J'adore Paris (11 page)

“T
he most shocking thing I’ve seen during a raid? Well, once I walked in on a room full of tired, sick children who were all under the age of ten. They were making fake handbags and were actually shackled to the old sewing machines they were working on. It was awful.”

Frank Lee and I are walking toward the market. As planned, he’s filling me in on the lay of the land in the world of Shanghai counterfeiting.

“What happens to those poor kids afterward?” It’s pretty horrifying.

“They probably get hired by someone else to do the same thing. These children are dirt poor, and what they earn manufacturing fakes probably feeds their entire families.”

“Is anything being done to change this?”

“Chinese officials have been trying to crack down on child labour, but it’s difficult to get them to prioritize the issue, since
counterfeiting is such a lucrative industry. It employs thousands of people, conditions notwithstanding, so local governments are slow to act. But the good news is that there’s now an international initiative under way to raise money for these children’s education. It’s a well-publicized non-profit organization that’s gaining visibility.”

I nod back. It’s something.

When we reach the market, I’m surprised to see two big posters pasted outside the main door. They come from the Shanghai Administration of Commerce and Industry and are written in English, reminding commercial tenants that it’s illegal to sell counterfeit goods on the premises. Those who contravene this rule will be investigated and prosecuted, apparently. The posters include a long list of the most frequently copied luxury brands and logos.

“I thought you said we would find fake merchandise here,” I say.

“Don’t worry, we will. They just put those posters there to cover their backs with international law enforcement. As you can see, the notices are written in English, not Chinese, so they’re pretty meaningless.” Frank lights up a cigarette as we walk along the aisles.

We wander further into the market, and I’m overwhelmed by the quantity of stuff for sale. This place makes Canal Street look like a village general store. There are even electronic gadgets, such as iPods and iPhones. I can’t tell they aren’t the real thing and am reminded of a recent news report claiming that Chinese counterfeiters have gone a step further, opening
flawless fake Apple stores that even the employees believe to be real.

“After knocking off luxury products like expensive handbags for years, criminals are discovering there’s money to be made in faking the more ordinary.” Frank points to a stack of fake Angel Soft toilet paper.

“I guess counterfeiters are feeling the economic pinch like the rest of us. They’re downgrading?”

“Absolutely. They follow economic trends.”

We walk past a man dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans who’s giving me a look that makes my skin crawl. As soon as I catch him staring, he runs off in the opposite direction. Should I be worried about my safety? At least I’m wearing my new underwear from Sabbia Rosa—it makes me feel like I’m ready for anything.

Frank picks up a poorly designed copy of an iPod and points to a feature that gives it away: a large on-off button added to the front of the device. “You see, the Chinese like to add their personal touch to American design,” he adds, only half joking.

Sensing my uneasiness, he tries to lighten things up by sharing a bit of local gossip. “Did you hear that one of the big Italian luxury brands is suing a local salesman for selling fake merchandise to the Canadian singer Cecily Dutton?”

“No, why is that?”

“The store caught the media’s eye when Cecily was photographed by the
Shanghai Morning Post
picking up about fifty knock-off bags when she was here for a concert.”

I’m appalled that a celebrity would bother with fakes. She can afford a private jet and multiple homes, so why buy counterfeit goods made of shoddy materials?

“I’m glad she got caught on film. Hopefully she won’t do it again. The salesman, either.”

Frank sees me looking around impatiently and reads my mind. “The vendors are more careful these days, so you won’t see much Dior on display. You need to specifically ask for it.”

He stops a stylish-looking young woman and asks her something in Chinese. She gives me a long, suspicious look, then points in the opposite direction. Before we can thank her, she has disappeared.

Frank signals for me to follow him. We meander past stalls filled with toys and home accessories and, eventually, women’s apparel. Here we find row upon row of quilted bags in a rainbow of colours hanging from the ceiling, along with matching key chains and wallets. Frank stops at the first handbag stall to ask the vendor if he has any Dior. The vendor shoves a photocopied catalogue of last year’s collection across the counter toward us while dialling his phone. I’m aghast that he has the gall to use an authentic catalogue to sell his fake stuff, but try to maintain my composure. I want to see how this plays out. Frank looks at me and I point to a picture of a black Lady Dior bag and a matching wallet. The young man nods and asks how many we want. I hold up the fingers of one hand for five.

