Then she turned to Gamache, and before her swam the increasingly ugly headlines. The Enquête report on television. The questions screamed at the Chief Superintendent by reporters circling. Smelling blood and entrails. Hoping to prod him over the edge, with their sharp questions and innuendo.
The new head of the Sûreté, they proclaimed, was way out of his depth. Incompetent. A good man, perhaps, but past his prime. And maybe, they’d begun to suggest just recently, not a good man. He was allowing crime to run rampant. Maybe he, like his predecessors, was in on it.
Gamache had taken all that, and more. In fact, it was what he’d hoped would happen. He’d manufactured that image of himself and the Sûreté. The cartel had to believe he personally was no threat at all.
Québec had become Dodge City, and Marshal Dillon was napping.
But he wasn’t napping. He was waiting. And waiting. And quietly gathering forces.
And it wasn’t just the Chief Superintendent, she realized. It couldn’t be done without the agreement of at least a handful of senior officers. A small group of men and women.
Tiny. But powerful.
“You know who it is, the head of the cartel?” Judge Corriveau studied him. “Of course you do. Is it the defendant?” She thought for a moment and shook her head. “But that doesn’t make sense. The defendant came to you and pretty much confessed, right? Unless you’re lying about that.”
She looked at Gamache, then over to Zalmanowitz.
“Oh, the defendant murdered Katie Evans,” said Gamache. And this time Barry Zalmanowitz managed to not look at his co-conspirator. But he was surprised.
It was another lie. And one that, by now, probably didn’t matter. So much crap was flying around. So why lie about that? He remembered the whispered conversation a few minutes earlier between Gamache and his second-in-command.
And he remembered Gamache sinking to the hard bench, and lowering his head.
The end wasn’t close. It was here. The devil was among us.
It all, now, depended on Judge Corriveau. She knew, Zalmanowitz could tell, that she was being lied to. Not only in her chambers, but in the courtroom. It was a most serious crime. Perjury. The perversion of justice. No one knew that better than the three people in that room. Never mind her threat to arrest Gamache for murder. Though they all knew it was a charge that wouldn’t stick.
His intention, misguided or not, was to save lives, not take them.
But the perjury? That would stick.
They sat in silence, as Maureen Corriveau decided what to do. Arrest them? Call a mistrial? Free the defendant? All things she should do. No one knew that better than the three people in that room.
She sat absolutely still, but they could hear her breathing. Like someone who’d just climbed a steep flight of stairs.
“I need time,” she said. “To consider what you’ve told me.”
She stood, and they stood with her.
“I’ll get back to you with my decision before the trial resumes tomorrow morning. At eight. I think you know what I will likely decide. Prepare yourself.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Gamache. “Thank you for hearing us out.”
She held his hand, and squeezed it slightly, then her gaze widened to include the Chief Crown. “I’m sorry.”
As the door closed, Gamache looked at his watch and hurried down the corridor, Zalmanowitz keeping up with the long strides.
“That did not sound promising,” he said. “She’s going to come for us, isn’t she?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Gamache. “She has no choice. We brought this on ourselves and knew this almost certainly would happen. But what we didn’t know is that Judge Corriveau would do what she just did.”
“Haul us up?” asked Zalmanowitz.
“No.” Gamache stopped, and turned to the Crown. “Let us go.” He put out his hand. “This is where I leave you.”
“Can I come?”
“You, monsieur, have done more than enough. A whole lot of scorn is going to be heaped on you, no matter what happens, by people you care about. Colleagues. Friends. Family maybe. I hope you know in your heart that you did the right thing.”
Barry Zalmanowitz stood quietly, and smiled, just a little. “I do. I might have difficulty answering to them, but I can at least answer to my big stinking conscience.”
He took Gamache’s hand, and felt the slight squeeze.
“It’s tonight, isn’t it?”
When Gamache didn’t answer, Zalmanowitz gripped tighter for an instant and said, “Good luck.” Then added, “Merde.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Zalmanowitz,” said Gamache, in a surprisingly accurate imitation of Judge Corriveau. Then in his own voice, “Merci.”