Glass Houses

CHAPTER 16

Olivier stood at the window of the bistro and watched the Sûreté officers walking down the road from the church.

He wasn’t alone. The rest of the village, and those from outlying farms, had gathered in the bistro, the focal point for the community, in good times and bad.

And it was very clear which one they were now in.

They watched, silently, as Armand Gamache, Jean-Guy Beauvoir and Isabelle Lacoste walked toward them through the cold November drizzle that turned, every now and then, into sleet. Then back again.

Olivier and Gabri had been handing out coffee and tea, juices, and fresh, warm cookies from Sarah’s bakery. No alcohol. No need to feed already heightened emotions.

A fine mist had accompanied the drizzle so that Three Pines appeared socked in.

Both fireplaces, on either end of the bistro, were lit. And now the only sound, besides some labored breathing, was the cheery crackle of the logs.

The place smelled of woodsmoke and rich coffee. And wet wool from those who’d arrived late, hurrying through the damp afternoon.

On any other day, in any other circumstances, the bistro would’ve felt snug and safe and comforting. A refuge. But today, it did not.

They looked out the window, toward the trinity, and the bad news appearing out of the mist.

Then Olivier looked behind him.

At Patrick Evans. He was sitting, his legs no longer able to hold him. Lea sat beside him, holding his hand, and Matheo stood, his hand on Patrick’s shoulder.

But someone was missing. The only one not there.

Katie.

Though they were fairly sure they knew where she was.

At that moment, she was still alive.

But as soon as the Sûreté officers arrived, and began to speak, she would die. They all knew that whatever had happened, however it had happened, the “who” was not in doubt.

Patrick’s breathing was fast, shallow. His hands cold. His eyes wide.

As he waited.

“When you arrived at the restaurant, Chief Superintendent, did you get the impression the people there already knew?” asked the Crown.

“I did.”

“But how? Had Madame Gamache told them?”

“No, she did not.”

“Then how did they know? All they’d seen was a bunch of patrol cars. Why automatically think it was a murder?”

He obviously doesn’t know Three Pines, thought Gamache.

“When the local Sûreté agents arrived and positioned themselves at the church and my home, the villagers knew something was going on. And they knew that Madame Evans was missing. When I showed up, followed by Chief Inspector Lacoste, well, their fears were confirmed.”

“Ahhh, of course. That was stupid of me,” said the Crown, turning once again to the jury and trying to look humble. “For a moment I’d forgotten how well the villagers know you and your work and your colleagues. They’d know Chief Inspector Lacoste was now the head of homicide. But while they know you, Chief Superintendent, you also know them. Well.”

He said it with his back to Gamache, but the insinuation was clear.

The normal, the healthy, the necessary line between cops and suspects was blurred, if not erased altogether. And that was, the Crown seemed to be suggesting, highly unprofessional, perhaps even suspicious.

“That’s a good point,” said Gamache. “And, as it turns out, a great advantage. Murder might be calculating, but it’s not calculus. It isn’t the sum of evidence. What tips someone over into murder?”

Now Armand Gamache was addressing the jury directly, and they’d turned their attention from the Crown Prosecutor to the Chief Superintendent.

Monsieur Zalmanowitz, sensing this shift, turned and glared at Gamache.

“What makes someone kill isn’t opportunity, it’s emotions.” Gamache spoke quietly, softly even. As though confiding in a good friend. “One human kills another. Sometimes it’s a flash of uncontrollable anger. Sometimes it’s cold. Planned. Meticulous. But what they have in common is an emotion out of control. Often something that has been pent up. Buried. Clawing away at the person.”

The men and women on the jury were nodding.

“We’ve all had resentments like that,” said Gamache. “And most of us have felt, at least once in our lives, that we genuinely wanted to kill someone. Or, at the least, we wanted them dead. And what stops us?”

“Conscience?” mouthed a young woman in the second row of the jury box.

“Conscience,” said the Chief Superintendent, looking at her and seeing her smile just a little. “Or maybe cowardice. Some think they’re the same thing. That the only thing that stops us from doing something awful is the fear of getting caught. What would we do, after all, if we were guaranteed not to get caught? If we knew there’d be no consequences. Or if we didn’t care. If we believed the act was justified. If we believed, as Gandhi did, that there’s a higher court than a court of justice.”

“I object,” said the Crown.

“On what basis?” Judge Corriveau asked.

“Irrelevance.”

“He’s your own witness, Monsieur Zalmanowitz,” the judge reminded him. “And you’re the one who asked the question.”

“I didn’t ask for a lecture on the nature of murder and conscience.”

“Maybe you should have,” she said, and looked down at the clock embedded into the judge’s desk. “This is probably a good time to break for lunch. Back in an hour, please.”

She stood up, and in the hubbub of chairs scraping the floor, she whispered to Gamache, “I’ve given you enough leeway. Watch yourself.”

He bowed very slightly to show he’d heard, and caught the eye of the Crown, who was at his desk angrily stuffing papers into his briefcase.

When the judge had gone and the jury was just being shown out, Monsieur Zalmanowitz finally erupted, striding across the courtroom to Gamache, who was just descending the steps from the witness box.

“What the hell was that about?” the Crown demanded. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Gamache glanced over at the jury, the last few of whom were filing through the door, and had clearly heard.

“Not here,” he said to the Crown.

“Yes, here.”

Gamache turned and walked past him, but the Crown reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

Gamache jerked free and swung around to face him.

The journalists, still in the room, were staring. Those on the court beat had never seen anything like this.

“Why’re you sabotaging my case?” demanded Zalmanowitz.

“Not here. If you want to talk, come with me.”

He turned to Beauvoir. “Please find—”

“I’ll find a room, patron,” said Beauvoir, and took off, with Gamache following him, not bothering to see if the Crown was indeed behind him.

