A Better Man

CHAPTER THIRTY

The arraignment was held the next morning, in Superior Court at the Palais de justice in Montréal.

Once he’d sobered up, Carl Tracey had been given a shower and a change of clothes. He spent the night at the Cowansville detachment, where he’d been booked for murder.

From there, early in the morning, he’d been driven to a cell in the Montréal courthouse.

Chief Inspectors Beauvoir and Gamache met there first thing and interviewed him, with his court-appointed lawyer present. Predictably, his lawyer told him not to say anything. Equally predictably, Tracey couldn’t help but talk.

After Tracey claimed he had nothing to do with Vivienne’s death, Beauvoir presented him with Pauline Vachon’s statement.

“She says you talked about killing your wife—”

Tracey snorted. “Who doesn’t say that every now and then?”

“I don’t,” said Chief Inspector Beauvoir.

“You will.”

Beauvoir knew he shouldn’t let this man get up his nose, but Tracey was firmly lodged there. That smug, weaselly look. From a man who’d just killed his wife and unborn child.

“You know nothing—” Beauvoir began.

“Chief Inspector,” said Gamache, a warning in his voice.

Carl Tracey turned to Gamache. “I wouldn’t kill my own wife. Too obvious. But someone else’s … That was your wife in that village, right? Looks like you and I have something in common. That bruise on her face?”

Gamache grew very still, very quiet. Then he turned back to Beauvoir, who was staring, dumbfounded by what Tracey just said.

The lawyer ended the session there.

Beauvoir and Gamache walked down the hallway. Finally Gamache spoke.

“He’ll confess.”

“You think?”

“Oui. He’s a foolish, weak man. If he doesn’t actually mean to confess, he’ll incriminate himself with his bravado. He’ll hang himself.”

“If only.”

Gamache glanced at Beauvoir but said nothing.

They stood as the judge took her seat.

The prosecutor, with Chief Inspector Beauvoir beside him, was on one side of the courtroom. Tracey and his lawyer on the other.

Gamache and Agent Cloutier sat immediately behind the prosecution desk, with Homer Godin between them. Behind them sat Simone Fleury with at least twenty other women.

Young. Middle-aged. Elderly. Stony-faced.

Valkyries. Warrior Fates. Magnificent and terrifying.

Gamache caught Madame Fleury’s eye. She nodded.

The seats behind Tracey were empty.

Barry Zalmanowitz, a prosecutor they knew well, had been given the case. He was feeling confident enough to kid Gamache when the Sûreté officers showed up at his office.

“I see you’re trending, Armand. Of course, I knew the video was faked. You’re not that good a shot.”

He smiled. Obviously trying, with a spectacular lack of success, to lighten the mood.

Seeing the grim look on Chief Inspector Gamache’s face and the anger on Beauvoir’s, the prosecutor dropped his voice and added, “I also saw the real thing. I can’t believe it was posted again. I’m sorry. I hope they find out who did that. Someone calling themselves ‘dumbass.’”

“We have an idea,” said Beauvoir.

He’d stayed away from Three Pines, not wanting to see Ruth. Not wanting to say things that could never be taken back. He knew that the elderly woman actually meant well. But in true Ruth fashion, she’d managed to inflict a wound.

And this one went deep.

Before the proceedings started, Beauvoir had pulled Vivienne’s father aside and said, “This won’t take long. The judge will ask Tracey how he pleads—”

“What will he say?”

“We think his plea will be not guilty.”

Beauvoir waited for the outburst, but there was none. Monsieur Godin, in the past twelve hours, had managed to harness his emotions. Though Beauvoir could see it was a struggle.

Gamache had prepared the man the night before, as much as possible, for what would happen.

Carl Tracey would be led in. He’d sit at a distance from them, but Godin would certainly see him.

“Will you be able to control yourself?” Gamache had asked.

“I think so.”

