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

the law firm, but they wouldn’t tell me anything except that he doesn’t work there anymore. I told them that it was important, but they said that was all they could tell me.”

“Well, you did arrest one of their partners in their offices and made sure the news was there to cover it.”

“Shut up.”

“Hold on.”

I take out my phone and find Jeff Yarber’s number, my friend at Marsh & McCabe. He answers on the second ring. We catch up first, then I ask about Brice.

“I heard Brice Tanner no longer works for you guys. What happened there?”

“Ah, I doubted this was a social call. You never want to just talk. Yeah, Brice left us a few weeks ago. He came back from some time off sporting a beard, a diamond stud in his ear, and perhaps a tattoo. Reports vary. You met him, right? He was completely clean-cut, clean-shaven, all-American type. Not anymore. He came back, said he didn’t want to practice law anymore, and went away.”

“Where is he now?”

“I heard the mountains. Brasstown Bald area or something. We have the address. I’ll shoot it to you.”

I give Scott the scoop. Like everything else about the case these days, I filter the information through the lens of how it will look at Barton’s trial. Innocent explanations abound for Brice’s retreat into the mountains—the murder of the woman he loved, disgust at working for the same law firm as that lover’s murderer, the general discontent that affects almost every lawyer Brice’s age who works for the faceless, soulless mega-firms. The problem is Millwood. Brice is a canvas upon which many different stories can be painted, and Millwood is a creative artist. Using Brice’s abandonment of his prior life as evidence of a guilty conscience is almost too easy. Scott and I decide to pay Brice a visit in the near future to scout out his mental state.

***

Closing arguments offer no great insights about the Miller case. Joe relies on Q-Bone as an alibi witness—the only game in town for the defense. The same Q-Bone who testified that he was in two different places at the same time when the shooting went down. Joe dances around Tasha and whines about the unfairness of convicting a man for murder solely on a child’s testimony. The State must offer more proof, he pleads. Then he sits down.

I start with Tasha. A man was murdered right in front of her house. She witnessed the killing, a visual that will give her nightmares for the rest of her life. Tasha knows Corey Miller well—“Mr. Corey” she calls him. She came to court at great risk to her personal safety and identified him for all to see. No mistake exists here. Corey Miller fired that gun.

We have Tasha on one side, and Q-Bone on the other, one with no motive to lie and one with every motive to lie. Which voice has the ring of authenticity? I invoke the ghost of Tavon Munson. Q-Bone knew Tavon, knew that Tavon was on the State’s witness list, knew that Tavon was shot in the gut. I ask the jury, “What did Tavon know about the murder of DeShawn Carter that got him killed?”

Murdering a witness rocks the foundation of the criminal justice system. Corey Miller thinks himself above the law, that killing those who dare to testify against the Rattlesnakes makes him beyond the reach of the police, the courts, and you the jury. Show him he’s wrong. Show him that we as a society do not tolerate murder. Show him that he does not get to dispose of DeShawn Carter simply because he pleases. Hold him accountable for his crime.

That’s my story, more or less. The waiting begins.

***

Awaiting a verdict stresses me out more than the trial itself. A trial allows no time for reflection. It is a manic sprint from one witness to another, one piece of evidence to the next. Days spent in court bleed into nights of feverish preparation. When the hard work ends, nothing is left to do but sit and wait. Stuck in the purgatory of uncertainty, the mind replays the entirety of the trial, creating a list of everything I did wrong. Experience as a trial lawyer does not make the waiting easier. Even today, despite my record of success in the courtroom, jury deliberations mercilessly taunt my confidence in who I am. Jurors not only sit in judgment of the defendant but of me as well.

I am not alone in my neurosis during this dead time. Ella feels it, too. Her routine centers on pacing around the courthouse like a marathon runner to burn off the nervous energy that afflicts her. Millwood used to chain-smoke. Now he plows through packs of gum. I just sit, rocking back and forth in my chair. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking.

Nothing screams failure like a prosecutor losing a murder case. Juries are not eager to release accused murderers back onto the same streets they themselves walk. “Innocent until proven guilty” sounds nice on a postcard, but juries want to convict. Victory requires nothing more than giving the jurors a reason to follow what they are already inclined to do. Losing when the deck already sits stacked in my favor would mean I’m not very good at my job.

***

Five hours and counting now.

Why is the jury taking so long? The universal rule of thumb is that delay favors the defense. I once had to wait five days for a verdict. By day four, I had already journeyed through the five stages of grief—denial that there was a problem, anger at the jury’s intransigence, bargaining that there was a reasonable explanation to explain the delay, depression that I had lost a winnable case, and acceptance of my own inadequacy both as a lawyer and a man. A bemused Amber took her husband’s shifting emotions in good stride. She always believed in me, even during my dark periods of doubt.

When the jury returned to the courtroom, I