“That was quick. The lawyer must be well connected.”
“Yes. I think so. He’s not one of those slick guys. Smart, cuts to the chase, no bullshit. More like you and me.”
Francie was giving her mischievous grin but Merle could see a wrinkle of something on her sister’s forehead. Doubt? Fear? Francie kicked off her shoes, legs splayed. “Definitely wear pants,” Merle suggested.
Francie crossed her legs, pulled down her tight skirt, and laughed. “Oui oui, madame.”
“How are you getting out there?”
“The lawyer is picking me up here. He lives somewhere up north and we’re on the way.”
“Speaking of north,” Merle said. “We’ve been invited to a dinner party on Saturday. At a real French apartment. The host is that nonprofit lawyer I saw yesterday. He invites English-speakers so don’t worry about the French. He says his wife is a very good cook.”
“Oh, my. We’re integrating into haute society, Merle.” Francie batted her eyelashes coquettishly. “Ooh la la.”
Eighteen
The sky was dark the next morning as the sisters made coffee and got dressed. Francie kept checking her phone, obsessed with not missing her ride to the prison. Yvon Caillaud said he would text her when he was close and she would run down to the street. She felt a hard pit in her stomach. Was she going to blow this? Something so simple as connecting with your ride?
She squinted into the mirror and contemplated her makeup. A little or none— those were the choices. She opted for a skiff of mascara and nothing more. Her freckles stood out like acne. She alternately hated them and loved them. Today it was hate.
She put both hands on the sink and took a deep breath. She could do this— couldn’t she? Something about facing this drug dealer kid, walking into a notorious prison full of criminals, bad smells, and dead rats: it made her so anxious. She was such a wuss. Yes, the voice of the Lawyrr Grrls is nothing but a pansy. Her first big criminal case and her knees are knocking.
She left the bathroom, still reeling from anxiety, and found Merle in dark slacks, boots, and gray trench coat, standing by the door.
“Where are you going so early?” Francie asked.
“I’m going with you. To the prison.” Merle smiled. “You didn’t think I’d let you go without me, did you?”
“You don’t have to do that,” Francie said automatically. She felt a rush of gratitude toward her sister. Merle tipped her head and raised her eyebrows. “Thank you,” Francie whispered and gave her a quick hug.
After the text from Yvon they stood on the curb in the morning mist. Shopkeepers swept the sidewalks. The bakers in the patisserie set out croissants in their window. The quiet routine felt so normal and comforting. Merle said, “You didn’t sleep much, did you?”
Francie shook her head. She wore her red trench coat, a bad choice for a prison visit but the only raincoat she had. “Did you hear me?”
“You flushed the toilet three times.”
“Sorry.” Francie poked her with her elbow. “At least I flushed.”
A black sedan pulled up next to them. Francie bent down and waved to Yvon behind the wheel. She pulled open the passenger door.
“Is it all right if my sister comes along? She’s also a lawyer. We can be a team or whatever?”
“Bien sûr,” the French lawyer said, glancing at Merle. “What do you say— the more the merrier?”
Francie got in the front seat while Merle slid into the back. She doubted if anything about today would be merry.
As he wound his way out of the center of the city Merle asked, “Did you need to clear us beforehand? WiIl that be a problem with me?”
“Non, madame. I tell the officials I bring American lawyers to represent the young man. I didn’t tell them how many.”
The relief of having her sister along calmed Francie. She started to think about the boy’s defense instead of her nervousness and asked Yvon a series of questions that had roiled in her brain all night. How could they prove that the drugs didn’t belong to him? Who was he shielding? Who was his supplier? Could he give up someone and strike a deal?
The French lawyer concentrated on his driving, easing out onto a busy divided highway on the edge of Paris. He was pleasant, smiling, but gave her perfunctory answers. They would wait and hear what Monsieur Pugh had to say for himself.
