Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(48)

The Chief Crown Prosecutor and the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté. Allies by decree and bureaucratic structure. But not by nature or choice.

When the door had closed, Gamache walked over and locked it. Then turned to Zalmanowitz.

“Lunch, Barry?”

He pointed to a tray on a coffee table, with sandwiches and cold drinks.

Zalmanowitz raised his brows in surprise. Then he smiled. It was not an altogether friendly smile.

He took a salmon with dill and cream cheese on a St-Viateur bagel.

“How did you know I’d start a fight?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” said Gamache, reaching for a smoked meat from Schwartz’s delicatessen. “But if you hadn’t, I would’ve.”

He took a large bite, famished, and followed it with a long drink of iced tea.

“Well,” said Zalmanowitz after finishing half the bagel. “You’re fucking up this case nicely.”

“I think you’re doing an even better job.”

“Merci. I am doing my worst.”

Gamache smiled tightly, and leaning back on the sofa, he crossed his legs and regarded the Crown.

“I think Judge Corriveau is beginning to suspect,” he said.

Zalmanowitz wiped his mouth with a thin paper napkin and shook his head. “She’d never guess. It’s far too outrageous. We’re both lucky we have pensions. We’re going to need them.”

He picked up his perspiring glass and tipped it toward the Chief Superintendent. “To a higher court.”

Gamache lifted his glass. “To burning ships.”

*

Over lunch in a nearby café, having found a shady corner of an outdoor terrasse, Maureen Corriveau confided in her partner.

“I think something’s up.”

“Something’s up?” asked Joan with amusement. “Like the jig?”

“I wish,” said Maureen. “That would at least mean I’d know what’s going on.”

Joan’s face clouded over. “What do you mean? Are you lost? Is the case too much?”

“I can’t believe you asked that,” said Maureen, genuinely hurt. “You think I’m not up to a murder trial?”

“Not at all, but you’re the one who said you didn’t know what was going on. Okay, let’s regroup. What’s bothering you?”

“The Crown Prosecutor, who is also the head of the office for the whole province, has taken to attacking the Chief Superintendent of the S?reté in the witness box. And, as the door was closing for the break, I heard him insult him, in front of everyone.”

“His own witness? But that doesn’t make sense.”

“Worse than that, it could lead to a mistrial. I think some jury members also heard. That’s what I meant. They’re experienced enough to know better, and old enough to keep their personal feelings in check. They’re on the same side, after all. I can’t get a handle on what’s happening and why. Especially in a case that should be so simple. The head of the S?reté himself was practically a witness to the crime. His wife found the body, for God’s sake.”

She shook her head and pushed her salad away.

“Maybe they just don’t like each other,” said Joan. “It happens. Two bull elephants, two alpha males. They must’ve butted heads before. Lots of times.”

Maureen was nodding, but in a distracted manner. “I’d heard rumors that they don’t get along. Cops and prosecutors often don’t. But it’s more than that. I can’t explain it. They’re crossing a line. One they both know is there. I just—” She ran her hand up and down the moist glass of ice water.

“What is it?”

“It’s ridiculous, but the thought crossed my mind as I walked over here that they might be doing it on purpose.”

“To screw up the case?” asked Joan. “Not only is the jig up, but they’re in cahoots?”

Maureen gave one short grunt of laughter. “You’re quite a dame.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to mock. It just seems unlikely, don’t you think? Why would they do that? If you’re right, they’re actually trying to throw a murder trial. Gamache made the arrest. The Crown laid the charges. And now two men who don’t even like each other are intentionally messing it up?”

Maureen shook her head, then nodded. “I agree. It’s ridiculous. Just a passing fancy.”

She fell into thought, while Joan watched the people strolling by on rue St.-Paul.

They’d all started the day, she was sure, fresh and well turned out. But now most were wilted in the heat. Judge Corriveau could feel perspiration on her neck, and her underarms were clammy.

She was not looking forward to getting back into her robes, and sitting in the oven of a courtroom all afternoon. But at least she wasn’t being grilled.

“Monsieur Gamache quoted Gandhi this morning,” she said. “Something about a higher court.”

Joan tapped on her iPhone. “Got it. There is a higher court than courts of justice and that is the court of conscience. It supersedes all other courts.”

Maureen Corriveau gave a short, sharp inhale. “I just got the chills.”

“Why?”

“The head of the S?reté proclaiming his conscience overrides our laws? Doesn’t that frighten you?”