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As he did, he glanced at Gamache, who nodded approval. A lie would make this even worse. Besides, there was the video Reine-Marie had taken at his request.

“The opening of the bag is, in my opinion, a poisonous tree,” said Judge Pelletier, “and everything that stems from that act is its fruit and therefore tainted and inadmissible.”

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 Sûreté 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.