From afar, Barton eyes the three of us talking. I point out his interest to Lara and Scott. Lara responds, “He’s scared.” She walks off to stand by herself next to her sister’s hearse. Lara’s parents are both deceased, and Sara was her only sibling. I look at her now and see someone terribly alone. Maybe I’m projecting my own troubles onto to her, but I don’t think so. Lara Landrum is an unhappy woman.
6
The autopsy report sits on my desk when I return to the office. The front page reads:
SUMMARY OF CONCLUSIONS
Body is presented to the County Morgue in a black body bag. The body is that of an adult Caucasian female, 65 inches tall, weighing 123 lbs., and appearing the stated age of 36 years. Livor mortis is present posteriorly and rigor mortis is present to a slight degree in all joints. The hair is blonde. The eyes are partially open; the irises are blue and the corneas are transparent. The nose, ears and external auditory canals are unremarkable. The mouth is partially open and the teeth are natural. Wisdom teeth are not present. A tiny hypertrophic scar is present on the northwest quadrant of the left breast. Evidence of a gunshot injury is found present in the left upper chest, 12 ½ inches below the top of the head, 2 inches to the right of the left breast nipple. There is no gunshot residue on the chest, no charring of the wound, and no gunshot residue in the depths of the wound track. The overall direction of the wound is front to back and downward with a slight right to left deviation. Estimated time of death is between 9 and 10 p.m.
The information confirms what we know. I flip through the autopsy photos with an eye toward their use at trial. I’ve seen worse, but they’ll do the job of inflaming the jury’s passions. I throw the whole report into my briefcase for bedtime reading.
***
Millwood calls later that evening to confirm his representation of Barton. He makes the usual pleasantries, his way of probing around to see how I’m doing these days.
He asks, “Still burning the midnight oil, huh?”
“You’re the one who called me.”
“Yeah, but I’m getting paid $500 an hour to work late.”
“Well, you know how it goes. So many murderers, so little time.”
“Ha. My offer still stands. You can come and work with me. I’ll make you a full partner and you can start making money for all that work you put in. A change might do you some good, too. Give you a fresh start.”
I decline. Any chance I would ever do criminal defense died with Amber. I’m a prosecutor for life. I refuse to defend men who kill.
Millwood responds, “Have it your way. Back to business. On behalf of my client, I’m giving formal notice to you and the police that he is not to be questioned in any way, shape, or form without my being present. Mr. Barton is invoking all of his constitutional rights, including his right to remain silent and his right for counsel to be present during police questioning. In other words, keep Moore away from my client.”
“You used to love Scott.”
“I still love him. He is just too good at his job.”
I refrain from the usual spiel about the benefits of cooperating with the State in an open investigation. Millwood taught me that script verbatim. Barton’s dug in and he’s gonna stay dug in until we slap an arrest warrant on him.
Instead, I say, “It’s always the husband. You once told me that. Barton should confess now, and we can make a deal.”
“Ha. Not biting. You know where we stand.”
***
The next day I make an unannounced house call to see Liesa Wilkins. Her kids should be at school, and I hope to catch her alone. She opens the door. I haven’t seen her since Amber’s funeral, and her haggard look suggests the onset of hard times. After a quick hug, she informs me that Sam is not home. When I explain that I came to see her, the fragment of a concerned shadow crosses her face. She invites me in, and I tell her my business.
“I’m sorry to disturb you. An issue has come up, and because we are friends, I wanted to talk to you about something off the record.”
True enough. Liesa and I are old friends. She started law school the year after Sam and me, met Sam during orientation, and married him two years later. Through Sam, she became one of us. Our law school circle bonded over softball leagues, football games, poker nights, Barrister’s Balls, a weekend in Vegas, a trip to Wrigley Field. In the process we transformed from a group of strangers into our own insular, tight community. Seeing Liesa now, my half-agreement to shield Sam’s indiscretions from her seems misplaced. Maybe I put my loyalty on the wrong horse.
I explain, “It’s about the Sara Barton case.”
I let the words breathe to assess any reaction. Nothing. The hint of concern is gone. Unlike Sam, Liesa’s poker face doesn’t betray her in the moment of truth. But the lack of a reaction is itself a tell. Something is amiss. I switch gears. Playing coy won’t work with Liesa.
“I’ll cut to the chase. We know Sam found Sara Barton’s body at the murder scene around 10 p.m. and that he drove his Volkswagen to the Barton house. The police also did a traffic cam search of all the cars in the area at the time. Your Chrysler minivan went through a nearby traffic light at 9:51 p.m. Since Sam found the body, we have to check this out and tie it up as a loose end. Because you’re a friend, I volunteered to ask you directly. Were you driving the minivan that night in the Virginia Highlands area?”
She ushers me to a seat—the veneer of hospitality giving her more time to think. She then answers my question with a question, “You said that this meeting was off the record. What does that mean exactly?”
