J'adore Paris (17 page)

B
onnie Parker and Clyde Barrow notoriously became both lovers and partners in crime. This is what comes to mind when I step into the white marble lobby of Traum and Associates. Not that Harry and Bonnie have engaged in illegal activities, that I know of; rather, they shared the most titillating secret of all—illicit sex. Bonnie was Harry’s mistress and the cause of his divorce.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the French B team back to play in the major leagues.” Harry Traum’s voice bursts down the hallway. He reaches for my hand, and I remember that unmistakable iron grip. “So nice to see you again, Catherine.” He turns to Rikash and asks, “What’s your name again, son?” He moves in for a handshake, and I fear for my assistant’s delicate fingers. Rikash answers but looks insulted.

“Ah yes, now I remember,” Harry says. “I knew it started with an R.”

“As long as you don’t call me ‘Reject,’ we’ll be fine.” Rikash says, using his fingers as quotation marks.

Harry lets out a loud belly laugh, causing the receptionist to jump in her seat. “God almighty, I forgot how funny you two can be!” He slaps his beige Dockers while holding on to one of his suspender straps, then wipes his face with a handkerchief and shows us the way to the boardroom. “Have a seat, kids. I’ll fetch my files and be right back.”

As soon as he walks out the door, Rikash lets it rip. “Can you believe that big toad doesn’t remember my name?” he whispers loudly. “After all those personal errands I ran for him. That’s outrageous.” He shakes his head. “He once made me go across town in the middle of rush hour to pick up some wines for his cellar.” He crosses his arms and pouts.

“Don’t take it personally. That’s just the way he is: rude. We should be out of here in less than an hour. I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

“Hello, Catherine.”

I freeze in my seat. That voice is like nails on a chalkboard. I look up, and there she is in all her glory: Bonnie Clark, fresh as a rose in a suede Oscar de la Renta safari jacket with a low-cut camisole, a close-fitting black skirt, and killer metallic Louboutin heels. She approaches the boardroom table, and we’re greeted by a wave of her Joy de Patou.

I grit my teeth. “Hello, Bonnie, nice to see you again.”

“Yes, it is.” She nods. “Hello, Rikash. How are you?” She closes in on him with her arms open, obviously looking for a hug. He takes a step back and pats her shoulder awkwardly instead.

“You have beautiful offices,” Rikash says, looking around the spare, modernist boardroom. “They’re very you.” I know he’s only being polite—white, chrome, and shag carpet isn’t his style.

She accepts the compliment graciously. “Thank you, Rikash. That’s very sweet of you. I worked hard to make it look good. I’m glad you like it.” She flips her hair back as she takes a seat. “It’s great to have you both here, even if you’re not on our side. Which is too bad for Dior.”

I realize we might well have an uphill battle ahead of us. Bonnie and Harry are heavyweights. Bonnie wasn’t easy to work for, but she’s one hell of a corporate lawyer, and Harry, a former military man, is a formidable litigator with a take-no-prisoners attitude: he aims to win every time.

“Yes, it was quite a surprise for us to find out that you’re on the other side. It’ll be quite a challenge,” I say with my best poker face.

“May the best client win,” Harry adds, re-entering the room with a stack of manila folders in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He’s already spilled a few drops onto his shirt. Bonnie shakes her head in disgust. “Okey-dokey,” he continues. “Let’s get down to brass tacks. Your company is taking a very aggressive approach in this lawsuit, Ms. Lambert. You’re well aware that this case would never fly in front of an American court. The damages claimed by Dior are astronomical, and the basis for your demands is pretty shaky. However, we know that the French
tribunal de commerce
will likely side with a homegrown company like yours.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Not to mention that the luxury market represents a big
chunk of France’s exports, so chances are you’ll try to take us to the cleaners.” He looks over at Bonnie, who’s silent but watching like a hawk. “But, just as with everything in life, there has to be a quid pro quo.”

I nod, waiting for him to go on, but there’s just silence.

“What do you mean?” I finally ask.

“Listen, kiddo, eShop isn’t going anywhere. It’s the largest online auctioneer in the world. We all know this is an intimidation gesture by your company to gain greater control of the distribution channels, at the expense of consumer choice and law-abiding sellers. I don’t believe it’s in either side’s interest to let this lawsuit get out of control.” He finishes his coffee in one giant swig.

