A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(96)

The prosecutor leaped up. “I object!” Speaking more forcefully than was perhaps wise.

“Noted,” said Judge Pelletier.

“Are we in trouble?” Agent Cloutier leaned across Homer to whisper to Gamache.

“We’re all right. We have Pauline Vachon’s signed statement. That didn’t stem from the discovery of the duffel bag.”

“Right. Good.”

“Now,” said Judge Pelletier, no longer looking up at them. “On to the other issue.”

The world seemed to stop for Gamache.

Other issue?

He could feel, almost hear, his heart throbbing. Everything, everyone else seemed to recede, except the judge. He was completely, totally, focused, and when she next spoke, it was as though her words were deposited directly, and uniquely, into his head.

“The statement by Madame Vachon. I’ve considered this and consulted colleagues across the country, many of whom are beginning to form judgments on the issue of social media and boundaries.”

“What’s she saying?” hissed Beauvoir. “My God, she’s not…”

But he couldn’t continue. Couldn’t conceive that—

“The boundaries of a person’s house are clear,” said the judge. “The property line. The front door. A warrant is needed to cross. A warrant is needed to tap into a phone and listen to private conversations, to read private emails. But the very notion, even the name, of social media confuses issues of trespass. How can something social, public, be trespassed? There are limits, of course. Laws against hate speech. Pornography. But even those are unclear, blurry. When is social media private and when is it public? Pauline Vachon and her relationship to Carl Tracey were discovered after a S?reté officer tricked Madame Vachon into giving her access to her private Instagram account.”

Agent Cloutier’s eyes opened wide. “What…?”

“Oh, my God,” whispered Beauvoir.

“Armand?” said Homer. “What’s this?”

The judge had not raised her head. Would not look their way. And appeared to be reading now from notes.

“There’s not much jurisprudence on this as yet, but the vast majority of jurists I consulted agreed that in posing as NouveauGalerie, it was the equivalent of a robber posing as an electrician to gain access to a private residence. Under false pretenses. With the intent to compromise the occupant.”

The prosecution shot to his feet. “I object. That isn’t the correct analogy.”

“And what is?”

“Undercover operations,” snapped Zalmanowitz. “A police officer posing as someone they are not in order to gain evidence in a criminal case.”

“Yes, I did consider that,” said Judge Pelletier. “Except there was as yet no reason to suspect Madame Vachon of anything criminal. Monsieur Tracey, perhaps, but as soon as Agent Cloutier realized she was corresponding with this Pauline Vachon, she should have disengaged. Instead she tricked Madame Vachon into giving her access to an account that led to not just evidence of an affair but to those incriminating posts.”

Judge Pelletier turned to Carl Tracey. With her voice flat, she began to speak.

Armand Gamache held his breath.

Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

“Monsieur Tracey, I am having the charges against you dropped. You’re free to go.”

“No!”

Godin shot to his feet, as did Gamache.

He reached for Homer and braced himself but was still propelled backward as Vivienne’s father exploded forward. Toward Tracey.

There was sudden mayhem as chairs and benches were knocked over. Guards ran to yank the judge off the dais and into the back room.

People fell over, and others joined the fight to stop an inconsolable, uncontainable father.

Gamache felt his feet go out from under him and fell backward, dragging Homer down with him. They landed in a pile on the marble floor.

There was an eerie silence. Then the squealing of overturned chairs being shoved aside as arms and legs reassembled themselves into individual people.

There were moans and groans. Orders issued by guards and cops.

Beauvoir, who’d leaped over the railing to try to stop Homer, now rolled off the man’s back. And tried to get air back into his own lungs.

“Armand?” he gasped.

“Okay. You?”

“Oui.”

Gamache freed his legs and, scrambling to his knees, bent over Homer’s inert body. So still was the man that Gamache felt for a pulse, then laid down, his cheek on the cold marble floor. Face-to-face. Their noses almost touching.

“Homer?”

His eyes were closed, and Armand noticed blood on the floor. “Get an ambulance.”

A court officer ran to make the call.

Beauvoir was keeping the guards away, explaining the man wasn’t armed. Wasn’t a danger.

Homer’s eyes fluttered, then opened. And focused on Armand.

“You promised,” he whispered.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


Vivienne’s father was taken by ambulance to the H?tel-Dieu hospital.

Gamache had wanted to go with him but sent Cloutier and Cameron instead.

It had been Bob Cameron who’d finally brought Godin down. He’d come into the courtroom late, standing unnoticed at the back, as the judge had given her reasoning and conclusion.