A Lasting Impression

head bowed, Sutton couldn’t see Claire’s face, but he heard the fear in her voice. While part of him wanted to reassure her that all would be fine, the attorney in him couldn’t. Not knowing what he knew. Seeing Holbrook’s almost imperceptible nod, Sutton turned to her.
    “Claire . . .”
    She looked up at him, her desire to be strong clearly written in the rigid set of her jaw, but not the least convincing to him.
    Pulling his emotions inward, he focused on the facts. “Forgery is a crime punishable by federal law. However, due to the specifics of your situation, it could be said that you find yourself in a rather advantageous position, considering the arguable duress under which you painted the forgeries and your obvious effort to leave that life behind. Any responsible jury deliberating—”
    “Jury?” she asked.
    “If it comes to that, yes.” From his peripheral vision, he saw Holbrook nod. “But any responsible jury will take all of that into consideration when determining their verdict, especially if the defendant—you, in this case—aids in providing evidence. Which—”
    “I’ll do whatever you want me to do,” she said quickly, scooting forward in her chair. “I’ll tell you everything . . . I was going to anyway.” Her eyes grew misty again. “I know what I did was wrong, so please don’t hear me saying otherwise. At times, especially when my mother grew more ill, I felt as though I didn’t have a choice. But we all have choices. I know that now. And I’d like to think that, if put in that situation again, I would make better decisions next time.”
    “And that,” Sutton said, “is why I believe a jury will render a more lenient verdict in your case.”
    “I agree with Mr. Monroe’s assessment, Miss Laurent.” Holbrook rose and slowly straightened to his full height. “And you’ll need to be willing to testify against Sebastian Perrault in court, which means facing him again.”
    “That won’t be a problem for me, sir.”
    Sorting through the revelations of the past hour, Sutton studied Claire as Holbrook questioned her further. She’d been fighting to keep her mother alive, doing whatever she needed to do to make that happen. Another woman came to mind—along with images of wagons loaded down with cotton—and the similarities in the two women were undeniable.
    “If it becomes necessary, Miss Laurent,” Holbrook continued, “as it well may, can you prove that you painted that Brissaud?”
    “Yes, sir. I can. Brissaud is known for painting a certain venue many times, but each time he includes something different. I included my mother in this canvas. She’s painted down to the left, in the garden.”
    Sutton shook his head, joining in. “A touching gesture, Claire, but unconvincing in a court of law.”
    Her chin lifted. “In a moment of frustration with my father, I signed this particular canvas. If you were to scrape off the paint on the bottom right corner, you’ll see my signature beneath the forged one. And if that isn’t enough, look on the back of the canvas. I had to make the tiniest patch on the bottom right-hand corner. It will be evident . . . to the trained eye.”
    Accepting the challenge, Holbrook got up and left the room, and returned minutes later, satisfaction on his face. “One of the investigators would like to speak with you, Miss Laurent. But not here. At his office.”
    Claire stood. “May I ask what will happen to the painting?”
    Sutton held her chair. “It will be confiscated as evidence and presented in the trial. Why?”
    “It has special meaning to me, that’s all.”
    Holbrook laughed softly. “I’m afraid it has special meaning to the Brissaud collector who bought it three months ago in New York too. Before he realized it was a fake, and that his investment was lost.”
    Claire frowned. “Will he be able to get his money back?”
    Sutton felt the question directed to him. “That’s part of what will be determined when we go to court.” Then it occurred to him. “Claire, do you have any idea what the ‘Brissaud’ out there sold for?”
    She shook her head. “It was stolen the night I left New Orleans.”
    Sutton paused before opening the door. “Your Jardins de Versailles sold at auction in New York for almost four thousand dollars.” Her mouth fell partially open, as did Mrs. Holbrook’s. “So from where I’m sitting, I just got a steal on An American Versailles. ”

    Never in all his years of knowing