The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1)

by Lance McMillian

  We stop.

  “I told Scott.”

  Damn. I curse the prospect of another painful conversation in my future.

  “Anyone else?”

  She shakes her head.

  We loiter together at the door. She kisses me. The driest, deadest meeting of lips ever. She places her hand on my chest—a touch of regret.

  “Get out.”

  ***

  The second I enter my house, a knock bangs on the front door. Scott brushes in without so much as a hello.

  I ask, “Were you staking me out?”

  “Something like that.”

  He marches to the kitchen, opens the fridge, and grabs a beer from his previous stash. He studies me, takes a sip, and shakes his head. The disgust is plain. He takes another drink, and it begins.

  “Anything you want to tell me?”

  “I know you know, so say whatever it is you want to say.”

  “Okay. I’ll say it. I’ve been saying you need to get laid for a while now, but I didn’t mean for you to do it with a witness. And not some witness in some random case, but a witness in the most high-profile murder investigation we’ve ever had together. And not some just random witness in our otherwise high-profile murder, but the most high-profile witness in the case, who also happens to be one of the most famous women on the planet. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “How long did you work on that?”

  “Shut up! This is serious.”

  “I understand that.”

  A stare down commences.

  “Well, are you going to explain yourself?”

  “What is there to say?”

  Driving home from Ella’s condo, I took it on faith that Scott would shield me. Now my faith waivers.

  He asks, “So you talked to Ella, I gather?”

  “I did.”

  “What did she say?”

  I relay the substance of the conversation, including Ella’s conditions for me to stay on the Barton case.

  He responds, “She changed her tune from when we talked. You must have sweet-talked her good. As worked up as she was the other night, I didn’t figure her to keep your little secret. I guess you expect me to do the same?”

  “I have no expectations.”

  He grunts and paces around the room.

  Stopping, he swings around and asks, “Did Ella tell you everything?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Examining me closely, he concludes, “I didn’t think so.”

  “What?”

  “We slept together.”

  My heart stops. His eyes dare me to make an issue of it. He itches for a fight I cannot win. I have no claim to Ella, no standing at all, nothing that would make her off-limits to my friends. The mere suggestion is grotesque. But the heart is a funny, ugly thing. Scott’s words are a punch to the gut. Stress fills my body, my face flushes, and I lose a little feeling in my hands.

  Scott notes the change in me and smirks.

  “Calm down, lover boy. I didn’t sleep with her, but I should have.”

  “She wouldn’t have an ugly brute like you anyway.”

  “Maybe she will with you out of the picture.”

  “That’ll be the day.”

  My breathing returns to normal. Despite my unclean hands, my relationship with Scott would never have been the same had he slept with Ella. I know it. He knows it. The hypocrisy astounds. Jealousy is a green-eyed monster.

  The detour into jocularity also means that my secret is safe with Scott. The net of my wrongdoing keeps capturing accomplices. The burden of jeopardizing the careers of Scott and Ella adds to the weight on my shoulders. I tell myself again I should quit the case.

  Scott changes the subject, “Have you talked to your girlfriend about Ella’s demands?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to go along with them?”

  “Is there any other choice?”

  “No, there isn’t.”

  He points at me for emphasis.

  I walk him out. As he stands at the front door, he turns and asks, “So, what’s she like in bed?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Get out.”

  ***

  I call Lara afterwards and relay Ella’s conditions for staying on the case. I don’t mention anything about Scott.

  Lara responds, “I’ll sleep with who I damn well want to sleep with.”

  The response starts a longer argument. I explain to her all the reasons why Ella is right. I point out that the relationship risks the case and her value as a witness. I mention the media frenzy that would consume us both if word leaked. I ask her if she wants to see Barton walk free. None of these attempts at persuasion work.

  “Look, I will not have other people telling me what I can and cannot do. I still want to see you, and I don’t want to be shut out like this. Nothing has changed from before. One other person knows. That’s it. She’s already agreed to protect your secret. We’ll be careful.”

  This level of resistance throws me for a loop. She’s accustomed to getting everything she wants, and being told “no” exposes in her a healthy dose of entitlement. That Ella is the one dictating the terms only makes it worse.

  With a note of finality, I dictate, “It’s just not possible now. After the trial, we can do what we want.”

  She answers, “I’m coming over.”

  She hangs up. Repeated calls back go straight to her voicemail. I consider texting, but decide—like a knowing criminal—that the less in writing the better. I just wait.

  When the knock comes, it does not originate from where I expect it. She’s at the backdoor. I’ll give her that.

  “Let me in before someone sees me.”

  “We cannot do this.”

  She barges in anyway and plops herself on the couch in the living room. I remain standing.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Come to me.” She pats a spot next to her on the couch. I resist for a few seconds, but eventually relent. The combative person on the phone is gone. The person next to me is all sweetness and light.

  She grabs my hand and says, “Look, I love you. I haven’t found love in a long time, and I don’t want to lose that. Bernard has already stolen my sister from me. He’s not going to take you away, too. I want you by my side, and you want me by your side. After everything we’ve been through, we’re entitled to that little bit of happiness.”