Gamache had paused before speaking again. “If you don’t think you can, then you shouldn’t go. If there’s an outburst, you’ll be thrown out, or even arrested. You’ll do yourself and the case no favors.”

Homer had glanced into the fire, mesmerized by the liquid flames. It was just the two of them now, and Fred the dog.

They’d had dinner in the kitchen with Reine-Marie and Lysette Cloutier. It was a simple meal of lentil soup and thick-cut fresh bread, warm from the oven, and cheese.

Homer managed a few spoonsful and finished off one piece of bread, with melted butter.

Now they sat alone in the restful room, with coffee and a plate of untouched chocolate chip cookies. Reine-Marie had gone to bed. Henri and Gracie trailing along behind her. Agent Cloutier had driven back to Montréal.

“I’ll control myself,” said Homer.

Gamache studied the man. And nodded. He wasn’t completely convinced Godin would do it, or that it was even possible. But he also knew there was no way to prevent Vivienne’s father from being there when Carl Tracey was arraigned for Vivienne’s murder.

Homer had to face his daughter’s killer.

They talked into the night. About Vivienne. About her mother. About everything except what had happened.

Finally, at just after two in the morning, Godin fell silent. After a few minutes, he got up.

“I think I’m ready for bed.” He looked at Armand. “I’ve never had a brother. Not even a close man friend. Know a lotta guys, but we never really talk. Now I wonder why not.” He paused and gathered himself before speaking again. “This has helped.”

“I’m glad.”

Gamache slept lightly, listening for the sound of restless footsteps. But finally Homer had to be woken from a deep sleep at six thirty.

“There’s coffee and breakfast, if you’d like,” Armand had said after poking his head in the door and seeing a groggy Homer. “Then we need to drive in.”

And now they sat in the courtroom. The early April, late-morning sun struggling through the grimy windows.

Homer ran his hands, shaking a little, through his short gray hair and then jerked when there was a sound off to their left. A door opening.

He reached out and grabbed Armand’s arm as a passenger on a suddenly doomed aircraft would reach for the person in the next seat.

Gamache turned with him, as did everyone else, and watched as Carl Tracey, in handcuffs, was led in.

Homer rose to his feet and stood stock-still, face immobile, hands clenched at his sides. Eyes fastened on his former son-in-law. Willing Tracey, daring him, to look in his direction.

But Tracey did not.

Homer stared, in a pose so contained, so dignified, so stoic it both amazed Gamache and bruised his heart.

Armand had also gotten to his feet, to stand with Homer. And now the others joined them, as the bailiff announced, “Silence. All rise, please. The Superior Court is now in session, the Honorable Caroline Pelletier presiding.”

The judge, in long black robes, entered. With a signal, everyone in the courtroom sat back down. Except Godin.

“Homer,” whispered Gamache, getting back up and touching, slightly tugging, his arm. The man, roused from a sort of trance, sat.

But continued to glare at Tracey.

The rustling stopped as Judge Pelletier got herself organized. And then there was silence. One that went on. And on.

Gamache’s face revealed nothing, but he grew wary. Alert. This protracted pause was unusual.

He knew the judge. She was strict. No-nonsense. Not chummy or clubby. She brooked no informality and no bending of the rules or the interpretation of the law.

She was, in his opinion, a great jurist.

But now she was looking down at her papers, shuffling them a bit, instead of doing what she should have been doing, which was to have the charges read and ask the defendant how he pleads.

It was rote. Routine. Something they went through all the time. Clear, simple.

Tracey would be remanded for trial. Led away. And that would be it.

Except …

Out of the corner of his eye, Gamache could see Beauvoir stirring. The prosecuting attorney was staring intently at the judge.

Beauvoir turned in his seat and mouthed, “What’s up?”

Something was up. Something was wrong.

Judge Caroline Pelletier looked out at the courtroom.

Her heart sank when she saw the women ranged behind Chief Inspector Gamache.

She knew who they were and why they were there.

She intentionally skimmed past the man beside Monsieur Gamache. She assumed it was the victim’s father.

