“Impossible.” Zuzu ends that discussion with one word.
Brian begins to unclick his camera from the tripod. I hear Zuzu take a deep breath, then let it out.
Bingo. After years of doing interviews, I know what this means. She thinks she’s off the hook. Sometimes even the most stilted and terrified subject will relax when they think the camera is off. Maybe this last-ditch tactic will work.
“Zuzu, are you perhaps making too much of this?” I say, my voice still casual. “Forgive me, but just devil’s advocate, isn’t it simply capitalism?”
Her eyes flare. Her back stiffens. Her posture changes. She glares at me.
I give Brian a quick nod and make the one-finger signal again, holding my hand below her eye level. Roll tape.
“Would it be acceptable to put someone else’s signature on a Picasso?” she asks. Her voice is bitter, accusatory. “Put your own name on Gone with the Wind? And then try to sell them as real?
“It would be laughable,” she says, punctuating her disdain with two French-manicured hands. “Absurd. And yet, these people brazenly, blatantly, steal our designs. Our trade secrets. They copy them. And offer them for sale. And what do customers do? Without a thought, except for their personal greed? Knowing they are paying for fakes? And sometimes even proud of it? They participate in crime. They are stealing our profits, just as if they came into our building and took the money from our safe. It is greed. It is fraud. It is scandal.”
She pauses, and looks down at her hands. As if she’s almost surprised by her tirade.
I raise my eyebrows at Brian: “got it?” He closes his eyes briefly in salute, then signals back with the quickest of nods. “Got it.”
As Franklin helps Zuzu unclip the tiny microphone from her lapel, I’m calculating. Ten thousand dollars for one purse. Ten thousand dollars times who knows how many glamour-hungry fashionistas. And that math, I can do.
So where is Zuzu in this equation? How far would someone go to protect a multimillion-dollar business?
Maybe Zuzu’s hired “consultants” do more than “monitor” the distribution of knockoffs. Maybe they also try to stop them. Maybe that fire in Great Barrington originated here in Atlanta.
Maybe who you call a “bad guy” depends on what you think is good.
Chapter Fifteen
“Think what we could find out if we just had the nerve,” I say. I look, longingly, at the row of identical red leather notebooks lined up on the shelves behind us. Franklin and I are back in the principal design room, parked at the Louis XIV style conference table, each with a crystal glass of iced San Pellegrino on a silver coaster. Zuzu’s left us, just for a moment, she emphasized, saying she’d soon return with D-M’s artistic directors.
“I’m lusting after the design secrets in those books,” I continue. “Every ‘tell’ is there. All we’d have to do is grab one each, get some shots with our cell phones, and have more inside scoop than anyone could even imagine.”
“Good idea,” Franklin says. “We could maybe write a book about them, from our deluxe accommodations inside the Atlanta Federal Pen. That would be what? Larceny of trade secrets? Theft of intellectual property? Unauthorized dissemination of proprietary-”
“I’m just saying,” I interrupt. “It’s not like I’m planning to do it. Although we sure do need some more video. Maybe we should just snap some quick cell phone shots in here.”
“Charlotte,” Franklin begins.
I recognize the tone. Franklin can be such a Boy Scout. “Kidding,” I say. “But this is such a gold mine.”
I get up and stroll through the room, trying to soak up atmosphere that might help me write a more compelling story. On one of the desks, I see an array of photographs. Silver frames, smiling faces. A tall, elegant man in black tie, holding some sort of award, his other arm across the shoulders of a much shorter, but equally elegant, middle-aged woman. Brother and sister? Married? Another photo. The woman with someone who might be her sister.
Then there’s the same man, in khakis and a sweater, in a garden somewhere, this time with a much younger woman, her face partly in shadow. Father and daughter? I suddenly feel old. And old-fashioned. Maybe lovers? I do a double take. The girl looks awfully familiar. I shake my head, dismissing the thought. The next photo has same man, again with one arm around the short woman, and the other around Zuzu.
“Look over here,” I say to Franklin. I’m still holding the last photograph but I can’t help thinking about another one. “Remember I told you about that girl in the airport?”
There’s a tap on the door, then it instantly opens. Zuzu enters first. A man and a woman behind her. I’m caught, photo in hand. And I’m looking at all three people in the picture. Petite chic woman, elegant black tie man and Zuzu.
“Sylvie Marachelle, one of our chief designers,” Zuzu says, raising one eyebrow as I put the photo back in place. “And the other, Luca Chartiers.” Shar-tee-ay. “Luca also creates the special elements we use to insure our bags are authentic.”
We all shake hands, saying hello. Sylvie’s “good afternoon” is smoky-soft, unmistakably French, her handshake quick and perfunctory. Luca actually says “Bonjour” before switching to almost accent-free English.
“I hope you enjoyed my little collection,” he says. He points to the black tie photograph. “Sylvie and I are especially proud of our Coty ‘Designer of the Year’ Award.”
“I’m so sorry about the photograph,” I begin. “I was just curious, and…”
“Not at all.” Luca waves away my apology.
Zuzu shoots him a look, then moves to center stage, checking her watch.
“Sylvie and Luca have agreed to show you the prototype room,” she says. She scans the room as if there’s something she’s missed. She looks pointedly at me, then Franklin. “You have no cameras, of course? Anywhere? And please do not use your cell phones.”
“Well, of course,” I say. “Of course not. My cell is off.” Whoa. I wish I could look at Franklin. Were people listening to us?
“We understand. Of course,” Franklin says at the same time.
“Then please follow me,” Zuzu replies. She shows us down a long hall, framed poster-sized photographs of D-M’s legendary purses, bags and wallets and scarves hanging pin-spotted under recessed lights along the way.
Franklin and Sylvie Marachelle walk side by side in front of me. She’s a middle-aged pixie, diminutive, her silver-blond hair so casually chopped off it must have cost a fortune. Her tiny waist is emphasized by a wide leather belt and flowing calf-length suede skirt. Even in high-heeled boots, she barely reaches Franklin’s shoulders. I can see Franklin pointing to the photos on the walls, asking questions. Sylvie answers him briefly.
Luca Chartiers falls in step beside me. He’s maybe fifty. Effortlessly fashionable in a French-cuff gray-on-gray silk shirt, intricately tailored navy blazer and an almost-white tie. Pushing it in Atlanta, perfect for Paris. Hair is a bit too long, nose a bit too long, a bit too tall. It’s difficult to ignore that somehow it all works. Very nicely.
“Forgive Sylvie, she is somewhat preoccupied.” He bends down to explain, touching my back as if guiding me down the hall. “We are consumed with the debut of our newest confection. Did Zuzu show you?”
“The Angelina,” I say. I can still feel his hand on my back, although it’s no longer there. “Yes. Did you design it?”
“Sylvie and I, yes,” he replies. “She is a descendant of the original Marachelle family, did you know? She and her sister? It was their grandfather’s company, then their father’s. Before it was purchased by the cartel that owns it now.”