Here’s the thing about Liesa. She’s really smart. She seizes on the squishiness of approaching her this way. I’m not a journalist, and talking with her “off the record” has no legal significance whatsoever. Her quick insight is no surprise. A running joke among our friends centered on the clear intellectual gap between Sam and his wife-to-be. We pegged Liesa for greatness as a lawyer until she quit the law to be a stay-at-home mom. Sam begged her to reconsider, but Liesa walked away. But I still recognize the score. She is smarter than me, and we both know it.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know. Look, we’ve been friends a long time now. I don’t want police officers to have to come interview you in your home if it is not necessary. I’m here as a courtesy.”
“I’m still confused. Are you here as a friend or a prosecutor?”
Being a lawyer is part performance art. Words are my stock in trade, but words alone only tell half of the story that I am trying to sell. Body language tells the other half. I droop my shoulders and make myself smaller to convey the message that I am not a threat.
“Liesa, you’re overthinking this. Sam discovered the body. Your car was in the area. We need to ask you why. That’s all. It’s a box that needs to be checked off. There’s nothing more to it than that. If we thought it was a big deal, someone other than me would be doing the asking.”
Once more, she follows up with a question, “Where exactly was the car?”
I name the intersection, which is about a mile away from the Barton residence.
“Which direction was the car going?”
She should be the one answering me. I play along anyway, trying to keep a non-aggressive tone, and tell her the vehicle was coming from the direction of the Barton home toward her house.
Liesa stays neutral but is not as clever as she imagines. I could have been out of here in five minutes. Now, I’m latched on to her scent. A mystery connected to my murder exists here. Her next words only add to my growing unease.
“Do you think Sam killed her?”
I contemplate her with genuine puzzlement. Murder is my life. I bear its weight each day, wrestling with the cynicism that flows from constant exposure to violent death. The toll grows. I make more mistakes than I used to—sometimes read the wrong angles. To compensate, I work harder and sleep less. Trial victories keep piling up, but the infection spreads in steady drips.
Sitting in the living room of my law sc
hool friends, the rising concern that I have misread the murder of Sara Barton triggers the wrong response. I get mad. Angry at myself, angry at Liesa, angry at the world—I don’t know. Whatever the origin, composure gives way to irritation.
“Why on earth would he do that, Liesa? Was he having an affair with her?”
The words are regrettable, but the outburst manages to finally pry some information out of Liesa’s iron grasp. Her reaction says it all—hurt, not surprise. She already knows. Did Sam lie about that, too? Bastard.
Liesa’s eyes water. She fights with her whole being the urge to cry. She hisses at me through clenched teeth, “Why are you really here?”
Weary of the entire scene, I quietly answer, “The car. I’m here because of the car.”
“I don’t have anything to say.”
That position won’t get her far. Now the police—probably Scott—will be back to ask the who, what, when, where, and why of this second car business. I make one last attempt to reach her: “The police are going to have to come and talk to you now.”
“I don’t have anything to say to them or to you.”
Driving away, I reflect that while she told me nothing, I educated her plenty. She now knows the police can pin her exact whereabouts at 9:51 p.m. on the night of the murder. That’s valuable information. I kick myself. Liesa played me the same way I played Sam on the night of the murder. Acting like a friend instead of a lawyer led me to do most of the talking.
But while Liesa admitted nothing usable as evidence in court, her behavior exposed her all the same. Defensiveness of the sort she exhibited means she’s hiding something. Her certain knowledge of Sam’s affair is important. Whatever she hoped to accomplish, Liesa just placed a huge target on her back.
The whole encounter upsets everything I thought I knew about the case. I wonder if Barton is really my man after all.
***
Later that night, uninterested in working and too afraid to attempt sleep, I channel surf. Television stories on the murder have dwindled. With nothing fresh to report, the crime shows divert their attention elsewhere. I keep flipping, longing for a distraction. I breeze past the Celebrity News Channel, only to go back when a passing image of Lara Landrum catches my eye. The broadcaster promises, “More to come after the break.” I put down the remote.
The report begins: “Breaking news out of Hollywood tonight. Lara Landrum, still recovering from the shocking murder of her sister Sara Barton, has decommitted from all her future movie projects, citing the need for personal time. Insiders also tell us that Landrum has become withdrawn in the wake of her sister’s murder, and friends worry about her present emotional state. Landrum intends to stay in Atlanta for the immediate future to be closer to her sister’s memory. The murder of Sara Barton remains unsolved.”
The rest of the segment features the suntanned host interviewing gossip reporters for their reaction to the news. The reporters pretend to possess special knowledge about the situation, but the generalities they peddle betray their ignorance. The whole exercise is vapid. I switch off the TV and head to bed.
An hour or so later, my cell phone rings. The clock shows 2:26 a.m. I don’t recognize the number. I prep for bad news.
I answer, “Hello?”
“Chance Meridian?”
“Yes?”
“I shouldn’t have called. It’s Lara Landrum. You gave me your number the day you and Detective Moore visited my house. Did I wake you?”
I bolt upright—the President calling from the Oval Office would’ve been less surprising.
“I’m awake. What’s wrong?”
“That’s the thing. Nothing is wrong. I just wanted someone to talk to. I keep thinking of Sara. She is my twin. Now she is gone. I feel so alone. I thought you might understand what I’m going through.”