I take in what he’s just said. Despite his rough exterior and less than refined manners, Harry is one smart cookie, and he’s clearly trying to get me to convince Sandrine to settle. But based on what I’ve heard from her, there’s no way that’s going to happen.

“I understand your position, Mr. Traum,” I say slowly, “but Dior isn’t backing down on this one. We can’t allow counterfeit sellers to continue to flood the market with fakes. We’re not going to resolve this out of court unless your client is willing to write a big cheque.”

Bonnie smirks, then kicks Harry’s leg under the table, and Rikash looks my way with an expression that tells me he thinks we’re a step closer to success. I must confess to feeling some satisfaction; for the first time in our professional relationship, I have the upper hand.

“Okay, suit yourself, but don’t come crying to old Harry when we appeal the decision of the French magistrate and it costs you guys an arm and a leg in legal fees.”

While I listen to his spiel, I imagine pulling on one of his suspenders and letting it snap off his large belly. I’ll admit this isn’t the first time the thought has crossed my mind. “We won’t. This isn’t grade school, Mr. Traum; we don’t cry over spilt milk.” I stand decisively to indicate that the conversation is over. I’ve seen Bonnie use this negotiation tactic many times before. Rikash follows my lead and rises from his swivel chair. Bonnie raises her eyebrows when she sees us head for the door. “We’ll be in touch through our outside counsel, Pineau Larochelle,” I say, feigning confidence I’m not sure I feel. “We probably shouldn’t speak directly from now on. This was a courtesy call.”

“Not so fast, Lambert.” Harry’s voice stops me in my tracks. “There’s something we haven’t discussed.”

“Oh?” I reply coolly.

“You may want to sit down.”

I sigh and return to my seat. What could this be about?

Harry looks over at Bonnie. She nods, encouraging him like a parent reassuring a child about to recite his alphabet.

“We found out about Jeffrey Richardson.” He pauses, pulling on his suspenders. “All of it.”

I blush, and Rikash jumps in to save me. “I don’t see how this is relevant to the eShop case.”

“Stay out of it, Deepak,” Harry answers bluntly. That’s enough for Rikash, who storms out the door, muttering, “I don’t have to put up with this crap.”

Trembling a bit and expecting the worst, I muster the courage to say, “What’s your point?”

“My point is that what you did was impressive. Taking matters into your own hands and turning Jeffrey in took a lot of guts.”

“The trouble is,” Bonnie says, “at the end of the day, you didn’t have the authority to do what you did. Things could get tricky if the Bar Association were to find out.” She’s examining her cherry red nails, and I picture a tigress sharpening her claws.

Are these two for real? Am I really being blackmailed by my former colleagues? Forget suspenders; my fantasies have moved on to ice picks and chainsaws. I stand corrected: they are outlaws, after all. I want to follow Rikash right out the door, but I know I need to be smart here. My reputation is at stake. If these two clowns disparage my professional ethics, I could lose my law licence, and even my job. I realize it was bold what I did back then—I took the shares Jeffrey wanted to misappropriate and transferred them to Browser’s support staff—but I assumed that my colleagues would support me in my attempt to right a wrong. What a mistake.

“Are you blackmailing me? Do you think that will make Dior back down on the eShop case?” I’m fuming now. “Because the Bar Association would probably not appreciate
that
.”

“Of course not,” Bonnie smiles, looking weirdly like Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
. “We would never do such a thing.”

“Really? It sounds to me like you’re using this to further your client’s interests.” I try to stay calm, imagining myself as an Eastern warrior about to attack. I gather all my inner
strength and go for the kill. “And I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I have some compromising information of my own that could be
very
damaging.”

Bonnie laughs, tilting her head back as though she’s untouchable.

Harry looks less sure of himself. “Is that so? What would that be?” he says.

“I won’t beat around the bush. I caught you two having sex on Bonnie’s office floor when I worked at Edwards & White.” They stare at each other with blank expressions. “I just happened to activate my camera phone as I walked by.” Now I’m lying, but maybe I can match their callousness. “I’m sure your soon-to-be-ex-wife would love to see the results, now that you’re finalizing your divorce, Mr. Traum. I hear things are a bit tense in that department.”

