Transcript of phone call placed by Cooper Lamb to a private number
COOPER LAMB: Hey, it’s your old man. Guess who I’m going to be meeting in two minutes.
ARIEL LAMB: Francine Pearl Hughes.
LAMB: Whoa! Nailed it on the first try.
ARIEL: C’mon on, Dad. You’re working for her law firm, so one can only assume you’ll be meeting with Francine at some point.
LAMB: You’re good, kid. Unlike your dopey brother.
COOPER LAMB JR.: Hey! I’m standing right here.
LAMB: Relax, sparky. I knew you both were on speaker this whole time. I could hear your snuffles. By the way, are you taking your allergy medicine? And shouldn’t you be getting back to basket-weaving class or whatever they teach at that expensive Quaker school?
ARIEL: Ignoring you. Say hello to Ms. Hughes for us! Tell her we’re huge fans.
LAMB: I’ll bet I’m a bigger fan than you guys.
ARIEL: Oh, really. Name one Francine Pearl song.
COOPER JR.: I hate that allergy medicine. It tastes like puke.
LAMB: If you could learn how to swallow a pill, you wouldn’t have to drink the puke. As for your question, my dear doubting daughter: “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
ARIEL: That’s not a Francine Pearl song.
LAMB: I heard her sing it once. At a Super Bowl, in fact!
Cooper Lamb had been in more impressive homes than this. But those homes were Monticello, the Hearst Castle, and 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. And none of those homes had had Francine Pearl Hughes living in them.
“Sit anywhere you like, Cooper,” Francine said. “I’ll be right with you after I get the kids their snacks. Care for something to drink?”
“Just some tap water for me and my dog, Lupe, if you don’t mind.”
“I think we can do a little better than that,” she said, smiling.
Most people would be pondering the correct drink request. Not Cooper. He was too busy strategizing the proper place to sit. Sure, this was a friendly interview at his client’s home. But make no mistake, Francine’s kitchen was also her battlefield. Especially now that she had fired her general (Chef Roy Nguyen) and assumed command of all the family meals. She might be dressed in the casual manner of a Main Line mom, but she was still a superstar.
“I have some updates for you,” Cooper said, opting for a spot directly across the kitchen island from Francine as she sliced vegetables to accompany kid-size trays of pita and hummus.
“Really?”
Not really. This was one of Cooper’s favorite techniques, especially with an interview subject who was theoretically on your side. You didn’t show up with a tape recorder and a list of questions. No, you acted like a proper houseguest and came bearing a gift—information. This made you collaborators, not detective and witness.
“The team is a mess,” Cooper said. “The Sables are up to their ears in corrupt schemes, and the players are more or less kindergartners with millions in disposable income.”
“That’s not really an update, Cooper,” Francine said. “That’s been my reality for the past five seasons.”
“Why didn’t you encourage your husband to take his considerable talents elsewhere?”
“I presume you never had the chance to meet Archie in person. Nobody could ever encourage him to do anything he didn’t want to. I’d better get these snacks to the kids—”
“One second, Francine. I really think there’s something rotten with the team, and it may have something to do with your husband’s death. I’m hoping you can point me in the right direction.”
Francine’s smile—her armor—faded a little. Only now did she look like a woman trying desperately to keep the oceans of grief at bay.
“Archie liked to say that he was in this world, but he was not of this world.”
Cooper stared at her across the kitchen island. “You just tied a knot in my brain.”
“What he meant was, he knew what he was getting into with the Sables. But he kept his nose clean and his head above the filth. The team had nothing to do with Archie’s death. At some point, when the media calms down and cooler heads prevail, the police will find the truth.”
“And what is that?”
“That Philadelphia is a violent city, and sometimes it takes even the best of us. Can I feed my kids now?”
“I’m sorry…just one more thing. Please.”
Francine stared at him.
“Look, I have to ask this question,” Cooper continued, “because it’s going to come up sooner rather than later.”
“Go ahead.”
“Why were your prints on the gun found in the garden? The gun you said you didn’t recognize?”
Francine nodded and smiled, as if she had been expecting this question. “I’ve just told you that Philly can be a violent place. If you grow up here, you’re taught to protect yourself. All of this”—she waved a hand around her designer kitchen—“doesn’t mean a thing if you can’t take care of yourself.”
“So you and your husband kept guns in the house, and you’ve handled them all at some point?”
“When I told the police I didn’t recognize the gun, it was like saying I didn’t recognize a particular hammer in a toolbox. Why would I? I never gave it much thought.”
The explanation was delivered casually. But Francine locked eyes with Cooper with such intensity, she was clearly issuing an unspoken challenge: Go ahead. Tell me I’m lying.
Cooper stared right back. Hey, it’s not me you have to convince.
Finally, Francine broke the tension. “I’d better get the kids fed, Mr. Lamb.”
“I have a feeling they may have already feasted on my dog.”
“Lupe? Are you kidding? They love him!”
“Everybody does,” Cooper said. “He’s the worst private-eye sidekick ever.”