Judge Pelletier did not want to catch his eye.

Instead her gaze moved to the defense table and rested on the man sitting next to his lawyer.

The defendant, Carl Tracey.

Judge Pelletier had been up most of the night, going over and over the file. The evidence.

She knew it was folly, and ethically wrong, to prejudge. But judges were, after all, human. And some cases were just obvious.

There was very little doubt in her mind who had killed Vivienne Godin. Nor was there much doubt about the outcome of the day.

Still, to be sure, she’d called up colleagues and asked opinions.

Then asked more colleagues, judges across the country, and collected more opinions.

She’d even phoned her old, now retired, law prof and gone through the case against Carl Tracey.

All, save one, said the same thing.

And now it was her turn to say it.

“There is, I’m afraid, a poisonous tree in this case.”

Jean-Guy Beauvoir stared at the judge in amazement, then turned to the prosecutor. Zalmanowitz’s mouth had fallen open. Beauvoir swiveled to look at Gamache, whose eyes were wide, his mouth also slightly open.

“It goes back to the very beginning,” said Judge Pelletier, her voice almost a monotone. “Even before Vivienne Godin’s body was found.”

“What’s she saying?” asked Homer, his voice below normal conversation, but above a whisper. “What does this mean?” He could tell, a child could tell, that something unexpected had just happened. Something bad. “What’s a poisonous tree?”

“In a minute,” whispered Gamache, glancing briefly at Homer before returning his attention to the judge.

“When Vivienne Godin’s overnight bag was found on the shores of the river—” Judge Pelletier turned to Beauvoir. “You did not have a warrant, I believe, to go onto that private property.”

Beauvoir shot to his feet. “No, Your Honor, we didn’t. But it was an emergency. The river was in flood, and it needed to be diverted. The law allows us to enter private property in an emergency. We don’t need a warrant to rescue people from a fire, for example.”

“True, but in going onto private property you didn’t just create a runoff for the flood. You discovered the victim’s duffel bag. Did you open it?”

“We did.”

Judge Pelletier nodded. “Oui. That’s what it says here.” She placed her hand on the papers in front of her. “There’s video evidence of that, too, which has been submitted. Your written statement says that upon opening it and examining the contents, you realized it belonged to the missing woman, which led you to the bridge, which led you to her body—”

“What’s happening?” Godin whispered, more urgently.

“Just listen,” said Gamache, keeping his voice low, calm, reasonable. He reached over and touched the man’s arm, feeling it so tense it might snap.

His own body was taut. He could see where this was going, though he barely believed it.

A poisonous tree? Surely not.

He’d become hyperaware of his surroundings. The world was bright and in sharp focus. Sounds were magnified. The smallest movement noted. Every word, every inflection absorbed.

It was the way he became when under attack. For this felt like an attack. Like someone had just tossed a grenade into the courtroom.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it from going off.

Off to the side, at the defense desk, he could see the court-appointed lawyer equally surprised. But unlike the prosecution, who was looking at the judge as though he’d been hit in the face, the defense was smiling.

Zalmanowitz, the prosecuting attorney, got to his feet. “If it pleases the court, there’s case law covering this. Where officers go onto private property to stop a crime being committed and in the course of that come across another crime—”

“True.” The judge stopped him there with an upraised hand. Predicting just this objection. “But no crime was being committed. A river was flooding. It was an act of nature. A violent one, potentially dangerous, granted. I have no doubt that the actions of the officers saved property if not lives. It was the right thing to do. Except when they found the duffel bag, they should have immediately applied for a warrant, before removing it. And certainly before opening it.”

Beauvoir, in near panic, looked once again at Gamache.

Gamache himself was shocked. Never had he heard such a severe, such a narrow interpretation of the law. He immediately scribbled on a piece of paper and handed it to the prosecution, who read it and said, “Your Honor, a life was at stake. As you said, Madame Godin had not yet been found. She could have been hurt, or kidnapped. They needed to search the overnight bag, to determine if it was hers and if it could lead them to her. Which it did.”

