Her client was a well-respected bourgeois, he had walked into the small firm a month back, white cashmere and wristwatch sparkling as he lifted his hands.
Please, I need a lawyer.
Very old style and over-dramatic, as Arianne had heard the interns mutter during the coffee break. Usually, they received phone calls or emails from first-time clients. Not this one. As it happened Arianne was in a lull between clients and she decided to take the man into her office for a first meeting.
Arianne, what a lovely name, I hope you will throw me a rope and get me out of this mess.
She had resisted the urge of correcting his Greek mythological understanding to settle with a court remark.
It will be Avocat Maize for you, Sir.
Not at all taken aback he had started to explain his problems. This was a man that was used to being listened to. Arianne struggled to interrupt and ask relevant questions as she diligently scribbled in her black leather-bound notebook. She should have left this one for Eliza, her partner at the firm, and also study-buddy from law school. She was a sharp-tongued practicing Christian that could make anyone quake in their boots and go and beg for her (or possibly the Almighty’s) forgiveness.
Mr. Farah, as the man swiftly introduced himself, declared being an entrepreneur working for the betterment of humankind. He painted, at length, the image of a second-generation businessman with links to his ancestor’s land, Lebanon. He described, again at length, the struggling years of starting off a business in France. Managing to get a loan from the bank, living in squalor with his family of six children until he broke even.
I am a self-made man, Miss Arianne. He spread his hands wide as if the spotlessness of his pullover was proof of his personality.
Arianne swallowed the urge to correct him again and took advantage of the pause to ask the most pressing questions. An uncle from whom he had borrowed money (and given back with generous interest, Miss) had come out of the woodwork once his business was flourishing and had asked for a part of the revenues (I am sure it’s his wife pushing him Miss, she was always very greedy). The uncle had not however abated and had taken the thing to court (would you imagine, Miss!). The recount dramatically ended after a little less than an hour (I am drowning Miss, will you help me?) Arianne went through her notes quickly, it didn’t seem like an overly complicated case, Eliza was always saying she should toughen up and make decisions for herself.
Very well, Sir, I shall walk you through the contract with Durand & Maize.
Looking at the file containing a number of receipts and emails from the said uncle, Arianne’s head started to swim. As always the client had played it down as the innocent lamb, however, there was a trail of paper leading to not so charming exchanges. She did believe Mr. Farah’s account, and it did after all match most of the proof. And if he wasn’t so well spoken in all the exchanges, showing a rather vulgar penchant for (at least moral) blackmail, well that was none of her problems. She sighed and popped paracetamol in her mouth sending it down with a swig from the paper cup. She had woken up with back and stomach aches, today was not the best day of the month and to make it worse she had a hearing in the afternoon for a divorce case. Those usually involved a lot of tears and she was in no mood for that. She was about to shut the folder and tuck it into her leather bag when something caught her eye.
The header of one of the mails was Icarus Project. The email in itself was another of those boring ones where the uncle asked for a share and Mr. Farah replied he didn’t know what he was talking about (and are you coming over for the wedding, Amu?). But it was the first time this Project thing was mentioned. She scribbled it on her notebook for later and got up slowly. The pains were not receding and having only drunk coffee this morning she felt lightheaded. Moving slowly she collected her things. When she was younger she would think that if she lay totally motionless the pain would just wash over her. She quickly understood that was not the case and also highly unpractical for someone with a job. So now she carefully scheduled her life around the pains, trying to have the least complicated things to do for the three days a month in which she moved through life in a haze of painkillers. The hearing in the afternoon must have been scheduled by one of the interns and Arianne cursed her silently while walking along the imposing corridors of the Registry. Limply she made her way to the Chatelet metro stop. The sickly smell of fried doughnuts wafted towards her. She had to strengthen up if she was going to do any work today. Her abdomen sent lurching pains at every step and she resolved to lying down on the couch in the back office as soon as she got to the firm.
The metro stop was a labyrinth, people swarming like automatons in all directions. The yellowish glare of lamps turning the pale faces into greenish masks as she walked down long corridors with the only sound of dripping condensation and her short heels clipping on the floor. It was way past rush hour but line 4 was always full showing the spectrum of Parisian life in one long metal tube hurtling from the posh town center to the cheaper and rundown outskirts.
A group of Spanish teens, oblivious of her glares, crowded her personal space talking loudly. Arianne gripped the handles of her leather handbag, her nails biting into her palms. Her hands had gone clammy and all of a sudden the metro went hazy. Waves of sickness washed over her. Oh no. She struggled out of the metro for air just as the doors closed behind her with a loud piing. Collapsing on the floor of the Quai she searched the eyes of a passing woman, that walked on. The homeless man at the end of the platform waved a carton of wine cheerily in her direction. Everything blacked out and she felt herself falling but never hitting the floor.
