call right away. It took several people to get to someone who spoke English well enough to understand her request, something she may as well get used to, she thought.
The lawyer or clerk or whoever listened carefully. He said he was making notes for the partner who handled criminal cases. He asked for her email address, phone number, and all the information about Reece. When she hung up she felt pretty good about this law firm. Maybe she could just go to France and play.
But the next day she received an email from Broussard Frères. The partner in charge declined the case. It was not the type of criminal case they represented, and they did not have the time anyway.
So much for playing in Paris, Francie thought, twirling a strand of hair. She picked up the phone, set it down, and went online to her favorite travel site.
Time to get serious.
Twelve
Return of Lawyrr Grrl
Blog tagged why me, Paris, do-gooders
Boy howdy, it’s been a week.
In some respects it’s been like any other at the law firm. I went into work every day before the sun comes up, ate lunch at my desk, cleared my in-box, talked to many people on the phone, left in the dark again. The Big Man at the firm had a health event, leaving us scrambling to put out many fires, but otherwise, pretty normal.
Except, no.
The charges against me are going forward. One of them states that at a reception six months ago I got buzzed on champagne and groped this man-child. Which is ridiculous. I can barely remember the reception and not because of alcohol. I think it was for a batch of new junior associates. And I would definitely remember groping a man. I mean, wouldn’t you? I think I made an appearance, shook hands, and left early. I am very aware of my love of wine and do not over-imbibe, not for some time. Have I ever? Sure. But definitely not at a work function. My ex, sadly departed from this mortal coil, was an alcoholic. I’ve seen that up close and taken those lessons to heart.
The other incidences are equally ludicrous. That time he jumped me in the parking lot and asked to go out for a drink turned into me ambushing him in the parking lot and threatening him. I’ve seen this scenario, the blame switcheroo. It will be hard to explain, to refute. But I will win this one, I feel certain. I still don’t have a lawyer yet though. I guess I should get on that.
I could rant and rail: Why me? What is wrong with this man? What did I do to deserve these accusations? But what good would that do? The procedure for sexual harassment complaints is crystal clear. Locked down. No deviations from the steps allowed. I wrote them myself. For a reason.
So what is the procedure? Well, wenches of the bar, the next step is taking a leave of absence so that you the accused aren’t involved in the investigation into the claims. So you can’t shoot eye-daggers at the accuser, spike the morning coffee, or spread rumors about him/her. Think of it as a paid vacation for the innocent, or a kick to the curb for the guilty. Either way, you don’t work here for awhile.
And now, to my next step, the reason I am so sanguine about my forced leave. I am off to Paris to be a do-gooder for an incarcerated American who may or may not be guilty of drug trafficking. Yes, I was actually called a do-gooder! It surprised me too. Lawyrr grrls, at least in my line of lawyering, rarely get called that. An attorney known for a mean cross and a rousing divorce petition can apparently morph into a true heroine! Somehow, in its weird little way, it makes perfect sense, as if this whole stupid mess at the law firm was for a purpose.
I love having a purpose, don’t you?
So, yes, I am channeling the lovely Sabrina wh
en I say: Paris is always a good idea.
Thirteen
Alice was sitting in Francie’s office on Friday afternoon when she returned from signing off her last clients to Brenda McFall. Brenda was, as usual, all business, reassuring her protégé that while she was extremely efficient and did an estimable job for her clients, she was not indispensable. She didn’t need to worry, Brenda said. She didn’t even ask what Francie was going to do with all this newfound free time. Maybe she didn’t want to know. Maybe she didn’t care.
Alice’s pale face was splotchy, her eyes rimmed in red. Francie opened her mouth to console the girl but before she said anything, Alice burst into tears again. Francie waited, sympathetic but not that much. Alice was crying a lot these days.
“Now, Alice. Please stop crying. It doesn’t help, honey.”
