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

The female jurors look away in disgust. The male jurors absorb the evidence with complete concentration. I relive the past—kissing Lara that first time in my house, watching her remove the purple tank top, seeing those breasts in full technicolor.

I take a deep breath.

The playing of his sex tape further chastens Brice. His face bears the brunt of it. After the video runs its course, I force Brice to authenticate its accuracy, which he does with monosyllabic reluctance. His visual suffering the past few minutes pays strategic dividends—his weakness making it harder for Millwood to credibly paint him as a murderer. Barton, in contrast, has looked like a coiled ball of anger every single day of the trial.

“When was the last time you ever saw Sara?”

“The night before her murder.”

“Tell the jury about that night.”

“I walked over to her house, and she cooked me dinner. Spaghetti. Bernard was working late. After dinner, we went to her bedroom and made love. Afterwards, we talked about the future. She was getting a divorce. Her lawyer was delivering her divorce paperwork the next night, and she was going to tell Bernard. I wanted to be there for her, but she made me promise to stay away that night. I should’ve gone over there. Things might have turned out differently. When I learned that she was dead, I was devastated. We were going to run off together until Bernard killed her.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. The jury will disregard that last remark.”

My blank face hides the joy I feel inside. Brice slid the shiv in Barton’s gut with remarkable swiftness. I decide to wrap up by asking Brice why he left Marsh & McCabe.

He answers, “I was disgusted that the firm didn’t fire the defendant after he was indicted for murder. I couldn’t work there any anymore. It felt like a hostile work environment.”

I nod in sympathy and relinquish the witness. Judge Woodcomb announces a 15-minute recess.

***

Millwood eyes Brice from his chair—more lion hunter than lion tamer now. The witness is nervous. Me, too. One thing we don’t have to worry about is Brice’s arrest for stalking Brittany Wood. Ella filed a pre-trial motion in limine to exclude any mention of the event on the grounds that the arrest never led to a conviction. Mary Woodcomb agreed, meaning we’ve sidestepped a rather large landmine already.

I’ve toughened Brice up as best I could, but Millwood will draw blood. The only uncertainty is how much. I hope for nothing worse than a flesh wound, expect something of a deeper cut, and dread a kill shot. Still sitting, Millwood asks his first question.

“What did you do when you quit Marsh & McCabe?”

“I took a break and spent some time in the mountains. Sara’s death was quite a shock.”

“What did you do in the mountains?”

Two odd, open-ended questions to start the cross-examination. Not good. Millwood knows something. The alarm bells in my head threaten to burst my eardrums. The imagination runs wild. Anything would seem to be on the table at this point.

“Nothing really. I hiked a little. Read some books.”

“Did you do drugs?”

I remember the heavy stench of residual weed when Scott and I paid Brice a visit. May the damage stop there. I can deal with drugs, as long as Brice—who actually looks at me now—honestly answers the question. My face exhibits nothingness in response to Brice’s glance. But telepathically I send him a single message. Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth.

Millwood wouldn’t ask that question unless he had the goods to smash Brice into broken pieces for a lie. Smoking weed is a little deal. Perjury is a big deal. The biggest sin a witness can commit is to lie. The jurors figure that if you deceive them about one thing, you will deceive them about everything.

Brice answers, “Sure, I smoked some dope.”

Good boy.

“Did you ever smoke dope with Sara before she died?”

“A few times.”

How would Millwood know that? I feel outflanked. I never even thought to ask Brice such a thing. Even though I doubt the legal relevance of the question, objecting would give Millwood a free monologue to spin the drug use in whatever ways he wants in answer to the objection. That fight is not worth having.

Millwood, who remains seated still, reaches for a manila folder on the defense table. His deliberate movements ramp up the suspense. Four questions in, he has already maneuvered Brice into admitting to a crime and implicating the victim in a crime. Anticipation for the next bombshell builds. Millwood pulls something out of his folder. He stands up, ready to take the action to a new phase. Brice looks halfway on the road to being shaken.

Millwood strides toward me and hands over some photographs that he intends to present to the witness. The pictures capture a crazed-looking Brice in his mountain man phase. To call the pictures unflattering undershoots the reality by a country mile. They’re terrible. The worst of the bunch features Brice shirtless with demonic red eyes that could only come from Satan himself. The image screams murder. Millwood has been busy.

He undoubtedly picked the worst of the litter, but these pictures are so bad I wonder if they have been edited. Technology can do a lot these days. It’s a long shot, but I have to attempt to keep these photos out.

I say to the judge, “May we approach, Your Honor?”

I smile to keep the jury off the scent that I want to keep evidence from them. Millwood already has them eating out of his hand. I make a small joke to him as we walk up and follow it with an animated laugh disproportionate to the joke’s merits—anything to distract attention from whatever Millwood showed me from the manila folder. When we reach the bench, I make my argument.

“Your Honor, it appears Mr. Millwood intends to introduce into evidence photographs taken of the witness months after the murder of Sara Barton. First, the evidence is irrelevant to the issue of the guilt or