“And that might have been justified,” said the judge. “Had they not been on the defendant’s private property. Let me ask you this: Did the officers get Mr. Tracey’s permission before opening the bag?”

The prosecution turned to Beauvoir, who had gone so pale his lips were almost white. He thought and thought, glancing at Gamache once.

Beauvoir was not pausing to remember, Gamache knew. He remembered perfectly well, as did Gamache. Carl Tracey shouting at them not to open the duffel bag. That it was none of their business.

No. Jean-Guy Beauvoir was pausing to decide whether or not to tell the truth.

Judge Pelletier was giving them a potential out. A way to cut down the poisonous tree. Whose roots and branches and fruit looked to infect so much of their case against Tracey.

“While not formally sworn in, Chief Inspector,” the judge said, “you are presumed under oath.”

She could see his thoughts, his struggle. And it seemed clear to Gamache that she sympathized. This was not giving Judge Pelletier any pleasure. But it was, according to her lights, the law.

Before Beauvoir could answer, the defense got to his feet. “Your Honor, my client tells me he told them—” Tracey grabbed his arm, and the lawyer bent down to listen to his client, then straightened up. “He begged them not to open the bag. But they did, anyway.”

“I see,” said the judge. “Just out of interest’s sake, why didn’t he want the police to open the bag? If it could have helped them find his wife, which, presumably, he wanted.”

That was met with silence. It was a very good question.

Both Gamache and Beauvoir would have been amused by Tracey’s bringing this scrutiny on himself had they themselves not been so appalled by what was happening.

The lawyer consulted his client, then turned to the judge. “He says he believed his wife was alive and that the bag contained things she wouldn’t want strangers to see. Like underwear.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” burst out of Homer. “You’re not … You can’t … This’s…”

“Homer,” said Gamache, turning to him, but Godin was already on his feet.

Gamache also rose and faced Homer, who was glaring at Tracey with all the violence a look could contain. Then Gamache turned to the judge.

“Please, Your Honor,” he said.

“For you, Monsieur Gamache, I will give you a moment to settle him. I’m assuming that is the young woman’s father?”

“He is, and thank you.” Gamache turned back to Homer. “Do you need to leave? Look at me.” He stood between Homer and Tracey, breaking Homer’s line of sight. Forcing Homer to focus on him. “You need to hold it together.” Gamache was speaking so quietly that no one else could hear. And so forcefully that Godin would not just hear but listen. “Or you need to leave. Do you understand?”

Godin nodded.

“Do you want to stay?”

Godin nodded.

“And you’ll control yourself, no matter what happens?”

“What is happening, Armand?” The man’s voice now sounded almost like that of a child.

“I don’t know, but losing control will only make it worse. You understand?”

“You promised. You promised it would be okay.”

“Please,” said Gamache. “Just sit down.”

Homer sat, and Gamache turned to the judge and gave a nod that was almost a small bow. “Merci.”

The judge looked tired, strained. Even, Gamache thought, a little sad. Which did not bode well.

She turned back to Beauvoir. “You still haven’t answered my question, Chief Inspector.”

Beauvoir got back to his feet. “No, Your Honor, we didn’t ask, and the defendant did not give us permission to open the bag.”

“I see.” She gestured to him to sit back down.

As he did, he glanced at Gamache, who nodded approval. A lie would make this even worse. Besides, there was the video Reine-Marie had taken at his request.

“The opening of the bag is, in my opinion, a poisonous tree,” said Judge Pelletier, “and everything that stems from that act is its fruit and therefore tainted and inadmissible.”

The prosecutor leaped up. “I object!” Speaking more forcefully than was perhaps wise.

“Noted,” said Judge Pelletier.

“Are we in trouble?” Agent Cloutier leaned across Homer to whisper to Gamache.

