The thought of Lara Landrum leads to a smile. Millwood always taught me to keep the family of the victim at arm’s length and that the pursuit of justice should never be personal. Arm’s length went out the window with Lara ever since that meeting at the Waffle House. Even though I refuse to meet with her again under similar furtive conditions, thinking about her does no harm. The case is personal, and I want to win it for her.
***
The logistics of arresting Barton now take center stage. When reputable lawyers like Millwood represent the arrestee, we often allow their clients to turn themselves in voluntarily. Not this time. The press attention here makes this situation a different animal. Bobby wants his perp walk. The voters of Fulton County need to see the impartial administration of justice, and the video of affluent white guy Bernard Barton in handcuffs does just that. The footage will also go well with Bobby’s inevitable press conference to announce the arrest.
Bobby, Scott, and I gather in Bobby’s office in the afternoon to discuss the mechanics. The key ingredients for super-sizing the impact of the perp walk consist of picking the right location for the arrest and leaking to the media the time and place.
Scott says, “My guy trailing Barton says he is at work now.”
Bobby asks, “Marsh & McCabe is at Peachtree and 14th Street. That’s perfect, right in the middle of Midtown. How much lead time you need to give the media?”
“Forty-five minutes,” Scott responds.
“Do it.”
Scott leaves. Bobby smiles, opens a closet in his office, and analyzes his different suits with the concentration of a nuclear physicist splitting the atom. The press conference will be in a few hours. Dark colors look better on television, and the available wardrobe choices in the closet reflect that. Brights work better in the courtroom, but Bobby hasn’t tried a case in years. His closet reflects that, too.
As I head back to my office, Bobby instructs me, “Don’t lose this.”
“I haven’t lost one for you yet.”
***
Scott’s face dominates the national news. Footage of him leading Bernard Barton in handcuffs into a waiting police cruiser plays on an endless loop.
He brags, “I’m famous.”
“You might be able to get a date now.”
“Look who’s talking.”
The arrest couldn’t have gone any better. Caught unaware, Barton looked wild-eyed and surly as the cameras rolled. Better still, the 24-hour news cycle guarantees that the video will keep playing again and again and again.
Scott explains, “Best perp walk of my life. You know I hate lawyers. I enter the office and walk right past the receptionist. She protested, ‘You just can’t walk back there like that.’ I hold up the warrant and say, ‘This says I can.’ I get to Barton’s office. He’s on the phone. I take the phone from him and hang it up. ‘Bernard Barton, you are under the arrest for the murder of Sara Barton. You have the right to remain silent, so on and so forth.’ Put the cuffs on. Walk him through the office. Lawyers, secretaries, paralegals—everyone is watching. Get this, a few of them are even smiling. I’ve seen a lot, but I ain’t ever seen that. It’s like they were cheering me on. We get to the sidewalk and begin the march. I parked the car down the block to make the walk longer. And the media is going nuts. Cameras and microphones in our faces. ‘Bernard, did you kill your wife?’ ‘Why did you do it, Bernard?’ ‘Bernard this, Bernard that.’ And he looked terrible, like a crazy man. Everybody in America is going to bed tonight knowing that he is our guy.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Nah.”
“Millwood called me, disappointed we did not give Barton a chance to turn himself in.”
“He would’ve done the exact same thing we did.”
“Yep.”
“Traitor.”
***
Bobby’s press conference announcing the arrest emphasizes that justice is colorblind in Fulton County. Ella and I watch in my office. Bobby’s performance shows him at his best—funny, charming, appropriately serious. The camera loves him, and the pundits gush about his record as a hard-hitting, yet fair, prosecutor. He does not say a single substantive word about anything, only platitudes about justice, fairness, mom, and apple pie. But he dazzles.
Ella observes, “You gotta hand it to the guy. He’s good.”
“He is that.”
“Wanna grab some dinner?”
“Not tonight. I’m going home.”
Disappointment sags in her face. She’s perfect—attractive, smart, fun to be around. Ella could make me happy if I would only give her a chance. But love leads to pain, and I’m still overdrawn from the last withdrawal.
“You know, it can be just dinner,” she says.
“It’s not that. I’m really tired.”
“I thought you never sleep.”
“That’s why I’m tired.”
“Fine. But one of these days I’m not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
We walk together to the parking garage and go our separate ways.
***
Being alone and loneliness differ, and the heaviness of the latter affects me more than at any other time I can remember. Once at home, I check my phone for messages that aren’t there. The thought of Ella beckons me. Should I call her? I almost answer yes. Maybe tomorrow.
I lounge on the couch and take an inventory of my surroundings. The house is as it was at the time of the murders. I cleaned the blood off the floor but left everything else the same. I study the painting of Thomas Jefferson above my mantle. Before me is a man of complexity, a person at war with himself and the times in which he lived. My father revered Jefferson and passed his love of history on to the next generation. Because of this upbringing, the past has always spoken to me. But now I scan around at a house frozen in place and feel the danger of too much looking back.