  No one is this good an actress. Earlier in the day, I told myself that I might love this woman. Do I? I don’t know. Love is a word of many meanings. Ella asked, “Why her?” The answer eludes me, except that I like the way I feel when I’m around Lara. Is that love? For whatever reason, Ella never pulled me out of the abyss. Lara did. That distinction between the two explains everything.

  I say, “I love you, too.”

  The right decision would be to walk away from the Barton trial. I won’t do it. I want the case too much, both for myself and Lara. I’m gambling my relationships with Scott and Ella for her. I’m gambling my career. But the prize in front of me is worth the risk.

  We embrace and head to the bedroom.

  22

  With Corey Miller stashed away on death row, the focus at work turns full bore to Bernard Barton. An upcoming scheduling conference will set a firm date, but my guess is that the trial will occur within the next two months. That sounds like a lot of time, but in a case of this magnitude, no minute will go to waste. My calendar is clear. All other matters have been farmed out to my lieutenants. Barton is my business and nothing else.

  Ella and I meet to divide up our responsibilities. We don’t mention the other night at her apartment, but its presence occupies the whole room all the same.

  As we talk, a subtle shift in the power dynamic between us occurs without specific acknowledgment. I’m still the boss, but her leverage over me affords her all the power. She pushes me on a few points, more than ever before, a
nd I yield. Her tone throughout is business-like, formal, and distant. But we’re still working together on the case. I chalk that up as a win.

  ***

  Judge Mary Woodcomb welcomes Millwood and me into her chambers. She sat on the bench for my first trial ever and treated me with much-appreciated gentleness. Sometimes when we see each other away from the courthouse, she reminds me of that trial and congratulates me on how far I’ve come. She was also the only judge to attend Amber and Cale’s funeral. Mary is one of the good ones.

  The three of us gather to discuss the scheduling of the Barton trial. Mary’s office suite features a little sitting area, and she joins us there for the discussion, eschewing the big desk and other trappings that typically accompany the judicial role. I contrast her with the incompetent Judge Ross and say a silent hallelujah of thanks that Woodcomb’s steady hand will steer the ship of the trial.

  “What dates are we thinking, fellas?”

  Millwood answers, “As soon as possible. My client is innocent and needs justice sooner rather than later. We’re ready to go tomorrow. We’ll make a speedy trial demand if we have to.”

  The judge smiles at Millwood’s puffery and directs the next question to me, “What about the State?”

  “Tomorrow might be a bit quick, but Bobby told me to go full steam ahead on this one. My calendar is clear.”

  Mary’s knowing nod shows her understanding of the importance of good publicity for a district attorney in an election year. She takes out her calendar and does some mental calculations before writing down a few notes. Then she asks, “Will you guys be ready to start five weeks from now?” We both affirm yes.

  “All right, that date is yours. I’m writing it down in ink. Short of a plea, consider this date set in concrete. Speak now or forever hold your peace.” She gives us a moment to object, but neither of us takes her up on it. “Okay, we’re set. Any chance of a plea?”

  Millwood jumps in, “None.”

  The judge responds, “That was certainly heartfelt. Anything else then?”

  I say, “Cameras?”

  Mary whistles and asks, “How famous do the three of us want to be? Thoughts?”

  “Your courtroom, your rules,” offers Millwood.

  Woodcomb nods and turns to me expecting my feelings on the matter since I’m the one who brought it up. I shrug my shoulders and say only, “I’m agnostic.”

  “That’s helpful,” she retorts. “Is Lara Landrum going to testify?”

  “She is.”

  Mary considers the issue, then says, “Public interest will be high, and I’m of the mind that seeing two skilled and ethical advocates like the both of you will do the public some good. I’ll let the cameras in. Let’s all put our best foot forward.”

  I quip, “The nightly crime shows thank you for the ratings boost and the free programming.”

  Mary groans, “No kidding. I can’t watch those things. They’re terrible. But I hear Nancy Grace is worth $30 million now, so maybe the joke’s on me. Anyway, if the trial is going to be on television, then we don’t have to worry about witness sequestration. What about the jury? Should we sequester them?”

  Jurors get sequestered to avoid the taint of outside publicity affecting their deliberative process. And this case will be swimming in publicity.

  I answer, “If the defendant gets to go home every night, then the jurors should, too.”

  The thought of otherwise bored jurors talking about the trial at the end of each day doesn’t sit well with me. Even a strong case can be henpecked to death over time. I don’t need some clever juror going Henry Fonda in Twelve Angry Men on me every night.

  Mary responds, “What do you think, Jack?”

  “That’s fine.”

  Millwood and I stand to take our leave. Before we get out of there, Mary asks, “Is this the first time you two have faced off?”

  “Yes ma’am,” I answer.

  “He’s good, Jack. Better watch yourself. I was there for his first trial. He has come a long way.”

  “He should be good. He had the best teacher around.”

  “Yep,” I say, “My dad was the best.”

  We all laugh at the joke. Woodcomb knows the long history between Millwood and me. We’re all friends here—even as we carry out our very different professional roles.

