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

throughout the room. The blood red of her matching undergarments pops against this shadowy background. I’m afraid to move because the scene is too perfect—the peaceful unreality of a fragile snow globe.

“You can come over and kiss me, you know.”

The words snap me out of my daydream. I float over and kiss her, softly at first, testing the reality of the experience.

She says, “For a minimalist, you seem to be wearing a lot of clothes.”

I get the hint and follow her lead to the bedroom, becoming more minimalist with each step. Police sirens wail in the distance, and I think about the hold such sounds have had on so much of my life. Like an expert witness who understands the nuances of obscure topics inside and out, I know that the volume level of police response can inform the careful listener. When the noise reaches a certain crescendo, murder again stirs in the Atlanta air. But today I resist its pull on me. Lying next to Lara, the dirges of the outside world whimper out of my consciousness. The focus now centers on life, not death. When she falls asleep later that evening, I stroll out on my balcony and peer deep into the night, marveling at how I landed in this position. The city is quiet, and I welcome the change.

***

One week later, we seek an indictment for murder against Bernard Barton from the Fulton County grand jury. The proceedings are decidedly one-sided. To proceed to trial requires merely a majority vote of the grand jurors. Probable cause, as opposed to beyond a reasonable doubt, is the governing standard of the day. It’s a low bar. The rules forbid lawyers for the defense from even appearing, so the prosecutors are the only game in town.

Ella and I start with the 911 recording. The horrified faces of the grand jurors confirm what I already know. The emotional impact of the call packs a powerful punch. The room sits in tense silence as the voice of Sara Barton screams out for justice from beyond the grave.

“My husband is going to kill me!”

“He has already hit me. Please hurry.”

The line goes dead, and we let the silence linger before passing around the photo Lara took of her sister’s back. Multiple black bruises scar the landscape of the otherwise beautiful white skin. The picture makes the words on the 911 call even more terrifying.

The rest of the morning until mid-afternoon features Scott’s testimony about the other evidence in the case. The process is methodical. The crime scene and autopsy photos establish that Sara Barton died from a gunshot wound. The fingerprint and ballistics evidence show that the defendant loaded the bullets into the murder weapon. The gambling debts and Monica Haywood’s fabricated alibi demonstrate Barton’s desperation before and after the murder.

We also show the sex tape of Sara Barton and Brice Tanner at the High Museum to gauge how that evidence plays in real life. The footage strikes me as a double-edged sword. While the video provides Barton a strong motive for murder, the visuals of the victim atop a younger man on the floor of a museum could lessen a jury’s sympathy for her.

One incredulous grand juror asks Scott, “Her husband was there at the party while this was going on?”

“Yes.”

“Was this before or after the 911 call?”

“A few days before.”

The grand juror whistles, and the others nod in recognition of the almost certain cause and effect. I take note. The video is so bad that it is good—the greater Sara’s open and notorious adultery, the greater the rage felt by her husband toward her.

When our presentation is complete, the grand jurors waste little time. The vote is unanimous. Bernard Barton now stands indicted for the murder of his wife.

But first things first.

14

Corey Miller leads a southwest Atlanta gang called the Rattlesnakes. Last year, he executed DeShawn Carter in broad daylight on a pothole-riddled street in Pittsville—the city’s most menacing neighborhood. Witnesses to the killing numbered at least two dozen. DeShawn Carter had testified against a Rattlesnake in a small-time drug case and sent Miller’s fellow gang member to prison. Miller sent Carter to the morgue in return.

The witnesses to the crime kept their mouths shut. Except one. From behind a curtained window in her house, Tasha Favors, a 10-year old girl, observed the execution in all its awfulness. The police didn’t find her. She came to them. Tired of the violence destroying her community, Belinda Favors brought her daughter to the police to report what happened.

The first time I met Tasha remains engraved in my mind. She told her story to Scott, Ella, and me:

“I was doing my math homework at the kitchen table. My Nana was taking a nap in her bedroom. I heard a bunch of noise from the street. I know not to go outside by myself so I just looked out the window. Mr. Corey had a gun in his hand and was yelling at a man on his knees. I was scared and hid behind the curtain, but I could still see. There was a bunch of people standing around, just watching. Then Mr. Corey walked up and shot that man in the head. I didn’t see nothing else. I ran to my room and got under my covers and cried.”

One grand jury indictment later, I now ready myself to put Corey Miller on trial for murder. But I have a problem.

In America, a criminal defendant has the constitutional right to face his accuser in court. To convict Corey Miller, I must put Tasha on the stand. Miller has already killed one witness and would no doubt murder another one to save his own skin. To guard against such threats, some states allow witnesses to testify anonymously behind a screen or even in disguise when their lives are in danger. Not Georgia. Here, I must name my potential witnesses ten days before trial, and they must testify out in the open. Protecting Tasha