A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(94)

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.