woman smoldered with unhappiness. The man bore the dazed grin of a lottery winner.
THE JUDGE STOOD to greet them as they entered his chambers. His lean, intense face was incised with deep vertical grooves. His body was long and angular. Metal-rimmed glasses were perched on his nose and disapproval was apparent in the set of his mouth, like the preacher in the Pentecostal church Ebanks had attended as a kid.
“Sorry to keep you men waiting,” the judge said. “JNOVs are never easy. But it’s something that has to be done.”
“JNOV?” Martinez said. “What’s that anyway?”
The judge shook his head solemnly. “Of course — you’re from the criminal side. I wish I could do more work over there, but I go only when they need me to fill in.
Ebanks massaged the bridge of his nose. Sonia hadn’t done well last night. He’d barely gotten two hours’ sleep.
“Too bad crim court judges can’t do that,” Martinez said. “Some of these juries come back with the most half-ass —” He stopped himself, cheeks reddening.
The judge smoothly stepped in. “What you’re saying is that jurors are often dazzled by attorney antics or irrelevant issues and so they don’t focus on the evidence.”
“Yeah,” Martinez said gratefully.
“As long as the Constitution says ‘jury of our peers,’ that’s who decides our cases,” the judge said, “but my fundamental duty is to see that justice is done. That female lawyer you saw ran rings around the defendant’s man; she bewitched the jury with her short skirts and PowerPoint closing argument. I can’t let that kind of thing stand. It’s my duty as a judge, in civil court at least. It’s my responsibility.”
Ebanks noted the confident righteousness in the judge’s baritone voice. He looked around the office. The room was large enough to hold not only the judge’s desk and leather swivel chair but four guest chairs and a loveseat. The judge indicated they should take a seat in the guest chairs. He chose the leather swivel one.
There was a tray of dry fly-tying tools on the credenza, with hooks, thread, hackle pliers and guards, scissors, whip finishers, and a vise all lined up in a precise row alongside small containers of feathers and what looked to Ebanks like white goat body hair, usually used for wings. Ebanks preferred Swiss straw.
The photos on the wall behind the desk showed various images of the judge: proudly displaying a shoulders-wide trout; standing beside his partners — all wearing dark suits and rep ties — in the law firm he’d headed before ascending to the bench; and sitting stiffly with his wife in a room furnished in Modern Hunting Lodge (log timbers, antler chandelier, Black Watch plaid on the chairs).
The mountain range visible through the window in the last photo told Ebanks the house was in the new development on the north shore of the lake. The environmentalists had screamed, but high-priced lawyering had won the day. A small gated community of million-dollar homes had been built in the remote area. Ebanks had once had a place near the lake, a decades-old A-frame.
He used to fish the lake in a sweet little eighteen-footer. Sometimes Sonia went with him. She’d pack thick sandwiches and iced tea in the cooler, and she’d bring a book. Wearing her floppy sun hat, she was content to read while he dropped his line. He’d sold the A-frame, his boat, and most of his gear when Sonia couldn’t go with him anymore. All he had left from those times was the nice Sage fly rod Sonia had given him one birthday.
Ebanks studied the photo of the judge at his lake house. He noted the judge’s blond wife, the modern painting over the fireplace, the polished wood floors.
Ebanks knew there was something else. The decor of the judge’s chambers matched the interior of his house. The shade of blond on the judge’s wife was nearly identical to the color of his secretary’s hair. The coffee table was cherry. The flowers in the vases were all trimmed to the same height and were the same shade as the red accent pillows.
His Honor was a man who made sure everything was in order. Ebanks understood that.
The judge regarded the two detectives, his gaze direct. “How can I help you gentlemen?”
“We need to ask you a few questions about the Dolan case,” Martinez said.
UNDER THE SPEEDY Trial Act, a criminal defendant has the right to go to trial within seventy days of his indictment or his initial court appearance, whichever comes first. If the trial doesn’t begin within that period, the charges are dismissed.
Overworked defense attorneys usually ask for, and are readily given, extensions. But occasionally the system logjams, with too many trials and not enough judges to hear them. When that happens, the presiding judge requests that the civil bench jurists assist their criminal colleagues. Civil proceedings are delayed while judges used to hearing securities-fraud claims and divorces preside over robbery and assault trials instead.
This judge had been drafted for such a criminal proceeding two weeks ago. Kenny Dolan was charged with second-degree murder for allegedly stabbing his wife during a domestic dispute. The case had gotten some pretrial coverage in the local press — Dolan was a catcher on the resident minor league team with a real chance of moving up to the big leagues.
The evidence of Dolan’s guilt seemed insurmountable — his fingerprints on the knife, blood spatter on his shoes, his 911 call that was more a confession than a plea for help — but in the middle of the trial, it was revealed that one of the cops assigned to the investigation, an old bull named Borosovsky, had been convicted of planting evidence in another case. Despite a vigorous closing by the prosecutor and absolutely no indication of police misconduct in Dolan’s case, the taint couldn’t be eradicated in some jurors’ minds. After four days of deliberations, the jury had hung, nine to three in favor of conviction.
“Speaking off the record, I believe Mr. Dolan was guilty.” The judge made a face. “Never underestimate the power of celebrity, no matter how minor.”
“Too bad you couldn’t’ve done one of those JN-whatevers,” Martinez said.
“I assure you, I would have entered the order in a heartbeat,” the judge said.
“The way it turned out …” Ebanks said.
“Justice was done,” the judge said briskly.
After the jury failed to reach a verdict, the judge had dismissed them and concluded the trial. During his posttrial press conference, the prosecutor vowed to retry Dolan. He’d wanted Dolan returned to jail pending the filing of new charges. But the baseball player’s lawyer had argued that his client should be released on bond, and the judge had agreed. It all became moot two days later when Dolan was discovered dead at his lake house. The coroner hadn’t released his final report yet, but the blogosphere had reported the furnace in Dolan’s house had been leaking carbon monoxide.
Ebanks looked over at the tray of fly-tying paraphernalia. The judge noticed.
“Do you fish, Detective?”
“Not so much anymore,” Ebanks said.
“How can you live without it? I get up to the lake every weekend. You should’ve seen the rainbow I caught the day after the Dolan trial — it was at least a foot long.”
“Hmmm,” Ebanks said. “So you tie your own flies?”
“I do.” The judge held up his finger to display a Band-Aid. “Although it has its hazards.”
“Like everything else,” Ebanks said. He checked his watch. “You know, we’re not focusing on Kenny Dolan right now.”
“I don’t understand,” the judge said.
Ebanks nodded at Martinez. The rookie said, “One of the trial jurors was killed.”
“Oh?” the judge said. “Which one?”
Martinez looked toward Ebanks again, and the older detective nodded once more.
Martinez consulted his notebook.
“Eric Shadid. He didn’t even make it to the hospital. The car that hit him was going pretty fast. Witnesses
