Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(2)

“I understand the defendant actually confessed, is that right?” the prosecutor asked, looking over his glasses in a professorial manner wasted on the head of the S?reté.

“There was a confession, yes.”

“Under questioning, Chief Superintendent?”

Gamache noticed that he repeated his rank, as though someone so lofty could not possibly make a mistake.

“No. The defendant came to my home and confessed. Willingly.”

“Objection.” The defense attorney leapt to his feet, a little late, Gamache thought. “Irrelevant. The defendant never confessed to the murder.”

“True. The confession I’m talking about wasn’t to the murder,” said the Crown. “But it led directly to the charge, is that right, Chief Superintendent?”

Gamache looked at Judge Corriveau. Waiting for her to rule on the objection.

She hesitated.

“Denied,” she said. “You may answer.”

“The defendant came willingly,” said Gamache. “And yes, the confession was the key to laying the charges at that moment.”

“Did it surprise you that the defendant came to your home?”

“Your Honor,” said the defense, getting to his feet again. “Objection. Subjective and irrelevant. How could it possibly matter if Monsieur Gamache was surprised?”

“Sustained.” Judge Corriveau turned to Gamache. “Don’t answer that.”

Gamache had no intention of answering the question. The judge was right to sustain. It was subjective. But he didn’t think it was altogether irrelevant.

Had he been surprised?

Certainly when he’d seen who was standing on the porch of his home in the small Québec village, he’d been surprised. It had been hard to tell at first exactly who was in the heavy coat, with the hood up over the head. Man, woman? Young, old? Gamache could still hear the ice pellets striking his home, as the bitter November rain had changed over to sleet.

Just thinking about it now, in the July heat, he felt a chill.

Yes. It had been a surprise. He hadn’t expected the visit.

As for what happened next, surprise didn’t begin to cover it.

“I don’t want my first homicide case to end up in the appeals court,” Judge Corriveau said quietly, so that only Gamache could hear.

“I think it’s too late for that, Your Honor. This case began in a higher court, and it’s going to end there.”

Judge Corriveau shifted in her chair. Trying to get comfortable again. But something had changed. In that odd and private exchange.

She was used to words, cryptic or otherwise. It was the look in his eyes that threw her. And she wondered if he knew it was there.

Though Judge Corriveau couldn’t really say what it was, she did know the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté should not look like that. While sitting in the witness box. At a murder trial.

Maureen Corriveau did not know Armand Gamache well at all. Only by reputation. They’d passed each other in the halls of the Palais de Justice many times over the years.

She’d been prepared to dislike the man. A hunter of other humans. A man who owed his living to death. Not actually meting it out, but profiting from it.

No murder, no Gamache.

She remembered one chance meeting, when he was still head of homicide for the S?reté, and she was still a defense attorney. They’d passed in the hall, and again she’d caught his eyes. Sharp, alert, thoughtful. But again, she’d caught something else there.

And then he was gone, bending his head slightly to listen to his companion. A younger man she knew was his second-in-command. A man in the courtroom now.

A very slight scent of sandalwood and rose had lingered. Barely there.

Maureen Corriveau had gone home and told her wife about it.

“I followed him and sat in on the trial for a few minutes this afternoon, to listen to his testimony.”

“Why?”

“I was curious. I’ve never been up against him, but I thought if I was I should do some homework. And I had some time to kill.”

“So? What was he like? Wait, let me guess.” Joan shoved the tip of her nose to one side and said, “Yeah, da punk offed da guy. Why’re we wastin’ time wid a trial, ya yella-bellied, flea-infested cowards. Hang him!”

“That’s uncanny,” said Maureen. “Were you there? Yes, he turned into Edward G. Robinson.”

Joan laughed. “Still, Jimmy Stewart and Gregory Peck never got to be head of homicide.”

“Good point. He paraphrased Sister Prejean.”

Joan put down her book. “In a trial?”

“In his testimony.”

Gamache had sat in the witness box, composed, relaxed but not casual. He was distinguished looking, though not perhaps, at first glance, handsome. A large man in a well-tailored suit. He sat upright, alert. Respectful.

His hair, mostly gray, was trimmed. His face clean-shaven. Even from the gallery, Maureen Corriveau could see the deep scar by his temple.

And then he’d said it.

“No man is as bad as the worst thing he’s done.”

“Why would he quote a death-row nun?” asked Joan. “And those words especially?”

“I think it was a subtle plea for leniency.”

“Huh,” said Joan, and thought for a moment. “Of course the opposite is also true. No one is as good as the best thing.”