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

The result is that I take a chance that Millwood won’t ask Scott a question that requires Scott to tell the truth about Sara and Sam. I pepper Scott with an aggressive volley of mock questions that Millwood may throw at him. Together we craft answers to the stickier inquiries, responses that are both technically true and purposefully deceptive. We go at it for a good couple of hours before degenerating into frivolity.

In my best Millwood voice, I boom, “Detective Moore, do you still beat your wife?”

“We’re divorced.”

“Do you still beat your ex-wife?”

“No. I only beat suspects.”

“Isn’t it a fact that you troll around local high schools and prey on young girls?”

“I haven’t prayed in years.”

“Isn’t it true that you once slept with the chief of police’s wife—a woman thirty years your senior?”

“It was more than once.”

“The defense rests.”

The air goes quickly out of the balloon after that. The exchange is the type that’s only funny when the participants are either roaring drunk or profoundly tired. Time to get some sleep. As we start to heave our aging bodies to a cacophony of creaks and groans, Ella startles us by opening the door without warning. We slump right back down. Looking over us with a stern look of disapproval, she asserts, “You two are about the saddest looking white boys I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s racist,” Scott retorts.

Ella drops herself into a chair, kicks off her shoes, and lets her hair down, figuratively and literally. I ask, “How’s your family?”

“We’re okay. Aunt Maddie was 96 and lived a long old life. I blamed you as my excuse to hightail it out of there. I hate dead bodies. Now I need a drink.”

She looks at Scott, knowing that I’m dry as a source. Answering her inquiry, Scott offers, “I don’t have anything on me, but if you come over to my place, I have a minibar in my bedroom.”

“No thanks. I’ve sworn off white guys forever.”

She looks at me, but a trace of a smile assures me that the words don’t come from a place of active anger. The three of us go on like this for a while, giving each other a hard time, enjoying a break from the pressures of the trial, delaying the moment when we will trod home alone once more. The criminal justice system is a nightmare on relationships, and the people in this room have the scars to prove it. But none of that matters tonight. The gang being back together again fills me with a warm glow. Scott even purloins some contraband from Bobby’s liquor cabinet, allowing Ella to enjoy that drink. Sleep is the only casualty.

38

Millwood approaches Scott with the careful manner of a lion tamer. He holds a whip in his hand to keep the lion at bay but recognizes the inherent danger posed by the beast in front of him. He will give Scott the respect he deserves. I take a weird comfort in that. A lesser, undisciplined lawyer is apt to ask Scott anything. But Millwood will steer clear of asking a question that gives Scott the opportunity to refute the innuendo that Sam and Sara were sleeping together. At least I hope.

“Detective Moore, you have no physical evidence that Bernard Barton ever fired that gun, do you?”

“No.”

“No evidence of gun powder residue on his hands the night of the murder?”

“We didn’t test for that.”

“Indeed, you didn’t ask Mr. Barton to submit to such a test, did you?”

“He wasn’t a suspect at that time.”

Millwood sagely nods. He’ll argue in closing that had the police administered such a test, Barton would’ve been exonerated. Now that’s a bunch of nonsense. Gunpowder residue can be washed off just like anything else. Its absence proves nothing. But the jury doesn’t know that.

“And you have no witnesses who place Mr. Barton in the vicinity of his house around the time of the murder?”

“No.”

“No traffic cam footage showing him near his home?”

“We barely have any traffic cameras in that area, so no.”

“Yet the ones you do have failed to show Mr. Barton, didn’t they?”

“That’s correct. They also failed to show the defendant returning to his house that night at 2:30 a.m. in the morning, so I don’t put too much stock in the traffic cams.”

Millwood allows himself a tight smile in response to Scott’s successful parlay in adding a counterpoint to his answer without appearing defensive or overly hostile. Scott makes a strong witness because Millwood trained him years ago how to best answer the questions of defense lawyers. Millwood’s strained grin suggests the recognition that he did his job too well.

“But to be clear, Detective Moore, no evidence—witnesses, traffic cams, credit card receipts—actually shows Mr. Barton in the area that night?”

“That’s correct—no witnesses, no traffic cams, no credit card receipts for anywhere that night, and no cell phone tracking since the defendant left his phone at home that day.”

The obvious implication scores a point, and the lion tamer looks like he has lost his whip. Cross-examination at its finest requires possession of a club to smack the witness should he get out of line. Millwood lacks such a weapon, and Scott is too disciplined. A few more exchanges like the last two, and Millwood’s going to bail. He doesn’t need Scott to verify what evidence the police don’t have. He can argue those points himself to the jury when the time comes.

“Let’s talk about Sam Wilkins, Detective Moore. You mentioned yesterday that you investigated Mr. Barton in connection with Wilkins’ death. You haven’t arrested Mr. Barton for Wilkins’ murder, have you?”

“No.”

“Haven’t taken it to a grand jury?”

“No.”

“You don’t believe that Mr. Barton murdered Wilkins, do you?”

Scott pauses. He testified yesterday the police think Sam committed suicide. Now is not the time to get too clever.

“No. As I said yesterday, the tentative signs point to suicide as things stand.”

“And this suicide was just months after the murder of Sara Barton?”

“Yes.”

“And Wilkins discovered Mrs. Barton’s body?”

“Yes.”

I start to hold my breath. If it’s