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

“I know you don’t want me to convict an innocent man.”

“Don’t make this about me! It’s about you. If I lose the next election, you won’t be working any cases. I need to know everything that might affect my electoral prospects.”

“Sorry.”

Having made his point, he is losing steam on his demonstration of righteous indignation. But I know what he will say next, how I will respond, and how poorly he will react to my response.

“Well, you get a chance to redeem yourself. The media is gonna want a press conference, and we’re going to give it to them.”

“I can’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m spent. I can’t do it.”

The wheels of calculation spin behind his eyes. How far should he push? He wants his press conference. But he doesn’t know his chief prosecutor and the murderer were having an affair. He is sitting on dynamite without realizing it. I try to give him an out.

“Look, we don’t know how this thing is going to play out in the media. If it goes south, you’re going to want a fall guy. Hold me back from the reporters for right now. Take the temperature of where this is headed. Make me the scapegoat if you have to. But if you put me out there right now, you become too tied to me and you might regret that later.”

He thinks on that and nods his head slowly. He likes the plan. It gives him time and flexibility.

“Okay. I’ll bite. But I need to know if there is anything else I don’t know that could blow up in my face?”

It’s a shrewd question, and frankly his asking it makes him smarter than I give him credit for.

I lie.

He says, “All right then, we’ll do it your way for the time being. You stay away from the press. I will do it alone. But I need your help. They are going to ask me why we didn’t immediately dismiss the charges against Bernard Barton when we finally figured this whole thing out. How do I answer that?”

I offer the following:

“Despite repeated requests from law enforcement, Bernard Barton consistently refused to provide any information to shed light on his whereabouts at the time of the murder. Last Friday in open court was the first time this office learned of Mr. Barton’s account that he had spent the night of the murder at the residence of his sister-in-law. Based on this testimony, prosecutors over the weekend developed the theory that Sara Barton murdered Lara Landrum, assumed her identity, and staged the death to make it appear that Sara Barton herself was murdered. An open question remained as to whether Bernard Barton was a willing co-conspirator in this plan with his wife, or if his wife was trying to frame him for her own murder. This morning’s questions focused on that point. At this time, we do not believe that Mr. Barton had any involvement or knowledge of his wife’s actions. The investigation is ongoing.”

Bobby reflects for a second and says, “I can work with that. Write it up.”

Before leaving, he warns, “You know, you’re not the only good trial lawyer in the city. You can be replaced.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

He walks out as a man with a lot on his mind. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.

***

A light knock on the door, and Ella lets herself in. She says, “I just got a call from Murph at the jail. She’s demanding to see you. He wants to know what we want to do.”

I can list a million reasons to stay far away. Yet the pull of having a real conversation with her is strong. I also have one more question I want answered.

I respond, “Only if you come, too.”

“I actually insist on that.”

***

Ella and I sit down across the table from her. The murderer is handcuffed to a chair. Murph, the ancient jailer who knows where all the bodies are buried, leaves us alone in a large visiting room. We have the place to ourselves. I waste no time.

“Well?”

She focuses on Ella.

“What is she doing here?”

“I wanted her to be here.”

“Afraid to face me on your own?”

I stay mute. I don’t know what I feel. At one time I felt myself falling in love with the illusion represented by this woman. Now she wears handcuffs and prison clothes. Maybe I should feel relief. She could’ve killed me, too.

Always the diligent prosecutor, Ella says, “On the night of the murder, you pretended to be your sister and slept with your husband. But why didn’t Bernard know it was you and not Lara? The two of you were married. He had to know.”

Ella hits on the question that vexed Scott and me all weekend. Was there any way Barton wouldn’t have known that he was having sex with his own wife? Until I saw his bewildered face in the courtroom during the questioning this morning, I remained convinced of Barton’s involvement in the murder for this precise reason. But he didn’t know. I still don’t understand it.

Sara Barton smirks. She answers Ella’s question but looks only at me while doing so.

“You should know better than anyone, Chance. Men are stupid. You believe what you want to believe, and every man wants to believe that he is God’s gift to women. You men live in your porn-filled fantasy world where women want nothing more than for you to rip off our clothes and dominate us. Idiots! That’s not how women think!

“Bernard was easy to fool. He lusted after Lara for years. In Lara’s house, he saw Lara. With the lights off, it was Lara in his arms. His ego wanted it to be true. Just like Brice believed that another man’s wife would simply ring the doorbell to his apartment and throw herself at him. Just like Sam believed that a client going through a divorce would naturally seek comfort in his arms.

“And just like you, Chance. A famous