After over an hour in heavy traffic they approached the high stone walls of the old prison. A large blue door, guarded by two men wearing body armor and carrying automatic rifles, was apparently the entrance, but they passed by it and found parking about two blocks away. The town of Fresnes, where the prison had been built over a hundred years ago, was far from fashionable, cosmopolitan Paris. This was the suburbs, dense in places, spacious in others, quiet, with roundabouts and shopping malls. As they walked back toward the entrance of the prison, Yvon came to life, talking rapidly.
“There will be some issues with seeing the prisoner,” he explained, waving his hands. “Just go along with whatever they ask. Probably we will wait for some time. That is normal. There have been security issues here and they are very strict.”
“What kind of issues?” Francie asked, skipping to keep up with the Frenchman.
“Riots, dramatic escapes, assaults. Recently the guards went on strike because of violence by prisoners.”
“Against them?” Merle asked.
“Yes, it is a rough place. Mafia, jihadists, terrorists, and ordinary criminals.”
“That’s why we want to get him out of there.”
The lawyer looked at her, then at Francie. Francie said, “There doesn’t seem to be much hope of bail. Not with drug trafficking.”
“Oh.” Merle frowned, craning her neck at the high walls, probably twenty feet of smooth stone topped with razor wire.
Francie touched her arm as they slowed down. Yvon was getting his wallet out and extracting identification for a guard at a small side door. “You don’t have to go in with me, Merle. Really.” She leaned closer. “It may be nasty.”
Merle hooked her arm through her sister’s. “Oh, I have no doubt.”
And nasty it was, from the first look down a dim, medieval hallway that smelled of cleaner and sweat. Before they got to the waiting room, which was filthy with trash and cigarette butts, their purses were confiscated, their pockets turned inside out, and they were each given a full pat-down. Yvon went off with a male guard. Merle and Francie rolled their eyes at each other as a stocky, taciturn female guard felt in every armpit, shoe, and crotch angle. If they hadn’t recently gone through nearly the same experience at a US airport they would have felt violated. But these days, not so much.
Their coats were taken away to be looked at carefully but they were allowed to go on to the waiting room. Yvon stood against the wall. His eyebrows rose as he looked them over. “Okay? It is somewhat humiliating.”
“We’re fine,” Francie said, rearranging her blouse. “I suppose it’s necessary.”
“The lawyers get the easy one. You should see what they do to family visitors.”
Merle grimaced, imagining body cavity searches. She pulled down the sleeves of her black shirt and was thankful for small favors.
They waited nearly an hour for the prisoner to be delivered. Francie wished she had water. Yvon said he was dying for a smoke, eyeing all the butts on the floor. Merle sat in a chair she’d swept off, closing her eyes as if pretending she was somewhere else.
They heard the clank of chains before the door opened. As it creaked and swung they spied Reece Pugh, a short man, not five-nine, with a buzz cut. His youthful face was pale and thin. He wore gray sweat pants and sweatshirt. Around his waist was a fabric belt with chains to his handcuffs. His feet were also chained so he could barely shuffle forward. His hands were chained together and his weak wave when he saw them nearly broke Francie’s heart.
“Asseyez-vous,” the guard behind him growled, pushing him down into a metal chair. He then locked Reece’s hands to a ring on the table a
nd stepped back. He gave some warnings or instructions or something and backed away, out the door, closing it behind him.
Francie spoke first. Yvon had taken Merle’s chair across from him and the sisters stood on either side of the scratched metal table that was bolted to the floor.
“Reece. We’re from the US. Your parents sent us. And this is Yvon Caillaud, your new lawyer.”
He blinked several times, looking at each of them with wide eyes. He croaked, “Dear God. Thank you, mom. Thank you, thank you.”
Francie told him her name, and Merle’s, and gave him perfunctory greetings from his parents, then let Yvon take over.
“Now, Monsieur Pugh, we need you to tell us what led to your arrest. The whole story, beginning to end.”
Reece blinked some more, like he’d waken from a dream. He had scratches on his face and scalp, both scabbed over and fresh. His knuckles were scraped and one ear had a gash in it. His teeth appeared intact but not particularly freshly brushed. He had the look of a scared rabbit who’d been tossed around by wolves.
