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

a posture of self-righteousness, today will go even worse for her than I expect.

“A few days later, you went to the police station to give a statement?”

“Yes.”

“You understood as a lawyer that you had no obligation to talk to the police?”

“Yes.”

“But you decided to talk to the police anyway?”

“Yes.”

“And you discussed that decision with the defendant before going to the police station?”

I have no proof of such a conversation, but her answers thus far foreclose the possibility that she waltzed into the police station to talk about Barton without consulting with him first. No one will believe a denial even if she gives one. She again considers the question for too long before agreeing that she and Barton talked.

“And the defendant wanted you to talk to the police?”

“He wasn’t opposed to it.”

“He wasn’t opposed to it?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t opposed to whatever you had to say to the police?”

“Yes.”

“And you told the police that the defendant was with you at your condo when Sara Barton was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“You signed an affidavit under oath to that effect?”

“Yes.”

“Giving the defendant an alibi that, if believed, would exonerate him from murder?”

“Yes.”

“And that alibi was a lie?”

“No. It’s the truth. Bernard was with me the entire evening.”

While I receive the lie with clinical detachment, the little mice in my brain furiously spin their wheels to figure out what’s going on. Millwood knows that the alibi is trash. He also knows that I know the alibi is trash. Yet Monica Haywood just perjured herself on the heap of that trash. I cannot fathom why. Whatever the weird motivations at work, duty now obliges me to call her on it.

The cross-examination slows to a crawl. The logistics of exposing Haywood’s deceit requires maneuvering a video screen in place, playing the surveillance footage capturing the hallway of her condo, forcing her to acknowledge the digital time and date of the footage, and then playing the clipped footage that shows Barton’s exit at 7:38 p.m. and his return at 3:59 a.m. the next morning. This slog eventually reaches its inevitable destination—Monica Haywood confesses that she lied about being with Barton at the time of the murder.

She remains unhumbled by the admission—not quite defiant, but decidedly unaffected by her public unmasking as a perjurer. Maybe she is just bored, which would match the rising mood in the room. Having finally proved the alibi false through the magic of video, I pick up the pace.

“You lied about the alibi in your police interview?”

“Yes.”

“Signed a false affidavit about the alibi as part of that interview?”

“Yes.”

“And the defendant wasn’t opposed to you talking to the police?”

“Yes.”

“The two and you discussed it beforehand?”

“Yes.”

The conclusion draws itself. Other lawyers would no doubt try to get Haywood to concede that Barton instructed her to lie. But that’s tilting at windmills. She’ll deny it, then what? You’re reduced to arguing with a witness. If you can’t prove it, don’t ask it.

“And you repeated the lie this morning before these jurors?”

“Yes.”

“After you took an oath to tell the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Lied anyway?”

“Yes.”

“As a lawyer, you understand the seriousness of perjury?”

“Yes.”

“Lied anyway?”

“Yes.”

“You currently live with the defendant?”

“Yes.”

“The two of you are engaged to be married?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t get married if he goes to prison, will you?”

Haywood thinks about that one. The sudden silence in the room leads to a re-focusing of unwanted attention on the witness, much to the witness’ distaste. She takes a drink of water with hundreds of eyeballs on her movements.

“We can still get married.”

“You would marry him even if he went to prison for murder?”

“Yes.”

“Are you worried about going to jail for perjury?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Is the defendant going to marry you if you’re the one in jail?”

That leaves a mark. I half-expect Millwood to object, but he sits there with an air of disinterest. He hasn’t objected once this morning, seemingly ignoring the entirety of Haywood’s testimony. The witness looks at Barton before answering, “He loves me.” If she believes that, she’s the only one in the vicinity who does. After a few more questions, I sit down, and the judge dismisses everyone for the morning break.

***

Millwood stands to begin his examination. We wondered over the recess whether he would even ask anything of Haywood. Sometimes the best cross is “No questions, Your Honor.” The damage she caused is done, compounded by her reckless insistence on repeating a lie easily exposed. Millwood figures only to make things worse if he engages Haywood too long. As a reclamation project, she’s a poor investment.

He begins, “You love the defendant, don’t you?”

“Very much.”

“You want to be his wife?”

“Yes.”

“And you wanted to be his wife even before Sara Barton was murdered, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“And now you’re free to marry Bernard?”

“I am.”

Weird. Millwood is making my case for me by reinforcing that Haywood would willfully lie for Barton to help him cover up a murder. But Millwood is not stupid. Some ulterior motive lurks. I can’t figure it out, and that scares me.

“And you lied this morning when you testified that you and Bernard were together at the time of the murder?”

“I did.”

“You two weren’t together?”

“No.”

“Bernard left your apartment at around seven-thirty that night?”

“He did.”

“What did you do after he left?”

That’s the first non-leading question, and my insides groan. Monica Haywood’s movements on the night of the murder are a mystery to me—a black hole that mocks me as incompetent. As I process the implications of this mistake, the witness wears the appearance of a frightened turtle wanting to retreat back into the safety of her shell. When Millwood asks her if she would like him to repeat the question, she meekly nods.

“What did you do after Bernard left your apartment the night of the murder?”

“I … I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“Did you leave your apartment that night?”

“I don’t remember.”

Millwood emits disbelief. I wonder how many times he and Haywood rehearsed this entire routine. When Millwood deploys the same video screen I used earlier in the morning, the thought of an unchecked box early in the investigation slaps me across the face. I turn