The assistant sniffed and wiped her eyes on a well-used tissue. “I’m sorry. I just can’t—“ She took a deep breath. “I’m going to miss you, Miss Bennett.”
“That’s sweet, Alice. I appreciate it. But you need to be strong while I’m gone. Don’t let anybody railroad you into anything or give you some ridiculous assignment. You report to Ms. McFall now. If you have a problem with someone, let her know.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Is there something else?” Alice shook her head, tearing the tissue into bits. “How are you getting along with Marylou?”
She shrugged. “She’s okay. Not like you but, you know.”
“Does she have enough work for you?”
Alice nodded. “More than enough.”
“Listen, she might farm you out to one of the partners. She can do that if somebody needs help. But if you get to some office or whatever where you’re not comfortable, you tell Brenda— Ms. McFall. That’s what she’s there for. She can intercede with the partners or with Marylou. Okay?”
Another nod. “How long will you be gone?”
“I wish I knew. Two or three weeks, if I had to guess. Long enough for the investigation to work through.”
“But he’s lying. How can they find out the truth?”
That was a question Francie was asking herself. How would they find out the truth? But she smiled at Alice. “The bad guys trip themselves up. They always do.”
As Alice left, mollified and promising to write regular emails, Francie frowned to herself. She wasn’t a pollyanna; she knew the bad guys did win sometimes.
She just hoped this wasn’t one of those times.
On Saturday morning Francie woke early, visions of Paris in her head. She knew she should be worried about what would happen at the law firm but somehow, knowing she wouldn’t see any of them for several weeks was enough to put them out of her mind. A niggling worry would always be there but she wasn’t going to let it ruin everything.
But first, lunch with her parents and Elise. She’d sworn her younger sister to secrecy about the sexual harassment claim. She hadn’t told her other sisters either. Elise’s reaction was bad enough. What would her parents do? Would baby sister be able to keep her mouth shut? Her parents thought she was just taking a vacation. Let them enjoy that.
The traffic west into the Connecticut countryside was heavy. An icy rain was falling, and a few cars slid into the snow-clogged ditches along the way. Francie kept her foot steady on the gas, avoiding the crazy drivers. Steady as she goes. Was that who she was: the one with the steady stride, plodding forward, rational and practical, avoiding the crazies? It was a worthy goal, right up there with Junior League presidency. She stuck out her tongue at the thought. Once she had mingled with that society crowd, organizing all sorts of fundraisers and doing walkathons for diseases. There was nothing wrong with that. She felt good doing all of it. But the appeal had worn off. She really wasn’t that sort of goodie two-shoes. Now she was a do-gooder for a druggie in a French prison. The thought gave her a little frisson of excitement.
So Paris it was. If it took a major career road bump to get her to Paris, well, c’est la vie.
Elise was already sitting with their parents in the musty dining room of the country club. She was dressed up for a Saturday in slacks and a cozy yellow sweater, her dark hair curled. Jack Bennett, their father, was a golfer and this stodgy old club, full of geezers and blue-hairs, had been his home away from home for many years. Their mother, Bernadette— Bernie to all— tolerated it well enough and had even joined a bridge group recently. She had retired from teaching and was never one to say no to a group activity that got her out of the house.
Bernie and Jack looked tan and fit. They had just returned from Florida where they had been faithfully walking the beach. Francie gave them both hugs, blew a kiss to Elise, and sat down. They had ordered her a glass of white wine.
“How is everyone?”
Everyone’s health was discussed at length, neighbors, relatives, and friends, but especially Jack’s as he’d had some heart trouble the year before. His doctor had recently told him he now had the heart of a sixteen-year-old, he said, grinning. Bernie rolled her eyes and said she’d never felt better.
“Elise tells us you’re going to France again,” their mother said, examining her daughter. “Are you sure?”
“To Paris this time. I love Merle’s village but I might need a little more excitement this time.”
“Dear me, I think you had too much excitement last time, with that runaway dog and all.”
“I think she’s over that,” Jack said. “Aren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. That was two years ago.”