“Wait,” Francie said. “Before that, are you all right? Are you injured?”
He bobbed his head. “Not now. I got beat up at first but that stopped. Mostly. We watch out for each other in the showers. That’s the worst place but we don’t get many showers, so there’s that.”
“D’accord. You are okay? Yes?” Yvon asked again, somewhat impatiently. “So tell us how it all happened.”
“I— I just came home from my classes one day. It was near the end of term, lots of studying at the library and stuff. And the cops were inside my apartment. They threw me down on the floor and cuffed me.”
“And before this. You had no reason to believe the police were interested in you?”
Reece looked sideways. “Well, I don’t think so. I saw a cruiser, you know, a cop car, outside the building about a week before but nothing else.”
“Do you— did you— live alone? Have a roommate?”
“Yeah, he’s a student too. We hooked up at the beginning of the term. Sami Amoud. He’s Tunisian, I think. S-A-M-I. Quiet guy. No problems.”
Francie and Merle glanced at each other. Maybe it was the roommate. “How did you ‘hook up’?” Francie asked.
“I put up a little ad in the student lounge, on the bulletin board, for a roommate. Sami was the first to call and we got along fine. Have you talked to him?”
“We will do that,” Yvon said. “What else do you know about him besides his nationality?”
“Um, his parents are rich, I guess. He had a lot of walking-around money. He liked to cook and smelled up the place with his spicy stuff. His English was good for a north African, I thought. And his French too of course.” Reece squinted, thinking. “No friends. That was odd but he was a quiet guy and that made it easier to be his roommate.”
“And you?” Yvon asked. “Are you a quiet guy?”
Reece startled. “What do you mean?”
“Did you have friends? Go to parties?” Francie added.
“I went to some parties, sure. I’m in college. And I’m more outgoing than Sami. And not Muslim. Maybe that’s why he kept to himself.”
“We need the names of your friends,” Yvon said. He got out a stub of a pencil and tiny pad of paper that the security guards had allowed him to bring into the room.
“You do? Don’t hassle them, okay?” Reece squirmed, waiting for confirmation that didn’t come. “Well, um. Hans, um, don’t know his last name. From the Netherlands obviously. And, let’s see, Janine and Teresa from New Jersey. Nice girls. I don’t know anybody’s last name, sorry. We just see each other around, at classes, at the coffee shop, you know?”
“Anyone else?” Yvon said, scribbling on his pad.
Reece started to breathe rapidly. “Uh. I went to this party. Oh, shit. Who’s place was that? Uh. Vicky— Victoria? From the UK. And her roommate was—“ He squeezed his eyes shut. “Crap. Her roommate was Jean. Australian or something?” He moaned. “Why? Why do you need to know my friends? Can’t you just get me out of here? I’m dying in here. Don’t I get bail or something? Please, sir.”
Yvon finished writing and put his pad back in his coat pocket. He looked soberly at Reece whose forehead was a wrinkled revolt. He appeared about to cry.
“I am sorry, Monsieur Pugh, but I must inform you— as a foreign national pre-trial release for these offenses is unlikely. I will petition the court for you, of course. But I do not expect release, homebound or otherwise.”
“What?! What the fuck!” He began to raise his voice then crouched lower, whispering his anger. “What the hell kind of lawyer are you anyway?”
“I am a criminal defense attorney, monsieur,” Yvon said calmly. “Your first lawyer tried to get you pre-trial release and that was denied. You are a foreign national, likely to flee the country, and have been charged with serious drug trafficking. That is not taken lightly by the French courts.”
“Drug trafficking? Me?” He looked at them wide-eyed with disbelief. It was a good act.
“Do you know your charges, Reece?” Francie asked.