He goes as white as a sheet and gives me a wary look. I know I’ve hit him where it hurts. He shoots Bonnie a sideways glance and reluctantly responds, “I guess we’ll see you in court, then, Ms. Lambert.”

Rikash and I do a little victory dance in the back seat of our cab on the way back to the hotel. In my room, I deadbolt the door and collapse on my bed with a stack of the trashy celebrity mags I’ve so dearly missed. I have messages from my mother and from Chris, who asks when I’ll be back so we can go on another raid together, but nothing from Antoine. The message from Chris makes me feel good: it’s kind of nice that he misses my company on the raids. If only Antoine missed me too.

I suddenly feel a little less triumphant.

J
effrey is in a downward spiral of self-destruction, I think as I watch him enter the district court at Foley Square. His hair is longer than when I last saw him, he has bags under his eyes, and he looks as pale as a ghost. He’s the image of a man who has lost it all. He’s wearing handcuffs instead of cufflinks, an untidy white shirt, and a black suit. He looks nothing like the man I was once attracted to.

He walks slowly to his seat, flanked by a pair of police officers. His eyes meet mine, and his stare is glacial. I once gave my heart to him, and now I can’t maintain eye contact. Why did he choose me to be his accomplice? Do I come off as accommodating and weak? Would another woman have played his game, falling prey to his empty promises? I thought I might break down or even shed a few tears when I saw him again, but I feel nothing at all.

There are journalists from
The Wall Street Journal
and the
Financial Times
in the room. One more financial scandal in the making, and I’m caught in the middle of it. I wish Antoine was at my side, bolstering me through this gruelling exercise. I miss him. I take comfort in the fact that Rikash is sitting not far behind me.

When the judge calls the court to order, the prosecutor presents his case against Jeffrey. He’s accused of securities fraud, conspiracy, and obstruction of justice. Before long, I’m called to the stand. I’m convinced that Jeffrey’s lawyer will try to discredit me. After the meeting with Bonnie and Harry yesterday, I know what to expect.

I walk to the witness box in my light grey Stella McCartney pantsuit and my grandmother’s triple-strand pearl necklace, which I put on for good luck. Rikash discreetly gives me a thumbs-up. Next to him is another former colleague, Scott, who smiles warmly. At least somebody from my old firm is on my side.

The attorney begins with standard questions about my background and my involvement in the Browser IPO before getting down to the nitty-gritty. “Ms. Lambert, what exactly did Mr. Richardson ask you to do before Browser’s public offering?”

I take a deep breath. “He asked that I transfer shares that were meant to be distributed to business partners and employees to a personal offshore account instead.”

“When did he ask you to do this?”

“A few weeks before the Browser IPO.”

“How many shares did this represent?”

“Several thousand.”

“Do you have evidence of this?”

“Yes. I taped his request.”

The prosecutor introduces the tape into evidence. Jeffrey’s lawyer objects but to my relief is overruled. As my tape is played for the jury, I get chills. I can feel Jeffrey’s eyes boring holes into me, but I can’t allow him to get to me.

The tape is a recording of the last conversation we had before things got ugly. I asked him to repeat the details of his illegal scheme while speaking to him from my office phone. I hope that this piece of evidence will be the nail in the coffin.

When it’s the defence’s turn, Jeffrey’s lawyer, a scrawny, nervous type, jumps from his seat and, as I expected, attempts to reduce me to a bobble-head doll, nodding “yes” to each of his leading questions.

“Your name is Catherine Lambert?”

“Yes.”

“You represented Browser as counsel in its IPO last year, right?”

“Yes.”

“Part of your mandate was to handle a directed share program, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And as part of this program, you gave instructions to the investment bank handling the public offering to distribute shares of Browser to its support staff, didn’t you?”

There it is, the question that could discredit my testimony.
I look in Scott and Rikash’s direction for moral support, and they both nod with tight smiles.

“Yes.”

“Did you have the authority to do so, Ms. Lambert?”