When she woke up her feet were propped up vertically against slimy-looking tiles and her head was resting on something rather hard, probably her bag. A pair of blue eyes and round spectacles stared down on her worriedly. They belonged to a rather disheveled thirty-something guy with receding hairline and a corduroy jacket. Arianne nearly laughed, he looked like the caricature of someone working in a bookshop along the Seine. Vintage look and all.
Okay lay still there ma’am, you may have hit your head. I have called the ambulance they are arriving shortly.
I’m okay, really, I have to get back to work. She started struggling up against the protests of her savior. At that moment the ambulance people charge down the platform. A sturdy guy with a reddish mustache and a thin girl that looked way to young to be on the job.
Mr. Theseus, you are the one that called.
Yes, yes, the lady here fell, I didn’t reach her in time, well looked like she collapsed. He was twirling a beret in his hands, corduroy too.
I’m fine, I’m fine. Just not feeling very well…
As the sturdy redhead insisted on taking her blood pressure and other things, Mr. Theseus hovered around giving her encouraging smiles and she felt slightly ashamed of herself and didn’t mention the pains. Her gray two-piece suit would have to be washed and she felt in no way capable of sitting through a hearing, so she texted Eliza asking to step in for her in the afternoon.
Mr. Theseus, Agenor was his name, escorted her out of the metro station, and to a nearby cafe. Parking Arianne on a round little table with red and white wicker chairs in the deserted terrasse, he went off to find a waiter. Arianne was still a bit shaky from the fall but Agenor’s company was more pleasurable than his dress sense and they entered an easy banter.
Not a bookshop clerk, after all, he turned out to be working for an unknown NGO specialized in strategic litigation and a lawyer himself. Pretty soon they were discussing the latest cases of class action and the vices of capitalism. Arianne thought he had a rather endearing way of pushing up his spectacles and chewing on the end of his hand-rolled cigarettes while listening to her.
After several coffees, he glanced at his watch and gasped. I have to go fetch Camille from school. My daughter, she’s ten.
Arianne was rather put out by that but noticing he had no rings on his fingers and the cheeky shrug he gave her while handing her his visiting card, she quickly recovered. Beggars are not choosers was her friend Constance’s motto when she swiped right during their all-girls pizza Wednesdays.
She nearly fell from her seat when she saw the name of the NGO on the visiting card: Icarus Project. Well, at least she had a good excuse to call him now.
As she retraced her steps to the metro she tried to think of the unlikeliness of what just happened. Why was the name of that NGO in the email of Mr. Farah? How come Agenor appeared just after she saw that name on the file? All these questions crowded her head. She scribbled different possible pathways in her notebook. Thinking at the issue logically, examining the various possible causal links. If she wanted to think that it wasn’t all just random the most probable thing was that Agenor was investigating her client’s business, through his NGO the Icarus Project. After all, he did admit it did strategic litigation mostly against companies that committed some form of Human Rights violation. That however did not explain why the name of the NGO was on an email between Mr. Farah and his uncle. Unless they knew about the investigation. Also if Mr. Farah’s company was in trouble, what was that about? His company had some falafel shops around Paris, a franchise he had said proudly. Was it a front? If that was the case that would explain his utter panic at the uncle bringing his case to court. But that was not a very strong pointer. Arianne knew that most people had an innate fear of ending up in court. Seeing the whole ordeal as overly traumatic and went to great lengths to avoid it. Also if the uncle was in on the potential Human Rights violation he had no interest in showing the numbers to a court. The last question troubling her was how did Agenor find her? Was he lurking in the Registry office? Was he trying to accost her in the metro? Angrily she pushed back her hair, she was still sitting outside the metro station on a bench and the autumn wind was playing havoc with the leaves. She kept going over the different options but her brain hovered on one particular question over and over. Was Agenor flirting with her on purpose to get information? She hadn’t discussed any of her cases with him, she was sworn to secrecy, but she did mention the kind of issues she dealt with. He had laughed when she had said that most of her cases included parents hating each other enough to make their kid’s life hell, ladies with poodles pissing against their neighbors’ front door, and tacky nouveau riches getting into fights with their uncle over a pile of falafels.
Back in her apartment and finally, out of the stained gray suit and a warm shower she decided to confront him, it felt less scary than calling her client.
Hello! I wasn’t expecting a call so soon. Camille go to your room, I have a work call.
So, how do you know it is for work?
Oh, well I didn’t, I just prefer to have some privacy. You know ten-year-olds can be very nosy.
You must have had her when you were a teen. Yeah, well we were twenty-five, and not very wise. Anyway, how are you feeling now?
