Blame it on Paris

by Lise McClendon

  “I’m not sure of the dates.”

  “That is what the official documentation says. Before he was transferred to Fresnes Prison he was arrested, of course. This was on—“ He consulted another sheet. “Sixteen December. He was taken to the gendarmerie near his apartment in the 20th Arrondissement. There he was under what we call here garde à vue. This is the initial period where a suspect is detained until charged with a crime. In the case of Monsieur Pugh this took two days. On the third day he was charged by the prosecutor with a variety of crimes related to narcotics and drugs trafficking and remanded into custody.”

  “Wait, um, excuse me, Yvon. What is he charged with exactly?”

  Yvon raised his unruly eyebrows. “Let’s see. Possession of cannabis with intent to distribute. Possession of heroin with intent to distribute. Possession of cocaine with intent to distribute. Possession of drug paraphernalia. There is also an excess charge for the amount of drugs found. It was a large amount, Francie.”

  Her heart sunk. Reece was a drug dealer. This was not going to end well. She could see his mother’s face now when she found out he wouldn’t be out of prison for years.

  “I see. So he was charged with these crimes. Did he have a lawyer present?”

  “Of course. This does not go to the courts without an avocat.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Someone by the name of—“ Again he consulted, peering over his glasses. “Fareed Auffret.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “I have not had the pleasure. It appears he may be an assigned lawyer. What do you call them?”

  “Legal aid?”

  “Correct. Monsieur Pugh apparently has very few resources.”

  “Or has hidden them somewhere. I never heard of a poor drug dealer.”

  “Also there was found a quantity of prescription pills, the type sold on the street.”

  “Okay.” She sighed. This was not how she envisioned this going. Reece Pugh was only supposed to be a stoner with a little weed on him, a few joints or whatever. He was supposed to be held without counsel, without basic human rights, without just cause. And Francine Bennett was supposed to swoop in like an avenging angel and save the damn day. None of that was happening.

  Yvon said, “We must assume at this point that Monsieur Pugh has been busy since his arrival in France last summer.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Very busy. What was he supposed to be doing? Officially.”

  “He enrolled in two classes at the University of American Business. It is in the same general area as his flat.”

  “He had a student visa?”

  “I have not seen a passport at this time, but presumably.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Ah, yes. After l'accusation criminelle, he was transferred to Fresnes Prison where he remains today.”

  “What has been done on his case? For his release?”

  “Monsieur Auffret made a request for house arrest. That was in January. But it was denied by the judge.” He looked at Francie seriously. “There is little chance of pre-trial release, I’m afraid. Not with drug trafficking, especially by a foreign national.”

  “I understand. I mean, I didn’t understand how serious the charges were until now. I don’t think his parents were aware.”

  “They were informed, according to this. As was the American embassy. That is standard as well.”

  “But the embassy did nothing?”

  “Ah, well.” He shrugged. “It is a serious criminal matter.”

  “Do you know anyone at the American embassy?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Francie leaned forward, poking her fingernails into her forehead, elbows on her knees. “We must be able to do something.”

  “But of course, madame,” he said brightly. “All is not lost.”

  She sat up, frowning. “He sounds like a drug dealer if I ever saw one.”

  “Be that as it may, there are things to be done. The police will be assembling the case against Monsieur Pugh. We need to do everything we can, find every scrap of information available— and more.”

  “How do we do that?”

  He closed the file and smiled. “I have many methods, Francie. But first, we must speak to Monsieur Pugh.”

  “When?”

  Yvon took off his glasses and peered at her. “I have made arrangements for tomorrow. You will come?”

  Seventeen

  When Francie climbed up out of the subway station into a small park, the sun had broken through the gray skies. Puddles turned into mirrors, reflecting the tulips in the sidewalk stalls, the new leaves unfurling on trees, the clouds against the blue above. Francie stopped, stunned by the beauty. Here was springtime in Paris, in all its glory.

