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

“Yes.”

“In a secluded area of the woods?”

“Yes.”

“The gun that killed him right by his side?”

“Yes.”

“The gunshot wound was to his temple?”

“Yes.”

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

“Yes.”

A toddler still in diapers would have no trouble connecting those dots. Liesa makes eye contact with me for the first time. I slowly make a fist with my hand as it hangs near my face to indicate that she should stay strong. Millwood has scored some points, but Liesa hasn’t admitted a single damaging thing yet. The questioning is more sizzle than steak at this point.

“Your husband died only three weeks ago?”

“Yes.”

“And he was due to testify at this trial, wasn’t he?”

“Yes”—a pause—“that’s what killed him.”

The answer comes of out nowhere—a sudden break from the monotony of Liesa meekly saying “yes” to whatever Millwood puts in front of her. Worry seizes my insides. I have no idea what she is talking about. I swallow my concern and nearly choke on it. My entire trial strategy hangs in the balance. Millwood shares my shock. Confused, he actually blurts out, “What?”

His disorientation leads him to make a mistake. He asks a witness on cross-examination an open-ended question to which he doesn’t already know the answer. With rare exceptions, cross-examination questions should almost always elicit a yes or no response. Giving the witness a free platform to answer an open-ended question in a way that can hurt your case is a cardinal sin. Millwood just sinned.

“Sam wasn’t a strong man mentally. He knew clever lawyers would accuse him of something bad just because he was in the wrong place at—”

Millwood yammers, “Move to strike as non-responsive, Your Honor.”

I blast out of my seat and assert, “No, Your Honor. Mr. Millwood posed a question. He asked, ‘What?’ The witness is allowed to finish the answer to that question without Mr. Millwood interrupting her.”

Judge Woodcomb agrees and tells Liesa that she may proceed with her answer. Millwood stands there numbly, fearing the worse. The slow-moving pitch to Liesa sits right over the middle of home plate waiting for her to knock it out of the park.

Liesa takes her swing, “As I was saying, Sam was a nervous sort. He was worried about testifying because he knew that finding the body automatically made him a suspect. He knew what the lawyers would do to him, drag his name through the mud. You’re doing it to him now, even after he’s dead. It was too much for him. He wasn’t built for that kind of pressure. If he had just left that house instead of doing the right thing and calling the police when he discovered the body, he would still be alive today.”

Grand slam. Millwood must regroup and fast. He asks, “But your husband was a divorce lawyer, right?”

“Yes.”

“And he was a good divorce lawyer?”

“Yes.”

“He was used to battling out contentious divorces?”

“He was a good divorce lawyer because he was full of empathy for hurting people going through a difficult time in their lives. He could never do what you do, Mr. Millwood.”

The Ice Queen just sliced off pieces of Millwood’s body onto the floor. Millwood again moves to strike the answer as non-responsive. This time the judge agrees with him, but no matter. The wound is real, and it is gaping. A few female jurors throw looks of disgust Millwood’s way.

Liesa starts crying.

I grab a box of tissues and lift them up toward Millwood. He burns a hole through me with the intensity of his stare, but with the jury watching him like a hawk, he knows what he must do. He takes the tissue box like a dutiful child and makes the slow march to the witness box. I wonder if he remembers pulling the same stunt on opposing counsel years ago. That’s where I learned the trick—the spontaneous remembrance of that incident paying huge dividends in the present.

“Here you go, Mrs. Wilkins,” Millwood says, offering her the box of tissues before walking back to his corner of the courtroom. I know he loathes ending his examination at this point, but any further questions would invite an encore performance from the witness. He sits down.

Judge Woodcomb asks me, “Should we take a short break now or wait fifteen minutes?”

“I’m ready to go now, Your Honor.”

***

I won’t take fifteen minutes. The examination of Liesa ricocheted with swift blowback against the defense, and I don’t intend to give Millwood another crack at reversing that negative momentum.

“Mrs. Wilkins, did you kill Sara Barton?”

“No.”

“Didn’t drive your car to her house on the night of her murder for some nefarious purpose?”

“No.”

“You don’t even know where the house is, do you?”

“No.”

The ease with which she lies is a spectacle to behold. Remarkable. I take the measure of the jury. Liesa has won them over. Millwood’s gamble backfired. I mentally prepare the finishing touches.

“Mrs. Wilkins, you’re a grieving widow with three small children?”

“I am.”

“And you were forced to come down here to testify?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Millwood subpoenaed you?”

“He did.”

I stand near Millwood and give him a stern look of reproach. Liesa dishes up a disapproving look of her own. With twelve pairs of eyes from the jury studying him closely, Millwood has no choice but to say nothing and take his medicine. He’s no match for the grieving widow with three small children.

Still looking at him, I ask, “And you have no idea who killed Sara Barton?”

“I do not.”

“And you don’t even know anything relevant to this case?”

The question demands an objection. Relevance is an issue of law beyond the competency of any witness. I’m daring Millwood to object. A lesser lawyer would, but Millwood sits there stony-faced still. He knows the witness is lost. Protesting too much now only lowers the jurors’ estimation of him. The flipside of cashing in your gains is limiting your losses when the hand doesn’t go your way.

Liesa answers, “No.”

“Mrs. Wilkins, I’m very sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry you had to come down to the courthouse today. You’re a brave woman. No further