“Okay. I’ll keep giving you room. But if you keep stiff-arming God, you’re going to stay stuck in the ditch. You’ll never find peace on your own.”
“Easy for you to say. Your wife and child weren’t murdered.”
Silence follows. I shouldn’t have said that. Ben was withdrawing from the topic like I requested, and I threw the dead bodies of Amber and Cale right back in his face. The look of pain on his face is real. The murders now hang over this conversation just like they hang over the rest of my life. Everything I do is wrong. Ben speaks first.
“What about Job? He lost his family, too. Yet he said about God: ‘Though he slay me, I will trust in Him.’ There’s life still to be lived, Chance. God’s not done with you.”
“Job? Really? I love you, man, but you’re talking to me about things you can’t possibly understand.”
“That’s not true.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, and the suggestion that he somehow understands the experience of my anguish angers me. I tell him as much. Tears well up in his eyes. My brother is not a crier, not one to use cheap emotionalism to manipulate people to win a point. Whatever’s motivating this display is real. The weirdness of the moment makes me uncomfortable. At a loss for words, I sit like a statue waiting for him to make the next move. At that moment, the food is served. Neither of us picks up our fork.
Ben finally asks, “You remember Jenny Baker?”
“Sure. Your girlfriend in college. I thought the two of you would get married.”
“Yeah, so did I. We dated for a long time, and I let lust get the better of me. She got pregnant.”
The disclosure floors me. The story is human enough but shocks all the same. Now the two of us sit across from each other joined together in the revelation of a long-kept secret—me surprised by what he told me, him surprised that he told me at all. But Ben is only half-finished. Part of me senses where this is going. I keep quiet to allow him to finish telling it in his own time. After a spell, he shares the rest of it.
“Jenny told me the news, and of course, I wanted to do the right thing, get married, and have the baby. I asked her on the spot. She said no. She was going to get an abortion. I couldn’t believe it. Tried to talk her out of it. Begged her not to do it. Broke down crying in front of her more than once. But she wouldn’t budge. She was going to get an abortion. Her heart was set on law school.”
He looks at me with a slight accusation that I’m somewhat responsible for every person who ever decided to go to law school. His confession tracks what I figured. I digest the information, chaos swirling around my skull. Nothing is as it seems. The foundations of my life crumble one by one. Maybe they all are already gone, and I’m no longer even standing, like the cartoon coyote who doesn’t realize the bottom has already fallen out from under him.
Ben says, “Abortion. Can you believe it? ‘For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.’ Psalms. My child. Aborted. ‘And the wages of sin is death.’”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. Sorry to dump all of this on you now. You were in high school at the time, too busy chasing cheerleaders.”
“Caught a few of them, too.”
Ben allows himself a soft chuckle. He asks, “Any of them get pregnant?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Maybe you were doing it wrong.”
The joke allows us to transition to eating. I do my part and send the cold food on its way to my indifferent stomach. Ben pays less attention to his plate, nibbling here and there. The preoccupation on his face tells me he has more to say, but isn’t sure how to go about it. I tell him to go ahead and say it, knowing that he wants to make another pitch to save his wayward brother. Thankful for my permission, he looks at me with a level of earnestness in his eyes that would make angels weep. I wonder if I’ve ever felt anything so pure in my entire life. He begins.
“I insisted on taking Jenny to the abortion clinic. The punishment of sitting there—burning with hot rage and limitless despair—struck me as just. I wanted to hurt. I deserved it. I had pledged my life to God, but then deserted Him to satisfy my own lustful cravings. I got home that night and tried to see my future. I told myself that I couldn’t go into the ministry with an aborted child on my record. I was now disqualified from His service.”
Ben pauses—taking a deep breath and a sip of water. He didn’t expect to travel the old road of these memories over this lunch, and he’s still trying to find his way.
“But I realized then that I had nothing else. The thought of not serving Jesus broke me. I couldn’t carry the weight—the dead child, losing my future wife, losing my future vocation, the anger, the self-hatred—I couldn’t carry it anymore. I had to give it to God. And then I heard the still voice of God deep in my soul: ‘Feed my sheep. Feed my sheep. Feed my sheep.’ I saw the way forward. My condition wasn’t permanent. That’s when I spent that month serving in the orphanage in Haiti. Remember? I had to take the focus off of myself. God rebuilt me brick by brick, and it all started with losing the woman I loved and the death of my child.”
He gives me a knowing look.
“It’s not the same thing,” I answer.
“It is to me.”
I believe he believes that. But I cannot equate his break-up with a girlfriend and the loss of the nameless fetus he never held to the violent killing of my family. The murder of Amber and Cale is the bell that cannot be unrung.
32
The Friday before trial and my pre-trial checklist is complete. I fiddle with my opening statement just to have something to do. The door to my office opens abruptly. Bobby flies through the entrance.
He likes to visit the offices of his subordinates. I reckon it appeals to his grassroots pretensions. Odds are he read about the practice in some leadership book. He wants to discuss Barton.
He asks, “You ready?”
“We’re ready.”
“No surprises?”
“There are always surprises. We just don’t know what they are yet.”
