The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (primary phonics txt) 📗

strained without success to read their faces for any clues. Nothing. I prepared for the worst and felt almost confused when the foreman called out, “Guilty.” Turned out that eleven of the jurors quickly landed on the defendant’s guilt, but it took four days to convince the lone holdout.

Amber and I celebrated by taking a short vacation to Jekyll Island to allow me to recuperate. Sitting outside while enjoying a sunset dinner, her radiance overtook me. She had never looked so beautiful. That trip remains one of my best memories. Try as I might to avoid thinking about Amber since her murder, jury deliberations always remind me of those few precious days. Waiting for the Miller verdict is no different. I see her so clearly. On a bicycle. Eating ice cream. Drinking wine. Splashing in the water. Strolling on Driftwood Beach. Wearing a bathing suit that both revealed and hid much. Happy times.

I flash a look of hatred at the clock. Six hours. Still no word from the jury.

***

The news of a verdict reaches Ella’s phone first. I straighten my tie and put on my jacket. I splash some cold water on my face to ready myself before finding my assigned seat. I analyze Miller for any sign showing a heightened awareness of the moment and again find nothing. The possibility that I’m more nervous about the verdict than Miller strikes me as inconceivable, but that appears to be the truth. The callousness with which he treats the lives of others would make a perverse semblance of sense if he likewise doesn’t put much stock in his own life. Judge Ross enters the room.

“Bring in the jury,” he orders.

I always search the jury for signs of its verdict. This practice is nothing more than alchemy, although it does pass the time. The knot in my stomach tightens.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor,” responds the jury foreman.

After inspecting the verdict, Ross addresses the defense table, “Will the defendant please rise?” The words are a command framed as a request. At Joe’s urging, Miller stands up, annoyed at the effort required to get on his feet. Joe stands next to him, the dutiful attorney to the last.

“Mr. Foreperson, you may read the verdict.”

My heart races abnormally fast for a man simply sitting in a chair. Ella gives my knee a squeeze under the prosecution table, a first for her, and a sign that the nerves are eating at her insides, too.

“We the jury, in the matter of the State of Georgia versus Corey Andrew Miller, on the charge of first-degree murder, find the defendant … guilty.”

The pause before “guilty” throws me a little. Was it a pause or a “not”? I ask Ella, “Did he say guilty?” Ella nods and gives my knee another squeeze. I take a deep breath. Thank God.

***

Judge Ross calls the courtroom to order. Miller slumps back down into his chair. Maybe he does care. The jurors look relieved, but their work is not yet done. Next up is the sentencing phase and the determination whether Miller will be put to death for his crime. But the hour is already late, and Ross sends everyone home for the day.

After the adjournment, Joe meanders over to Ella and me. He wants to make a deal.

“I need to talk with my client, but I was wondering about a trade where we agree to life with no parole in exchange for taking the needle off the table.”

I answer, “That’s the deal I offered you before the trial. Why would we take that deal at this point?”

Joe shrugs his shoulders in response. I pressed him hard before the trial to get Miller to take my offer. I would gladly have traded the death penalty to spare Tasha from testifying. Miller turned it down, and I’m in no mood to negotiate now.

Joe pouts, “You got my client for life. I don’t see why you need him dead, too.”

“He killed a witness, Joe. We need to make an example of him. He had his chance to avoid the needle. He rolled the dice and lost. Now he has to live with it.”

“Whatever,” retorts Joe. He slinks off.

Idiot. The death penalty as a tool of leverage for encouraging pre-trial pleas only works if we actually seek lethal injection once we win a conviction. Rejecting the deal must have consequences. Otherwise every murder defendant would take his chances at trial. Miller should’ve pled.

On our walk back to the office, Ella asks, “Still want to indict Joe?”

“I want to, but I won’t. He wasn’t involved in any conspiracy. Indicting him would only make him a martyr to the cause within the defense bar,” I answer. “But I’ll invite him to Miller’s execution.”

“Ouch,” responds Ella.

“He deserves it.”

“Let’s make sure Miller gets it first.”

Someone bumps hard into me forcing my body into a half-spin.

“Watch where you going,” huffs Q-Bone. The bump is no accident. Q-Bone flares at me with murder in his eyes. Ella hurries away, no doubt to retrieve a deputy. I stand my ground. I’m in the mood for a fight.

“Big lawyer man. What you got against the Rattlesnakes, lawyer man?”

“I grew up in the country, Q-Bone. I’ve never been afraid of snakes. They’re small and they scamper away at the slightest little thing. I bet you’ve never even seen a rattlesnake in the wild, have you? I have. They have a rattle. Big deal. Babies have rattles. Are you afraid of babies, Q-Bone?”

In reality, snakes terrify me, always have, especially rattlers. But Q-Bone doesn’t know that.

“Lawyer man is real funny. Were you laughing when your wife and kid got what was coming to them?”

I peer down on him. I’m 6’2 200 pounds. Q-Bone’s lucky if he’s 5’9 in heels and is so thin he’s invisible from the side. Q-Bone gives me his best triple-dog-dare look to encourage me to make the first move. If I respond to his provocation, he wins. But Q-Bone doesn’t get to win.

“Q-Bone, have you ever seen a