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

sin. But I am a fundamentalist. God sets the rules. I obey. I believe in the concept of law so much that I dedicate my life to prosecuting man’s law here on Earth.

But making love to Lara reminded me of what it feels like to have joy. The hangover of loss is too heavy. I need to love and to be loved. Lara represents a life preserver to a drowning man, and the prospect of rescue thrills me. I want more.

The air turns chilly. I retreat back to my couch and look again at Thomas Jefferson—slaveholder, freedom fighter, misogynist who used a slave girl for sex, fierce advocate for equality who proclaimed to the world “that all men are created equal.”

I ponder the contradictions that animate a man’s soul. I peer into myself and negotiate a truce with the darkness. The yoke of sin feels light in the aftermath. I marvel again at the naked woman in my bed. God can wait.

I return to her and sleep better than I have in years.

12

Lara lies by my side when I bolt awake at nine the next morning. The lateness of the hour astounds. Barton’s bail hearing starts in an hour. My phone gives notice of a text from Ella: “Where are you?”

“On the way,” I text back.

I shake Lara to wake her. Time is too short for a shower. I spray on some deodorant, brush my teeth, and comb my hair. A still undressed Lara sneaks up on me, encircles her arms around my body, and says, “Come back to bed.”

“Barton’s bail hearing begins at ten.”

“You should probably go to that.”

“Probably.”

I dress, choosing my best dark blue shirt to appeal to the cameras. The clock taunts, but I need to talk to Lara before I depart.

I plead, “You cannot be seen here. I cannot emphasize that enough.”

“I’m aware of the delicacy of the situation.”

“It only takes one photographer to catch us. Barton could walk free if this thing blows up in our faces. Prosecutors cannot sleep with witnesses.”

“I’ve been dodging paparazzi for years. I know how it’s done.”

“Your nonchalance worries me.”

“Get out of here. I’ll see you tonight.”

The mention of future meetings makes the situation all too real. In morning’s light, the fear of discovery slaps me square on the nose. Before I have a chance to worry, she sends me on my way.

***

The players for the initial appearance take the stage. Millwood will argue for bail, Ella will argue against. A black person accused of murdering Sara Barton would not possess a snowball’s chance in Hell of pre-trial release. As a white, well-respected lawyer, Barton has a shot.

The courtrooms in the Fulton County Courthouse do not look like the sprawling courtrooms you see in the movies—those deep caverns of wood, ancient marble, and majestic windows. Those old courthouses were where I watched my father’s trials and what made me want to be a lawyer in the first place. They still exist, but only in small towns scattered across the state. Fulton County’s courtrooms are small, clean, modern, and devoid of natural light. The pedestrian setting belies the high stakes.

I shake hands with Millwood before having a seat next to Ella. The media fills the courtroom and the cameras film away, allowing the rest of the world to experience the event live. A ragged Barton, unshaven and wearing the ugly orange jumpsuit of prisoners everywhere, comes in with a deputy guiding his arm. On appearance alone, he should stay locked up. A bailiff announces the arrival of Judge Edwin Lee Lynn, today’s duty judge. I groan. Barton’s chances for bail just increased.

Ella strides up the lectern and argues, “Bernard Barton stands accused of murdering his wife, Sara Barton, in cold blood. As you know, Your Honor, bail is the exception, not the rule, in murder cases. Based on the murder of his wife and previous incidents of domestic violence, Bernard Barton constitutes a danger to the community. He is also a millionaire with the money and motive to attempt an escape, making him a significant flight risk. Both of these reasons caution against allowing Mr. Barton to go free under the present circumstances.”

Judge Lynn pivots to the defense table: “Mr. Millwood?”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Bernard Barton is an upstanding member of the Atlanta legal community. He has never been arrested in his life before yesterday, and he vigorously denies the charges brought by the State. Nor has he ever been arrested for any acts of domestic violence, despite Ms. Kemp’s innuendo to the contrary. The evidence against my client is highly circumstantial, and Mr. Barton should not have to sit around in a jail cell while the State bumbles around Atlanta trying to create a case. We ask that reasonable bail be set. Mr. Barton is prepared to turn over his passport to the Court right now to allay any concerns about him being a flight risk.”

When Millwood travels back to his seat, Judge Lynn scans over some paperwork and jots down a few notations. Millwood and Lynn attended law school together, and Millwood has a habit of getting his way in Lynn’s courtroom. While the judge generally does a good job, his penchant for agreeing with his old friend strikes me as something more than a coincidence. Call it a hunch. The bias is bearable today—at trial is a different matter. But the trial judge won’t be picked until after we have an indictment, and the odds of getting Lynn again are small.

The judge announces, “Bail is set at $1 million. The defendant shall surrender his passport. We’re adjourned.”

Not a surprise. As we pack up our belongings, Ella asks, “Are you okay?”

“What?”

“You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine.”

I can still smell Lara on my skin, and guilt about what I’m doing to Ella gnaws at me. I grimace inwardly but fantasize about being with Lara tonight.

***

Bobby, Ella, and I congregate after the bail hearing. The next big decision is whether to seek the death penalty.

Capital punishment isn’t immoral. You