He recognizes the truth of the answer, even though he doesn’t like it. His annoyed look reflects his distrust of a universe that would throw surprises at him during an election year.
He says, “Millwood is good.”
“He is that.”
“You’re better.”
With Bobby, sincerity is always a mystery. I appreciate the words in any event. He goes on.
“You’re better than him and you can beat him. Don’t you walk into that courtroom thinking that Bernard Barton has the better lawyer. He does not. I know Millwood was your mentor and you look up to him. I do not care. You’re better. When I became D.A., I pushed Millwood out because I wanted you to have his job. It was time. You’re my man. Don’t psych yourself out or any other nonsense like that. You got this. Got it?”
I wasn’t expecting a pep talk. His description of Millwood’s departure is a new revelation, and I hope Jack doesn’t secretly blame me. But Bobby’s words do inspire, even if they are just for show. I felt good about squaring off against Millwood following the plea conference. Now I feel even better. I’ll give Bobby credit. Those leadership books are paying off.
He asks again, “Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Now go get me a guilty verdict.”
***
Ella enters my office without knocking, wearing a scowl north of annoyance but south of rage—barely. She slams a legal pad onto a side table before throwing her body into a chair. The weirdness still existing between us leads me to hold my tongue. I’ll know the problem soon enough.
“Our star witness is being a diva.”
“How so?”
“Uncooperative. Unpleasant. Won’t answer any questions. Called me a black bitch. Demanded you conduct her examination at trial. Real peach of a gal you got there.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You can choke on all your sorrys.”
She means it. I hoped
Lara would behave during their final witness prep this morning. Their teamwork to this point has held, resting on an uneasy alliance between two adversaries united in pursuit of a common enemy. But Lara’s recent antics had me worried. Now I have two angry women on my hands. A new thought emerges.
“Should we not call her to the stand?”
The fewer the variables at trial, the better. Right now, Lara is a variable. I once had pegged her as a supernova of a witness—the grieving sister pulling at the emotional heartstrings of the jury, the avenging angel pointing the finger straight at the defendant, the living embodiment of the victim in the courtroom right down to the last freckle. But the defining characteristic of a supernova is that it explodes.
Ella chews on the merits of the Lara gambit for some time. One frustrated shake of the head later, she concludes, “I think we need her.”
I shake my own head in response.
“We have the gun. The 911 call. The money. Motive because of Brice and the gambling. The video of Barton leaving Monica Haywood’s apartment before the murder. Haywood’s lie about his alibi. We have enough.”
“No. This isn’t some open-and-shut case where everything will go by the book. We need to nail everything down backwards and forwards. We can’t give Jack Millwood even a crack or he will exploit it. Lara Landrum is a dream witness. You always tell me that trials aren’t just about facts but also about emotions. She’s the heartbeat of our case and can lead the jury to hate Barton. We need her. She has been fantastic in preparing for her testimony until today. We just need to knock her off her high horse a little bit and get her back on track. We also need her to get the photo of Sara Barton’s bruised back into evidence. Lara took that picture.”
I sigh. Something else is at play here. Ella’s big moment of the trial is Lara’s direct examination. The whole country will be watching. Take that away, and Ella becomes a bit player. The glory would be all mine. Knowing what she knows about me, that would be one bitter pill too many.
“I’ll have to talk to her. Alone.”
Ella’s skeptical eyes search my soul, wondering if she can trust me. She can’t, and she knows it. She gives me a reluctant nod anyway, realizing that I’m a necessary means to an end. She wants to win the Barton trial as much as I do. That’s one of the reasons we’ve always made such a good team.
I ask, “Is she still here?”
“I don’t think so. She stormed out and didn’t look back.”
“Expect that your preparation of the witness will resume at three this afternoon. Let me know how it goes. If she doesn’t show, we’ll figure it out from there.”
“What are you going to say to her?”
I offer a long look and ask, “Do you really want to know?”
“Never mind.”
***
Ella leaves, and I retrieve the burner phone from its hiding place. Burner phones are tools of the criminals this office prosecutes. And yet here I sit—a man with two phones leading a double life, trying unsuccessfully to keep the two lives from colliding into each other.
I turn the device on and watch it reverberate with spastic convulsions on my desk as a long series of new messages download in machine gun style. The chain of text messages runs the gamut. Expletives. Threats. Distress. Demands. Name-calling. Urgency. Ultimatums. Even another suggestion of suicide.
I text her back and instruct her to meet me in the condo immediately. I turn the phone back off, not even waiting for a response. I consider chucking it out the window, but put it back in its secret spot instead. My legs don’t want to move, but I will them to stand up. I drag myself slowly along the corridor, using prodding steps to delay the moment of reckoning—just like a condemned man walking to his own execution.
I am so tired, and I have no one to blame but myself.
***
She is already there, bracing for a fight. The drive over fortified my nerve. The plan is simple. Go in, tell it to her straight, and get out. Don’t give her an opportunity to play games.
She tries to take control first and bellows, “I warned you about ignoring me.”
“Shut up.”
