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

The whole proceeding felt perfunctory, like an inconsequential misdemeanor traffic trial as opposed to a hearing to decide on a man’s life. Ever his worst enemy, Miller glared angrily at the jurors the entire time. No character witnesses spoke on his behalf, and Joe’s efforts for his client were lukewarm, if that. I said what needed to be said, and the jury did what needed to be done. Corey Miller now officially sits on Georgia’s death row.

***

Ella and I decompress in my office in the wake of Miller’s condemnation by a jury of his peers. Lara remains in California, and I have nowhere else to go. Ella sits before me in a wing-backed chair with her legs pulled under her—shoes and hose off, blouse untucked, beer in her hand. I nurse a bottle of Coke with a gravity it doesn’t deserve.

She asks, “What now?”

“All Barton all the time.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I feign ignorance but know she’s talking about us. I stare down hard at my Coke, as if the secret to all of the world’s problems rests at the bottom of the glass.

“What are you afraid of?”

Ella’s question pulls me back to the here and now. I drag my eyes away from the bottle and look at her with a confused mask, pretending to be stupid. The audience isn’t buying the act.

“Don’t. You’re much too smart to play dumb like this.”

I decide to lie.

“We work together. It would be too complicated.”

“You don’t believe that.”

She’s right. I could see myself loving Ella under different circumstances. That we’ve grown close is no surprise. Office romances in the legal profession are as widespread as pollen in the spring. Late nights at work, stressful deadlines that never abate, too much alcohol—the working conditions of the modern lawyer breed intimate familiarity among those who are near. A quarter of the lawyers in town have a former junior associate as a second wife. Don’t even get me started on the judges.

“I’m your boss. It’s bad policy, sexual harassment even.”

Ella laughs, unfurls her long, brown legs from the seat, and stands as a woman on a mission. She glides toward me with much mischief. I couldn’t be stiller if a lion stood there eyeing me as its next meal—or more afraid. When she reaches me, she plops down into my lap.

“To hell with policy.”

Her lips descend and latch onto my mouth. I don’t push her away. She tastes as good as I’ve imagined. She disengages from the kiss, and we hold each other, forehead resting on forehead, hot breaths hanging in the air between us.

“Spend the night with me.”

She feels good. Too good. I close my eyes and remember Lara. I wriggle out from under Ella to gain my feet. She slides into the space I just vacated, startled and amazed by the sudden movement.

“I can’t.”

“Is it another woman?”

“God, no.”

The immediacy of the answer doesn’t quell her doubts. Hard, skeptical eyes probe my face searching for signs of deceit. Finding nothing, she tries another tack.

“What is it then?”

“Amber. Cale. Everything. I’m not ready for this. I’ll probably never be ready for it. Forget about me.”

The lies flow so easily. I amaze myself. The scary part is that I don’t really care.

“It’s been two years, Chance,” Ella argues.

“I gotta go.”

“Is it because I’m black?”

That leaves a mark. I stand there with my mouth open, stunned into a long silence. The race issue has never once infected our relationship. Ella’s willingness to play that card hurts.

“How could you say such a thing?”

“Well, you are a white guy of a certain age from rural Georgia. I doubt your momma would approve.”

“Do you really believe that about me?”

“It would explain a lot.”

“The answer to your question is no.”

I leave her there in my chair—bewildered and anguished at the man who refuses to love her. I head home, thinking of another woman and placing all my hopes of salvation on her.

***

Monday morning follows an aimless weekend without Lara. I didn’t work, didn’t shave, didn’t leave the house, didn’t dwell on the awkwardness with Ella. Freed from the hurry of the trial, the separation from Lara hit me with maximum velocity. I missed her and lacked purpose in the vacuum created by her absence. The only relevant moments of Saturday and Sunday were our brief conversations on the phone. I remember little else. Back at my desk, work doesn’t hold the same interest as before, and I’m at a loss on how to go about my day. Lara returns to town tonight.

“Bobby wants to meet us.”

Ella’s words break me out of my mental haze. Her presence in my office comes as a surprise. I get up slowly and fight the heaviness of my legs. The story is the same after every trial. My body needs time to re-adjust. As the years advance, the recovery period lengthens. The thought of another tiresome meeting with Bobby increases the weight of the walk. Ella leads me through the relevant door.

“Surprise!”

I flinch against the yell that greets me as I enter the room. I look around, gather my bearings, and register various constituencies of the District Attorney’s Office. Everyone smiles at me, the apparent guest of honor. Today is not my birthday, not even in the remote vicinity. The meaning behind this gathering mystifies. Ella beams. I see a cake. I smile awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

Bobby emerges from somewhere, carrying a large smile with him, and motions for everyone to gather around. He addresses me:

“We all know you’re the hardest working person in the office. You set an example for all of us to follow. You make me look good every day, and I personally appreciate it. We have tough jobs here. We see the very worst of humanity, and the public expects us to make sure that those who are most dangerous do not walk free. It is important work, and you know more than anyone the high cost crime exacts on its victims. Even after enduring a personal tragedy