  She paused, turned toward the apartment, then back to the park. The benches were damp but she found a semi-dry spot on one and sat down, facing a small fountain and a patch of grass. She felt the sun on her face, warm and comforting, like Yvon Caillaud’s voice. He seemed like he cared. Would he be a competent lawyer for Reece? Could anyone help the boy?

  She’d rehearsed in her mind what she’d say to Claudia Pugh. She pulled out her phone and hesitated. Maybe an email would be better. Easier, for sure, but not as personal. Maybe she wouldn’t answer. Francie couldn’t leave a voice message about this. All right, if she didn’t answer an email would suffice.

  Francie punched the number. It took ten or fifteen seconds to connect and then, there was Claudia.

  “It’s Francie— in Paris.” She felt a stab of guilt. She was in Paris. PARIS.

  “Yes! Hi. Have you talked to Reece?”

  “Not yet. But we have an appointment for tomorrow. The new lawyer has made it happen.”

  “Oh, good, you found someone! A lawyer for Reece. Great!” She was so eager. It was disheartening.

  “His name is Yvon Caillaud. I liked him. He comes highly recommended.” Francie spelled the name for her. “You can look him up on the internet if you want.”

  “What did he say? When can we get Reece out?”

  “I’m— I’m not sure. We’re going to the prison to talk to him tomorrow though. That should clear up a few things.” Things like, how long have you been a drug dealer? “I’m anxious to talk to him, to see if he’s doing all right.”

  Claudia made her promise to call her right away, and take photos of Reece, videos if possible, if they allowed them. It seemed unlikely, Francie thought, but she agreed to all of Claudia’s demands. It was the least she could do.

  She couldn’t tell Claudia about the charges. She just couldn’t. Yvon Caillaud said his parents were told about them. So they knew, right? She could fall back on that excuse. She tried to sound peppy and hopeful on the phone as she said goodbye and promised to call.

  Cradling the phone in her hands, the call disconnected, Francie struggled to stay upbeat. Yvon seemed hopeful but he was a criminal defense attorney. He probably had to deal with horrific deeds done by clients all the time. Maybe any incremental success was a good outcome for him. Francie wasn’t as accustomed to straight-up crime. Sure, she had unsavory clients once in awhile. Now she was helping a young man who clearly had no boundaries, no sense of decency and responsibility. His parents were going to disown him— again. Just when he’d somehow gotten them to help him, that would be over. And with it, Francie Bennett’s little Parisian jaunt into the justice system.

  She didn’t care about that. She could still have fun in Paris while awaiting the fate of her career. At least she could try.

  She closed her eyes and tried to summon that cocky Lawyrr Grrl voice, the one that was so self-assured and in-your-face.

  “Oh Paris! What young lass wouldn’t die for a couple devil-may-care weeks in the City of Light? Dancing along the Seine, riding bicycles through the Tuileries with the wind in your hair, chatting up Frenchmen, drinking champagne with handsome strangers— it’s what we’re made for, right, grrls?”

  She didn’t feel it. Not one bit. She d
idn’t deserve to come to Paris for her forced leave. She had made a mess of it back home. She wasn’t going to find justice for a poor abandoned soul in a medieval prison. She was just going to pretend that everything was great and beautiful and wonderful, faking her smile and twirling her hair around her finger until she couldn’t stand herself. She was just going to pretend to the boy’s parents that she was doing something useful until she threw up her hands in defeat. That moment was coming sooner rather than later, she could tell.

  Cannabis, pills, cocaine… heroin!? Dear god, what had she gotten herself into? What had Reece gotten himself into? How had he had time in five or six months to set himself up as an International Man of Smack & Blow? Presumably there were already plenty of drug dealers here. Paris was a huge European city, a crossroads for all sorts of illicit mood-heighteners. Did he have a boss, someone he was working for? Did he have a partner? How had he been able to connect all that, find buyers, dealers, street sellers, junkies, party people, in such a short time?

