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

“No!”

A stupefied Barton jerks toward me and shakes his massive head in a helpless spasm of denial. I believe the bastard. Millwood smiles like a kid at Christmas. War stories are the stock in trade of seasoned trial lawyers, and Millwood will be telling this one for years.

“But you did kill your sister?”

“No!”

I yell, “The fingerprints don’t lie, Sara. The photographs don’t lie. Look at them! Insanity is your only defense. You better start telling the truth.”

Mike Tyson once said, “Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” Keeping up the attack while she’s dazed and confused may be the only path to get at the truth. She’s too cunning for me to give her a chance to regroup and invent some escape hatch. I can prove she is Sara Barton but not that she actually squeezed the trigger on the gun that killed Lara Landrum. I need her to admit that. Throwing out the possibility of an insanity defense might be the hook that yields the catch.

“Are you bipolar? I have your medical records if you want to see them. Are you bipolar?”

“Yes … I mean no … no.”

Dangling the carrot, I follow up, “Were you under the influence of any medication at the time of your sister’s murder?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you off your medication?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you still deny that you killed your sister?”

“I didn’t.”

The answer lacks conviction. The fight starts to seep out of her. The crying commences. Real or pretend tears—I cannot begin to guess. She beseeches, “Can I take a break?”

“No. Isn’t it true that you resented your sister’s Hollywood career while you were stuck at home with a bad husband?”

“I loved my sister.”

“What was your father’s name?”

The tears cascade into a flood. She heaves as if struggling for breath. The last piece of the disguise crumbles. I’ve been chipping away at it, but her father is the sledgehammer to deliver the final blow. A real person emerges from the wreckage of everything she has endured.

“It was Bill, wasn’t it?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Isn’t it true that Bill molested you, but not your sister, and you have hated Lara ever since?”

“Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!”

“Think back to your childhood. Your father violated you in repulsive ways, but never laid a finger on Lara. And it made you crazy and you had to kill her, right?”

“Yes! Are you happy now? Yes!”

I back away from her. Breathless. I did what I had to do, but I don’t have to feel good about it. The stunned courtroom teeters on the precipice of upheaval. The tearful moans resume with more force, and a sense of discomfort from spying such raw emotion constrains the crowd to maintain proper decorum. I grab a box of tissues and place them in front of her before retreating to a safe distance. The spontaneous gesture on my part sobers her up quick. The tears dry out. Cold fury replaces pain.

I tell Judge Woodcomb, “I think that is all.”

Millwood helpfully announces, “No questions from the defense, Your Honor.” The judge nods. I signal Scott to do his part. He approaches the witness box, takes out his handcuffs, and tells her she’s under arrest.

“You have the right to remain silent—”

“Get your hands off me!”

A scuffle ensues, and the bailiffs rush to lend Scott a hand. She makes it half way toward me before they wrestle her to the floor. As they drag her from the courtroom, she looks at me and me alone. She bellows, “I’ll kill you.”

I believe her.

50

“Your honor, the State moves to dismiss the indictment against Bernard Barton with prejudice.”

Stunned liked everyone else in the courtroom, Judge Woodcomb takes a few moments to collect herself and asks, “Any objection, Mr. Millwood?”

“None, Your Honor.”

“So ordered. Mr. Barton, you are a free man. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. Your obligation has been fulfilled. Whether you talk to anyone about the case—the lawyers, the press, whomever—is solely up to you individually. You may return to the jury room to collect your things. Court’s adjourned.”

The gavel strikes, and people explode from the courtroom. I want to crawl into a hole and stay there forever.

Ella asks, “When did you know?”

“Friday night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“A deep, abiding, unquenchable feeling of shame and ruin.”

She gets up and leaves. I watch her depart and feel a piece of my heart go with her. Millwood comes over to shake hands.

He declares, “I know I taught you better than to come to court and wreck your own case.”

“Well, you weren’t doing much damage to it, and I figured somebody had to do something. You’re no longer my boss, and I’m still having to do all your work.”

“Did you tell Bobby beforehand?”

“No.”

“Good luck with that.” He laughs and walks off.

Barton exits the courtroom—a mixture of shock and relief carrying him out the door, the smugness gone for a moment at least. I should send him a bill. Framed for murder by his own wife, he avoided spending the rest of his life in prison by a hair’s breadth. The jury was going to convict. But I still can’t view him as a victim. He remains a sexual predator. The wrath of the #MeToo movement will be his just due.

I look around the courtroom one more time and head back to my office. Another trial over. My first loss.

***

Bobby bursts into my office.

“I have one question. This is the biggest murder case for the office since I became D.A. The eyes of the nation, and more importantly, the eyes of Fulton County voters are watching what happens. And what do you do? You go and drop a hydrogen bomb in open court that proves the defendant did not commit the murder that we charged him for. Do I learn about this from my trusted deputy before the fact? No! I have to find out about it on live television. Why?”

“No time.”

“You make time for that!”

“I was working the case.”

“I don’t want