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

with sardonic glee. I also smell weakness. They have to deal with the gun, and I take comfort that they feel risking Barton on the stand is the only way to do so. Knowing I will get a crack at Barton on cross-examination already feels like a monumental win. He won’t wear well.

Millwood goes on, “The truth is that anyone who visited the Barton residence had access to that gun. Brice Tanner, one of Sara Barton’s lovers, will testify that he was there the night before the murder. Sam Wilkins, Sara Barton’s lawyer, was there the night of the murder. He discovered the body at 10 p.m. that night. What lawyer visits his client at her house that late?”

The question is argumentative, and I could move to have it stricken, but I don’t dare put a spotlight on that particular issue. Millwood stands silent for a moment and allows the unstated gossip of the question to brew into something stronger.

“Sam Wilkins won’t testify at this trial, so I won’t get to ask him why he visited Sara Barton so late at night. Sam is dead from a bullet hole in the head. The State forgot to mention that in their opening statement. The only person we know for sure who was at the murder scene at the time of the murder is shot shortly thereafter. That’s strange, and the State has no explanation for it.”

Crafty. I’ve been spinning my wheels for weeks trying to discern how Millwood would approach Sam’s death, and he just shifted the responsibility to me. If I don’t explain it, Millwood will pound the table in incredulity. I have no choice but to take the bait. When your actions as a lawyer tell the jury that you’re uncertain about your case, you shouldn’t be surprised if the jury reaches the same conclusion.

I immediately rule Sam’s death a suicide. Murder raises too many unanswerable questions: who killed Sam, why did that person kill Sam, and how does Sam’s murder relate to Sara Barton’s case? That’s a quagmire I intend to avoid.

“Sam Wilkins has another connection to the murder scene. Sam’s wife, Liesa Wilkins, was also in the vicinity of the Barton home at the time of Sara Barton’s murder. Traffic cameras caught her driving away. Do I know if Brice Tanner, Sam Wilkins, or Liesa Wilkins killed Sara Barton? No. I do not. But red flags are everywhere.”

He knows about Liesa and fully intends to use her. Great.

Millwood continues the process of laying out detonation devices to tripwire my case. He doesn’t share my aversion to long openings. He considers himself a builder, and building takes time. The difference in our styles—he’s the tortoise, I’m the hare—grew starker over the years. And while I’m well aware of the outcome of that particular fable, the hare’s downfall was one of hubris, not strategy. He took the tortoise for granted. I won’t make that mistake with Millwood.

Forty-five minutes in, I steal a glance at the jurors. Because it’s their first day on the job, they figure to be at their attentive, nervous best. But a few of them struggle to maintain focus. Likely sensing the growing complacency of his audience, Millwood makes his final approach for landing.

“I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told a jury before, and I’ve tried a bunch of cases in my life. You won’t like my client. He’s abrasive and arrogant. He cheated on his wife throughout the course of their marriage. He gambles too much, and he acts like a little boy who has never grown up. But you are not jurors in a popularity contest. You’re not charged with deciding whether Bernard Barton is a good person. He’s not. You’re charged with deciding whether the evidence shows beyond a reasonable doubt that he murdered his wife. The evidence presented will not meet that standard.”

***

The first thing I do back in my office is call Liesa. The news that she is now front and center in the Barton trial has already landed on her. I smell the alcohol on her breath over the phone.

“We need to talk about how to handle your testimony,” I say.

“No we don’t. I don’t care about your stupid case. I care about my children. I’m not talking to you. I’m not talking to that other lawyer.”

“Do you care about being accused of murder on national television?”

Heavy breathing is the only thing I hear on her end. She needs to sober up. Any erratic behavior now becomes fodder for Millwood to keep dropping hints that Liesa may be a murderer. I expect the worst. Liesa has played this thing wrong from the beginning. Little reason exists to think she’ll change now.

Trying to illicit some response, I say, “Millwood’s going to subpoena you, Liesa. You can’t run from this.”

She hangs up.

Did Liesa kill Sam? I credited her denial when I asked her the same question at her house. I’m not so sure now. Sam gave her plenty of reason. Liesa gave up everything for him only to be betrayed in favor of another woman. The insurance money is also a nice pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Three million dollars is three million dollars. The location of Sam’s murder—if it was murder—further suggests that someone close to Sam killed him. He didn’t walk into the woods with a stranger.

36

Ella calls Cecil Magnus to the stand. The old coroner strides up to the witness box with the royal bearing of a king. He takes his seat with an Old World dignity that teeters on extinction. The gentlemanly nod he offers to the jurors melts their hearts. After a ho-hum series of witnesses establishing the preliminaries with some of the first officers on the scene, Cecil will kick the case into high gear.

Law enforcement witnesses require special handling in a city with a majority black population. African-American jurors carry with them a well-earned distrust of the police—a wariness foreign to most whites. Mindful of this