  She opened her eyes. She had to find out more about illicit drugs in Paris. She would grill Pascal for information. He must know somebody in that department at the police. Or at least he could tell her how things like this went, cases of possession and intent to distribute. What were the standard punishments? She grimaced. So many charges, he would get years and years if found guilty. That was obvious.

  If found guilty? Who was she kidding? That prison would probably break him and he’d confess to the whole thing.

  She stood up, finally ready to look the facts head-on. Reece was in deep trouble. He faced a long string of very serious charges. Yvon Caillaud wasn’t discouraged though, so she wouldn’t be either. She was a lawyer. Lawyers dealt with illicit behavior of all sorts. Last year she had boldly stated she wanted to do more criminal work, finding it very satisfying in Scotland, digging out the facts, making people tell the truth, connecting all the dots. So this was her punishment for that silly Highland high. A real criminal case with very real stakes.

  She walked out of the park toward the apartment, head up toward the afternoon sun. It flashed off the freshly-washed monuments, promising something new and bright. Resolve for justice, whatever journey it took, coursed through her.

  I can do this, Lawyrr Grrls. I really can.

  Merle took off her reading glasses— still not accustomed to them— and rubbed the knot in the middle of her forehead. She’d spent the morning reading reams of documents that Annie had emailed her, about environmental treaties, climate change, the possibility of individual US states joining the Paris Accord, and myriad ecological disasters past and present. It was mind-boggling, all the science and research and arm-twisting and diplomacy that had gone into the treaty. Merle felt over her head, especially on the scientific issues, the data. But she’d made a crib sheet of important details, things Annie had sent her in bullet points.

  Merle had yet to call any of the French environmental lawyers that Brant Prescott had recommended. Her next task would be researching them, what they did in their practices or government agencies. She needed to prioritize which ones were most important, and she really had no idea where to start.

  The apartment was filled with sunshine this afternoon, streaming through the south-facing windows. Below, in the small square, children were playing on their lunch hour, old women and men sat soaking up rays, mothers with babies in strollers marched through on their way to somewhere. Merle watched, noting how similar Parisian lives were to New York lives, and no doubt all urban dwellers’ lives. Yet forces beyond our control, in the atmosphere, the oceans, the land ruined by mines and war, all of that was out of sight. But, if Annie Bennett and Brant Prescott had their way, everyone would know, get anxious, and work together to change the trajectory of the Earth.

  She poured herself a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen. An ordinary act she now didn’t take for granted. As she sipped she wondered which lawyer she should contact first, and what enticement to dangle in front of him or her. Wine tasting? Full dinner? A box of macarons? This wasn’t the white shoe lawyers in New York that she wined and dined. Thank goodness that was done. She’d never been so glad to see the back of a Brooks Brothers posse in her life. But she needed to know more about Paris society before she made the ask.

  Back at the coffee table where she’d laid out her laptop and a stack of print-outs, Merle reread Annie’s emails. Her directions were vague enough that she must not know exactly how to cajole these lawyers into helping. Merle did a search on the first one Brant had mentioned, a woman named Simone Lachance. Her name meant ‘luck,’ that was all Merle knew about her so far. The search led to her law firm’s website where her résumé described a variety of universities, bar associations, and honors. She spoke five languages.

  Merle clicked through her partners’ work histories. Very similar, it appeared. They were all very well-educated, accomplished, and well-regarded. What did that tell her? A bit intimidating but nothing else.

  She sat back on the sofa and stared at the play of sunshine on the far wall. She was getting nowhere. She needed help.

  Brant Prescott answered his phone from what sounded like the inside of a café. The sounds of forks against porcelain, murmuring voices, shuffling feet— then Brant said a bright hello.

  “How are you doing today, Merle?”

  “Fine, thanks. No, actually— am I interrupting your lunch?”

