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

my head toward her with two sweaty hands, her hot breath on my face. The loud thumps of my overtaxed heart still ring to a hurried cadence.

“You put that son of a bitch away for what he did to my sister.”

Nothing else is said. The door slams shut, and I am alone. Emptiness replaces the earlier anger. I think of the loaded gun in the closet. It would solve a lot of problems. My favorite picture of Amber sits on a nearby shelf. I ask her, “What’s wrong with me?” She doesn’t answer.

Flushed with humiliation, I stagger with dizziness to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and don’t wait for the water to warm. The cold punishes, and the punishment is just. The remnants of the inferno inside me dissipate under the chill. I shiver, then sob.

I never felt so dirty.

34

The Monday morning of the trial is here, but the past weekend is all I think about. I spent Saturday alone in the woods, running from myself. Lara broke me. Two separate times—first in the condo, then the house—I teetered on the precipice of violent rage. The weight of that darkness was too much. I had to get away. I went to the woods to escape my own terror.

I covered the same ground as Sam when he walked to his death. The journey seemed fitting. Atlanta sits right on the other side of the forest, but one would never know it. I stopped at the site of Sam’s shooting and shuddered. I studied the area, trying to picture the scene with fresh insight. Nothing. I left Sam and headed to the river. The walk was about me, not him.

The Chattahoochee meandered before me, taking its time, much like its native South. I sat on a bench and watched the slow flow. My mind’s drift gradually acclimated itself to the rhythm of the water. Call it meditation, call it a trance, but I lost myself for quite some time. The eyes were open, but the mind was turned off. When I awoke into consciousness again, I inhaled several deep breaths. My lungs full of air, I walked back to the car, taking the long way to get there. From start to finish, I never saw another single soul.

I went to the woods to get away. But driving into work on the biggest day of my professional career, I remain lost in the forest. I think about Adam who hid in the trees to get away from God and Jesus who went to the wilderness to get closer to God—the same action spurred by opposite motivations. I try to diagnose my own motives but fail. I still don’t know who I am.

***

Alone in my office, I playact my part in today’s script, desperately seeking a reservoir of motivation. The lack of nervousness worries me. Nerves focus attention and keep a lawyer sharp. I don’t suffer from overconfidence. The malaise is more personal. I hope the adrenaline will activate when the gavel sounds, out of habit if nothing else. In the courtroom, I can just be a lawyer and forget the rest of it.

Ella pops her head in and asks me if I’m ready. I lie. I ask her the same, but the fierceness she exudes makes her answer unnecessary. She is overqualified to be a second chair at this point. Even if I hadn’t sabotaged our working relationship, she stood ready to emerge out from my shadow.

Her intensity softens as she lingers in the doorway and takes inventory of the man who has disappointed her on so many levels. She offers, “Things are obviously different between us now, but I hope we can be like we’ve always been in the courtroom, at least.”

“That would make me happy.”

“One other thing. I looked closer at the medical records like you suggested. You were right. Sara Barton was bipolar. Does it mean anything?”

It means everything, but nothing in terms of the trial. I did my own medical research over the weekend. Bipolar disorder is hereditary, and Lara’s behavior displays the symptoms. Not only did I sleep with a witness, I slept with a bona fide mental case. I kick myself in the ass for the thousandth time. Lara at least has an excuse.

I answer, “I don’t know. I just had the thought. It would explain some of her reckless conduct with men.”

Ella gives me a perceptive look and leaves me to wallow in more self-condemnation.

***

I stand outside the prosecutors’ side entrance to the courtroom and straighten my tie. On the other side of this door, the show goes live. The air around the courthouse already buzzes, the excitement pulsating from the walls. The atmosphere feels different from any other trial of my life—hordes of reporters doing remotes from the street, lines to get into the building, a hundred small differences that highlight something special is afoot. Realizing the stakes, the familiar nervousness of the past finally makes an appearance. Good sign. I’m going to be all right.

I feel Lara’s presence before I see her. She offers her hand, and I reciprocate—by all appearances a professional handshake between casual acquaintances. What interested observers overlook is the small tickle she gives my palm with her index finger. The slight touch shocks me with its electricity. Lara’s eyes remain on me a fraction too long, but only by a hair. Ella watches us like a hawk and misses everything. Lara approaches her, and they exchange strained greetings.

I take my seat and stare ahead. No words pass between us, and yet she snares me back into her web with the ease of a smooth criminal. As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his folly. I tell myself harshly, “Focus.”

The bailiff announces, “Please rise.”

***

Jury selection is more art than science, more luck than skill, a brew of serendipity mixed with a dash of instinct. You make your most reasonable estimate and hope for the best, recognizing the foolishness of judging individuals