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

Energy in the courtroom is at a low ebb. No matter the trial, no matter the courtroom—lethargy invariably pervades the hour after the lunch break. That today is a Friday only adds to the sensation of weariness. Most juror naps happen during this time slot. Starting with the night of the murder might perk up the audience, but Millwood swerves away from that topic after a few more questions.

Instead, the next hour features a defensive Barton explaining away a lot of the evidence against him. He searched high and low for his phone the morning of the murder but could never find it. He bought a gun a few months before the murder because Sara was scared about crime in the neighborhood. He loaded the gun himself, which is why his fingerprints were on the bullets. He went to Monica Haywood’s house after the murder because he often spent the night there and that made the most sense. He rejected Cecil’s characterization that he had been cold and distant when identifying his wife’s dead body, describing the entire experience as emotionally traumatic and the most difficult moment of his life. The gambling debts were nothing to him. He had more than enough money to cover them. He never told Monica Haywood to lie on his behalf. She thought she was helping him because she knew he was innocent.

I don’t object a single time, content with allowing the monotony to proceed without interruption. Half of the jurors are checked out, no need to bring their attention back to the proceedings. Millwood makes the points that he can hammer home in closing argument. But no one is moved. Barton’s success as a lawyer stems from being an attacking bulldog—the unstoppable running back who pounds through tacklers yard after yard. His skills of persuasion evaporate when he is on the defensive. Without the ability to bludgeon, he loses all his fierceness. Millwood continues.

“Mr. Barton, what time did you leave Monica Haywood’s condo on the night of the murder?”

“Approximately 7:30 p.m.”

“What time did you arrive at your house and discover the police there?”

“Approximately 2:30 a.m.”

“What were you doing between 7:30 p.m. and 2:30 a.m.?”

“I went to dinner at The Tilted House, had a few drinks there, then drove to the house of my sister-in law, Lara Landrum.”

Everyone’s awake now. Judge Woodcomb bangs the gavel to quiet the murmurs. Heads in the jury box swivel from the witness to Lara, sitting behind me just to the right. A disgusted Lara gives a short shake of her head. Millwood allows the excitement to dance for a bit before resuming his questioning.

“What time did you arrive at your sister-in-law’s house?”

“Around nine.”

“What did you do when you arrived?”

“I let myself in and had another drink. Lara told me she was meeting with some producers and might be late. I waited for her.”

“And what happened when she made it home?”

“We had sex.”

I actually laugh out loud—part performance, part sincere incredulity. I assess Millwood and conclude that even he doesn’t believe the product he is hawking. That’s all the confirmation I need. Barton is lying.

Lara’s emphatic shaking of her head draws every eye from the jury. The indignation bleeds out of her. She just testified without testifying—refuting Barton’s words in real time.

The judge has to give her gavel multiple raps to control the crowd this go around. The room is on edge.

Barton adds, “She can shake her head all she likes, but she knows it’s true.”

He is back to being a bulldog, and the role suits him. His forceful manner gives him authority. But Lara isn’t an easy one to intimidate. She returns his stare with determination of her own and continues shaking her head in denial. The two of them hate one another, making Barton’s testimony all the more incredible.

Millwood announces, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

The judge calls for the afternoon break, and a stampede to the exit follows. The excited media will be speaking in tongues from this shock. Ella, Scott, Lara, and I leave through the side door and congregate in a nearby conference room.

“It’s not true,” Lara steams.

The rest of us credit her denial. But we’re not the jury. I lean against the conference table and analyze what just happened. The others nurse their own thoughts in silence. Then I start laughing.

Ella snaps, “What?”

I answer, “I mean, it’s a brilliant tactic. I’ll give them that. It’s a bombshell, and titillating to boot, so it grabs everyone’s attention. We can’t disprove it. We have no record of his whereabouts during that time period. It also casts doubt on the strongest witness against them, making the whole trial come down to a ‘he said, she said’ contest. That the ‘she’ is a famous actress only adds to the explosiveness. Who knows how the jury will react to that? We’ve gone from a boring domestic dispute between husband and wife to a possible love triangle involving twins, one of whom is a celebrity. Drama sells. It’s brilliant.”

Lara moans, “But it’s not true.”

“Of course not. It’s a Hail Mary pass. It’s desperation. It’s the only thing they could’ve done to have a chance at all. It’s so unexpected and out of left field that now the jury is looking at things with fresh eyes. But at the end of the day, it’s all empty calories. No proof. Nothing. Just the word of a disliked defendant trying to save his neck at the last minute. Don’t worry. Just continue to play indignant. I’ll handle Barton on cross.”

47

Most murder defendants avoid the witness box like the Bubonic plaque. A good cross-examiner could make Mother Teresa look guilty as sin. The risk invariably outweighs the reward, and the right to remain silent consequently rules these parts. But now Barton is giving me an opportunity as rare as a unicorn sighting.

I grew up consuming Perry Mason reruns on TV and dreamed of one day forcing a confession on the stand from a witness powerless in the face of my withering