Of course. A simple Google search would reveal the painful particulars of my past. Dead wife. Dead son. The killer still on the loose. Unsolved murders haunt the families left behind in murder’s wake, and I’m the poster child.
I respond, “I’m not sure that I make the best grief counselor.”
“I just want to talk.”
“Are you hungry?”
***
We meet forty-five minutes later at Waffle House. In the dead of night, we have the place almost to ourselves. I’m a regular.
We order and make small talk. Country music plays in the background—the modern variety, not the good stuff. When the food arrives, the conversation turns to death. Lara again apologizes, “I shouldn’t have called.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“I need to know. Does it get better?”
“That’s what they say.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
I shrug my shoulders, unsure what I can add. Two years have passed, and I still suppress most memories of Amber and Cale just to ward off the darkness from taking over. My coping mechanism for grief is to run from it.
Lara presses forward, “The murder does not feel real. I expect to see her any day now. The phone rings, and I expect it to be her. It never should’ve come to this. I remember her wedding day. She was so happy and beautiful.”
“Still think Barton did it?”
“Definitely. Who else?”
***
We stand outside—two hurting people marking time with each other. As we walk to her car, Lara asks one final thing, “Will you bring my sister’s killer to justice?”
Thoughts of Mr. Smith—the unknown murderer of Amber and Cale—hover in the back of my mind. But families of victims often ask this question. The standard response I give promises diligence but never results. The future is always obscure. This time—whether because of the lateness of the hour, emotional weakness, or the person doing the asking—I avoid lawyerly platitudes. I say just one word.
“Yes.”
She kisses my cheek and drives away. I lurk in the parking lot for a spell and breathe in the night air.
7
The next morning Sam barges unannounced through the door of my office, startling me from my work.
He demands, “What do you think you’re doing?”
A saying among trial lawyers goes like this: if the facts are on your side, argue the facts; if the law is on your side, argue the law; if neither the facts nor the law is on your side, bang the table. Sam is banging the table.
“Sam, a lot of deputies around here with loaded guns get skittish when they hear loud disturbances in these offices. You might want to lower your voice a little.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“Close the door and sit down.” He smarts for a bit but does as he is told.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
Sam leans forward, and in an elevated whisper, airs his grievance, “You went to my house and talked to Liesa behind my back. You surprised her and scared her and threatened her. You told her about me and Sara after you promised you wouldn’t. Liesa won’t talk to me now and is threatening to get a divorce and to report me to the state bar. I could lose everything. You should have come to me first before talking to her. You owe me that. I could’ve given you whatever information you need. You didn’t have to be such a prick, Chance.”
“Is that it?”
“That’s enough.”
I ask myself how I want the rest of this meeting to go. Sam and Liesa are now both persons of interest in a murder investigation, and I have to approach things in that frame of mind. The open question is whether I proceed with an attitude of cooperation or confrontation. I choose the latter. The velvet glove has yet to work with the Wilkins family.
“Sam, let’s get one thing straight. I don’t need permission from you to do my job. Got that?”
He chews on that a bit before acknowledging the truth of my statement. His eyes avoid mine and look past me out my window, a telltale sign of weakness. I script out my next words. Time to bring the hammer.
“Let’s talk about how things stand. First, Sara Barton was murdered.
Second, you found the body, putting you at the scene of the crime around the time of the murder. Third, you were having sex with the murder victim whose body you found. Fourth, you lied about having sex with the murder victim. Fifth, if your sexual relationship with the murder victim were revealed, your marriage and career would be ruined. Sixth, no thanks to you, I learned that your wife is also in the vicinity of the Barton home at the time the murder is committed. I think you probably knew that, and you didn’t tell me, which is a lie by omission, another strike against you, which is the seventh or eighth point or whatever number I am on now. Next, I go as a friend to talk to Liesa, hoping to put the issue of her whereabouts quietly to bed. But no. Liesa refuses to answer even the simplest of questions and acts guilty as hell about something. Finally, you insist that Liesa didn’t know about your affair with Sara Barton before I talked to her, but she did already know. Why are you lying to me about that?”
I don’t ask this last question in a way that expects a response, but I pause a moment on the off chance he volunteers an answer. He remains quiet. I continue.
“I look at this entire litany, and I start thinking. Did Sam kill Sara? Did Liesa? Because from where I sit, you two have a lot of explaining to do. That’s the lay of the land, and you barging in here to play tough guy is not going to change any of that.”
I allow him time to digest my words. His discomfort is obvious, the bravado all gone. He will either talk or clam up. I want him to talk. I give him another push.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“We’re friends,” he offers meekly.
“Come on! This is a murder investigation, and I can’t give you any more benefit of the doubt. Stop relying on our friendship to save you and start acting smart. If you and Liesa are innocent, you need to explain yourselves before your stupidity backs you into a murder indictment. If you’re guilty, don’t say another word and go hire the best lawyer you can afford once you leave this office. You’re going to need one. The choice is yours.”
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 4