A Better Man (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #15)(97)

And when Homer had burst forward, Cameron had instantly seen what was happening. And what needed to be done.

The left tackle did what he’d been trained to do.

He’d run into the fray, diving at the last minute, using his body to sweep Godin’s legs out from under him. And, in so doing, also tackling Gamache. And Beauvoir. And Cloutier. And anyone else hanging on to Vivienne’s father.

“Give me a few minutes,” Zalmanowitz, the prosecutor, said to the S?reté officers once the ambulance had left and order had been restored. “I’ll speak to the judge. Then we can talk.”

Judge Pelletier had decided not to charge Monsieur Godin. Clearly sympathizing with the man. The father.

“Merde, merde, merde,” muttered Beauvoir.

“Merde,” added Lacoste.

She’d been in another interview, to possibly take over command of Public Security, when word had reached her about what had happened in the courthouse.

She’d hurried over, and now the three of them walked along the slushy cobblestoned streets outside the courthouse. In need of fresh air and to try to clear their heads.

“A shitshow. What the fuck was that?” Beauvoir stopped, took a deep breath, closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Sorry. But really. What the fuck was that?”

They circled the building in Old Montréal. Feeling the sun on their hot faces. And the fresh air in their lungs.

They spoke a little, mostly curses from Beauvoir. Gamache, who had said almost nothing since the judge’s pronouncement, let them vent. While he walked and considered.

Then they all fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. The same thoughts.

Partly about what had gone wrong, mostly how to fix it.

Beauvoir’s phone buzzed. A text from Zalmanowitz. As terse as the man.

Meet me in my office.

The three S?reté officers were around the back of the building, but Gamache knew the way in, past the trash and recycling bins. After he’d pressed the button and stared into the camera, the door was unlocked. It helped that Gamache knew the guards by name and they knew him. After decades of trials. And tribulations.

Beauvoir and Lacoste followed Gamache along grimy, ill-lit corridors. Taking the service elevator, they finally emerged into the gleaming marble hallway. The public face, hiding the smelly, dark underbelly of justice.

“Well, that was a clusterfuck of a decision,” said Zalmanowitz, not bothering to get up or even look up from his laptop, as they entered. “I spoke to Judge Pelletier, who walked me through it.”

“And?” asked Beauvoir.

“And we’ll appeal, of course,” said the prosecutor.

“Will we win?”

“Hard to say.”

“Try.”

Now Zalmanowitz gave them his complete attention, turning from his screen. “Honestly? I doubt it. As much as we hate the decision, Judge Pelletier did her due diligence, even canvassing jurists across the country—”

“But a poisonous tree?” interrupted Beauvoir. “Come on.”

“I know. I can’t explain her interpretation. Well, I can. But it’s an incredibly narrow view of the law.”

He rubbed his eyes and sighed. Then, looking up, he smiled weakly. “You know what they say about lawyers—”

Gamache gave Beauvoir a warning glance.

“—that we’re like children in the dark, imagining all the monsters.”

It was, Gamache knew, a pretty apt description of his job, too.

“Seems I missed one,” said the lawyer. “Two, really.”

“We all did,” said Beauvoir.

Zalmanowitz nodded his thanks for sharing the blame. “Judge Pelletier had latitude. It could have gone the other way, and I think she genuinely struggled with it. Especially since, as she privately told me, our case was a lock—”

Beauvoir’s hands slammed down on the wooden arms of his chair, and he growled, “Jesus.”

Getting up, he paced the room, trying to blow off the pent-up frustration. The others let him pace until he’d regained control of himself.

Sitting back down, he didn’t apologize. But he did look directly at Zalmanowitz and say, “Someone needs to make sure Tracey gets what’s coming to him.”

“We’re trying.”

“Try harder.”

“Look, you’re the ones who opened that duffel bag,” he said, his voice rising, his frustration getting away from him with every word. “Who let an inexperienced agent loose to goose-step around in that Instagram account—”

Zalmanowitz stopped himself, with effort. Putting his hands out in front of him as though to protect them from his wrath.

He sat back in his chair. Which bounced with the force of his body.

Staring at Gamache, he saw that while the Chief Inspector’s tone had been civil so far, and his face calm, his jaw muscles were clamped tight.

This was not a relaxed man. This was a man who was simply better at containing his emotions.

“I’m sorry.” Zalmanowitz took a deep breath and looked at the three investigators. “This isn’t your fault.”

“Of course it is,” snapped Beauvoir. “I fucked up.”

“So did I,” said Gamache. “I’m the one who actually opened the duffel bag.”