  The meeting adjourns. Five weeks. We’ll be ready. As I walk to my office, Mary’s confident observation that I’m an ethical lawyer stings me for my duplicity. I’m letting more people down than I even realize. But the die is cast. The only thing I can do now is win.

  23

  Scott and I decide to pay Brice Tanner a visit. Unable to find a phone number for him, our visit will be unannounced. The drive to Brasstown Bald in the north Georgia mountains should take a couple of hours.

  Scott asks, “How you getting along without the actress?”

  I wondered if he would broach the topic. I look out the passenger side window to hide my face before answering.

  “Fine, I suppose. It never should’ve happened.”

  “Do you love her?”

  I consider the question and try to calculate the best answer to put the issue to bed.

  “I loved sleeping with her.”

  “I bet you did.”

  The envy dripping from his voice could fill a lake. My response—purposely couched in the past tense—has its desired effect. He’s now thinking about Lara naked. I’ll let him bask in the fantasy as long as he wants. I start to visualize her naked, too.

  He asks, “How did it happen?”

  “How did what happen?”

  “How did the two of you hook up in the first place?”

  One thing I’ve learned from a career of studying witnesses is that a good liar never departs more than necessary from the truth. “Keep it simple, stupid” is good advice for whole swaths of life. It is excellent advice for one looking to successfully lie. I tell the truth.

  “I think she learned about Amber and Cale somehow. She called me up to talk about how to deal with her grief. We had dinner. One thing led to another.”

  “She went to you for grief counseling? Could she have made a worse choice?”

  The words come out harsher than he intended, but he said what he said all the same. He is not necessarily wrong. I told Lara myself that I make a bad grief counselor. But Scott’s impolite words create an opportunity to put an end to the conversation. I feign more offense than I feel—exploiting what happened to Amber and Cale as an artifice to hide my continuing sin.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he says.

  “Just drive.”

  ***

  The address we have for Brice takes us along a deserted dirt road deep into the Georgia hills. As we drive further away from civilization, I begin to have Deliverance flashbacks.

  I ask Scott, “Is your gun loaded?”

  “Always.”

  We finally arrive at a glorified shack. I check the number on the mailbox twice to make sure. It’s a match. I shake my head and move to disembark.

  “Wait,” Scott says.

  He opens his glove box and takes out a holster holding another gun. He hands it to me.

  “Just in case.”

  I retort, “You have a shotgun in the trunk? We may need that, too.”

  “You think so? I can get it.”

  I’m unsure if he is serious. I strap the holster to my hip, remove the gun, and familiarize myself with it. If you’re going to carry a gun, you better damn well know how to use it. Satisfied, I re-holster the weapon, safety on. Scott and I tread lightly toward the house. He leaves the shotgun in the trunk.

  Our uneasiness outsizes any risk we have actually perceived. The gun hangs heavy on me. Just knowing it is there makes me itchy. I hope for his sake Brice doesn’t emerge with some kind of weapon. He wouldn’t survive the encounter. I wonder about the recusal rules when a prosecutor shoots a witness. Millwood would have a field day with that one.

  Scott bangs on the front door and ye
lls out Brice’s name. No answer. I peek into a dirty window to see whatever I might see. The inside of the building appears to be in worse shape than the outside, as if one of those deranged hoarders on television has lived here for the past twenty years. That we may have the wrong place seems certain until I smell the pungent scent of marijuana. I sniff to make sure.

  “I smell it, too,” says Scott.

  I see an ashtray full of discarded weed on a massive pile of dog-eared paperbacks—mostly Westerns from the look of it. None of the joints in the ashtray appear lit, but the aroma is fresh enough to indicate current habitation.

  We make our way around back to check the temperature there, Scott in the lead. A noise arises directly ahead of him. I freeze. I know that sound. Scott does not and asks, “What’s that?” I search for the source and locate it two feet from him. Another step and Scott will be in a world of pain.

  “Don’t move a single muscle.”

  He’s smart enough to know that this is not a drill. He freezes his body immediately in response to my command. He does allow his eyes to trace my line of sight to the object that captivates my attention. The rattle of the rattlesnake continues to warn, indicating that a decision on whether it should strike Scott remains up for a vote.

  The gun is in my hand now. I ease into the shot so as not to startle the rattler with any sudden movement. Safety off, I squeeze the trigger. The boom of the explosion shatters the serenity of the otherwise quiet woods. The rattler dies an immediate death. Scott refuses to move for a while out of an abundance of caution. When he finally allows himself to stand down, he unleashes a string of profanity so poetic that it is positively Shakespearean in its lyrical quality.

  Upon this scene, a hapless Brice pops out of the woods and scares the wits out of us. We return the favor by pointing our guns at him.

  He squeals, “What did I do?”

  Thankfully we don’t shoot—the day’s quota on killing already paid in full. We lower our weapons.

  ***

  The man before us cannot be the same person Scott interviewed at the police station a few months back. For starters, he looks like he has never had a haircut or a shave in his entire life. I didn’t realize hair could grow that fast. The only recognizable features are the timid eyes and the high-pitched voice. Those remain. Not for the first time I wonder why Sara Barton set her sights on him. Scott introduces me, and I explain we just want to talk.