“I’ll say,” Bennie blurted out, then caught herself. She realized something she had overlooked in her greed attack. “Wait a minute. Robert, the speaker mentioned all foreign lenses, not just yours. Are there other foreign manufacturers he was referring to, do you know?”
“Ah, oui. There are many others like me, though my losses are the greatest. I have many colleagues who have been harmed, three from Germany, several from the Netherlands. Also from the Far East, the Japanese in particular, and I know they plan to seek an attorney.”
“How many other lens manufacturers do business here?”
“Perhaps thirty or more across the country, who would all be affected. It is a national trade association, not just local.”
Uh-oh. Bennie took the bad news like a man. In nylons. “That changes things, Robert. I’m not sure I should represent you.”
“What?” St. Amien’s finely etched lips fell apart slightly. Next to him, Judy and Anne exchanged confused glances.
“You don’t have an individual claim, you have a class action.” Bennie took a sip of coffee so she didn’t burst into hysterical tears. That would definitely not be professional. “I’m not a class-action lawyer, and your needs would be best served by one of them. They could represent you and the others against the trade association.”
“A class action?” St. Amien inclined his silvery head.
“A class action is a lawsuit designed for people in your situation, when there are lots of people who have the same case against the same entity, and there is basically the same fact pattern. Technicalities aside, that is,” Bennie added, but she didn’t know them herself. She had just told the man all she knew about class-action law, which was the problem. “I’m not a class-action expert, but I can help you find one.”
Across the table, Murphy was shaking her head in disagreement. Her shiny auburn mane swung back and forth as if in a Pantene commercial. “I’m sure we can handle a class action, Bennie. I did class-action work before I came here.”
Next to her, Judy looked equally unhappy. “Boss, we can maintain a class action. We’ve done tons of antitrust work, and we can read the class-action rules as well as anybody. It’s only a procedural difference.”
Bennie was about to throttle them both when St. Amien joined in. “I truly wish that you represent me, Benedetta. I have heard of your reputation as a trial lawyer, of your abilities and your experience. My son is being educated in this country and he told me that you even judged his moot-court competition, at Harvard Law School. He told me about you, and he says you are something of an outsider. A maverick, no?”
Mavericks don’t wear seventeen-dollar pantyhose. “I don’t know . . .”
“You are a maverick. Your office is not pretentious. Your manner is honest.” St. Amien gestured at the associates. “Consider Mademoiselle Carrier. She is permitted to express herself freely, in her ideas, and even in her appearance. This speaks volumes about you.”
Bennie fell speechless. She couldn’t even think of anything dumb to say, which was a first.
Judy grinned. “It’s true, she’s always been that way. And she loves my hair.”
St. Amien continued, “I am an outsider also. A French national, making my new home in Philadelphia. Making my way here, until this association blocked me. Ruined my business, merely because I am not one of them. For many reasons, I want you to represent me.”
“Robert, wait a minute,” Bennie said. “To represent you, I’d have to represent the entire class, and your damages are so great, you’d probably be the lead plaintiff, the most important member of the class.” Lead counsel! It would not only be interesting, but if she was lead counsel, she’d represent all the members of the class who didn’t opt out, and most didn’t. And the legal fees in class actions ranged from Mars to Pluto. “I’ve never been lead counsel to a class. I’ve never even represented a class member.”
St. Amien shrugged. “So, represent the class then. I’m sure you will do an excellent job.”
“Boss, are you really having a crisis in confidence?” Judy asked in disbelief.
“Dude!” Anne’s mascaraed eyes widened. “You’re the Bennie Rosato!”
“It’s not that easy, girls,” Bennie said evenly. She gritted her teeth and tried to glare them into silence. She should have had DiNunzio here instead of these two crazies. DiNunzio understood that family conversations never left the dinner table. Bennie turned to St. Amien. “Under the federal rules, I can’t just anoint myself class counsel. I have to apply for court approval. Lawyers who want to represent a class have to prove their adequacy and their experience.”
“I could write that brief, easy,” Judy said. “Let’s take the case!”
Bennie gritted her teeth. “Carrier, we’re not qualified.”
“We always take cases we’re not qualified for!”
Oh, great.