Better, thank you.
Arianne had hoped to keep a business-like voice but he sounded concerned for her. Making her feel warm in the pit of her stomach. She cleared her throat and looked at her notebook. Right.
I was wondering if you could talk to me a bit more about the Icarus Project.
Err, right. I feel like we are both not going to be satisfied with a discussion over the phone.
Arianne swore silently to herself. Of course, always having to deal with civil rights petty issues she didn’t have the constant paranoia of talking on the phone that most criminal lawyers have. And rightly so also someone working on Human Rights violations. By companies.
Right, Sorry, my bad. Let’s meet up then?
The wine bar was crowded inside, so they decided to huddle in the far corner outside under the sheet of plastic set up for the smokers. Electric heaters always made Arianne too hot on her face and kept her feet freezing. At least her cramps had decided to give her the evening off, very considerate since she was in no mood for feeling dopey and full of meds. As the rain lashed out against the plastic and Agenor rolled his cigarette she decided to come clean with him. She had debated with herself all the way to the bar. Swinging from treating him courtly to spilling the beans and following her instincts.
So, I have a client- she paused and added- I shouldn’t be telling you this.
He held up a hand to stop her before lighting his cigarette, head slightly tilted to the side. He had taken off the round glasses and she could see that his lashes shadowed his watery blue eyes.
Don’t tell me. You are bound by secrecy, I’m not. I can stand on the roof and shout all the bad things I have found out once they are public. After all, I’m doing it in the name of the Greater Good, Human Rights etcetera. Only that Human Rights or God or whatever you call it are not very good with paying the bill. They leave it up to us to unearth grants from rich people with a bad conscience or just companies that want a cause and a tax reduction and leave it to the over-enthusiastic intern in CSR to choose which NGO will get lucky this year. He took a deep breath- So, I do the speaking and you do the nodding and the vague replies. Yes?
Yes, go ahead. Arianne found herself smiling.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. – It all started when we investigated briefly on an arms contract between France and Lebanon. Don’t look at me like that, falafels are not hand-grenades. Arianne snorted in her white wine.
As I was saying it was just a routine poking our nose around, making the big boys feel uncomfortable. Getting closer to the sun. Ah, now you get the reference! I will tell you how we got to be called the Icarus project another time, but you get the gist. So then we started looking at their contracts. It all has to be in some way public and what is not, well we have our ways. Then we stumbled on something juicy. With a cursory glance to the table next to them he lowered his voice- Fourteen companies, all respectable, creating value here on the French soil by good law-abiding second or third-generation citizens, all in different neighborhoods, were sending automatically all their CCV registrations to the Ministry of Defense.
Arianne’s eyes widened. You mean…?
It was seven food places. A mix between the sleaziest snack bars you can imagine in the eighteenth to the cool falafel restaurants in the Marais and the shisha bars in the fifth. Then you had seven hairdressers, those were even more heterogeneous, going from the Jean Louis David franchise to the African plaits and wigs. The only common denominator was that all the company holders were second or third-generation Lebanese and all the videos from opening to closing were sent off without anyone’s knowledge.
Arianne gasped. – That’s impossible. I mean it would be masses of footage. What would they do with that?
I don’t know. He spread his hands wide, wine glass and cigarette in the same hand. It was validated in the wide-sweeping responses to the terrorist attacks back in 2015.
You mean since then… everyone going in those places has been spied on, constantly?
Yup. Agenor took an ungracious swig of his red wine balancing a cigarette on the edge of the table.
That’s a big assumption. Do you have any proof?
Agenor looked at her from behind the rim of his glass. Let’s say I have reels of proof.
And do the companies know you are investigating?
Another sidelong glance. You are worried about your client?
Yes, well I feel this is the kind of thing that is out of my scope of action, but I should know to be able to you know, err push him in the right direction. Arianne felt her face get hotter, and it wasn’t just because of the suspended heaters.
Actually, they do know. All of them. We went to see them and discussed the issue. Most of them were not even aware about the cameras being installed, the decision having been taken a while back by parents, uncles. He winked at her.
Right. Arianne took a deep breath. So what should I do?
Agenor smiled. The sort of cat that caught the mouse smile.
Well, I will propose to various of these companies to erm… seek out your diligent little firm. For one thing or another. Mostly petty affairs. No poodles pissing in doorways, don’t worry, but you get the idea. Enough to have a judge have a good dig in their numbers and conversations.
You will be keeping the thread Arianne, I will then go in and defeat the Minotaur in his own court of justice. After a pause, he added. Without getting my wings burnt by the sun.
He paused- God, is it me, or are there way too many mythological references to this story? They both laughed and clinked glasses as the rain beat down on the plastic sheet.
Crafty Poulette 