  The roar of a vehicle filled her ear.

  “Not a problem. I’m outside on the sidewalk where no one cares as much about whether you use your phone. And I’m finished. Just having a coffee.”

  “Oh, we tried to eat at that bistro you recommended, Les Saisons? But we were too early. But now we know where it is, all tucked away in that alley.” She sat forward. “So. I need a little advice. About Paris lawyers.”

  “Of course. What can I tell you?”

  “The culture is baffling to me. You said offer them wine, or food. So do I just ask them to lunch, or dinner? Or meet at a fancy wine bar— which we found last night after Les Saisons. What is the protocol? That’s what I’m asking. What’s pushy and what’s normal. How far out should I make these dates? Or is it more informal?”

  “Hmmm. It depends on the lawyer. I don’t know most of those people personally. I deal with them through the nonprofit but it’s strictly business. The French are more formal than Americans.”

  “Oh. You don’t know them?”

  “Mostly by reputation. They’re all heavy hitters, so to speak.”

  Great. That was a big help. It only made her more anxious of making a faux pas. “Okay, so, if you wanted to ask one of them a favor, how would you do it? Warm them up first? Get to know them then ask? Or just take them out somewhere?”

  “This will be seen as business. After you introduce yourself and your cause you can ask them anything. Business isn’t personal here. Can you entertain at your apartment? That always makes a good impression.”

  “It’s pretty small.” She glanced around the run-down furnishings and scuffed walls. “And not that impressive.”

  “Then I would look for a two-star, or maybe a one-star, restaurant near their offices. Something close by will make it much easier for them to say ‘yes.’”

  “For lunch? Dinner? What?”

  “Start with lunch. Everyone goes out for a long lunch in Paris but many lawyers are breaking the old traditions and working through. If that doesn’t work, go with aperitifs, you know, wine or whatever around six or seven in the evening, before they head home. Dinner is a bit harder to schedule. As you discovered, everyone eats late here.”

  “Okay, that’s very helpful. Thanks, Brant.”

  “Any time. Hey, after I talked to you I asked my wife about a dinner party and she already had one planned for this weekend. Saturday. You must come— and bring your sister.”

  Merle said she’d be honored, and got all the details of time and place. The Prescotts lived north of the Marais, near the Canal St-Martin, an urban canal w
ith locks that had somehow survived from the days of barges and warehouses. Merle said she’d never seen the canal.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful in summer. This time of year, well, you’ll see. Still pretty but the trees aren’t out yet,” Brant said. He gave her directions to their apartment and said it would take a half-hour if they chose to walk. “You can take the Métro, of course.”

  “If the weather is nice, I’d love to walk. Thank you so much, Brant.”

  “Should be fun. The group is what one of the Brits calls ‘lively.’ And my wife is an excellent cook, as you can tell by looking at me!”

  When she hung up, Merle wondered what it would be like to actually live and work in Paris. For awhile, until the novelty wore off, she would like it, she was sure. There were the cheese shops, parfumeries, fresh baguettes, beautiful people, fancy food, world-class art. How could anyone not be happy in Paris? Then she remembered Pascal’s ex-wife lived here. Would she bother him like she had once before? He hadn’t mentioned her on this trip, but then he didn’t like her very much.

  Pascal! Merle sucked in a breath. She had forgotten to ask if she could bring him to the dinner party. Now it would be awkward. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he had to go somewhere and catch a vineyard fraudster, a bottling scammer, a wine thief. She would ask him about his weekend plans before calling Brant back.

  She heard the key in the lock. Francie walked in and threw her purse on the chair. She did the same with her coat before she spied Merle in the sitting room.

  “Hey, guess what?” Francie smiled down at her sister, hands on her hips. “We’ve got a French lawyer.”

  “And we like him?”

  “Yup, we do.” Francie sprawled in a chair opposite Merle. “We’re off to the prison tomorrow to check on Monsieur Pugh.”