We sit in the same places as our first awkward meeting about the Barton case. That day seems like a long time ago. It was three months. Liesa’s steel resolve, worn so defiantly then, is vanished, replaced by red and weary eyes.
“Where are the kids?”
“At my mom’s.”
Tears stream down her face. She grabs a box of tissues from another room and reclaims her place. The possibility of another revelation about Sam makes me antsy. I hope like heck that box in the mountains is where I left it.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I cannot believe Sam is dead.”
“Me either.”
“Why did he have to die?”
I study her. Sam was probably murdered, and Liesa is a suspect. Last time we met, she played me for information while I got precious little out of her. That won’t happen again. Grieving widow or not, I will hold my cards close.
“I don’t know, Liesa. I really don’t know.”
“Was he murdered?”
“I don’t know. Did you kill him?”
“Really? I can’t believe you would ask me that.”
She moans, takes a deep breath, and cries some more. The tissue box is empty. She throws it to the side in frustration.
“I loved that man. Loved him since the first time I saw him in the law library. He could drive me mad, could hurt me, could make me question my self-worth, but I would never kill him. I loved him too much. I gave up my life for him, and now he’s gone. I need a drink.”
Liesa leaves for the kitchen, returns with a bottle of wine, and fills herself a generous glass. She doesn’t offer me any. She knows I don’t drink. Haven’t for a long time. Because of Amber. I got drunk one night, acted like an ass toward her, woke up sick and hung over. She didn’t speak to me for two days. I promised her I would never drink again, and I haven’t. Maybe I should. Maybe it would help me sleep, dull the pain.
I ask, “Would Sam kill himself?”
“Did he kill that woman?”
“That’s the second time you asked me that. Is there something you know that I don’t?”
The image of Sam’s angry face as he penetrated Sara Barton infiltrates my brain. Liesa shakes her head in denial.
I respond, “Good. Because Bernard Barton killed that woman.”
“Then Sam didn’t kill himself.”
I see the reasoning. Murdering Sara Barton would be too far out of character for the Sam I knew. But if he had killed her for some impulsive reason, then I could see him killing himself out of guilt. The nervousness of living with that burden would’ve eaten him alive. He may have been weak and stupid, but he was not evil.
Liesa asks, “Did you find what you were looking for in the mountains?”
“It wasn’t important.”
“It was important enough for you to harass me on the day I buried my husband. How could you be so cruel? You of all people should know better.”
She’s not wrong. I sit there appropriately chastened. She sips more wine. But the tug of the case is a hard drug to resist. I ask, “What are you going to do now? Is there any life insurance to help you get through?”
Liesa laughs. She spots my fake concern a mile off.
“You still trying to pin Sam’s death on me?”
“Look, I got $2 million when Amber died. I’m not judging.”
“Did you kill Amber?”
I flash her a cold, hard look.
She says, “Shoe is on the other foot. Don’t like to be asked if you killed your wife, do you?”
“Amber never gave me a reason to kill her.”
Point scored. Her wounded eyes wave the white flag of temporary surrender. Whatever this meeting is—old friends commiserating about shared experiences of loss, the questioning of a murder suspect, or Liesa pumping me for information—we have both brought out our switchblades to freshly puncture the spots where each of us hurts the most. I feel no bitterness toward Liesa, have no ancient score to settle. But our uneasy conversations point to some hidden antagonism. Were we ever really even friends? I reflect that all of my relationships traffic in dysfunction.
I plead, “Can you just answer a simple question?”
“You’re just doing your job, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Sam had a $1 million personal policy, and a $2 million dollar business policy. I get $3 million, but I didn’t kill him.”
“Can I ask you another question?”
“Might as well. You’re going to anyway.”
“Where were you on the night of Sara Barton’s murder?”
Liesa does not answer. She pours herself another glass of wine. Her third? I’ve lost count. I need to press her for an answer before she loses her coherence to the bottle.
I say, “Can I offer you up a theory about what you were doing that night? You can tell me if I’m hot or cold. I think Sam told you he had to go out. You decided you’d had enough of whatever was going on and followed him. You see him enter the Barton residence and see him come right back out. He then sees you. Something happens between the two of you—a fight, an argument, something. The neighbors heard you. Sam tells you to get the hell away from there and gives you time to leave before calling the cops. This theory allows for the strange dichotomy that you think Sam might’ve killed Sara Barton and he thought you might’ve killed her. Thoughts?”
“I don’t like that theory.”
“Well, another theory is that you killed Sara Barton. Sam discovered you. Hilarity ensues.”
“I don’t like that theory, either.”
“Me neither. I like the first theory better since I’m putting Bernard Barton on trial for murder next week.”
Liesa lets the conversation stop, and I ponder my theories in the resulting silence. She avoids eye contact and stares at her wine with uneven concentration. Without looking up, she asks, “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t. I wasn’t pretty enough for Sam.”
“I doubt that had anything to do with it.”