“We weren’t murder experts when we started taking murder cases, and now we do them all the time. We learned.” Carrier was on a tear. “Bennie, you’re superqualified as a trial lawyer, and I can’t imagine a judge in the Eastern District who would go against you. They love you on that bench. They’ve appointed you to two separate committees.”
St. Amien nodded. “Excellent, then, my decision is made. I agree with your young ladies. So.” He slipped a hand inside his jacket and extracted a checkbook bound in burgundy leather and a merlot Montblanc. He flipped open his checkbook and began to write a check, which was when Bennie’s pantyhose exploded.
“Robert, please, don’t do that.” Don’t. Stop. Don’t stop. “Don’t.”
“I trust you’ll forgive me,” St. Amien said, with a sly smile. He finished writing and tore the check from the checkbook, then replaced his checkbook and pen. “I leave the money, in hoping you will accept my representation. Consider it ‘earnest money,’ as you say.”
“Robert, even if I took the case, which I’m not, it would be on a contingency basis. Please keep your check.”
“Consider it for expenses and costs, alors.”
“Class-action lawyers front those expenses. They’re an exception to the professional rules. But please, don’t do this.” Please. Don’t. Stop.
“Represent my interests. Will you do it, please?” St. Amien placed the check on the table in front of him like a trump card.
No. Yes. No. Yes. Then Bennie heard a sound. The siren song of solvency. Her heart leapt up. Maybe her firm wasn’t doomed! Maybe the class action would settle fast! If she didn’t get appointed as class counsel, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying! Why should she defeat herself, when there were so many qualified people ready to do it for her? “Okay, you convinced me!” she said, and St. Amien laughed.
“Merci beaucoup. I couldn’t be happier. I will take my leave.” He rose, bowing at Judy and Anne. “Thank you, ladies, for your assistance.”
“Thank you,” Judy said, and Anne nodded.
“Yes, it was our pleasure.”
Bennie got up. “Let me walk you out,” she offered, taking St. Amien outside her office and into the empty hallway, where he turned.
“You needn’t escort me all the way. Thank you again, for everything. ہ bientôt.” Suddenly St. Amien leaned over and gave her a deft kiss on the cheek, then turned and left.
“See ya.” Bennie blinked, caught off balance. She’d never had a client kiss her, but she couldn’t say she disliked it. She watched him catch the elevator, feeling vaguely as if they’d begun dating. Then she went back to her office to go holler at the associates. “Girls! The next time you disagree with me in front of—”
“This check is for ten thousand dollars!” Anne squealed, and Judy couldn’t stifle a giggle. They had been joined by Mary DiNunzio, and their young faces were alive with excitement. In their hot little hands was St. Amien’s check.
“Ten grand? Gimme that,” Bennie said, taking the check. The watery ink had barely dried and the lettering was European, but it was made payable to Benedetta Rosato. She tried to remember the last time she’
d seen her name on a payee line, and couldn’t. And ten grand was double her usual retainer. It would employ two associates through the next month, and she could keep Murphy with her savings. “Sacré bleu!”
“It sounds like a really interesting case,” Mary said, and Anne nodded.
“St. Amien is hot, for an old dude.”
“And we could really use the work,” Judy blurted out. “Since Caveson and Maytel went belly-up, I don’t have anything to do. I mean, I have no work at all.”
Bennie froze looking at the check, her face flushed. That no new business was coming in was evidently an open secret, but she felt too embarrassed to talk about it with the associates. How could she have let herself get into this position? Had she mismanaged the firm? Why hadn’t she killed Ray Finalil? She let the moment pass, then walked stiffly around her desk for her purse. “Let me get you your seventeen bucks, Murphy. I can’t get these stockings off without a sandblaster.”
Anne waved her off. “Don’t worry about the money, I charged them.”
Mary looked at her with disapproval. “That doesn’t mean they’re free, Murph.”
“For a month it does.”
Judy was shaking her flame-retardant head. “The federal-
government school of asset management.”