“We’re all right. We have Pauline Vachon’s signed statement. That didn’t stem from the discovery of the duffel bag.”

“Right. Good.”

“Now,” said Judge Pelletier, no longer looking up at them. “On to the other issue.”

The world seemed to stop for Gamache.

Other issue?

He could feel, almost hear, his heart throbbing. Everything, everyone else seemed to recede, except the judge. He was completely, totally, focused, and when she next spoke, it was as though her words were deposited directly, and uniquely, into his head.

“The statement by Madame Vachon. I’ve considered this and consulted colleagues across the country, many of whom are beginning to form judgments on the issue of social media and boundaries.”

“What’s she saying?” hissed Beauvoir. “My God, she’s not…”

But he couldn’t continue. Couldn’t conceive that—

“The boundaries of a person’s house are clear,” said the judge. “The property line. The front door. A warrant is needed to cross. A warrant is needed to tap into a phone and listen to private conversations, to read private emails. But the very notion, even the name, of social media confuses issues of trespass. How can something social, public, be trespassed? There are limits, of course. Laws against hate speech. Pornography. But even those are unclear, blurry. When is social media private and when is it public? Pauline Vachon and her relationship to Carl Tracey were discovered after a Sûreté officer tricked Madame Vachon into giving her access to her private Instagram account.”

Agent Cloutier’s eyes opened wide. “What…?”

“Oh, my God,” whispered Beauvoir.

“Armand?” said Homer. “What’s this?”

The judge had not raised her head. Would not look their way. And appeared to be reading now from notes.

“There’s not much jurisprudence on this as yet, but the vast majority of jurists I consulted agreed that in posing as NouveauGalerie, it was the equivalent of a robber posing as an electrician to gain access to a private residence. Under false pretenses. With the intent to compromise the occupant.”

The prosecution shot to his feet. “I object. That isn’t the correct analogy.”

“And what is?”

“Undercover operations,” snapped Zalmanowitz. “A police officer posing as someone they are not in order to gain evidence in a criminal case.”

“Yes, I did consider that,” said Judge Pelletier. “Except there was as yet no reason to suspect Madame Vachon of anything criminal. Monsieur Tracey, perhaps, but as soon as Agent Cloutier realized she was corresponding with this Pauline Vachon, she should have disengaged. Instead she tricked Madame Vachon into giving her access to an account that led to not just evidence of an affair but to those incriminating posts.”

Judge Pelletier turned to Carl Tracey. With her voice flat, she began to speak.

Armand Gamache held his breath.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

“Monsieur Tracey, I am having the charges against you dropped. You’re free to go.”

“No!”

Godin shot to his feet, as did Gamache.

He reached for Homer and braced himself but was still propelled backward as Vivienne’s father exploded forward. Toward Tracey.

There was sudden mayhem as chairs and benches were knocked over. Guards ran to yank the judge off the dais and into the back room.

People fell over, and others joined the fight to stop an inconsolable, uncontainable father.

Gamache felt his feet go out from under him and fell backward, dragging Homer down with him. They landed in a pile on the marble floor.

There was an eerie silence. Then the squealing of overturned chairs being shoved aside as arms and legs reassembled themselves into individual people.

There were moans and groans. Orders issued by guards and cops.

Beauvoir, who’d leaped over the railing to try to stop Homer, now rolled off the man’s back. And tried to get air back into his own lungs.

“Armand?” he gasped.

“Okay. You?”

“Oui.”

Gamache freed his legs and, scrambling to his knees, bent over Homer’s inert body. So still was the man that Gamache felt for a pulse, then laid down, his cheek on the cold marble floor. Face-to-face. Their noses almost touching.

“Homer?”

His eyes were closed, and Armand noticed blood on the floor. “Get an ambulance.”

A court officer ran to make the call.

Beauvoir was keeping the guards away, explaining the man wasn’t armed. Wasn’t a danger.

Homer’s eyes fluttered, then opened. And focused on Armand.

“You promised,” he whispered.