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

“Ms. Landrum, you weren’t present when your sister was murdered?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see Sam Wilkins when he arrived at your sister’s house that night?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see what he did or didn’t do?”

“No.”

“You have no personal knowledge whether your sister was alive or dead when he arrived?”

“No.”

The focus on Sam is sound. Distract. Highlight what the witness doesn’t know. Introduce elements that the witness cannot possibly speak to. Draw attention away from the angry little man sitting at the defense table. Even when his heart isn’t in it, Millwood knows how to play the game.

“You don’t know if Liesa Wilkins was there that night?”

“I do not.”

“You don’t know if Brice Tanner was there?”

“No.”

“You don’t know anything Tanner might have done?”

“No.”

“You weren’t there?”

“Correct.”

Millwood pauses. He looks down at his yellow legal pad, wondering if he should call it a day. He once told me if you have to debate with yourself whether to ask any more questions, you almost certainly shouldn’t ask them. Just sit down. One question too many has slain every single trial lawyer at one point or another. Millwood remains standing.

“You weren’t present during the incident when your sister called 911?”

“The ‘incident’? No, I wasn’t present during the ‘incident.’”

Lara is the wildest of mustangs, not easily bridled like the vast majority of other witnesses Millwood has wrangled over the years. Her enunciation of the word “incident” drips with honey-coated sarcasm, making her questioner look foolish in his attempt to re-frame his client’s beating of her sister. A slight, yet uncharacteristic, grimace tells me that Millwood wishes he had sat down when he had the chance. But he can’t end his examination on that low point. With the mare still on the loose, he gets his rope out for one more try.

“You weren’t there?”

“I wasn’t there. I wish I was.”

“You didn’t witness Bernard hit your sister?”

“No. Only the aftermath.”

“And what you know about that is only what your sister told you?”

“That’s not true. I’ve heard the 911 call just like everyone else, and I saw her bruised back with my own two eyes.”

Millwood actually gives a soft chuckle. She’s good, and he has seen enough witnesses to admire her skill. She bats earnest eyes at him that say she can play this game all day. Again loathe to end on a sour note, Millwood draws his bow one last time.

“But you didn’t see Bernard bruise her back, you only know what your sister told you?”

“True. I only know what my dead sister told me.”

Millwood sits down, giving up the fight. We have no questions on re-direct, and Lara Landrum leaves the witness box having delivered one of her greatest performances. I give her an appreciative nod as she passes. I then whisper to Ella, “Good job.” She whispers back, “Damn right.”

***

The mood during the nightly meeting with Scott and Ella is celebratory. The change in momentum from the low point of the lunch hour to the success of the afternoon is one of my proudest moments as a lawyer. Ella sips a red wine, and Scott gulps a beer. I drink some coffee with smug satisfaction.

A television in my office is on in the background. One of the nightly crime shows plays the 911 call. An image of Lara on the witness stand accompanies Sara’s pained screams. We all stare at the screen and take in the devastating juxtaposition. The noose around Barton’s neck just got tighter.

“I hope the jurors are watching,” Scott says. He turns to Ella, “You handled her well today.”

The response: “I hate that bitch.”

Scott laughs. Ella doesn’t. She drinks some more wine and avoids looking at me. The hangover from her comment dampens the mood in the room, which is just as well. The trial isn’t over yet.

Scott asks, “What is Millwood’s play now?”

“Plea bargain,” Ella proclaims, enjoying her joke a little too much. She may be slightly drunk. But we all know that Barton won’t deal. Nor would I even offer anything less than life in prison at this point. He might as well roll the dice. We’re going all the way to verdict.

The both of them look at me for my assessment of the opponent’s next move. I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. After being blindsided by Monica Haywood this morning, I try to imagine as many outlandish possibilities as I can envision. But only one viable avenue presents itself to my mind’s eye.

“Liesa. Millwood has to go after Liesa. She’s the weakest link we have left. He has no other choice.”

Scott responds, “Has she gotten back to you yet?”

“No. And she won’t. Too stubborn and proud for her own good. But if she can survive Millwood, we should be home free.”

43

The next morning, I stand before Mary Woodcomb and announce in good voice: “The prosecution rests.” Millwood goes through the motions of asking for a directed verdict on the grounds that the State didn’t meet its evidentiary burden. The judge denies the request and informs the defense that it may now put on its case.

“The defense calls Liesa Wilkins.”

The momentum of the entire trial against him, Millwood doesn’t waste any time slow-playing peripheral witnesses to begin the mounting of his counterattack. He calls Liesa right out of the box, hoping to land the haymaker that he needs. Nothing about this case even hints at a random attack. Someone chose Sara Barton for a reason, and Millwood needs a scapegoat.

Liesa maintains her icy demeanor as she passes me on the way to the witness stand. She then swears her oath with the intensity of an unplugged robot. She hasn’t look at me once.

Millwood says in that deep baritone of his, “Your Honor, the defense believes that the witness’ late husband, Sam Wilkins, may have been involved in the death of Sara Barton. We contend that the witness was in the vicinity of the Barton residence on the night of the murder, and we intend to aggressively question her