Gulp. Bennie kept her thoughts to herself. She was in no position to lecture anybody. St. Amien’s check would make a dent, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. She had to keep the firm alive long enough to get to that class-action settlement. She opened her purse, a well-worn Coach barrel bag, and rummaged inside for her wallet. House keys, old Kleenexes, and a silver Motorola tumbled by, but her wallet wasn’t there. She used a black pocket Filofax as a wallet: a chubby little organizer that held her credit cards, cash, and change.
“Bennie, you don’t have to reimburse me,” Anne said. “Buy me a T-shirt next time you go food shopping.”
But Bennie wasn’t listening. She’d reached the bottom of the bag, and her wallet wasn’t in it. She dropped the bag heavily on her desk chair, eyeballing her desk. Marked-up briefs, stacks of correspondence, Xeroxed cases, and a rubber-band gun covered its surface, snowing in a laptop and an empty coffee mug. She moved the stuff aside, searching. “Please tell me I didn’t lose my wallet. I can’t function without that thing.”
“When did you have it last?” Mary asked, but Bennie was already mentally retracing her steps.
“It’s Friday. I walked the dog, then I got dressed and left for work. I stopped off at Dunkin’ Donuts for a coffee. Extra cream, extra sugar.”
“Maybe you left it at the Dunkin’?”
“No.” Bennie shook her head. Usually, she didn’t take her wallet out of her purse at a Dunkin’ run. She would just slide out two bills, so she didn’t have to juggle wallet, purse, and briefcase. Then she’d pay and leave the change in the tip cup. “This is odd. I know it was in my purse. I remember seeing it.”
Mary folded her arms. “Maybe you’re remembering wrong. You were probably thinking about your meeting this morning.”
“Maybe.” Bennie flashed on the scene in the Dunkin’ Donuts. It had been crowded. She’d been preoccupied with thoughts of Ray and money. She’d skimmed the headlines of the newspapers on the metal rack near the counter. MORE BUSINESS DOWNTURNS EXPECTED. LAYOFFS CONTINUE. The news had depressed her. “I must have left it there.”
“I’ll call the store for you,” Murphy offered. “Is it the one near the office?”
“I’d cancel your credit cards too, Bennie,” Mary said.
Judy was studying her boss’s face with care. “You have been kind of forgetful lately, Coach. Is something the matter?”
“Not at all,” Bennie answered. She faked a smile and slipped St. Amien’s check into the side pocket of her purse. “What could be the matter? We just scored a huge class action!”
“Go, us!” Carrier cheered, and the associates all clapped. “Musta been the pink hair, huh, boss?”
“Musta been,” Bennie agreed, and this time her smile was genuine.
3
Bennie had taken her lunchtime run to Dunkin’ Donuts, looking for her wallet. It hadn’t been there, and she’d run back to the office, cooling down along the route she took into work, jogging in the prematurely warm weather past happy crowds, budding trees, and air that was clean, for Philadelphia. She kept scanning the curb in case she’d dropped the wallet, but no dice. She’d have to cancel the credit cards when she got back to her desk.
She ended up at her office building, extracted a promise from the front security guard to keep an eye out for the missing wallet, and scooted inside the elevator. She scanned the empty cab for her wallet, then leaned against the wall as the steel doors slid closed. She bent down to catch her breath, leaning over her ratty tank top, loose Champion gym shorts, and old Sauconys with the curled-up toes. The only sound was her panting until the elevator reached her floor, where there was quite a ruckus. The elevator doors slid open, and fifty people were mobbing the reception area. She prayed they weren’t her creditors.
Bennie stepped off the elevator into the crowd, but it was so thick nobody noticed her. They occupied all of the waiting-room chairs and stood talking and laughing among themselves. They were of all shapes and sizes—young, very old, men and women—and many of them carried tiny synthetic flags of a merry red, white, and green. They sipped coffee from Styrofoam cups and her JAVA DIVA mug while they ate biscotti and pignoli cookies from a huge bakery-style tray on her coffee table. Apparently, Rosato & Associates had been transformed into an Italian wedding. The only thing missing was the accordion.
“Uh, hello,” she said as excited faces began to turn toward her. The receptionist wasn’t around, but one muscular young man, wearing a T-shirt that read SOUTH PHILLY ROCKS, broke into a grin when he spotted Bennie.
