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

man die by lethal injection? I have. I’ve sent two men to their death. Your pal Corey is going to be the third. Here’s what happens. Men with masks—we don’t want the condemned to know their executioners for some reason, so they wear masks. These men with masks strap you down to a table so you can’t move. Then they get these big needles—the biggest you’ve ever seen—and they stab them into your arms and legs.”

I play-act the injection of the needles into his body. He steps back and says, “Man, what the—”

“Wait, I’m not done yet. The prisoner is strapped there with big needles digging into his skin, and he starts reacting to the poison. Except the poison hasn’t started yet! Both times I’ve seen it, the dudes are crying out in pain before the bad stuff even begins. That’s how freaked out they were.”

“Man—”

“Still not done. And then it starts. For real. The poison begins its destructive march through the body. It’s crazy, Q-Bone. The civilized world has banned chemical weapons because they’re too inhumane, yet the State of Georgia uses chemicals to kill a man from the inside out.”

I shake my head in disbelief at this dichotomy.

“Where was I? The poison starts doing its work, and the soon-to-be dead man’s eyes start to bug out. The face turns purple, and there is foaming at the mouth. People watching in the observation room start to throw up. It’s that disgusting. I’m told the man’s genitals—that’s your boy parts, Q-Bone—the genitals feel like they’re on fire as the poison reaches the veins down there. It’s a terrible way to die.”

I pause to let the images sink in for a second or two.

“That’s going to happen to Corey. You can come watch if you want, you and me ringside seats. Of course, I kinda have a feeling—call it a lawyer man hunch—that you’re going to meet the same fate.”

His strut is gone. He lost it sometime around the first mention of the big needles. He’s too ignorant to recognize that my entire description of lethal injection is make believe. During my monologue, Ella returned with a deputy. A shake of my head kept them from interrupting. I wanted Q-Bone to hear every single word.

The performance scared him, and he knows I know it. In an attempt to save face, he works to re-establish his tough guy credibility in my eyes.

“I don’t care what you say, man. That little girl is still going to get got.”

“Tasha Favors?”

“Hell yeah, Tasha Favors.”

I turn to the deputy, Deputy Besh according to his badge. I ask, “Did you hear him say that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ella, did you hear it?”

“I heard it.”

“I heard it, too,” I say to round things out.

A confused Q-Bone fails to appreciate the criminal significance of his words. He knows something is wrong, but he doesn’t know what, and he doesn’t like it.

He spits out, “What?”

I answer, “Deputy Besh, can you please arrest Anthony Wayne, alias Q-Bone, for making terroristic threats against Tasha Favors?”

“Yes, sir.”

Besh takes out his handcuffs and tells Q-Bone to turn around with his hands behind his back. Q-Bone does neither.

“What’s this, man?”

People start to gather around. I see an ACLU lawyer I casually know looking at us warily with a phone in her hand. She’s not filming yet, but it would only take a couple of seconds for her to start. I don’t want this situation to escalate to the point where Besh has to forcefully subdue Q-Bone. I need to talk Q-Bone down off the ledge.

“Q-Bone, you just threatened to kill somebody.”

“Nah, I didn’t.”

“Close enough. We need to take you in. You’ll be bonded out and back home tomorrow if everything goes smoothly. But if you resist and everything goes to hell, I will bring the wrath of God down on your head. Okay? Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Despite the antagonism between Q-Bone and me, or perhaps because of it, we have a rough understanding of each other. Besh takes him into custody, and a potential crisis is averted. Before Q-Bone is led away, I warn him, “And forget about that little girl.” He slumps and gives me a half-nod.

The crowd begins to disperse. Toward the back I see a familiar, unwelcome face—Bernard Barton. We make eye contact, and he flashes his trademark smirk before stalking away. I turn to Ella and announce, “God, I hate that guy.”

19

The death penalty phase of the Miller trial starts on a morning brimming with white sunlight. I wear the same purple tie I wore when I convinced the Willie Joe Sawyer and Harry Fleming juries to sentence those men to death. A weird thumping sound repeats on a loop when I enter my garage. The noise originates from an orange and black butterfly flying into a window, trying to reach the fresh air. Over and over again, the scene repeats itself. I shake my head at the futility.

The garage door rises, and the natural light of the day floods even the darkest corners of the space. Yet the butterfly fails to understand the freedom offered by the new light. Instead, he keeps crashing into that window, over and over again. Sigh. I grab one of his spastic wings and hold on for dear life against the power of the furious flaps. I transport the butterfly outside the garage to release him. He flies away and disappears into nature’s welcoming arms.

The butterfly’s flight into freedom is humbling in its beautiful simplicity. I smile for almost the entire drive to the courthouse. When I realize that saving that butterfly was the first thing I’ve done in a long time completely free from self-interest, the smile fades, and I feel the emptiness of a life with myself at its center.

***

Twelve hours later, the deputies lead Corey Miller back to his cell as a man condemned to death. The result was inevitable the moment Miller yelled, “That little bitch be lying!” Maybe it was inevitable the day he