I read something once. The Bible teaches David was a man after God’s own heart. Yet David probably had at least 300 wives and concubines. Even that wasn’t enough. He still wanted Bathsheba for himself. Or take Solomon. He was the wisest person ever, warned the multitudes against the danger of sexual sin, and then destroyed his own life chasing women. What sense does that make? Lust devours reason, no matter the man.
She says, “I don’t want to date again. I’m too old to start over, too young not to. I’m stuck. Like everything else in life, it’s easier for men. But I’m a single mom with three kids. Nobody will want me. Or if they do, it will be for the money. What about you? Is there someone new?”
I don’t answer the question, but the reaction in my face gives the game away. There is someone. Liesa asks, “What is she like?”
I think: Lara is beautiful, insightful, twisted, passionate, crazy, fun, scared, scary, hateful, and unpredictable—wonderful at times but possessed of a negative energy that will either defeat you into passive submission or make you angry enough to kill. I think back to the earlier scene in the condo. One word crystalizes in my mind.
“Bipolar.”
Saying it out loud creates in me one of those random eureka moments. Bipolar. My mind works fast. Is bipolar disorder hereditary? Ella has Sara Barton’s medical files. We haven’t focused on them because they lack much relevance to the case. But I will ask Ella to take a look for evidence of bipolar disorder. The diagnosis would explain a lot.
Liesa scoffs, looks closely at the wine in her glass, and decides to take another drink.
She asks, “Did you ever cheat on Amber?”
“No.”
“You wouldn’t. Too much of a boy scout, looking down on the rest of us in moral disapproval.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Probably.”
“Where were you the night of Sara Barton’s murder?”
“I never li
ked her that much.”
“Who?”
“Amber.”
My head hurts. The memory of a concussion suffered on the football field reaches me from the past. The same signs then are present now. I ignore Liesa’s provocation and wonder if I should go to the hospital.
Liesa continues, “Mind you, I didn’t want Amber to get murdered or anything. She just rubbed me the wrong way. Too goody two shoes for my taste.”
“Whatever you’re doing, stop. You’re most likely going to be a witness in my murder trial next week. We need to work together here.”
“She used to lead you around by the nose, that’s for sure. Everybody said so.”
“I’m beginning to see why Sam cheated on you.”
That shuts her up for the moment. Just like our first meeting a few months ago, my irritation with Liesa leads me to smack her in the face with Sam’s adultery. Both of us are starting to boil. I felt angry enough to kill Lara this afternoon, and I’m not in the mood for a repeat performance. Liesa’s drunk, and I probably have a concussion—a volatile mix. I stand up to depart.
She demands, “Who killed my husband?”
“Where were you when Sam died?”
“Leave. Just leave.”
“You’re going to have to answer these questions sometime, Liesa.”
“Get out of my house.”
***
The drive home is an angry one. First Lara this afternoon, then Liesa tonight. The confrontation with Liesa is the fresher event, but it is the drama earlier in the day with Lara that plays on a loop inside my sore head. I’m losing control of myself, and she is the cause. Knowing that I am dancing to her tune enrages me all the more.
The garage door closes behind me. Alone, I can begin some much-needed personal repairs. I sit in the car for a good ten minutes. My blood pressure returns to normal. I scamper into my house ready to put this sordid day to bed. I don’t get far.
Lara stands before me, and part of me dies inside. She approaches without a word and slaps me with everything she has. I flinch a retaliatory punch, but stop short. No.
She is insane, and I struggle for my soul against the wave of her craziness. She kisses me hard, but I push her away. Roughly. I want to hit her. She kisses me again. Bites my lip. Draws blood. She grabs my hand and puts it on her body. I feel her desire. Emotion overwhelms logic. I flip her on her stomach over the back of the couch. Base instinct takes over.
Across the way a mirror hangs that displays the face of a wild beast—my own. She meets my crazed look in the mirror, smiling a sneer of triumph that proclaims, “I own you.” My third murder trial I got a conviction of a man that strangled his ex-girlfriend. I put my hands around Lara’s neck. Her eyes dare me, but I lose my nerve.
After I complete my last revenge-filled thrusts, I toss her aside. I pant heavily on the couch—the racing heart taunting me that I am no longer a young man. Sitting on the floor, she wears a self-satisfied grin that would mortify Lucifer.
Minutes pass in silence. She slithers her way back toward me and snaps my head toward her with two sweaty hands, her hot breath on my face. The loud thumps of my overtaxed heart still ring to a hurried cadence.
“You put that son of a bitch away for what he did to my sister.”
Nothing else is said. The door slams shut, and I am alone. Emptiness replaces the earlier anger. I think of the loaded gun in the closet. It would solve a lot of problems. My favorite picture of Amber sits on a nearby shelf. I ask her, “What’s wrong with me?” She doesn’t answer.
Flushed with humiliation, I stagger with dizziness to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and don’t wait for the water to warm. The cold punishes, and the punishment is just. The remnants of the inferno inside me dissipate under the chill. I shiver, then sob.
I never felt so dirty.
34
The Monday morning of the trial is here, but the past weekend is all I think about. I spent Saturday alone in the woods, running from myself. Lara broke me. Two separate times—first in the condo, then the house—I teetered on the precipice of violent rage. The weight of that darkness was too much. I had to get away. I went to the woods to escape my own terror.
