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

***

Judge Mary Woodcomb welcomes Millwood and me into her chambers. She sat on the bench for my first trial ever and treated me with much-appreciated gentleness. Sometimes when we see each other away from the courthouse, she reminds me of that trial and congratulates me on how far I’ve come. She was also the only judge to attend Amber and Cale’s funeral. Mary is one of the good ones.

The three of us gather to discuss the scheduling of the Barton trial. Mary’s office suite features a little sitting area, and she joins us there for the discussion, eschewing the big desk and other trappings that typically accompany the judicial role. I contrast her with the incompetent Judge Ross and say a silent hallelujah of thanks that Woodcomb’s steady hand will steer the ship of the trial.

“What dates are we thinking, fellas?”

Millwood answers, “As soon as possible. My client is innocent and needs justice sooner rather than later. We’re ready to go tomorrow. We’ll make a speedy trial demand if we have to.”

The judge smiles at Millwood’s puffery and directs the next question to me, “What about the State?”

“Tomorrow might be a bit quick, but Bobby told me to go full steam ahead on this one. My calendar is clear.”

Mary’s knowing nod shows her understanding of the importance of good publicity for a district attorney in an election year. She takes out her calendar and does some mental calculations before writing down a few notes. Then she asks, “Will you guys be ready to start five weeks from now?” We both affirm yes.

“All right, that date is yours. I’m writing it down in ink. Short of a plea, consider this date set in concrete. Speak now or forever hold your peace.” She gives us a moment to object, but neither of us takes her up on it. “Okay, we’re set. Any chance of a plea?”

Millwood jumps in, “None.”

The judge responds, “That was certainly heartfelt. Anything else then?”

I say, “Cameras?”

Mary whistles and asks, “How famous do the three of us want to be? Thoughts?”

“Your courtroom, your rules,” offers Millwood.

Woodcomb nods and turns to me expecting my feelings on the matter since I’m the one who brought it up. I shrug my shoulders and say only, “I’m agnostic.”

“That’s helpful,” she retorts. “Is Lara Landrum going to testify?”

“She is.”

Mary considers the issue, then says, “Public interest will be high, and I’m of the mind that seeing two skilled and ethical advocates like the both of you will do the public some good. I’ll let the cameras in. Let’s all put our best foot forward.”

I quip, “The nightly crime shows thank you for the ratings boost and the free programming.”

Mary groans, “No kidding. I can’t watch those things. They’re terrible. But I hear Nancy Grace is worth $30 million now, so maybe the joke’s on me. Anyway, if the trial is going to be on television, then we don’t have to worry about witness sequestration. What about the jury? Should we sequester them?”

Jurors get sequestered to avoid the taint of outside publicity affecting their deliberative process. And this case will be swimming in publicity.

I answer, “If the defendant gets to go home every night, then the jurors should, too.”

The thought of otherwise bored jurors talking about the trial at the end of each day doesn’t sit well with me. Even a strong case can be henpecked to death over time. I don’t need some clever juror going Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men on me every night.

Mary responds, “What do you think, Jack?”

“That’s fine.”

Millwood and I stand to take our leave. Before we get out of there, Mary asks, “Is this the first time you two have faced off?”

“Yes ma’am,” I answer.

“He’s good, Jack. Better watch yourself. I was there for his first trial. He has come a long way.”

“He should be good. He had the best teacher around.”

“Yep,” I say, “My dad was the best.”

We all laugh at the joke. Woodcomb knows the long history between Millwood and me. We’re all friends here—even as we carry out our very different professional roles.

The meeting adjourns. Five weeks. We’ll be ready. As I walk to my office, Mary’s confident observation that I’m an ethical lawyer stings me for my duplicity. I’m letting more people down than I even realize. But the die is cast. The only thing I can do now is win.

23

Scott and I decide to pay Brice Tanner a visit. Unable to find a phone number for him, our visit will be unannounced. The drive to Brasstown Bald in the north Georgia mountains should take a couple of hours.

Scott asks, “How you getting along without the actress?”

I wondered if he would broach the topic. I look out the passenger side window to hide my face before answering.

“Fine, I suppose. It never should’ve happened.”

“Do you love her?”

I consider the question and try to calculate the best answer to put the issue to bed.

“I loved sleeping with her.”

“I bet you did.”

The envy dripping from his voice could fill a lake. My response—purposely couched in the past tense—has its desired effect. He’s now thinking about Lara naked. I’ll let him bask in the fantasy as long as he wants. I start to visualize her naked, too.

He asks, “How did it happen?”

“How did what happen?”

“How did the two of you hook up in the first place?”

One thing I’ve learned from a career of studying witnesses is that a good liar never departs more than necessary from the truth. “Keep it simple, stupid” is good advice for whole swaths of life. It is excellent advice for one looking to successfully lie. I tell the truth.

“I think she learned about Amber and Cale somehow. She called me up to talk about how to deal with her grief. We had dinner. One thing led to another.”

“She went to you for grief counseling? Could she have made a worse choice?”

The words come out harsher than he intended, but