She knew the feeling, if not the French. “I see. Your losses must be significant. Can you put a number on the damages? Lost revenue from the contracts?”

“The Hospcare contract was worth almost three million dollars. The other two contracts total slightly over five million. My entire investment in the U.S. facility is now in grave jeopardy, and the costs for the new facility are well in excess of fifty million.” St. Amien rattled it off as if money were his first language. “My losses are approximately sixty million dollars.”

The numbers stunned Bennie. She couldn’t add with all that blood rushing to her brain. She couldn’t add even when blood wasn’t rushing to her brain. She used to think she was just bad at math until she convinced herself she had math anxiety, which upgraded basic stupidity to disability level and made her feel better about herself.

“I am gathering a legal wrong has been perpetrated,” St. Amien said, watching her with an obviously amused smile.

“Well, yeah. Sure. Absolutely. Right you are.” Focus, girlfriend. “In addition to breach-of-contract claims against the trade association, there is a significant antitrust claim, which would be far easier to prove, given the statement at the conference. I have to get all the facts and investigate, but basically we’re talking dead to rights, Robert.”

“’Dead to’…” St. Amien’s voice trailed off. He was obviously unfamiliar with the idiom, so Bennie decided against “cold-cocked.”

“Let me explain, briefly.” The law centered her when caffeine failed. “Under our antitrust laws, anyone may refuse to do business with anyone else, but what they cannot do is agree as a group not to do business with someone. That’s a group boycott and it violates federal law. Damages are tripled under the antitrust law, and your recovery would more than make you whole.”

“That’s excellent news.” St. Amien permitted himself another smile.

“Frankly, you have a case that even my dog could win, but I doubt it will ever get to trial. The evidence is so clear and the damages so lethal that the trade association will surely settle, maybe even in six months.”

“Even better.”

“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.”