Cancer killed Daddy a year before I lost Amber and Cale—the three most important people to me gone in quick succession. I picture them together in Heaven, joy-filled and laughing just as they were in life. I’m of different cloth. Like my mother, I am sharp-tongued and judge the world with cynical doubt. These days, my worst tendencies consume me. No one is left to soften the hard edges.
I close my eyes.
***
Knocking on the door, followed by a doorbell, startles me awake. I don’t know how long I slept. My mind re-focuses, and I stumble to the front entry hall. Only Scott would come over this late. I open the door without checking.
The voice outside says, “Hi.”
Still recovering from the effects of waking up mid-dream, I stare at Lara Landrum dumbly, unsure of the situation. I wonder if someone else died.
She says, “I wanted to say thank you.”
I stand there mute, fighting the cobwebs. Both body and mind feel heavy and slow-footed.
“May I come in?”
“Yeah.”
We stand together awkwardly just inside the door, close to one another. Too close. The proximity breaks me out of my stupor. I’m afraid to retreat and give her more ground. She is the first woman to be alone with me in this house since Amber. The unfamiliar territory scares the hell out of me.
She asks, “Can we sit down?”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Well I’m here.”
Lara brushes past me, struts into the living room, and sits down. I follow her from a safe distance, but continue to stand. She wears form-fitting jeans and a purple tank top. I’m pretty sure she is not wearing a bra. The effect on me is no different than it would be on any man. I sit down next to her, but not too close.
She asks, “What happens next with Bernard?”
She wants to talk about the case. This whole setting is wildly inappropriate. I answer anyway.
“He will try for bail tomorrow.”
“Will he get out?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“He’s a murderer.”
“It happens.”
&nb
sp; She shifts closer and puts her hand on my leg. The old nerves spring up from a place long dormant. She rubs the leg and then teases her way to higher ground. My heart beats quicker and my blood flows faster, but this cannot happen. Emotions impair judgment, and the chemical reactions her touch stirs within me are a pathway to stupidity. I remove her hand.
“You have to leave. You’re a witness in the case.”
“No one needs to know.”
“I’ll know.”
We look at each other. Her playful eyes pose a dare. The scene is ridiculous. One of the most beautiful women in the world sits on my couch, offering herself to me. I have no idea what’s going on.
I ask, “Why?”
“I like you. You’re real. You know pain. Real pain. What it’s like to really hurt in the depths of your soul. I feel it, too. We’re both wounded animals, and we can help each other get well.”
“You know nothing about me.”
“I know everything. I know you blame yourself for your wife’s death. I know you’re scared to let yourself be happy again. I know you hold yourself to impossible standards. I know you haven’t made love to a woman since your wife died. And I know you want to make love to me right now.”
I kiss her.
But then thoughts of Amber, Ella, Jesus, and the Georgia Rules of Professional Conduct descend at once, a tableau of impressions all with the same urgent message: “No!” I pull away.
She removes her top to reveal the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen—generously-sized, chiseled out of marble, unblemished.
I kiss her again. Her bare chest rubs against me, and the last flickers of resistance die a flaming death. I lead her to the bedroom. She pushes me down on the bed, Amber’s bed. We lose ourselves in each other. I release all thoughts of history, loss, or pain. The moment devours me, and I love it. Afterwards, we hold each other, and she falls asleep in my arms—just like Amber used to do. I feel like a real person again.
The moment passes. My mind registers the significance of what just happened, and anxiety spreads. I go outside, stand on the back porch, and contemplate. The wind feels good on my exposed skin. The quiet produces a comfortable peace. I think about my faith and the role Amber played in making me a godly man. I think of Jesus’ promise to give me rest if I would only submit my yoke to Him. I consider the naked woman in my bed and am forced to look God square in the face.
My faith matters to me—even if I’m terrible at it. To the world, sex between consenting adults is no sin. But I am a fundamentalist. God sets the rules. I obey. I believe in the concept of law so much that I dedicate my life to prosecuting man’s law here on Earth.
But making love to Lara reminded me of what it feels like to have joy. The hangover of loss is too heavy. I need to love and to be loved. Lara represents a life preserver to a drowning man, and the prospect of rescue thrills me. I want more.
The air turns chilly. I retreat back to my couch and look again at Thomas Jefferson—slaveholder, freedom fighter, misogynist who used a slave girl for sex, fierce advocate for equality who proclaimed to the world “that all men are created equal.”
I ponder the contradictions that animate a man’s soul. I peer into myself and negotiate a truce with the darkness. The yoke of sin feels light in the aftermath. I marvel again at the naked woman in my bed. God can wait.
I return to her and sleep better than I have in years.
12
Lara lies by my side when I bolt awake at nine the next morning. The lateness of the hour astounds. Barton’s bail hearing starts in an hour. My phone gives notice of a text from Ella: “Where are you?”
“On the way,” I text back.
I shake Lara to wake her. Time is too short for a shower. I spray on some deodorant, brush my teeth, and comb my hair. A still undressed Lara sneaks up on me, encircles her arms around my body, and says, “Come back to bed.”
“Barton’s bail hearing begins at ten.”
“You should probably go to that.”
“Probably.”
I dress, choosing my best dark blue shirt to appeal to the cameras. The clock taunts, but I need to talk to Lara before I depart.
