Glass Houses (Chief Inspector Armand Gamache #13)(86)

She would, she decided, keep on her robes. To remind them they were in the presence not of a woman. Not even of a person. But of a position. A symbol.

Justice.

Besides, it made her feel both powerful and protected. And hid the perspiration stains. And the water that had dribbled down her blouse.

The other strategy she was putting into action, or inaction really, at that moment.

She was making them stand.

A fan had been placed in her office and it swiveled, blowing warm air over them, puffing up her robes, which had the undesired effect of lifting and flapping. Not the dignified image she’d hoped to project.

It also, when the fan swung her way, blew her now stringy hair into her face so that she was forced to constantly brush it out of her eyes and spit it out of her mouth.

The two men stood quite still, their hair rising only slightly as the breeze brushed by them.

She got up, turned off the fan, took off her robes, ran her fingers through her hair, and gestured to the two chairs in front of her desk.

“Sit.”

They sat.

“All right,” she said. “It’s just us. As far as I know the room isn’t bugged.” She looked at both men and raised her brows in inquiry.

They looked at each other, and lifted their shoulders. If it was, it wasn’t them.

“Good.” She paused for a moment. All the fine speeches she’d crafted, all the clever arguments, all the justified anger put into pithy phrases were thrown out when faced with Barry Zalmanowitz and Armand Gamache.

Two men who had served justice for much longer than she had. Served their province. Served their consciences. Often at great personal risk, and cost.

“What’s going on?” she asked, calmly meeting their eyes. When neither spoke, she added, “You can tell me.”

The air was heavy in the room. Humid, sticky, close. Time trickled by.

Zalmanowitz opened his mouth, his lips trying to form words, sentences, cogent thoughts. Then he glanced to his right, at Gamache.

And wished he hadn’t. In the instinctive gesture, he’d given something vital away. Something the astute judge couldn’t fail to see.

Whatever was happening, it had been Chief Superintendent Gamache’s idea.

Gamache looked down at his hands, clasped together on his crossed legs, and spent a moment collecting his thoughts. There were so many ways to handle this badly, and maybe no way to do it right.

He didn’t dare look at his watch, or even glance at the small carriage clock on the judge’s desk.

But he was aware of time going by. Of the officers gathering in the conference room of S?reté headquarters. Of the matryoshka dolls at Mirabel and what nested inside them.

They might have left already, those cheerful little ornaments, with something nasty inside.

As soon as he’d read the slip of paper Jean-Guy had handed him, he’d known that this was what they’d been working toward.

Luring the cartel into making one great, fatal mistake.

“More than fifteen thousand people died in Canada from illegal drugs,” said Gamache, meeting her eyes again. His voice calm and steady. As though he had all the time in the world. “In a year. That statistic is a decade old and those are the ones we know about. There were almost certainly far more. We don’t have a more recent report, we’re working on putting one together, but we do know that opioid use has skyrocketed. As have the deaths. Heroin. Cocaine. Fentanyl. And more. Nothing is stopping these drugs from hitting the streets. From killing mostly young people. Never mind all the crime that goes with drugs.”

He leaned forward, very slightly, and dropped his voice as though inviting her into a confidence.

“We lost the war on drugs years ago and are just going through the motions, because we don’t know what else to do.”

Judge Corriveau’s eyes widened, just a little. But enough to register her shock at the statistic. But not at his pronouncement.

She knew he was right. They’d lost. She saw it all day, every day. In her former practice. In her current courtroom. In the halls of the grand Palais. A parade of lost youth, hauled up on charges. And they were the lucky ones. They were alive. For now.

They were also, for the most part, the victims. The ones who should be on trial were free, eating in fine restaurants and going home to large homes in respectable communities.

What Gamache had just said was true and shocking. But—

“What does that have to do with the murder trial?”

“We know that organized crime is behind the drug trade,” said Gamache.

“Cartels,” said Zalmanowitz, feeling he should contribute.

“Thank you, Monsieur Zalmanowitz,” said Judge Corriveau.

“By mutual consent, Québec has been divided into regions. Different organizations run each area. But it’s become clear that one dominates all the others,” Zalmanowitz continued, ignoring the pinched look on her face. “We’ve been chipping away at it, but without effect.”

“Not really chipping,” admitted Gamache. “More like a gnat and an elephant. It didn’t help that many of the top S?reté officers were in the pay of the cartels.”

He’d said it without irony. And no one was smiling.

“But you’re in charge now,” said Corriveau.

Now he did smile. “I’m flattered you think that might help, and I am trying.” He held her gaze. “But I came to the realization when I first took over almost a year ago that there was nothing I could do.”