“Not exactly,” I mutter. I decide to take a chance. “No one at Browser seemed to mind.”

“Stick to answering the questions, Ms. Lambert. Is it true that you and Mr. Richardson had a romantic liaison while you were representing his company?”

I feel myself getting as red as a tomato, and I want to hide under the judge’s robe. Why did I ever get involved with this
connard?
The prosecutor tries to object, but the judge overrules and directs me to answer the question.

“Yes, but it ended immediately after Mr. Richardson’s request—his
illegal
request.”

“Stick to answering the questions, Ms. Lambert,” he repeats impatiently. “Isn’t it against Bar Association rules to have a romantic involvement with your client?”

“Not unless you’re a matrimonial lawyer,” I answer confidently, having long ago done my homework on this key issue. “Which I am not.”

“Were you upset when the relationship ended?”

“Yes, of course.”

“If that’s so, Ms. Lambert, isn’t it possible that you overstretched the boundaries of your mandate as Browser’s counsel to get back at Mr. Richardson?”

I hold back tears. After everything I’ve gone through to nail
this jerk, now he’s claiming that I acted out of revenge, like a jilted lover. I imagine throttling him with my pearl necklace. After all, that’s why they call it a choker,
non?
I quickly dismiss the thought—my grandmother wouldn’t approve.

“Objection!” The prosecutor intervenes.

“Sustained. You’re out of line, counsellor,” the judge adds, looking miffed.

“No further questions.” Jeffrey’s attorney returns to his seat, looking pleased with himself. Jeffrey smirks at him, seeming equally satisfied. I want to scream at both of them for humiliating me in public.

I leave the stand drained, as if I’d completed four triathlons. I hope to god I haven’t jeopardized the government’s case.

Dodging reporters on my way out of the courtroom, I make the only sensible observation under the circumstances. “I need a drink.”

“How did it go?” Lisa asks when she joins me and Rikash at Pastis, one of our old haunts in the Meatpacking District. Rikash invited her along for dinner to help calm my jittery nerves. I’m in the mood for familiar comforts: a continuous flow of Ricard in the company of good friends. After two glasses of the anise-flavoured liqueur, I’ve begun to unwind, but I still make a face in response to her question.

“Well, the good news is that you’ve done your part. Now all you can do is sit back and wait for the verdict,” Lisa says.

“Easier said than done,” I have to counter. “You’re not the one who was made to look like a sleazy whore. I just hope not too much of it makes it into the papers tomorrow.”

Rikash pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, the press have other things to talk about. The president of Mutual Bank was caught in a bordello yesterday, the stock market tanked again this morning, and Lady Gaga is playing at Madison Square Garden tonight.”

My friends are trying to cheer me up, but I can’t help but feel defeated, vulnerable, and angry. Jeffrey’s lawyer made me look like the wrongdoer in this whole bloody mess.

“I hope you’re right,” I reply meekly. I place my head in my hands and sigh. “I just want this to be over so that I can go back to a normal day of receiving threatening phone calls and nasty emails.”

Lisa, ever the optimist, keeps trying to make me smile. “Rikash told me that you guys kicked butt in Bonnie and Harry’s office yesterday. Way to go, sister! You rock!” She tries to give me a high-five, but I can’t muster the energy.

“I wish I could say the same about my court performance today. Let’s talk about your wedding plans. It’s way more fun,” I say, pouring myself another glass of Ricard. Our ceramic jug is running suspiciously low.

Rikash’s eyes light up. “Girl, what you need is a bachelor-ette party. How about holding it at the Crazy Horse in Paris?” He’s aglow with excitement.

“Sure, why not? I’m game,” Lisa says.

I would give anything to have Antoine by my side right
now. I’m about to text him when I feel Rikash poking me. “Look who just walked in: Mr. Hot Buttocks.”

François D’Avignon is standing next to the bar, looking laid-back in light blue jeans, a checked shirt, and designer running shoes. He doesn’t see us until Rikash stands up and waves flamboyantly.

“Bonjour!”
François addresses me first. “Now I see why I haven’t heard from you, Mademoiselle Lambert. You’ve been hiding on a different continent.”