As we wait for the loot to arrive, Frank fills me in further. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but genuine links have been established by Interpol between counterfeiting
and known criminal organizations such as the Russian and Albanian mafias, the Japanese Yakuza, the Chinese triads, the Italian Camorra, and even the Turkish clans.” He looks around to make sure no one can overhear us.

“Yes, so I understand. It’s scary to think that these are the folks we’re up against,
non?
”

Before Frank can answer, we see the vendor sprinting down the aisle with several large bags in hand, leaving a trail of torn catalogue pages in his wake. Two young Chinese women are close behind, trying to pick up discarded pages from the ground.

Frank gives me a perplexed look. “I wonder what gave us away.” He walks around the counter and pulls a red curtain aside to reveal poster-size photos of Rikash and me with thick red lines across our faces. They’re like No Smoking signs, but with our faces magnified for all to see. At the bottom are Chinese characters that Frank translates for me:
Be careful! They take your stuff!
Weak in the knees, I grab onto the counter with both hands while trying to catch my breath.

“I guess you and Cecily Dutton have something in common,” Frank jokes, trying to calm me down. “A souvenir photo from the markets of Shanghai.”

“T
he sooner you deal, the sooner you’ll heal,” Rikash advises me via Skype two days later.

I received an email from Frédéric in the middle of the night just after my traumatic market incident asking that I return to Paris early to attend a meeting with the eShop lawyers. I was wide awake and in a state of anxiety when the message came in, and was more than ready to jump on the next plane home. Within fifteen minutes, I’d rescheduled my flight and my bags were packed. Rikash stayed behind to help Laetitia with the last corporate event.

“It was traumatic, seeing my picture on a wanted poster. It made me feel like an outlaw cockroach. Aren’t you even a bit concerned about having your face all over China? God knows where else our pictures are hanging.”

“The American men’s Olympic swim team locker room would be nice.” He winks theatrically into the tiny camera.

“Stop it, this isn’t funny,” I chastise him. “I’m really upset about this. I’ve had nightmares since I arrived in Paris.”

I twisted and turned in my seat the entire flight back, despite downing what felt like the plane’s entire stock of red wine. Back home, I’ve barely managed to get any shut-eye.

“There’s no need to worry, dah-ling. It’s just a photo taken by a bunch of hoodlums. Your face will soon be replaced by another anti-counterfeiting agent or, who knows, maybe a nudie.”

I’m comforted by Rikash’s insouciance. He manages to soothe my nerves, even under the most nerve-racking circumstances.

“Have you been able to get anywhere with Xavier?” I ask.

“Nope.” There’s a long pause. “Not even a peck on the cheek.” He makes a sad face into the camera. “But I’ll try again tomorrow, I promise.”

“Don’t try too hard.” I make a kissing gesture.

“Not to worry, dah-ling. I never have to work at it too long.” He brings his face right up to the camera and makes a loud smooching sound before sitting back. “I do have to tell you about my adventure at the museum party after you left. You’ll be very proud of grand old me.”

“I’m always proud of you, you know that. What happened?”

“On my way out, I noticed a tiny little shop behind the official museum store. There were handbags in the window. I pressed my nose to the glass, and what did I see? Fake Dior bags! I couldn’t believe it. At our own party!” His eyes get wide with excitement. “I could see the shoddy stitching from ten feet away, so I went back to the party to let our president know.”

Pretty bold. Rikash’s no-nonsense and straightforward way of getting things done is both productive and endearing. With luck, this brave move will further prove what a great hire he is.

“That’s amazing! How did he react?”

“You should have seen his face—it turned beet red. He had the museum officials unlock the shop and call the police. Within an hour, all the counterfeit merchandise was gone. He seemed very grateful, told me he’d take me out for lunch. And he’s quite the looker for an older man, you know.”

“Wow. I’m impressed, and I’m sure Sandrine will be too.”

“Thanks, sweetie. I’m delighted you approve. How did it go with Antoine? Was he in a better mood when you got home?”

“He’s fine. He’s just going through a rough patch at work. He had a delicious home-cooked meal waiting for me when I got back.”

“I hope he’s not putting too much heat on himself. God knows, that firm isn’t worth it.”

I’m reminded of the offer I received from Harry Traum, Edwards & White’s former managing partner, before leaving New York. He asked me to join the new boutique firm he was founding as a junior partner. I’m relieved once again that I refused. One person suffering from that kind of pressure in our relationship is enough.

“We’re going out for dinner tonight. I’ll make sure to convey the message.” I smile.

“Please say hello for me. And good luck with the eShop meetings. I’ll be ready to hit the ground running as soon as I’m back.”