“But isn’t this a bit sudden?” her mother asked, never one to miss a trick.
Francie caught Elise’s eye. “It is. But I had these vacation days I was going to lose if I didn’t use them. So, why not?”
Elise was batting her eyelashes sarcastically. It was hardly the first time Francie had lied to her parents— for their own good obviously. But it didn’t feel good.
“Well, I am jealous,” Elise said, sipping her wine. “Just for the record.”
“Why don’t you go with her,” Bernie said. “I like it when you go together.”
“Not this time, Mother,” Francie said quickly, before Elise could agree. “I’m going to see Merle though. She’ll meet me in Paris. I think she’s rented some quaint little apartment near Place des Vosges, in the Marais.”
As she hoped her mother’s eyes went a little out of focus as she remembered fondly the atmospheric old plaza. Jack dredged up bits too, buying pink macarons for all five sisters, masterpieces seen at museums, sipping wine at sidewalk cafés when they were young. He reached over and squeezed his wife’s hand. The two single sisters glanced up, joining gazes for a split second before looking away. What was Elise thinking? Francie knew; she was thinking the same thing. When will it be my turn? The youngest of five sisters, both of them were over forty now.
The conversation lagged, melancholy creeping in as they ate, then Francie changed the subject to the planning for their vegetable garden. It was a relief when Jack and Bernie began to argue about the practicality of planting celery and the right cultivar of raspberry.
When it was time to go, they all walked out into the parking lot and hugged. She would see them very soon, she promised. Very soon.
Fourteen
PARIS
In the shadow of the Pont Neuf Francie felt the breeze on her cheek. Merle’s scarf blew across her face then, momentarily blinding her. She stepped back, wobbling on the cobblestones. Her sister and the man who actually was Dylan Hardy reached out for her. Merle grabbed her sleeve, Dylan her right hand.
Francie and Merle had just been standing on the bridge, watching the bateaux mouches go by full of chilly tourists, looking at the locks of love, enjoying the moment, when Francie had spotted the Dylan Hardy lookalike staring at them. And now— here he was.
“Whoa there,” he said, concern in his eyes for a moment before he smiled. “No swimming in the Seine.”
Merle chuckled, smoothing Francie’s raincoat from her fist. “You were right
about those shoes, Francie.”
Everyone looked down at her feet and the suspect heels which were as red and darling as they were impractical. “I need some walking shoes if I’m going to be in Paris.”
Dylan tipped his head. “You are in Paris, Bennett. No ifs about it. Look around.” He raised both arms, gesturing to the bridge, the river, the historic buildings on the opposite bank, his face reflecting his obvious pleasure at being here in the City of Light. He lowered his voice and smirked. “You know that, right?”
Francie stared at him. He was even better looking than in law school. That happened to some men. The baby fat left their cheeks, their shoulders broadened, their hair came into its own— or left entirely. In Dylan’s case his brown hair was still thick, tinged with gray over the temples, and immaculate. He’d never been a peacock back in law school, preferring jeans with holes and threadbare hoodies. Now he was in an expensive leather jacket, a navy turtleneck, denims with a crease, and fancy boots.
He looked like a successful businessman, or a lawyer on his day off.
Merle stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Merle, Francie’s sister.” They shook hands as Dylan introduced himself. “My sister seems to have lost her voice. Most unusual.”
Then he grinned, looking deep into Francie’s eyes. She felt her equilibrium falter again and looked away. She cleared her throat. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it, Dylan?”
“Eons. Whatcha been up to?”
Merle stepped to the side. Francie grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “Oh, this and that. What brings you to Paris?”
“I’m working here.” He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Can you believe it? Sometimes I look outside the office window and freak out for a second. Oh, right, I’m in Paris. For a few months a year I work over here, helping with our French clients in the US, and Americans over here.”
Blame it on Paris (Bennett Sisters Mysteries Book 7) Page 8
