The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Lance McMillian (ereader with android .txt) 📖

virgin ground for all of us. Being on the brink of publicly naming Barton as the murderer feels like our Super Bowl. Quietness pervades the room.

“I hate waiting,” Ella fumes. She’s cute when she’s impatient, and I reflect on how much I care for her. To upend the silence, Ella starts tapping her foot to a steady beat. I rock in my chair to the same rhythm. I hate waiting, too.

The ding we’re looking for arrives at last, and Scott reads the report with practiced calm. When the moment is to his liking, he announces, “In the considered expert opinion of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, the gun belonging to one Bernard Barton fired the projectile that killed the late Sara Barton.”

I add everything up in my head one more time—the sex tape between Sara and Brice, the 911 call, Sara Barton’s bruised back, Barton’s threat to kill her, the fingerprints on the bullets in the murder weapon, the gambling debts, the $5 million in life insurance, the girlfriend and her fabricated alibi. Motive. Means. Opportunity. We got our man.

Scott and Ella rush downstairs to get the warrant signed. Once the arrest is made, official responsibility for Barton transfers from the police to the prosecutors. My part in the drama is about to go live. I head over to deliver the good word to Bobby. The lunch hour is near. If we time the arrest right, Barton’s bail hearing will have to wait until tomorrow morning, and he’ll be forced to spend the night in jail.

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