“You gotta be Bennie Rosato!” he exclaimed. He extended a hand and pumped hers so hard she was glad she was wearing a sports bra. “I’m Art DiNobile. It’s so great to meet ya, and I can’t thank ya enough for helping us out.”
“You can’t?” Bennie asked. She had no idea what he was talking about, she was half naked, and strangers were using her coffee mugs. Other than that, she was completely in control.
“Yo, everybody, this is Bennie! Bennie Rosato’s here!” the young man shouted, turning to the crowd, which reacted instantly. The decibel level skyrocketed and the throng surged forward, pressing Bennie back against the elevator. Women tried to hug her, men offered their handshake, and someone passed her a cup of coffee and a plate of pignoli cookies. South Philly Rocks released her hand long enough to catch the cookies before they slid off the flimsy paper plate. “Have some, Bennie! They’re from my father’s bakery. Also I brought a nice rum cake and some sfogliatelle. It’s the least we can do.”
“It is?” Bennie asked, completely bewildered until Mary DiNunzio made her way though the crowd. Her hair was straying from its neat twist and her brown eyes were dancing the tarantella.
“Bennie!” DiNunzio was so excited she was almost short of breath. “Wait’ll you see. I got us a case, a wonderful case!”
“A wonderful case?” Bennie repeated, fully aware that three thousand pairs of tarantella eyes were focused on her. She couldn’t help feeling that her back was against the wall, or at least the elevator. “What kind of case?”
“The kind of a case you love! A once-in-a-lifetime case!” Mary shouted, and everybody behind her took up the cry like a Greek, er, Roman, chorus.
“Thank you!” they said, and “We appreciate your help” and “Ya gotta know the facts” and “We must bring it to light”—all manner of justice-sounding noises that made Bennie suspect she wasn’t going to earn a dime in fees.
“DiNunzio, maybe we should talk about this in the conference room?”
“Great! Great idea! The client’s in there.”
“These people aren’t the client?”
“No, this is the Circolo, from the neighborhood.”
“
The Circolo.” Of course. Whatever-o. “DiNunzio, who’s the client?”
“Mr. Brandolini, but he’s dead. The client is really a lawyer, and he’s dying to meet you.”
“Huh?” Bennie was confused about who was dead and who was dying, but let it go. “Where’s Murphy and Carrier?”
“In the conference room, with everybody else. The Circolo called while you were out, and I told them all to come right over. Marshall’s still out at her gyno for a checkup.”
“I’ll see you inside in two minutes. I have to change out of my running clothes.”
Bennie hustled to her office, skipped her usual shower, and put clean clothes on her sweaty body and slid reddish toes into her pumps. She’d wanted to call and cancel her credit cards, but Sicily awaited her in the conference room. She sent their secretary an E-mail listing her credit cards and asking her to cancel them when she got back from the doctor. Then she hurried out of her office and down the hall, into the crowd that spilled into the reception area. She shook their hands and greeted them as she passed, and they parted for her with a reverence usually reserved for Frank Sinatra.
“Brava, Bennie Rosato! Bravissima!” someone shouted, startling Bennie as she crossed the threshold into the conference room, when the entire room burst into resounding applause. The place was packed wall to wall, crammed with cheering, hollering, applauding people, and Bennie laughed and took a spontaneous bow.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, and pulled out the seat at the head of the long walnut table. Murphy and Carrier stood against a wall lined with happy Italians, which Bennie was beginning to understand was redundant. Mary sat beaming, catty-corner to her, next to a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit. He had thick dark hair and a brushy mustache, sharp brown eyes, and a pleasant smile. Bennie extended a hand. “I’m Bennie Rosato. Pleased to meet you, Mr. . . .”
“Cavuto, Frank Cavuto,” he supplied, rising. “I’m a lawyer, representing the estate of Tony Brandolini.”
“Welcome.” Bennie nodded him into his seat, and the boisterous crowd deigned to settle down to business, with residual smiles—except for a tiny older woman who scowled inexplicably from the far end of the table. She looked immersed in a brown wool coat, despite the balmy day, and her salon pink-gray hair had been teased into a very feminine wren’s nest. Thick glasses magnified her round dark eyes, fixed so hard on Bennie that she had to look away. “Now, Mr. Cavuto, what brings you here?”