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

kill, and the State may take your life in return. The rub is the criminal justice system. Innocent people wither away on death row for a variety of reasons. Tough-on-crime prosecutors seek convictions at all costs to impress voters. Police officers miss, misinterpret, or manufacture key evidence. Incompetent defense lawyers make a weak case against their clients seem foolproof. Judges demonstrate bias against the accused. Expert witnesses peddle bad science for a hefty fee. And, of course, race and economics infect the system at its operating core. The death penalty disproportionately falls on those who are black and those who are poor.

Because of these factors, I trust the death penalty in my own hands but few others. I know my heart, and shedding innocent blood terrifies me. Two men I’ve prosecuted have received the needle of lethal injection—Willie Joe Sawyer and Harry Fleming. Sawyer raped and killed a 5-year old girl. Fleming murdered a hapless store clerk in an armed robbery gone bad. As their execution dates approached, I took a day off to get away and assess the evidence against them one last time, just to be sure. I also watched both executions with the families of the victims. Seeing the life seep out of their bodies gave me no pause at all. Both were evil men.

Does Bernard Barton deserve the same fate?

Not every murder is eligible for the punishment of death. Some type of aggravating factor, defined by statute, must be present. Eleven aggravating factors qualify under Georgia law. The only one we could potentially hang our hat on reads: “The murder was committed for pecuniary gain.”

Five million dollars in life insurance is a lot of pecuniary gain.

Bobby probes, “What do you think?”

I answer, “A path exists for us to get there, but it complicates the case. We seek death and get the one squirrely juror who opposes capital punishment, then the whole conviction is in doubt because some crusader wants to make a stand. Enough weirdness will surround the trial already because of the media. I’d prefer to keep it simple.”

“Ella?”

“The defendant is not a sympathetic figure. We should avoid giving anyone a reason to make him into one. I always have this fear, too, that jurors hold us to a higher standard in death penalty cases. As Chance said, the trial is going to be a circus as is. We don’t need any more volatility in the kettle.”

Bobby strokes his chin, no doubt looking at all the electoral angles that might flow from each possible choice.

“All right. Let’s take the death penalty off the table. Just make sure you get me my conviction.”

Willie Joe Sawyer and Harry Fleming were both black. Bernard Barton is white.

13

After spending another night with Lara, I ponder the logistical problem of how to carry on a secret love affair in a city of six million people. Going to her house is impossible. Someone’s liable to be staked out there at all hours. My place is safer but hardly ideal. I have neighbors, and Scott drops by unannounced like clockwork. Hotels are out. Lara is too famous, and every hotel I know has surveillance cameras everywhere. Envisioning myself on TMZ as grainy video of Lara and me plays nonstop doesn’t sit well. I’ll pass.

The solution grabs me with bittersweet fervor—the condo in Midtown where Amber and I first lived after moving to Atlanta. The real estate crash made it unsellable when we bought our house, so we converted it to a rental. The place now sits vacant after a long-term renter moved out last month. Perfect. I notify the property management company to take the rental listing off the market. Lara and I can escape to the condo whenever we like. Secure underground parking would allow us to come and go in relative anonymity. Even if paparazzi follow her as far as the garage, they still couldn’t tell who in the building she would be visiting. No one will ever know.

***

Two days later, I wait for Lara in the condo I once called home. The furnishings that I cobbled together yesterday are sparse—a bed, a couch, some chairs, a table—but enough for its intended purpose. The balcony faces east away from the city. Trees cover the landscape, the exact opposite of the concrete jungle to the west. Stone Mountain rests in the distance.

Like a green teenager on his first date, my pulse quickens when I hear the knock on the door. The nerves stay with me as I tiptoe to the entry way and wave her in before anyone lurking in the hall can see us together. The disguise she wears is not bad—baseball cap, large sunglasses, baggy clothes to hide her figure. Only when she removes the hat and the blond hair comes tumbling down does she resemble Lara Landrum again.

She inspects the bare accommodations and taunts, “I love what you’ve done with the space.”

“I’m a minimalist by nature,” I respond.

“You realize I’m accustomed to a certain style, right?”

“That’s what you get for associating with a commoner.”

The smile I receive in return confirms the wisdom that less is more. I suspected as much. She is not with me because of her taste for the finer things. Our shared experience of loss unites us, and high-priced decor speaks little to those stuck in the valley of pain. The bond we have is simple, raw. Authenticity is the only thing I can give her, and that realness is somehow enough.

Lara sheds the dreary clothes and sits on the couch wearing only a bra, panties, and a playful grin. I stand there dumb, mesmerized by the sight. It’s Friday afternoon. All across Atlanta cars battle bumper to bumper to flee the harsh world of the city. But all is tranquil in the condo. Lara teases with dancing eyes and asks, “What are you thinking?”

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

The little remaining natural light left in the eastern sky maneuvers through the gaps in the blinds and produces a black and white effect