I plead, “You cannot be seen here. I cannot emphasize that enough.”
“I’m aware of the delicacy of the situation.”
“It only takes one photographer to catch us. Barton could walk free if this thing blows up in our faces. Prosecutors cannot sleep with witnesses.”
“I’ve been dodging paparazzi for years. I know how it’s done.”
“Your nonchalance worries me.”
“Get out of here. I’ll see you tonight.”
The mention of future meetings makes the situation all too real. In morning’s light, the fear of discovery slaps me square on the nose. Before I have a chance to worry, she sends me on my way.
***
The players for the initial appearance take the stage. Millwood will argue for bail, Ella will argue against. A black person accused of murdering Sara Barton would not possess a snowball’s chance in Hell of pre-trial release. As a white, well-respected lawyer, Barton has a shot.
The courtrooms in the Fulton County Courthouse do not look like the sprawling courtrooms you see in the movies—those deep caverns of wood, ancient marble, and majestic windows. Those old courthouses were where I watched my father’s trials and what made me want to be a lawyer in the first place. They still exist, but only in small towns scattered across the state. Fulton County’s courtrooms are small, clean, modern, and devoid of natural light. The pedestrian setting belies the high stakes.
I shake hands with Millwood before having a seat next to Ella. The media fills the courtroom and the cameras film away, allowing the rest of the world to experience the event live. A ragged Barton, unshaven and wearing the ugly orange jumpsuit of prisoners everywhere, comes in with a deputy guiding his arm. On appearance alone, he should stay locked up. A bailiff announces the arrival of Judge Edwin Lee Lynn, today’s duty judge. I groan. Barton’s chances for bail just increased.
Ella strides up the lectern and argues, “Bernard Barton stands accused of murdering his wife, Sara Barton, in cold blood. As you know, Your Honor, bail is the exception, not the rule, in murder cases. Based on the murder of his wife and previous incidents of domestic violence, Bernard Barton constitutes a danger to the community. He is also a millionaire with the money and motive to attempt an escape, making him a significant flight risk. Both of these reasons caution against allowing Mr. Barton to go free under the present circumstances.”
Judge Lynn pivots to the defense table: “Mr. Millwood?”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Bernard Barton is an upstanding member of the Atlanta legal community. He has never been arrested in his life before yesterday, and he vigorously denies the charges brought by the State. Nor has he ever been arrested for any acts of domestic violence, despite Ms. Kemp’s innuendo to the contrary. The evidence against my client is highly circumstantial, and Mr. Barton should not have to sit around in a jail cell while the State bumbles around Atlanta trying to create a case. We ask that reasonable bail be set. Mr. Barton is prepared to turn over his passport to the Court right now to allay any concerns about him being a flight risk.”
When Millwood travels back to his seat, Judge Lynn scans over some paperwork and jots down a few notations. Millwood and Lynn attended law school together, and Millwood has a habit of getting his way in Lynn’s courtroom. While the judge generally does a good job, his penchant for agreeing with his old friend strikes me as something more than a coincidence. Call it a hunch. The bias is bearable today—at trial is a different matter. But the trial judge won’t be picked until after we have an indictment, and the odds of getting Lynn again are small.
The judge announces, “Bail is set at $1 million. The defendant shall surrender his passport. We’re adjourned.”
Not a surprise. As we pack up our belongings, Ella asks, “Are you okay?”
“What?”
“You seem distrac
ted.”
“I’m fine.”
I can still smell Lara on my skin, and guilt about what I’m doing to Ella gnaws at me. I grimace inwardly but fantasize about being with Lara tonight.
***
Bobby, Ella, and I congregate after the bail hearing. The next big decision is whether to seek the death penalty.
Capital punishment isn’t immoral. You kill, and the State may take your life in return. The rub is the criminal justice system. Innocent people wither away on death row for a variety of reasons. Tough-on-crime prosecutors seek convictions at all costs to impress voters. Police officers miss, misinterpret, or manufacture key evidence. Incompetent defense lawyers make a weak case against their clients seem foolproof. Judges demonstrate bias against the accused. Expert witnesses peddle bad science for a hefty fee. And, of course, race and economics infect the system at its operating core. The death penalty disproportionately falls on those who are black and those who are poor.
Because of these factors, I trust the death penalty in my own hands but few others. I know my heart, and shedding innocent blood terrifies me. Two men I’ve prosecuted have received the needle of lethal injection—Willie Joe Sawyer and Harry Fleming. Sawyer raped and killed a 5-year old girl. Fleming murdered a hapless store clerk in an armed robbery gone bad. As their execution dates approached, I took a day off to get away and assess the evidence against them one last time, just to be sure. I also watched both executions with the families of the victims. Seeing the life seep out of their bodies gave me no pause at all. Both were evil men.
Does Bernard Barton deserve the same fate?
Not every murder is eligible for the punishment of death. Some type of aggravating factor, defined by statute, must be present. Eleven aggravating factors qualify under Georgia law. The only one we could potentially hang our hat on reads: “The murder was committed for pecuniary gain.”
Five million dollars in life insurance is a lot of pecuniary gain.
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 7