Monsieur Zalmanowitz glared after the Chief Superintendent and muttered, “Prick,” just loud enough for the reporters to hear.

Then he grabbed his briefcase and followed.

The two men were left alone in the office.

The Chief Crown Prosecutor and the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté. Allies by decree and bureaucratic structure. But not by nature or choice.

When the door had closed, Gamache walked over and locked it. Then turned to Zalmanowitz.

“Lunch, Barry?”

He pointed to a tray on a coffee table, with sandwiches and cold drinks.

Zalmanowitz raised his brows in surprise. Then he smiled. It was not an altogether friendly smile.

He took a salmon with dill and cream cheese on a St-Viateur bagel.

“How did you know I’d start a fight?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” said Gamache, reaching for a smoked meat from Schwartz’s delicatessen. “But if you hadn’t, I would’ve.”

He took a large bite, famished, and followed it with a long drink of iced tea.

“Well,” said Zalmanowitz after finishing half the bagel. “You’re fucking up this case nicely.”

“I think you’re doing an even better job.”

“Merci. I am doing my worst.”

Gamache smiled tightly, and leaning back on the sofa, he crossed his legs and regarded the Crown.

“I think Judge Corriveau is beginning to suspect,” he said.

Zalmanowitz wiped his mouth with a thin paper napkin and shook his head. “She’d never guess. It’s far too outrageous. We’re both lucky we have pensions. We’re going to need them.”

He picked up his perspiring glass and tipped it toward the Chief Superintendent. “To a higher court.”

Gamache lifted his glass. “To burning ships.”

Over lunch in a nearby café, having found a shady corner of an outdoor terrasse, Maureen Corriveau confided in her partner.

“I think something’s up.”

“Something’s up?” asked Joan with amusement. “Like the jig?”

“I wish,” said Maureen. “That would at least mean I’d know what’s going on.”

Joan’s face clouded over. “What do you mean? Are you lost? Is the case too much?”

“I can’t believe you asked that,” said Maureen, genuinely hurt. “You think I’m not up to a murder trial?”

“Not at all, but you’re the one who said you didn’t know what was going on. Okay, let’s regroup. What’s bothering you?”

“The Crown Prosecutor, who is also the head of the office for the whole province, has taken to attacking the Chief Superintendent of the Sûreté in the witness box. And, as the door was closing for the break, I heard him insult him, in front of everyone.”

“His own witness? But that doesn’t make sense.”

“Worse than that, it could lead to a mistrial. I think some jury members also heard. That’s what I meant. They’re experienced enough to know better, and old enough to keep their personal feelings in check. They’re on the same side, after all. I can’t get a handle on what’s happening and why. Especially in a case that should be so simple. The head of the Sûreté himself was practically a witness to the crime. His wife found the body, for God’s sake.”

She shook her head and pushed her salad away.

“Maybe they just don’t like each other,” said Joan. “It happens. Two bull elephants, two alpha males. They must’ve butted heads before. Lots of times.”

Maureen was nodding, but in a distracted manner. “I’d heard rumors that they don’t get along. Cops and prosecutors often don’t. But it’s more than that. I can’t explain it. They’re crossing a line. One they both know is there. I just—” She ran her hand up and down the moist glass of ice water.

“What is it?”

“It’s ridiculous, but the thought crossed my mind as I walked over here that they might be doing it on purpose.”

“To screw up the case?” asked Joan. “Not only is the jig up, but they’re in cahoots?”

Maureen gave one short grunt of laughter. “You’re quite a dame.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to mock. It just seems unlikely, don’t you think? Why would they do that? If you’re right, they’re actually trying to throw a murder trial. Gamache made the arrest. The Crown laid the charges. And now two men who don’t even like each other are intentionally messing it up?”

Maureen shook her head, then nodded. “I agree. It’s ridiculous. Just a passing fancy.”

She fell into thought, while Joan watched the people strolling by on rue St.-Paul.

They’d all started the day, she was sure, fresh and well turned out. But now most were wilted in the heat. Judge Corriveau could feel perspiration on her neck, and her underarms were clammy.

She was not looking forward to getting back into her robes, and sitting in the oven of a courtroom all afternoon. But at least she wasn’t being grilled.

“Monsieur Gamache quoted Gandhi this morning,” she said. “Something about a higher court.”

Joan tapped on her iPhone. “Got it. There is a higher court than courts of justice and that is the court of conscience. It supersedes all other courts.”

Maureen Corriveau gave a short, sharp inhale. “I just got the chills.”

“Why?”

“The head of the Sûreté proclaiming his conscience overrides our laws? Doesn’t that frighten you?”

“I’m not sure he meant that,” said Joan, trying to calm her partner. “It seems a sort of blanket statement, not a personal credo.”

“You don’t think that’ll be the headline in the news? ‘Head of Sûreté Follows His Conscience, Not the Law’?”

“As long as it isn’t ‘Judge Goes Berserk in Courtroom.’”

Maureen laughed and got up. “I have to get back. Thanks for lunch.”

But after taking a step away from the table, she came back.

“Do you believe it?”

“That personal conscience overrules our collective laws?” asked Joan. “Aren’t our laws based on a good conscience? The Commandments?”

“Like the law forbidding homosexuality?”

“That was years ago,” said Joan.

“Still in force in many places. That law is unconscionable.”

“Then you agree with Monsieur Gamache?” asked Joan.

“If I agreed with anyone, it would be Gandhi, not Gamache. But can a judge really believe in the court of conscience? That it supersedes all others? It sounds like anarchy.”

“It sounds like progress,” said Joan.

“It sounds like the end of a promising career on the bench,” said Maureen with a smile. She kissed Joan, then leaned down and kissed her again, whispering, “That one’s for Gandhi.”