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

Scott walks the jury through the rest of it—Barton’s phone conveniently left at his house on the day of the murder, the lack of a credible alibi, Barton’s arrival home in the dead of the night hours after the murder, the failure of Barton to ask who murdered his wife during that initial interview, the coldness of his manner when he identified the body, Sara’s affair with Brice Tanner, the text from Barton to Sara calling her a “whore” when he learned about her sex video with Brice, and, lastly, the gun and the fingerprints. The culmination of all the evidence led to the arrest of Bernard Barton for the murder of his wife.

Now I have to deal with Sam’s dead body in the Atlanta woods. Millwood cast this burden on me during opening statements, and I’ve felt the weight ever since. Scott notes the death and explains the circumstances in their simplest terms. Sam Wilkins was found dead of a gunshot wound to the head in a remote park, the gun that fired the shot lying by his side. Gunshot residue was discovered on Sam’s hand, leading to the tentative conclusion that the death was the result of suicide. The passive-voice riddled description is clinical and soulless, boring by design, with an air of “nothing to see here,” hopefully to be soon forgotten.

“Is there any evidence that you discovered that links Sam Wilkins’ death to Sara Barton’s murder?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Did you search for such evidence?”

“Yes. We always cover all our bases. Since his wife and her divorce lawyer were both shot, we looked into Bernard Barton’s possible involvement in Wilkins’ death. Because the defendant was not wearing a tracking device while on bail, we weren’t able to ascertain his whereabouts during the time Wilkins died.”

Scott and I worked on the wording to this answer in great detail.

“Objection,” bellows Millwood. He doesn’t state the grounds. He taught me that, too. Even when you cannot think of a basis for an objection, object anytime you feel something is off about the question or answer. Maybe the judge won’t notice.

“Response?”

“Mr. Millwood is the one who brought up Sam Wilkins’ death in his opening statement. He obviously intends to throw wild accusations in Mr. Wilkins’ direction, and the State is allowed to correct any false innuendo spread by the defense.”

“Overruled.”

“It’s speculative and lacks foundation, Your Honor,” Millwood adds, taking the rare step of continuing to argue an objection already rejected by the person wearing the robe.

I waste no time: “No. Detective Moore is truthfully testifying about his investigation into a death first raised by the defense in its opening.”

“My ruling stands.”

Millwood’s negative reaction to the questioning gives the exchange more importance than it deserves. I had more questions about Sam’s death planned but drop them on the fly. The moment feels like a win, and I don’t want to jeopardize it. The hour is late anyway. I run out the clock with a few more inquiries, pushing Millwood’s cross-examination of Scott to the next morning, allowing us to send the jury home on a strong note.

***

Scott, Ella, and I strategize in my office over a dinner of pizza and messy buffalo wings. Hot sauce splattered on Scott’s tie takes the shape of a half-eaten piece of broccoli—the only vegetable in sight. Even though my waist remains trim, my heart suffers the brunt of the unhealthy habits that mar my life. Stairs I used to bound up with little effort now require a rapid-heartbeat level of exertion. The copious doses of caffeine with which I self-medicate don’t help. I feel old.

Ella begs off to go to a funeral visitation for a great aunt. Scott and I bear down to prepare for Millwood’s cross-examination of him. The main concern relates to Sam. His affair with Sara Barton luckily never made it into the first round of any police files. Once we later zeroed in on Barton as our guy, Scott and I decided to make our own luck and keep Sam’s admission that he was sleeping with the victim to ourselves. We didn’t even tell Ella, and she remains unaware even now. One of the chief challenges of the trial was going to be preparing Sam for Millwood’s inevitable onslaught. But then Sam went and died on me.

But Scott is not dead, and killing him before his cross-examination would result in a mistrial. He’ll have to battle Millwood on his own. Scott won’t perjure himself, but his only obligation is to truthfully answer the questions put to him. Will Millwood ask the magic question? The bet is no. Millwood’s trial rules include never asking a question you don’t already know the answer to. Cross-examination is not a time for fishing expeditions. Millwood knows, too, that Scott is a talented witness, and a trial lawyer should never get too cute with someone who knows the secrets of the trade. The way to win a war is to pick the right battles.

On paper, all that sounds fine and dandy. But a day in the courtroom rarely goes completely according to script. Things happen. I won’t feel at ease until Scott steps down from the witness box. The risk we’re taking is huge. The jury will resent the hell out of me for trying to pull a fast one on them if our gamble fails. Lost trust may be impossible to regain. I don’t even want to think about Ella’s reaction.

I’m only willing to stomach this much danger because the combination of Sam’s affair with the victim and his mysterious death would make convicting Barton a Herculean task. A lawyer who slept with his client, discovered her murdered body, and later killed himself—a kindergartner could create a Picasso out of that raw material.

If Sam were alive, the jury could measure his true nature and see for itself that this man was no killer. But dead men tell no tales, leaving Millwood instead to fill in all the blanks. The truth that Sam was weak and seduced by