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

The first twelve names on the jury list march to the front of the room, and the tango begins. Judge Mary Woodcomb takes the first crack at them and asks the basic questions. Have you formed an opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the accused? Have you any prejudice or bias for or against the accused? Is there any reason you cannot weigh the evidence with an impartial mind? The potential jurors answer “no” to the judge’s questions because that is what good citizens are expected to say.

I rise to take my turn and ooze friendliness as I approach the jury box. Introductions are made, and I take my first steps to building a rapport with the men and women I’m going to ask to convict Bernard Barton of murder. First impressions matter. The tone is conversational, and I make good eye contact with each of them to personalize the formation of our relationship. Better to make all of them feel comfortable before throwing them into the fire.

Only then do I ask my questions. The process proceeds through the rest of the day.

Being back in the arena feels good. The emotional drama of the past few weeks melts away in the gritty detail of picking a jury. Hours pass. The game of musical chairs in the jury box reaches its denouement. By day’s end, twelve individuals—seven African-Americans, five whites, six women, six men—survive the meat grinder of voir dire. Their divergent identities now merge into a singular collective known as the jury—e pluribus unum; out of many, one. The last actors in the drama now set, the prosecution of Bernard Barton begins tomorrow in earnest.

35

I don’t believe in long opening statements. Too many lawyers place too much faith in their rhetorical skills, in their ability to convince anyone of anything if only given enough time. Conceit of this sort kills self-analysis—the ability to edit. Start strong, say your piece, sit down. The ability to maintain focus is a lost skill in the digital age, and the attorney who bores his jurors ensures that their minds will wander to other things.

Judge Woodcomb turns the floor over to me. I remain seated for a few seconds to let the silence settle. I stand up, walk to the center of the room, face the jury, and prepare my courtroom voice.

“‘He’s going to kill me!’”

A lot of lawyers start with sweet introductions. Not me. Man is an emotional animal. Grab the jury’s attention and tell a story. Stories move people. I muster up all the pathos I can and relay the tragedy of Sara Barton.

“‘He’s going to kill me!’ Sara Barton spoke those words. Seventy-nine days later, Sara’s prophecy came true. Bernard Barton—the defendant, that man over there—pointed his gun at his wife and squeezed the trigger. A shot straight into Sara’s heart.”

I pause to allow the jurors to create their own mental pictures of the scene in their heads. What the mind can see, the mind will believe. I next take the jury on a tour of what the State’s evidence will show—Barton’s desperate need for money; the trips to Las Vegas; the gambling losses; the $5 million of life insurance on Sara’s life; Barton’s affair with a much younger woman; the murder weapon with Barton’s fingerprints on the unused bullets; the lack of an alibi at the time of the murder; the video of Sara and Brice and the 911 call that followed; Sara’s bruised back after her husband beat her.

Thirteen minutes after starting the story, I approach the finish line. I move closer to the jurors to foster greater intimacy. The connection is strategic. I seek to enlist them as my partners in the quest for justice.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on behalf of the State of Georgia, I’m going to ask you to hold Bernard Barton accountable for the death of his wife. I’m going to ask you to listen to the evidence and follow the bread crumbs right to Bernard Barton’s door. I’m going to ask you to listen … to Sara herself.”

***

Millwood looms large over the courtroom. Judges sit behind raised pedestals to enhance their authority over the lesser men and women who appear before them. The visual effect usually works, but not with Millwood. His presence cuts too formidable a figure to be dwarfed by such pretensions. His oak-tree frame coupled with his oak-tree integrity drew me to him the first time we met. Working at his side for years only enhanced my regard. And now we sit at opposite tables.

He begins his opening statement:

“How do I stand before you and prove that Bernard Barton did not kill his wife? I don’t. That’s not my job. It’s the State’s job to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he did. And that they cannot do. Sure enough, the State spins a compelling story, if only it were true. Let’s start with what the evidence will not show.”

Millwood starts away from the jury but walks slowly to a perch right in front of them, leaking gravitas all the way.

“The evidence will not show that Bernard ever fired that gun. His fingerprints were not found anywhere on the gun, no prints on the barrel, on the trigger, or anywhere. But his prints were on the unfired bullets in the gun, says the State. So what?”

He roars the “so what?” as if to dare anyone to answer the question.

“The gun belonged to the Bartons—Bernard and Sara. He bought it for her protection for when he was away traveling on business. His prints are on the bullets because he loaded the gun himself.”

I’m floored. That evidence can only come in through Barton’s own testimony, and it is foolish to commit to that course of action this early. Millwood would never agree to such nonsense unless pushed into it by his client. The idea that Barton is paying Millwood a boatload of money only to ignore his advice fills me