Page 9 of The Fortune Games
Larousse scoffed.
“Ivet is a… Acasse couille! How do you say it here?”
Cabrona, I replied in my mind. Ortoca pelotas. I have always believed insults weigh more in Spanish than in English, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Pain in the ass.”
“Pain in the ass! I care for her; she’s one of my oldest friends… Still, I’m not stupid; I don’t doubt she could say something against me if it suited her.”
André adopted an amused expression.
“And why would that suit her?”
“Who knows, who knows,” he deflected, waving a hand. “Promise me you’ll be the one to talk to her, André. Please. Convince her for me.”
“Don’t worry.” My boss smiled, and, like a devilish puppet, turned his neck toward me, pointing those gleaming teeth in my direction. “I apologise for delaying the proper introductions. This is Vera Rodríguez.”
Oh no.
Oh, no. I knew where this was going.
André didn’t waste a second before dropping the bomb. “She’ll handle it. You’re free tomorrow, right, Vera?” He stood from his chair, and I scrambled to keep up.
“Actually, I—”
“Perfect. You’ll meet with Ivet at noon.” He didn’t even look at me as he spoke. A guard appeared, ready to lead us out. “Bastian will send you the address.”
He stood up, and I followed.
I did have things to do on Friday. I had spent weeks preparing for Julian Garros’s trial, crafting a defence with care, phrase by phrase, that would please my boss, captivate the judge, and lead our client to safety—a defence that would allow me to walk out of the courtroom next Monday with my head held high, knowing we had won even before the verdict was announced. I had planned my October 30th down to the minute:
At 8:30, I had a meeting with another of Saidi’s lawyers, Sarah, to discuss paperwork.
At 10:30, I would head to prison.
I had arranged a meeting with Julian at 11:30, my last chance to talk to him before the trial.
When I returned to the office, around 1:00, I would review what was discussed with André.
At 1:30, I would grab a bite to eat with Enzo Woods at the restaurant across from our building—a nice place with decent food, nothing too fancy, before spending the afternoon locked in my office, studying the case over and over again.
André had completely derailed my plans, crushing them and tossing them aside like yesterday’s news. How was I supposed to squeeze in an interview with this woman? This is London. She could live just around the corner or miles away on the other side of the city. And my meeting with Julian? I couldn’t let all the hours of work I’d put into this case go down the drain now.
No. I wouldn’t.
I stopped in my tracks, but André continued walking toward the exit, oblivious. I pressed my fingers to my lips and let out a sharp, clear whistle. He turned around, his expression a mix of surprise and confusion.
“I’ll see you in the afternoon,” I shouted as I hurried back through the door.
Excerpt from the Testimony of Julian Garros
Taken on Tuesday, February 18
(The accused of Fraud and Document Forgery, Julian Garros, aged 25, born on 01/08/99, testifies for the first time to the police, in the presence of his lawyer. Officer Morrison takes notes.)
(…)
JG: I work alone. That’s the truth. I’m not answering any more questions about it.