“Don’t you—”
“Shut up! Listen closely. You don’t start behaving, we’re not going to let you testify. Do you understand? Barton may walk because of it, but I don’t care. You won’t be a witness. But I’m not going to take you off the witness list. I’ll subpoena you and have a sheriff’s deputy babysit your ass in a windowless room for the entire trial. Your choice. If you decide to behave, meet with Ella again at 3 p.m. to finish your trial prep. If you’re not there, then we’ll have your answer.”
I hold my intensity for as long as I dare before turning around to hightail it out of there. The terms set, further negotiations are superfluous. A quick exit is best. Before I can escape, a drinking glass shatters on the floor, but only after flying through the air and ramming into the base of my skull. I find a bar chair for balance, feel around for blood, and turn back toward the woman standing on the other side of the room. I have prosecuted scores of murderers, yet no eyes have ever assaulted me with such hatred. I can’t comprehend how we reached this point.
Moments pass in the ensuing staredown. I stand straighter to reveal my full size to make her think twice about another attack. I wonder if she has a gun. I imagine a murder-suicide that would cover a month’s worth of headlines. But notoriety is fleeting. Memories of a disgraced and murdered lawyer would fade over time, as if I had never lived.
Collecting myself, I retreat to the original script.
“Three o’clock sharp. If you’re not there, we’ll have your answer.”
“You’re going to let me down just like you did your wife and son.”
I could kill her. The fresh physical and emotional wounds transform me from the hunted to the hunter. Lara recognizes the change. When I take a step toward her, she takes a different glass and hurls it in another go at my head. I snatch it out of the air with one hand—residual instinct from my days as a high school receiver—and send it back to its source at a much greater velocity than which it arrived. I miss Lara but find the wall behind her, resulting in a thunderous smash and scattering more landmines of glass all across the floor.
The surprise noise sobers both of us for a moment, and I know with as much certainty as I’ve ever known anything that I need to get out of this condo as quickly as possible. Another minute and she may be dead.
“Don’t you walk away from me!”
Too late. I’m gone.
33
I take to the street. Possibly concussed, driving seems inadvisable. I could hail a taxi home, but Lara might show up with an ax and chop me into little pieces. Or maybe the ax would be in my hands. All scenarios are in play at this point, and I can’t take the chance. The office is out, too. If Lara does show for her meeting with Ella, I want to be far away.
A hotel a few blocks down the street attracts me. I need to be alone. I check in, tell the front desk that I am not to be disturbed, and find my room. The window actually looks out toward the condo, but the distance is too great to make anything out. I draw the curtain closed. I remove all my clothes, hang up my suit, and fold everything else neatly on the table—a small dash of order in an otherwise sea of tumult. I turn the air conditioning down to its lowest setting to chase away the hot rage. The lights are off. My head still stings, but a wet towel to the injury tells me that the blood is minimal. I’ll live.
I silence my phone and lie down on the bed without bothering to get under the covers. The exposure to the cooling air refreshes my naked skin. Goosebumps rise and fall in tempo with the beating of my chest. Thinking comes hard, and I swat away any stray attempts to do the requisite heavy lifting. The darkness comforts me in the knowledge that I’m unseen in a place where no one can find me. I’ve finally landed on an oasis of peace.
***
I bolt upright in bed, full of fear, unsure of where I am. The disorientation is immense. The darkness doesn’t help. I stumble
to find a light to make sense of my surroundings. A lamp does the trick, and I sit in an adjacent chair to gather myself. The ache in my head persists, and I recall the earlier scene that brought me to this room.
I check my phone.
A bunch of routine matters litter my messages and Scott wonders why I’m not in the office the Friday before trial, but word from Ella is what interests me the most. I find it. The text reads: “Whatever you did worked. She showed up and did everything asked of her. We’re ready for trial.”
I read the text four times to be sure. My first thought is that I have a bump on my head for no good reason. But that’s applying rational motives to an irrational actor. More likely, the bump on my head was the price of admission to get Lara back on the team.
The phone rings as I continue to get my bearings. I grimace at the ID. Liesa.
She says, “Can you come over? I want to talk.”
“Now? About what?”
“Sam.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”
“Please.”
I sigh before replying, “Give me an hour.”
I shower and get dressed. I’ll grab fast food on the way. I study the man in the mirror. He looks normal, but his head still hurts. At least the glass didn’t hit me in the face. The anonymity afforded by the hotel room provided a nice respite, but come Monday I can’t escape the searing publicity. Confidence in the case remains strong. It’s the lawyer in charge of the case that worries me.
I check out of the hotel and walk back to the parking garage in the condo. The fresh air should do me good—if only it were fresh. The smog and smells of Friday afternoon traffic put to bed any notion concerning the rejuvenating power of being outdoors. The city is dirty. The stale air of my car tastes sweet as watermelon in comparison.
***
I drive over to Liesa’s house. Before Scott’s call two nights ago about the second bullet, I had all but landed on suicide as the safest explanation for Sam’s death. But now murder is squarely on the table. Barton, Brice, and Liesa are all leading candidates. I am unsure what Liesa wants to discuss, but I will record our conversation. Anything Liesa says can and will be used against her in a court of law.
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 20