André and I exchange glances. This is the moment to be convincing, the moment when my account must align with Enzo Woods’, Bastian Saidi’s, Julian Garros’, and a dozen other witnesses.
VR: I’m not going to answer.
I cradle the coffee cup in my hands. It’s searingly hot, the burn of the liquid seeping through the double layer of plastic and scorching my fingers. André ended up using two cups, unable to separate them, which I now thank. I’m freezing. I take a sip, but the coffee is too watery, and I push it aside in disdain. What I wouldn’t give for some syrup! The woman broadens her smile.
AM: Then help us understand what happened so the judge can make a decision, yes?
VR: It all started on Friday, October 30th—I cut her off before she asks—But I think I should give you some context first.
Officer Alonso’s pen scratches across his notepad, adding notes beneath the charge of money laundering. They call it that; I like to think of it more as an every-man-for-himself, manoeuvre-your-way-out-of-this-mess situation.
But I’m not going to tell them that.
AM: Go ahead, Vera.
André clears his throat. A warning to watch my words. No amount of caution on my part will save me from what others say. I must be the one to get myself out of this. So, after thinking twice, I take another sip of the thin coffee and begin recounting my last weekend.
Chapter 2
I call it The Day Before because, even though the weekend technically started on Friday, that Thursday felt like a premonition of everything that was about to come crashing down on me. If I were a devout believer in astrology, I would have known Mercury entered retrograde that day, which is supposed to wreak havoc on our lives. And maybe I would’ve called the office claiming severe period cramps: (Hello, Bastian! —groan of pain—. I couldn’t find Sarah’s number, you see, I got my period, and I woke up to a mattress soaked in blood. Halloween came early, didn’t it?Might not even bother cleaning it and just hang it on the balcony as decoration. Anyway… Ow! These cramps are killing me! I’ve had to use three pads just to be able to walk around the house without feeling like Carrie from the waist down…).
That would have been the perfect excuse to stay home. But the astrologer was my roommate, Gina, not me, so I didn’t give a shit about Mercury’s position.
I arrived at the office on time. Saidi is located on the outskirts of the city. I wake up every day at six sharp, though not every day do I manage to walk through the office doors at seven-thirty, depending on the traffic, the weather, or whether I feel like grabbing a Tall—always Tall, with syrup and ice—coffee on the way. That Thursday, I’d slept well, the highway gave me no trouble, and the weather was fine.
Our offices are on the top floor of a low-rise building, with dark facades and wide windows. Inside, it’s an open space with a chill vibe and expensive furniture. I know one of the paintings hanging in the waiting room, over a brick wall in an industrial style, is an authentic Miró. Just beyond the entrance is the reception. Then comes André’s office, hidden behind thick walls adorned with golden letters displaying the company’s name. Every time I step into his office, my jaw drops. He has a fish tank (an office with a tank of little orange fish!), two plush sofas, a 17th-century French desk, an Eames recliner, and a display case filled with elegant fountain pens.
There are seven employees at Saidi. I was the last to join.
A long, unadorned hallway stretches out, leading to my office—the last door on the left. That’s where the luxury ends. My furniture is cheap, bought at IKEA and the flea market, but I like it. Bastian mocks it whenever he gets the chance.
Ah, yes. Bastian Saidi is the boss’s nephew. He studies at one of those expensive, snobbish universities, wears Ralph Lauren shirts and polos, and his office is right in front of mine. I don’t let it go to his head. He’s only a year older than me. So what? He may have better furniture, but his office is also the second smallest in the firm, after mine. Even though he enjoys teasing me, we both hold positions at the same company. Take that, nepotism.
“Hey, you. You’re late with the copies for the judge.”
Ah, the typical French greeting.
Bastian leaned against the doorframe, watching me. I flipped him off. He crossed his arms over his chest, smirking in a way that says, “I bet I could do your job better than you.” Ha. His dark skin glistened as if he’d just returned from a weekend at some luxury spa where they slather you with oil like a sardine in a can. His hair was shorter, his black curls clinging to his head. I spun around in my desk chair, avoiding looking him in the face.
“None of your business, Beast.”
“It is my business, Virus, if your shoddy work affects the company. André asked me to remind you that he wants them by eight.”
I raised my eyebrows. By eight? That left me with almost no time to waste. I had planned to take it easy. Monday was the big day—the first trial since I’d joined Saidi. Well, André’s trial, but he’d entrusted me as his assistant.
I wanted to prepare my defence in detail and put the finishing touches on it the next day, to mentally brace myself for the nerves I knew would take over on Monday.
“What’s the rush?”
Bastian shook his head.
“Talk to him.” His smile faded, replaced by a look of frustration. He uncrossed his arms as if the effort of conversing with me had drained him. “I’m not the office messenger, for God’s sake.”
With that, he left, and I got to work.
In just four days, I would face my first trial as part of the Saidi team. André had assigned me a challenging case: the defence of Julian Garros. Yes, that Julian Garros, one of the UK’s most infamous forgers of the past decade. He’d falsified documents for a diverse clientele, and his list of patrons remained a well-kept secret.
Which wouldn’t stay that way for long if I managed to break through his defences. Negotiate a deal. My boss counted on me for that.