I blush with embarrassment. Rikash looks at me with an expression that clearly says, “I told you so.”

“I apologize for not getting back to you, François,” I say, still flushed. “My schedule seems to be frantic at the moment.” Oh-la-la, I’m beginning to slur.

“I understand. What brings you to New York?”

I really need to get my act together. “A conference and a few meetings.” I keep it vague. I really don’t want to talk about the trial or the eShop lawsuit. “François, you’ve met Rikash. And this is my friend Lisa.”

“Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
Lisa’s cheeks redden as he reaches for her hand in that gentlemanly European way.

“Lovely to meet you too.” She’s a touch flirtatious herself now. “Would you like to join us?” She points to an empty chair.

François looks at me, waiting for my approval. The last thing I want to do right now is chit-chat with another lawyer and pretend I’m in good spirits, but I don’t want to be rude, and I feel Rikash and Lisa begging me with their eyes. I give them a look to say Jeffrey’s trial is off limits.

“Yes, please join us.” I nod at the seat next to Rikash. “We’re talking about Lisa’s wedding. It’s going to be in France.”

“Ah, lovely.” He smiles. “May I ask where it’s being held?”

As the conversation goes on, it dawns on me that François speaks English fluently, and without any accent. Hmm. That’s interesting, I think to myself, but I quickly dismiss my suspicions. It’s been a long day. I’m just exhausted.

“Catherine, your mother’s home sounds wonderful. My parents also own a house in the south, near Saint-Tropez,” François says.

Rikash chimes in, ever the enthusiast. “I just adore Saint-Trop,” he says, using the local lingo. “The clubs are amazing, especially La Voile Rouge.”

I have visions of Rikash attending private soirées organized by the likes of Paris Hilton and her entourage, spraying Champagne onto yacht-bound revellers until the wee hours, and I crack a smile.

François grins, looking a lot like George Clooney, and winks at me. “Yes, well, I’m afraid I don’t go there anymore. I’m a bit too old for that.” His wink, on top of the alcohol and my fatigue, makes me a little giddy.

“Would you like some Ricard?” I ask, reaching for the ceramic carafe and knocking a third of its contents onto the table.

Tone it down, Catherine, I tell myself. You’re going to get yourself into some major trouble.

Rikash and Lisa realize that I’ve reached my alcohol limit and try to take control of the situation.

“Perhaps François would prefer something more sophisticated, like a whiskey?” Lisa muses, removing the carafe from my hands.

“Actually, I’ll have a beer.” How American. His down-to-earth manner and easy smile please me; he’s not an uptight French bourgeois, after all. I feel a sudden, shocking rush of attraction, and decide I’d better watch what I say.

“When are you heading back to Paris?” François asks.

“Tomorrow, in the late afternoon,” Rikash replies. “We have lots of work waiting for us in Paris.”

“Ah yes, the famous eShop lawsuit. My colleagues are looking forward to working with you on that file.”

“Likewise.” I find myself leaning across the table and making sweet eyes at François. Rikash pulls me back. I cover my mouth with a hand and try to control the slurring. “We attended this great conference on counterfeiting, and it really got us primed up for the fight.”

“Good to hear. I had a feeling you were hot-tempered,” François say, lingering a bit on the word “hot.”

This is ridiculous. I’m flirting with François in front of my two best friends while someone is waiting for me back home. And honestly, François is way too slick for me.

I peer down at my phone. There are still no messages from Antoine. Couldn’t he at least have texted me after the trial? Maybe I don’t have someone waiting for me, after all.

“Shall we order food?” I ask, feeling deflated. “I need to eat.”

“Dah-ling, I think that’s a grand idea.” Rikash shoves a menu in front of me. “Will you be joining us for dinner, François?”

“Thank you, but I’m here to meet some friends. It was great seeing you again, Catherine.” François leans over to kiss my cheek. “Please let me know if you’re up for the concert in Paris.”

My eyes follow him to the door, where he has a word with the maître d’. Then he steps out the front door and into a cab. That’s strange—didn’t he say he was meeting friends? Perhaps they didn’t show, I tell myself. There are enough mysteries in my life, and more important matters to attend to right now, first and foremost the steak and fries I’ve just ordered.