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

stench. Scott’s eyes may roll out of his head. The happy hippie act never gets far with him. Brice comes across as the dumb college student who thinks non-conformity is the way to stick it to the Man. But the performance lacks sincerity. He sounds like someone trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t believe.

I say, “Here’s the thing, Brice. Bernard Barton is going to say that you quit your job, came up here to get away from the world, and turned yourself into Grizzly Adams because you have a guilty conscience after killing Sara.”

This alternative explanation for his self-exile from civilization shakes him out of his stoned dimwittedness.

“I didn’t kill her!”

“I know, but the defense is going to make it look like you did.”

Brice presents me with a tough decision. He’s going to testify at the trial. The question is whether I call him to the stand or whether Millwood does. I don’t need Brice to get the video of Sara and him together at the law firm party into evidence. Truth be told, I don’t really need him for anything. But I want to avoid the jury thinking that I’m hiding Brice from them. An attorney should almost always deliver his own bad news.

And Brice is bad news. He was the dead woman’s lover. He was at her house the night before the murder. He has no alibi. He lived within walking distance of the murder scene. Those are objective, hard facts.

“Do I have to testify?”

“If subpoenaed, yes.”

“What if I never accept the subpoena?”

The hint of a bad idea flickers in his face. He considers disappearing. But Barton’s money guarantees Brice would not disappear for long. Throw out enough dollars, and those bounty hunters can find anyone. I need to nip these incipient thoughts in the bud. Running away will not end well for Brice.

“Don’t even think about it. They’ll find you. They always do. Hiding only serves to make you look guilty as hell. There’s no upside in it.”

Sitting across from him now, the decision I’m debating decides itself. Brice is a bomb that I must detonate myself. I’ll soften his rough edges and preemptively take some sting out of Millwood’s cross-examination. Brice graduated from Emory Law School and worked for one of Atlanta’s biggest law firms. He isn’t a total idiot. I can make this work, but first I need some more answers.

Changing the tone of the conversation, I tell him, “You lied to the police about whether you knew Sam Wilkins or not.” The comment is a statement, not open for debate.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” Scott chimes in, marking his first participation in the conversation since sitting down. His silence up to this point adds firmness to his words. Brice contemplates another denial, but knows from the impatience on our faces that we won’t be having any of it. He picks another plan.

“What of it?”

Scott responds, “Liars always have something to hide.”

“Not me. She was getting a divorce to be with me. He was her divorce lawyer. That’s all.”

Scott continues the assault, “Was that all?”

Dark clouds gather behind Brice’s baby blue eyes. That’s the thing with Brice. A lingering hard edge—not quite rage, more like a bubbling seething—reveals itself when you prod the right nerve. With annoyance on his face, he answers, “Don’t know what you’re getting at. I don’t know how the two of them knew each other. I just know that he was her lawyer.”

He is lying, and all three of us know it. I tally the potential damage in my head. Brice’s lie about Sam is a good lie, as long as he can defend it. Any testimony that Sam was having sex with Sara would blow up the case. That affair is still on the down low, and I pray it stays there. I need Brice’s lie to hold.

Scott presses on, “Why did you lie to me in the police station then?”

“I didn’t lie. I forgot the name of her lawyer in the heat of the moment. That’s all. It’s not easy being questioned by the police, you know.”

It could work. Millwood faces obstacles showing Sam and Sara Barton were even lovers, much less that Brice knew about the affair. If Brice sticks to his story and keeps himself emotionally in check if asked about it, his denial should be unimpeachable. At trial, a lie is not a lie unless it can be shown to be a lie. The truth doesn’t matter if Millwood can’t prove it.

Scott assesses Brice’s explanation and decides to let the matter drop. If Brice insists on claiming that Sam was only Sara Barton’s divorce lawyer, we gain no advantage in educating him otherwise. But we’re not finished with Brice. Sam was just the warm-up act. Brice’s arrest for stalking an ex-girlfriend in college—conveniently mentioned during Monica Haywood’s interrogation—still demands an explanation. Scott found the original arrest report. Now we need to hear the story from Brice’s own lips.

Scott says, “Okay, Brice. Now we need to ask you why you stalked Brittany Wood.”

Another nerve exposed. Brice slumps into a pose of defeated disbelief. Not enough weed in the world exists to deaden his pain of hearing that name again. He looks away, far off into the deep forest. I follow his gaze but see nothing but trees. After a couple of deep breaths, Brice finally speaks.

“How do you know about her?”

“I’m a detective. It’s my job to find out things.”

Brice doesn’t appreciate the comment. Scott’s glare challenges him to make something of it. The standoff does me no good. I jump in, “Monica Haywood told us.” I need Brice to focus his anger in the right direction. For better or worse, we’re all on the same team now. Brice considers this new information with great distaste.

“Skag,” he snorts, “but how did she find out?”

I answer, “Bernard Barton is on the Board of Bar Examiners.”

The significance of his application to join the state bar dawns on him, and the hatred oozing from his pores toward Barton