“Enjoy the festivities while you can,” I say, turning my computer sideways so that he can see the files piled up on his desk.

“I will. In fact, I have a breakfast meeting tomorrow with a
Vogue Paris
editor. Should be fun.” He grins mischievously. “See you in Paris, dah-ling.”

Just as we sign off, my phone rings. It’s Chris.

“I heard from Frank. Are you okay?” He sounds concerned.

“Let’s just say that it wasn’t exactly what I expected.”

“It never is in this business. Don’t take it too personally, though. You’re not the first and won’t be the last to have your picture posted in those markets.”

It’s hard not to take it personally, but I try to see his point. “Thanks for the support, Chris. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Take care, Catherine. We’ll talk soon.”

Despite myself, I feel butterflies in my stomach after we hang up.
Merde
, what does this mean?

It’s a difficult pill to swallow, but the truth is, you can purchase a fake of pretty much anything these days from the comfort of your flannel pyjamas. Gone are the days when shopping for knock-offs involved shady deals in dark basements that looked like crack dens, or hiding in the back of dingy trucks shrouded by clouds of exhaust. Reports say that most counterfeiting transactions now take place in the digital marketplace, and a simple Internet connection gives you access to a world of fakes.

One consequence is that the customer relations departments at Dior and all the other luxury goods companies have been inundated with complaints from people claiming compensation after purchasing fake merchandise on websites like eShop. Initially, this seemed unreasonable to me, until I visited some of the fake sites, which had been designed to look just like the real deal. Relatively high-priced replicas were for sale, accompanied by photographs copied directly from our company website. Even the most sophisticated shoppers could be hoodwinked by the ruse.

Dior is about to launch a lawsuit that will likely have significant repercussions throughout the luxury industry. It’s claiming that the world’s largest electronic auction site allows vendors to sell knock-offs of its products without proper verification procedures. Sandrine, Frédéric, and I are preparing for the first meeting with opposing counsel, and I’m thrilled to be involved; this will be a landmark case. I understand why Antoine is interested in representing Dior in this case, and it makes me sad to think that he won’t work on it because of me.

Frédéric interrupts my musing by entering the boardroom with several folders in hand. “Had a good time in Shanghai, I presume?” He takes a seat and places his reading glasses on the tip of his nose.

I wonder if I should tell him about the upsetting experience at the market with Frank Lee. Given that Chris works for Frédéric, the news is bound to get back to him sooner or later, so I figure I might as well spill the beans.

“It wasn’t all fun and games.” I catch myself nervously clutching my hands together.

“Come on, Catherine, don’t tell me you actually worked between all that wining and dining?”

His sarcastic tone is a little irritating. I decide to put my cards on the table. “As a matter of fact, I did. I visited the Nanjing Road market with an investigator who works for Chris in Shanghai. I wanted to see first-hand what goes on in China.”

He hesitates for a moment before speaking, his crystal blue eyes now looking right through me. He removes his glasses and twirls them in his fingers. “Catherine, I like your work ethic. Not many people would have skipped the martinis to do that.”

This is better. It’s good to know that I’m beginning to earn his trust. “Thank you. You know, I take my position here seriously. That’s why I was pretty frightened when I saw big pictures of me and Rikash plastered on one of the market walls.”

He looks at me sympathetically, then says, “I’m sorry to hear that, Catherine. But I’m afraid you’ll need to develop a thick skin if you’re going to succeed in this position.” He takes a deep breath. “You and Rikash should wear bulletproof vests going forward when you’re out in the field. It’s non-negotiable.”

My heart sinks as I imagine myself dressed in five pounds of Kevlar. Never mind the look of it; the thought of someone shooting at me makes me feel nauseated.

He reads my mind. “I understand how you feel—we’ve all gone through it—but you don’t need to worry. There haven’t been any shootings in a very long time.” He looks sincere and I believe him. “But you’re dealing with criminals, so we can’t afford to take any risks. Your safety comes first.”

It seems insane that anyone would resort to violence in connection with fake clothing and accessories, but then, these vendors are also involved in drugs and arms trafficking. We’re not just playing cops and robbers here.

“We’ve all gone through what?” Sandrine asks, taking a seat at the head of the boardroom table. She slipped into the room during our conversation, Coralie following close behind. Sandrine is elegant in a camel-coloured jacket draped over a lilac shift dress with purple platform shoes. A delicate flower-shaped diamond brooch adds the finishing touch. She’s the epitome of a French woman’s style: exquisite restraint with a glorious touch of individuality.

