Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

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.

    U NDER THE S PEEDY 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 said it aimed right for him, didn’t brake, and
bam!
”
    The judge furrowed his brow in concentration. “Mr. Shadid was the foreman, wasn’t he?”
    “Right,” Martinez said.
    “When did this happen?” the judge said. “Why didn’t I hear about it?”
    “A day after the trial ended,” Ebanks said. “It