Corriveau slowed down her racing mind, and stepped from logic to logic.
Chief Superintendent Gamache needed the Crown’s help. His collusion.
And there was only one thing the Chief Crown could bring to the table.
The charges.
“You don’t want the defendant to know that you know,” she said. “So you trumped up these charges to buy time.” She glared at Gamache. “You’ve intentionally arrested the wrong person for the murder of Katie Evans, to get them off the street while you collect evidence.” Then her eyes swung over to Zalmanowitz. “And you’re trying someone for a murder you know they didn’t commit. Not this murder anyway.” She glared at them. “Which means the person who really killed Katie Evans is still out there.”
Her eyes narrowed, studying the men.
She looked from Gamache to Zalmanowitz.
The Crown, while an effective prosecutor, would never make it as a professional poker player.
He blinked.
And she turned back to Gamache, who would have made a fortune on that circuit.
“No, no,” she murmured. “That’s not it, is it? I’ve missed something. There’s more to it than that. Tell me, now.”
Gamache was silent.
“You came in here knowing you would, Chief Superintendent. No more bullshit. I’m hot and tired and now I’m afraid. It’s not a pleasant combination. For me. Or for you.”
Gamache gave a decisive nod, then looked toward the pitcher of water, ice now melted, on a tray on the sideboard.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
He got up and poured them each a tall glass before sitting down and drinking his all in one go. He was parched but, more than that, the gesture gave him the chance to look at his watch without being noticed.
Four fifteen. The court had adjourned early. He glanced outside. The sun was still a good way up in the sky.
And while it was up, the new shipment would remain in Québec. But he knew that as the sun approached the horizon, the opioid would approach the border.
Still, he had time. Just.
“On the day the body of Katie Evans was discovered in the root cellar, I was having lunch with Superintendent Toussaint in Montréal. She’s the head of Serious Crimes.”
“I know her, oui,” said the judge.
“I was new to the job, and so was she,” Gamache continued. “We were going over our notes, the mess we’d inherited. We both knew then, of course, that the drug situation was out of control. And, frankly, beyond our control. We were tossing around ideas on what to do. None of them, honestly, useful or effective. We agreed that we had to try something new. Something bold and unexpected. And then Superintendent Toussaint said something, she used an expression. A cliché, really. Burn our ships.”
He looked at Judge Corriveau to see if it meant anything to her.
She was listening closely. The phrase was familiar, but without import.
“It means doing something from which there is no return,” he said.
“I know what it means, Monsieur Gamache.”
But he let it sink in. Everyone knew what it meant. But did they really, really, know what it meant?
To her credit, he could see the judge thinking more about it. Looking beyond the cliché, beyond the words, to the action it implied.
“Tell me,” she said.
“Going after all crime, everywhere, wasn’t working. That much was obvious. So if that wasn’t working, what would?”
She remained still. It was clearly a question she couldn’t answer, nor was he expecting her to.
“Focusing,” he said. “Specializing. I thought about choosing two or three areas to crack down on, ones that were particularly out of control. But that would’ve been a half measure. It would’ve been like burning half our ships. We had to burn them all.”
“Which means?”
“We, I, chose one area. A single focus. From which, as you said, most other crimes spring. The fountainhead. Drugs.”
“What have you done?” she asked, almost under her breath.
“I ordered that all of our efforts, all of our resources, be focused on finding the source, and destroying it.”
“All?”
“Essentially all,” he said.
“But that would mean…” Judge Corriveau’s mind once again raced. “The other departments were gutted. Rendered ineffective.”
“Virtually, oui.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “You did this? Knowing the human cost?”
He didn’t move.
“And the drug trade? Has it stopped?”
“It’s grown over the past year,” he said. “As I knew it would. As it had to. We let it.”
“You let it?” she demanded, then reined herself in. And took a couple of deep breaths. Holding her hands out in front of her as a sort of bulwark against more information. Before she dropped them and clasped one tightly