I haven’t seen much of Sandrine lately, and she never did give me any feedback on my counterfeit destruction initiative. It’s obvious that I’m now reporting to Frédéric, which is a little disappointing. Sandrine is by far the best role model I’ve had in my career and is someone I’d like to learn more from. I try to push these feelings aside. She’s busy, and I don’t want to come across like a spoiled child asking her for more attention.

She tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, waiting for an answer. I’m frozen in my seat, visions flashing through my head of bullets whizzing by while Rikash and I run for cover.

“Catherine was just telling me that counterfeiters in Shanghai had posted pictures of her and Rikash in a market stall. I told her that, from now on, she should wear a bulletproof vest when she’s on a raid,” Frédéric said.

Sandrine looks shocked. “You were in the markets in Shanghai?” Her tone is cautious. “You must be careful, Catherine. These people are dangerous. We need to be aware of your whereabouts at all times.” She purses her glossy lips.

I’m taken aback. Perhaps I’ve been taking this job too lightly. Am I putting my life in danger? I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into: this anti-counterfeiting mission makes swimming with corporate sharks at Edwards & White look like an afternoon at the wading pool.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t fully grasp the security risks. I won’t try that again without clear instructions.” I try to sound unfazed, and decide not to mention Rikash’s sting operation the night of the museum party. Neither Frédéric nor Sandrine looks to be in any mood to hear about it.

“Très bien.”
She nods. “Now, to the business at hand. I understand the eShop lawyers want to try to settle with us today. Good luck with that!” She smiles coyly, a panther about to strike. She may be polished, but she’s tough, too.

Coralie says, “I believe the lawyers are waiting outside.”

“Show them in.” Sandrine gives the room a focused look that sends shivers down my spine. I hope she doesn’t turn out to be a control freak like Bonnie, my former boss.

A tall man in grey flannel and a pink Hermès tie walks in with a young female lawyer in a conservative black suit and
matching pumps. Her attire reminds me of what I used to wear at Edwards & White. Looking down at my red Dior jacket and flared cream-coloured trousers, I realize how far I’ve come (at least in terms of dress code).

As introductions are made, Coralie bustles back in with a silver tray full of delicate pastries, which she places in the middle of the table. This is a welcome change from the heavy snacks common in New York meetings: unappealing deli sandwiches, bags of Doritos, and greasy muffins in tacky plastic wrappers. I reach for a chocolate éclair, but everyone stops talking and stares at me, so I set it down on a plate, surreptitiously licking my fingers. I guess at Dior, boardroom food is purely decorative.

“We’re here at the request of our client, eShop,” the male lawyer begins. “We have instructions to settle this matter before it goes to court. Our client wants to avoid further publicity and expenses. There’s been enough media attention in the United States already, so the company’s New York lawyers suggested we meet to resolve this.”

“Which American firm is handling the case?” I ask, curious.

“We’re not at liberty to reveal that at this time,” the female attorney replies curtly.

“You’re wasting your time,” Sandrine declares. She places a manicured hand on her paperwork. “We have instructions from senior management to fight this tooth and nail. Does your client realize that hundreds of thousands of fakes are sold on their website every day? It’s a major ongoing financial loss for our company. This has gone on for far too long, despite
numerous cease and desist orders. We’ll be asking for several hundred million euros. But if your client is willing to write a hefty cheque, by all means, be my guest.”

The male attorney stares at Frédéric and me, looking as pale as a sheet. We remain silent as the tension builds palpably.

“Litigation is outrageously expensive,” he says tentatively. “And we have an excellent chance of winning this case based on the recent U.S. decision.”

“American precedents are irrelevant here,” Sandrine insists. “And in any case, we have a large reserve fund set aside for this purpose. It’s a priority.”

Smoking is illegal in office buildings here, so I’m shocked when Sandrine lights up a cigarette. This is the irony of working with lawyers: they spend their days enforcing certain laws while disobeying the ones that displease them.

The male lawyer stands, picks up his briefcase, and says flatly, “Okay, Sandrine, I guess we’re wasting our time here. Let’s go.” He beckons the female lawyer to follow him out of the room. The young woman’s face is now the ash grey of the boardroom carpet. She politely nods to us in lieu of saying goodbye.

Sandrine nods back. “Now that we’ve taken care of
that
, we need to file the lawsuit with the commercial court right away. Which outside firm shall we retain?” She grabs a glass from the bar next to the boardroom table and taps her cigarette into it.