Woodcomb mulls it over for a few seconds and says, “I’ll allow it, but I’m going to give a limiting instruction.” Millwood and I return to our places. The judge addresses the jurors:
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are going to hear allegations contained in a draft of a divorce complaint that the State contends Sara Barton intended to file. The allegations assert certain facts, but they are just allegations. You are not to consider a fact true simply because an allegation in the complaint says so. You may draw other inferences from the existence of the allegations, but you cannot assume the truth of the allegations based solely on the allegations themselves.”
The judge can say it, but the jurors don’t have to follow it. I resume the questioning and ask Scott, “Were these divorce papers ever filed?”
“No. The victim was murdered before they could be.”
“Objection. The witness lacks knowledge as to whether the complaint could’ve been filed prior to the murder.”
“Sustained. The jury will disregard that last answer.”
“Is the divorce complaint dated, Detective Moore?”
“Yes. It is dated the day after the murder.”
“What does that suggest to you?”
“That Sara Barton intended the complaint to be filed on that date.”
Millwood holds his powder this time. Scott’s answer is still speculation, but at least it’s informed speculation. Besides, everyone knows what the date on the complaint means. Someone murdered Sara Barton the day before she intended to seek a divorce from the defendant.
“Detective Moore, will you please read paragraph 21 of the complaint?”
“‘In a jealous rage, Defendant Bernard Barton beat his wife, Plaintiff Sara Barton, and left large bruises on her back. Plaintiff Sara Barton escaped to the couple’s bedroom and locked the door.’”
To Sam’s credit, he wrote the complaint for maximum impact—“rage,” “beat,” “escaped.” The inflammatory language read by Scott is just a taste of the overall flavor. The reading of the paragraph provides the perfect transition to get the 911 call in front of the jury.
“Did your investigation uncover the existence of such an incident?”
“Yes. The victim made a 911 call.”
I then play the recording for the jury:
“Fulton County 911. May I have your name and the nature of emergency, please?”
“Sara Barton. My husband is trying to kill me!”
[Loud banging on a door.]
“Where is your husband now?”
“I’m locked in my bedroom! He’s trying to get in!”
[More banging on the door. Muffled voices, yelling. Crying.]
“He has already hit me! Please hurry!”
Sara gives her address, and the call from her end abruptly stops. The 911 dispatcher asks, “Hello? Hello? Are you still there?” I wait along with the jurors for an answer that never comes, all of us caught up in the intensity of the moment. Receiving no response, the 911 dispatcher hangs up, a resounding “click” that resonates like a gunshot in the stillness of the courtroom. The finality of it all feels like a funeral. I feel happy inside.
One female juror shoots a disgusted side glance at a sullen-looking Barton. He shrivels in his chair, looking suddenly small, obviously guilty. I turn my attention back to Scott.
“What role did this recording play in your investigation?”
“It certainly got my attention. A husband beats his wife, and the wife turns up murdered shortly thereafter—the husband is going to be a suspect. But I kept an open mind and went about the process of working the case, making sure to give all possibilities a hard look.”
We then take a deep dive into Barton’s financial history. As of the date of Sara’s murder, Bernard Barton owed three different casinos a total of nearly $800,000. Testimony about the $5 million insurance policy on Sara’s life follows thereafter. I don’t need a billboard to advertise the obvious inference. That kind of money covers a lot of gambling debts.
Scott walks the jury through the rest of it—Barton’s phone conveniently left at his house on the day of the murder, the lack of a credible alibi, Barton’s arrival home in the dead of the night hours after the murder, the failure of Barton to ask who murdered his wife during that initial interview, the coldness of his manner when he identified the body, Sara’s affair with Brice Tanner, the text from Barton to Sara calling her a “whore” when he learned about her sex video with Brice, and, lastly, the gun and the fingerprints. The culmination of all the evidence led to the arrest of Bernard Barton for the murder of his wife.
Now I have to deal with Sam’s dead body in the Atlanta woods. Millwood cast this burden on me during opening statements, and I’ve felt the weight ever since. Scott notes the death and explains the circumstances in their simplest terms. Sam Wilkins was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head in a remote park, the gun that fired the shot lying by his side. Gunshot residue was discovered on Sam’s hand, leading to the tentative conclusion that the death was the result of suicide. The passive-voice riddled description is clinical and soulless, boring by design, with an air of “nothing to see here,” hopefully to be soon forgotten.
“Is there any evidence that you discovered that links Sam Wilkins’ death to Sara Barton’s murder?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Did you search for such evidence?”
“Yes. We always cover all our bases. Since his wife and her divorce lawyer were both shot, we looked into Bernard Barton’s possible involvement in Wilkins’ death. Because the defendant was not wearing a tracking device while on bail, we weren’t able to ascertain his whereabouts during the time Wilkins died.”
Scott and I worked on the wording to this answer in great detail.
“Objection,” bellows Millwood. He doesn’t state the grounds. He taught me that, too. Even when you cannot think of a basis for an objection, object anytime you feel something is off about the question or answer. Maybe the judge won’t notice.
“Response?”