He shook his head. “Nobody ever— that lawyer— I couldn’t understand—“
Yvon sat forward and stared in his face. “Monsieur, let me enlighten you. Two kilograms of cannabis, one kilogram of heroin, a quarter kilo of cocaine, and three-hundred tablets of Subutex and two-hundred tablets of OxyNorm were found in your apartment. Under your bed. Street value, over ten-thousand euros. Maybe more. Are you saying this was for personal use?”
“No, no— I don’t—it’s not mine, I swear to you.”
“You didn’t know it was there?”
Reece blinked rapidly but bit his lip. He didn’t answer.
“You knew it was there?” Francie said, getting annoyed.
“No—! I mean, I didn’t see it. I never touched it, never bought it. It has nothing to do with me. It’s not mine.”
“Then who does it belong to?” Yvon asked.
He hung his head. “Ask Sami.”
“It belongs to Sami?”
“Yes— maybe. Or somebody he knows. I swear it’s not mine. Somebody set me up.”
“Your supplier?”
“What? No, I don’t have a supplier. I don’t use drugs, I told you.” Reece swore again.
“Sami set you up?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. He didn’t seem like the type but you never know.”
“So he gave you the drugs?”
Reece moaned a little then nodded.
“For selling on the street?” Yvon asked.
“No! I’m not a dealer, I’m telling you.”
“Who is your partner in this, besides Sami?”
“Partner? I don’t have a partner.”
“So it’s just you and quiet Sami the Muslim. Roaming the halls of the University of American Business, dispensing pills and study aids and party favors and anything else the students need.”
Reece began to cry in earnest, while protesting his innocence. His face reddened and tears streamed down his cheeks and he began to rock in his chair, constrained by his chains. “I thought you were here to help me. I thought you came because my mother is paying you to get me out of here.”
“I can’t help you, Monsieur Pugh, unless you tell me who else is in this. I need to know who to find, who to talk to, to clear your name.”
“I told you, ask Sami. I don’t know who set me up.”
“Just came out of the blue, as you say?”
“Yes! Out of the blue. I’m studying accounting and business administration and—“
And he burst into tears again.
Merle settled into the back seat of the lawyer’s sedan, wiping rain drops off her coat. Yvon had given them his keys when he was asked to stay and talk to someone at the prison. Francie and Merle had walked quickly back to the car, silent in their questions. Or silent in their fury, Merle thought, glancing at the back of Francie’s head. Did she know Reece Pugh had that many drugs? She’d fail
ed to share it if she did. But now, worse, it seemed he knew about the drugs and was probably dealing them around his school. She knew from talking to Pascal that the French justice system was harsh and unrelenting. Reece was in for a world of hurt.
Francie let out a long sigh and slumped in her seat, resting her head. “What a cluster-fuck,” she muttered. “What am I going to tell his mother?”
“Do you think he’s guilty?”
“What else? He basically confessed.”
“That his roommate gave him some drugs to stash under his bed. But, yeah, it looks bad.”
Francie turned in the seat. “Do you think we can find this Sami the quiet Muslim?”
“Probably long gone.”
She nodded. “Maybe some of the other kids though.”
Merle took out her phone. “What is this business college?”
“It’s affiliated with some American university, Indiana or somewhere. You can get US degrees there, BAs and MBAs. A pretty international crowd.”
“Nobody’s going to believe that story about him never actually seeing the drugs. Not after he said that Sami gave them to him.”
“Could it be true?” Francie asked.
Merle shrugged. “He takes what he knows are drugs and puts them under his bed. Whether he looks at them or not— he’s screwed.”
“It looks they were partners, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think Sami set him up?”
“Seems likely. He didn’t get arrested, did he?” Merle saw Yvon Caillaud walking toward them in the rain. “Here he comes.”
Francie unlocked his door and he fell inside, shaking water from his hair, flinging it across the seat.
“Oh, so sorry. I am like a dog,” he said laughing.
Francie handed him his keys and he started the car. “What did they want from you?”
“Oh, the prison administrators? They want me to join their public defense team, for the indigent. Those who cannot pay for their own lawyers.”
“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.”
Blame it on Paris Page 12
