her chambers, Maureen Corriveau sat back down and stared ahead of her. Knowing what she’d just done.
It was unjustifiable, what Gamache and Zalmanowitz had confessed to. Subverting justice, and in the Palais de Justice itself. But perhaps there was, as Gandhi had said, a higher court.
What Gandhi hadn’t mentioned, and what would have been helpful, was that it wasn’t just the court that was high, so was the price. Almost too high to contemplate.
She thought about the original cobradors, burned at the stake for the justice they sought.
Was the cobrador who showed up in that little village of Three Pines a travesty, a mockery of that courage? Or the embodiment of it?
Were the cop and Crown a travesty, or an example of what citizenship should be?
And did it matter? Her job wasn’t to write the laws, but to uphold them. And in doing that, was she keeping vigilantes and chaos at bay? Or was she just following orders?
“Oh God,” she whispered. “Why is it so difficult to know?”
“You finished for the day, Your Honor?” the clerk asked, knocking and then poking his head into her office.
“Not just yet,” she said. “You go. What’re you up to tonight?”
“Beer and burgers, and we’ll get the sprinklers going for the kids. Which reminds me. If you hear banging and swearing, they’re working on the AC.”
“Perfect,” she said with a smile.
Perfect, she thought, as the door clicked shut.
She sat back and tried to make sense of what had just happened, what she’d just heard from the Chief Superintendent and the Chief Crown.
Maureen Corriveau felt as though the lies, like goblins, were swarming. Laying siege to all that was familiar. And comfortable.
The law. The courts. Order. Justice.
She stared at the small antique carriage clock on her desk. A gift from her law offices when she’d ascended to the bench.
The fine hands were almost at the five. She’d given Gamache until the next morning. Fifteen hours.
Was it enough? Was it too much? Tomorrow at this time, would they all be arrested? Would they all still be alive?
When she left to go home to Joan that evening, would a cobrador fall into step behind her, down the long, stifling corridor? For doing too much? For doing too little?
She wished now she hadn’t invited them into her chambers. Hadn’t forced the truth, and the lies, from them. She wished she could hide in happy ignorance. Go home to beer and burgers.
The one question the Chief Superintendent hadn’t answered was who the defendant really was. And how the murder of Katie Evans was connected to all this.
But she knew she’d find out soon enough.
CHAPTER 28
Down in Myrna’s bookstore there was a sudden banging, and up the stairs to the loft came Jean-Guy, stomping and snarling and shaking snow from his boots and coat.
Isabelle Lacoste followed him, shaking her head. It was as though each November came as a surprise to him. Some investigator.
“It’s awful out there,” he said, as he and Lacoste took off their coats.
Myrna smiled and watched, knowing that while Armand had two children by birth, these two were just as equally his son and daughter. Always had been. Always would be.
“How did it go in Montréal?” asked Gamache, getting up off the sofa.
“It’s done,” said Beauvoir, clearly not wanting to talk about the visit to Katie’s sister and parents. “I’ll tell you more over dinner. There is dinner, isn’t there?”
“I asked Olivier to take over a casserole,” said Gamache. “Let me just see where that’s at.”
Beauvoir popped a slice of baguette piled with brie and ripe pear into his mouth, mumbled something that sounded like, “I’ll go,” and grabbing his coat, he disappeared.
Isabelle poured a glass of red wine and wedged herself into the sofa between Myrna and Clara.
“Long day?” asked Myrna.
“And not over yet. I’m glad you’re here,” she said to the Gamaches. “I was going to come over here anyway.”
“Really?” asked Clara. “Why?”
“I need some information from someone who knew Madame Evans and her friends. I’ve been reading over the interviews. Hard at this stage to know what’s important, but nothing leaps out. You know you’re in trouble when the only interesting thing said was from Ruth.”
“Really?” said Gamache, who’d been present at most of that interview and couldn’t remember anything at all useful.
“Well, interesting but not relevant.” She turned to Reine-Marie. “Did you know the church was used by rum runners during Prohibition?”