“Mr. Millwood is the one who brought up Sam Wilkins’ death in his opening statement. He obviously intends to throw wild accusations in Mr. Wilkins’ direction, and the State is allowed to correct any false innuendo spread by the defense.”
“Overruled.”
“It’s speculative and lacks foundation, Your Honor,” Millwood adds, taking the rare step of continuing to argue an objection already rejected by the person wearing the robe.
I waste no time: “No. Detective Moore is truthfully testifying about his investigation into a death first raised by the defense in its opening.”
“My ruling stands.”
Millwood’s negative reaction to the questioning gives the exchange more importance than it deserves. I had more questions about Sam’s death planned but drop them on the fly. The moment feels like a win, and I don’t want to jeopardize it. The hour is late anyway. I run out the clock with a few more inquiries, pushing Millwood’s cross-examination of Scott to the next morning, allowing us to send the jury home on a strong note.
***
Scott, Ella, and I strategize in my office over a dinner of pizza and messy buffalo wings. Hot sauce splattered on Scott’s tie takes the shape of a half-eaten piece of broccoli—the only vegetable in sight. Even though my waist remains trim, my heart suffers the brunt of the unhealthy habits that mar my life. Stairs I used to bound up with little effort now require a rapid-heartbeat level of exertion. The copious doses of caffeine with which I self-medicate don’t help. I feel old.
Ella begs off to go to a funeral visitation for a great aunt. Scott and I bear down to prepare for Millwood’s cross-examination of him. The main concern relates to Sam. His affair with Sara Barton luckily never made it into the first round of any police files. Once we later zeroed in on Barton as our guy, Scott and I decided to make our own luck and keep Sam’s admission that he was sleeping with the victim to ourselves. We didn’t even tell Ella, and she remains unaware even
now. One of the chief challenges of the trial was going to be preparing Sam for Millwood’s inevitable onslaught. But then Sam went and died on me.
But Scott is not dead, and killing him before his cross-examination would result in a mistrial. He’ll have to battle Millwood on his own. Scott won’t perjure himself, but his only obligation is to truthfully answer the questions put to him. Will Millwood ask the magic question? The bet is no. Millwood’s trial rules include never asking a question you don’t already know the answer to. Cross-examination is not a time for fishing expeditions. Millwood knows, too, that Scott is a talented witness, and a trial lawyer should never get too cute with someone who knows the secrets of the trade. The way to win a war is to pick the right battles.
On paper, all that sounds fine and dandy. But a day in the courtroom rarely goes completely according to script. Things happen. I won’t feel at ease until Scott steps down from the witness box. The risk we’re taking is huge. The jury will resent the hell out of me for trying to pull a fast one on them if our gamble fails. Lost trust may be impossible to regain. I don’t even want to think about Ella’s reaction.
I’m only willing to stomach this much danger because the combination of Sam’s affair with the victim and his mysterious death would make convicting Barton a Herculean task. A lawyer who slept with his client, discovered her murdered body, and later killed himself—a kindergartner could create a Picasso out of that raw material.
If Sam were alive, the jury could measure his true nature and see for itself that this man was no killer. But dead men tell no tales, leaving Millwood instead to fill in all the blanks. The truth that Sam was weak and seduced by a beautiful woman wouldn’t matter.
The result is that I take a chance that Millwood won’t ask Scott a question that requires Scott to tell the truth about Sara and Sam. I pepper Scott with an aggressive volley of mock questions that Millwood may throw at him. Together we craft answers to the stickier inquiries, responses that are both technically true and purposefully deceptive. We go at it for a good couple of hours before degenerating into frivolity.
In my best Millwood voice, I boom, “Detective Moore, do you still beat your wife?”
“We’re divorced.”
“Do you still beat your ex-wife?”
“No. I only beat suspects.”
“Isn’t it a fact that you troll around local high schools and prey on young girls?”
“I haven’t prayed in years.”
“Isn’t it true that you once slept with the chief of police’s wife—a woman thirty years your senior?”
“It was more than once.”
“The defense rests.”
The air goes quickly out of the balloon after that. The exchange is the type that’s only funny when the participants are either roaring drunk or profoundly tired. Time to get some sleep. As we start to heave our aging bodies to a cacophony of creaks and groans, Ella startles us by opening the door without warning. We slump right back down. Looking over us with a stern look of disapproval, she asserts, “You two are about the saddest looking white boys I’ve ever seen.”
“That’s racist,” Scott retorts.
Ella drops herself into a chair, kicks off her shoes, and lets her hair down, figuratively and literally. I ask, “How’s your family?”
“We’re okay. Aunt Maddie was 96 and lived a long old life. I blamed you as my excuse to hightail it out of there. I hate dead bodies. Now I need a drink.”
She looks at Scott, knowing that I’m dry as a source. Answering her inquiry, Scott offers, “I don’t have anything on me, but if you come over to my place, I have a minibar in my bedroom.”
“No thanks. I’ve sworn off white guys forever.”