I covered the same ground as Sam when he walked to his death. The journey seemed fitting. Atlanta sits right on the other side of the forest, but one would never know it. I stopped at the site of Sam’s shooting and shuddered. I studied the area, trying to picture the scene with fresh insight. Nothing. I left Sam and headed to the river. The walk was about me, not him.
The Chattahoochee meandered before me, taking its time, much like its native South. I sat on a bench and watched the slow flow. My mind’s drift gradually acclimated itself to the rhythm of the water. Call it meditation, call it a trance, but I lost myself for quite some time. The eyes were open, but the mind was turned off. When I awoke into consciousness again, I inhaled several deep breaths. My lungs full of air, I walked back to the car, taking the long way to get there. From start to finish, I never saw another single soul.
I went to the woods to get away. But driving into work on the biggest day of my professional career, I remain lost in the forest. I think about Adam who hid in the trees to get away from God and Jesus who went to the wilderness to get closer to God—the same action spurred by opposite motivations. I try to diagnose my own motives but fail. I still don’t know who I am.
***
Alone in my office, I playact my part in today’s script, desperately seeking a reservoir of motivation. The lack of nervousness worries me. Nerves focus attention and keep a lawyer sharp. I don’t suffer from overconfidence. The malaise is more personal. I hope the adrenaline will activate when the gavel sounds, out of habit if nothing else. In the courtroom, I can just be a lawyer and forget the rest of it.
Ella pops her head in and asks me if I’m ready. I lie. I ask her the same, but the fierceness she exudes makes her answer unnecessary. She is overqualified to be a second chair at this point. Even if I hadn’t sabotaged our working relationship, she stood ready to emerge out from my shadow.
Her intensity softens as she lingers in the doorway and takes inventory of the man who has disappointed her on so many levels. She offers, “Things are obviously different between us now, but I hope we can be like we’ve always been in the courtroom, at least.”
“That would make me happy.”
“One other thing. I looked closer at the medical records like you suggested. You were right. Sara Barton was bipolar. Does it mean anything?”
It means everything, but nothing in terms of the trial. I did my own medical research over the weekend. Bipolar disorder is hereditary, and Lara’s behavior displays the symptoms. Not only did I sleep with a witness, I slept with a bona fide mental case. I kick myself in the ass for the thousandth time. Lara at least has an excuse.
I answer, “I don’t know. I just had the thought. It would explain some of her reckless conduct with men.”
Ella gives me a perceptive look and leaves me to wallow in more self-condemnation.
***
I stand outside the prosecutors’ side entrance to the courtroom and straighten my tie. On the other side of this door, the show goes live. The air around the courthouse already buzzes, the excitement pulsating from the walls. The atmosphere feels different from any other trial of my life—hordes of reporters doing remotes from the street, lines to get into the building, a hundred small differences that highlight something special is afoot. Realizing the stakes, the familiar nervousness of the past finally makes an appearance. Good sign. I’m going to be all right.
I feel Lara’s presence before I see her. She offers her hand, and I reciprocate—by all appearances a professional handshake between casual acquaintances. What interested observers overlook is the small tickle she gives my palm with her index finger. The slight touch shocks me with its electricity. Lara’s eyes remain on me a fraction too long, but only by a hair. Ella watches us like a hawk and misses everything. Lara approaches her, and they exchan
ge strained greetings.
I take my seat and stare ahead. No words pass between us, and yet she snares me back into her web with the ease of a smooth criminal. As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly. I tell myself harshly, “Focus.”
The bailiff announces, “Please rise.”
***
Jury selection is more art than science, more luck than skill, a brew of serendipity mixed with a dash of instinct. You make your most reasonable estimate and hope for the best, recognizing the foolishness of judging individuals on the scant information provided on a jury form.
The first twelve names on the jury list march to the front of the room, and the tango begins. Judge Mary Woodcomb takes the first crack at them and asks the basic questions. Have you formed an opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the accused? Have you any prejudice or bias for or against the accused? Is there any reason you cannot weigh the evidence with an impartial mind? The potential jurors answer “no” to the judge’s questions because that is what good citizens are expected to say.
I rise to take my turn and ooze friendliness as I approach the jury box. Introductions are made, and I take my first steps to building a rapport with the men and women I’m going to ask to convict Bernard Barton of murder. First impressions matter. The tone is conversational, and I make good eye contact with each of them to personalize the formation of our relationship. Better to make all of them feel comfortable before throwing them into the fire.
Only then do I ask my questions. The process proceeds through the rest of the day.
Being back in the arena feels good. The emotional drama of the past few weeks melts away in the gritty detail of picking a jury. Hours pass. The game of musical chairs in the jury box reaches its denouement. By day’s end, twelve individuals—seven African-Americans, five whites, six women, six men—survive the meat grinder of voir dire. Their divergent identities now merge into a singular collective known as the jury—e pluribus unum; out of many, one. The last actors in the drama now set, the prosecution of Bernard Barton begins tomorrow in earnest.
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 21