“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.