She looks at me, but a trace of a smile assures me that the words don’t come from a place of active anger. The three of us go on like this for a while, giving each other a hard time, enjoying a break from the pressures of the trial, delaying the moment when we will trod home alone once more. The criminal justice system is a nightmare on relationships, and the people in this room have the scars to prove it. But none of that matters tonight. The gang being back together again fills me with a warm glow. Scott even purloins some contraband from Bobby’s liquor cabinet, allowing Ella to enjoy that drink. Sleep is the only casualty.
38
Millwood approaches Scott with the careful manner of a lion tamer. He holds a whip in his hand to keep the lion at bay but recognizes the inherent danger posed by the beast in front of him. He will give Scott the respect he deserves. I take a weird comfort in that. A lesser, undisciplined lawyer is apt to ask Scott anything. But Millwood will steer clear of asking a question that gives Scott the opportunity to refute the innuendo that Sam and Sara were sleeping together. At least I hope.
“Detective Moore, you have no physical evidence that Bernard Barton ever fired that gun, do you?”
“No.”
“No evidence of gun powder residue on his hands the night of the murder?”
“We didn’t test for that.”
“Indeed, you didn’t ask Mr. Barton to submit to such a test, did you?”
“He wasn’t a suspect at that time.”
Millwood sagely nods. He’ll argue in closing that had the police administered such a test, Barton would’ve been exonerated. Now that’s a bunch of nonsense. Gunpowder residue can be washed off just like anything else. Its absence proves nothing. But the jury doesn’t know that.
“And you have no witnesses who place Mr. Barton in the vicinity of his house around the time of the murder?”
“No.”
“No traffic cam footage showing him near his home?”
“We barely have any traffic cameras in that area, so no.”
“Yet the ones you do have failed to show Mr. Barton, didn’t they?”
“That’s correct. They also failed to show the defendant returning to his house that night at 2:30 a.m. in the morning, so I don’t put too much stock in the traffic cams.”
Millwood allows himself a tight smile in response to Scott’s successful parlay in adding a counterpoint to his answer without appearing defensive or overly hostile. Scott makes a strong witness because Millwood trained him years ago how to best answer the questions of defense lawyers. Millwood’s strained grin suggests the recognition that he did his job too well.
“But to be clear, Detective Moore, no evidence—witnesses, traffic cams, credit card receipts—actually shows Mr. Barton in the area that night?”
“That’s correct—no witnesses, no traffic cams, no credit card receipts for anywhere that night, and no cell phone tracking since the defendant left his phone at home that day.”
The obvious implication scores a point, and the lion tamer looks like he has lost his whip. Cross-examination at its finest requires possession of a club to smack the witness should he get out of line. Millwood lacks such a weapon, and Scott is too disciplined. A few more exchanges like the last two, and Millwood’s going to bail. He doesn’t need Scott to verify what evidence the police don’t have. He can argue those points himself to the jury when the time comes.
“Let’s talk about Sam Wilkins, Detective Moore. You mentioned yesterday that you investigated Mr. Barton in connection with Wilkins’ death. You haven’t arrested Mr. Barton for Wilkins’ murder, have you?”
“No.”
“Haven’t taken it to a grand jury?”
“No.”
“You don’t believe that Mr. Barton murdered Wilkins, do you?”
Scott pauses. He testified yesterday the police think Sam committed suicide. Now is not the time to get too clever.
“No. As I said yesterday, the tentative signs point to suicide as things stand.”
“And this suicide was just months after the murder of Sara Barton?”
“Yes.”
“And Wilkins discovered Mrs. Barton’s body?”
“Yes.”
I start to hold my breath. If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen soon. Scott appears as non
plussed as a man waiting in a deli line to order a sandwich—no nerves at all. I want to throw up. Thinking of those pictures in the storage shed in north Georgia doesn’t help. I’m playing fast and loose on more fronts than I can defend. But I promised Lara I would get justice for her sister, and I intend to honor my word.
“He was her lawyer?”
“Divorce lawyer, yes.”
“And he visited his client at her home at ten o’clock the night that she died?”
“He did.”
“Didn’t meet her in his office that night?”
“Apparently not.”
“Came over personally?”
“Yes. Brought the divorce papers over himself. I collected them from him that night.”
“Didn’t Wilkins’ visiting late seem strange to you?”
“Most things that lawyers do seem strange to me.”
The courtroom snickers in suppressed laugher. Woodcomb gives a soft tap with her gavel to restore order.
Scott continues, “Sorry for the little joke, Your Honor. I asked Mr. Wilkins about that very thing. The divorce promised to be a lucrative one for him, and the victim asked him if he would bring the papers over to her house. So he did.”
“And he told you that the night of the murder?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s not in the police report?”
“No. Police reports are summaries, not transcriptions.”
“And you don’t have a separate witness statement for Wilkins that night?”
“No.”
“Isn’t your usual practice to obtain such statements?”
“Sometimes.”
My nerves stand on high alert. Millwood focuses like a hungry wolf on the weak spot in the investigation. He knows how Scott goes about his business and recognizes the irregularity in not formalizing the interview of such a key player.
“But not from Sam Wilkins?”
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 23