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

I don’t see it. I don’t see him shooting her, walking down the street to ditch the gun, walking back, and then returning to the house to call the police to the scene. Sam Wilkins wasn’t that composed. Kill her, grab his hidden camera on the go, and run—maybe I could see that, but not the other. I nod my head in agreement with my analysis of the case. Sam didn’t kill her. Barton remains on the hook.

Reaching this conclusion is not a linear process. At times, I imagine Lara naked. I see myself in her, on her, and under her. Back and forth, the competing lines of thoughts between Sam and Lara battle for my attention. I arrive home mentally and physically exhausted, confident that Sam was not a murderer and that I would soon hold Lara again in my arms.

***

That night I wrap my legs around Lara’s body as we soak together in a decadent bath.

The recent troubles between us go unmentioned—a much-appreciated détente as I try to focus my emotional energy toward the trial. The warm water and Lara’s balmy body soothe the rough edges off me, infiltrating my pores to massage down deep to my soul. The effect revitalizes. I needed a good cleansing. We’ll make love later—gentle-like, I envision. Now, though, sex is unnecessary. The moment is perfect as is.

***

I wake up feeling full the next morning. When I turn over to reach for Lara, her pensive stare disarms my intended motion. The sense that she has been looking at me for a long time takes root. I offer a smile, but she’s not interested.

She grumbles, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I’m going in.”

“I’m worried you’re not taking the case seriously enough. Bernard must pay for what he did to my sister.”

She says the strangest things at the strangest moments. My puzzlement gives way to hurt, and I do a poor job of hiding it.

She groans, “Don’t be a baby. Perhaps we shouldn’t see each other until the trial is over. We can be together after that.”

She sounds like a “Dear John” letter. Even worse, she pats my hand in a wretched show of sympathy—the bedside manner of Dr. Frankenstein. The tenderness of last night dissolved before I even had time to savor it. Mornings are hell on this relationship.

“Sure,” I snap.

I rise up, get ready, and go into work just as she wants—the fullness in me now drained to empty.

29

The trial begins in less than a week. I always like to have a final plea conference in a case because you never know. Maybe the defendant wants to deal. So Millwood comes to my office, formerly his office. We sit across from each other, separated by a calm sea of brown—my desk. Nothing sits on it. No pictures. No telephone. Not even my laptop, which I keep on a small table to the side. The cleanliness projects a sense of order and sells the message that I have things under control. I’m not so sure.

Meeting Millwood tickles my nerves. So many times over the years we would huddle together in this same spot. I learned to be a lawyer in this room, devouring every crumb of wisdom as if it were manna from God Himself. Now our seats across the table are reversed. I sit in the big man’s chair.

The recognition unsettles. I feel like an imposter, a boy wearing his father’s clothes that just don’t fit. I’m good at what I do. I know that. But I fear I’ll never be as good a trial lawyer as my teacher, despite my best efforts. And the thought of having to face him, in the biggest case of my life no less, awakens a tremor of insecurity that I didn’t even know was there. What if I don’t measure up?

Maybe Barton will accept a plea and make all this unpleasantness go away. Millwood offers the first salvo.

“Dismiss all the charges, and we’ll call it a day. We won’t even insist on an apology.”

“Wow. That’s very generous. I run that up to Bobby, and he won’t let you leave the building without a signed agreement.”

“Bobby always had a nose for a good deal.”

We each offer a little laugh, not even sure what we’re laughing about. The joking aside, Millwood gives me a look that says, “Get on with it. This is your party.” I’ve seen that look before.

“Twenty-five to life.” Millwood shakes his head.

“No dice.”

“It’s a good deal.”

“Not for an innocent man.”

“You have a counter?”

“He is not going to agree to any time. He won’t do it.”

“He’s that confident?”

“He didn’t do it. You want him to confess to something he didn’t do?”

Bemusement fills my face. I’m not even faking it. How many defense lawyers have sat in that chair and said those exact words to Millwood? The comparison lightens my anxiety about what I’m up against. Millwood now is just another defense lawyer with a guilty client. I can beat him.

“We have the gun, Jack.”

“I’m not denying it’s his gun, but more people have visited that house than attended the Hawks game last night. Anybody could’ve gotten their hands on that gun.”

I figured that would be the way they would play it, but it is nice to get confirmation. I counted nineteen different people with potential access to the gun—Barton, Sam, Brice, and Monica most prominent among them.

I ask, “Where was he during the time of the murder?”

“You have Monica Haywood’s statement.”

The wording is curious. He doesn’t contend that Barton was actually with Monica, only that she claimed it. I already produced to him the surveillance video from Monica’s condo that showed Barton leaving before the murder. I assume Millwood knows that Monica must be lying in light of the video.

I say, “I don’t believe her.”

“Obviously.”

We run out of words. No plea deal will be reached. The trial of Bernard Barton for the murder of Sara Barton begins Monday.

***

The home phone rings. Should I answer? Yes. She won’t stop