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

“Objection!”

“Sustained.”

Millwood has been itching to get more involved. I welcome the diversion. Better the witness thinks about him than me. I place one of my giant photographs on an easel—a blow-up of an autopsy photo earlier admitted into evidence. I straighten the picture on its perch and assess the naked torso with the bullet hole adjacent to the heart, checking once more just to be sure.

“Ms. Landrum, this is an enlarged copy of an autopsy photo of your sister admitted earlier into evidence. Have you ever seen this photo before?”

“No.”

“Does it upset you?”

“Objection, relevance.”

“Sustained.”

The other photo is a blow-up from the Sara Barton and Brice Tanner sex tape. Sara rides Brice cowgirl-style right there on the museum floor, her bare breasts flowing proudly in the figurative wind. Even though the video played earlier in the trial, the high definition quality of the photo, freezing this particular revealing moment in time, shocks in a way the video did not. The ludicrous thought that I probably just caught the television censors unaware seizes me with unseemly glee. Life is absurd, and the mind is an untamed animal.

Millwood wants to say something but realizes that I’m offending half the room while perplexing the other half. He once taught me that no duty exists to rescue in the courtroom. You’re not a lifeguard. If opposing counsel is drowning, don’t throw him a life preserver. Let him sink. I hope he follows his own advice now to give me the time to do what I need to do. Ella’s countenance of neutrality wobbles on the brink of panic. Her stare informs me that I’m throwing away the case. She’s not necessarily wrong. Judge Woodcomb looks at me askance but holds her tongue. I’ve built up a great deal of credit with her over the years, and she’s a pro. The photos on display aren’t any more offensive than the bloody crime scene pictures regularly admitted into evidence. Murder is an ugly business.

“Ms. Landrum, this is a photograph captured from the video of your sister and Brice Tanner admitted earlier into evidence. Do you recognize your sister?”

“Yes, of course.”

I take a deep breath. Millwood studies me with the focus of a world-class poker player trying to get a read on his opponent. I feign impassivity, but a torrent of colliding nerves wreaks havoc on my internal equilibrium. I focus my attention on Bernard Barton and ask my question.

“Why is there a tiny scar on your sister’s left breast in the autopsy photo but no scar in the picture taken at the party?”

The room is slow to react. The question floats unanswered. Millwood breaks character, his wrinkled expression betraying deep indecision as to the meaning of my words. He releases me from his sight to look at the pictures for himself. Barton squints to do the same, his reaction revealing little, except poor eyesight. I turn to the witness. Concern and confusion contort her beautiful face. My manner cajoles, imploring her to give what should be an obvious answer if only she would see it. The encouragement is a lie, designed to keep her off balance. The witness isn’t the only one who can act.

She offers, “I don’t understand. Can you repeat the question?”

I remove a laser pointer from my pocket. I send the thin red beam across the courtroom to the autopsy photo and land on a tiny, weathered scar adjacent to the dead body’s left breast. I then move my laser to the same spot on the photo of Sara and Brice, except there’s no similar mark.

“Why is there a scar on your sister’s left breast in the autopsy photo but no scar in the picture taken at the party?”

“I … I don’t know.”

Disappointment shows in my face. Her eyes plead for help. She’s trying hard to connect the dots, thinking we’re still on the same team. That illusion is about to shatter. Everyone’s trying to figure everyone else out. The witness looks at me. I look at Barton. Barton looks at the witness. Millwood’s back to looking at me. Ella looks confused.

“Do you have a scar on your left breast?”

I know she doesn’t.

Barton slowly awakes to what’s happening. His emotions are an open book, and he looks punch drunk with surprise. I return my attention to the stand. The witness and I glare at each other, both of our masks now dropped to the wayside, each of us knowing that the other one knows. No one in the courtroom dares take a breath for fear of missing the witness’ answer.

“I resent that question.”

I grab Sara Barton’s arrest report and besiege her, “Why don’t the fingerprints from Sara Barton’s arrest match the fingerprints of the person in this autopsy photo?”

“I have no idea.”

“You’re Sara Barton, aren’t you?”

“No!”

Murmurs—sounds, not words—start percolating around the courtroom. The secret is out, and the implications start to accumulate. I bear down on the witness before all hell breaks loose.

“Do you have a scar on your left breast?”

“Stop it!”

I take one last measure of Barton. I have to be sure. We could’ve arrested the witness any time over the weekend. But double jeopardy prevents Barton from being tried for the same crime twice. The whole purpose of today’s charade is to flesh out whether Barton had a role in this mess or not.

Scott and I spent hours working it every way we could and settled on two possibilities. Scenario One: Barton and his wife conspired to kill Lara Landrum, only for Sara to leave him holding the bag at the end of the day. Barton couldn’t very well tell the truth under this version, forcing him to dig out of his predicament in some other way. Scenario Two: Sara killed her sister by herself, intending to frame Barton from the start. She posed as Lara and seduced Barton, knowing that he couldn’t admit sleeping with his sister-in-law at the time his wife was murdered, especially if “Lara” refused to corroborate his alibi.

I demand, “Did you conspire with your