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

of malice Barton’s way after that one. The meltdown is becoming uncomfortable. Maybe he will confess on the stand after all.

“Even though you yourself repeatedly cheated on Sara throughout the marriage, you called her a whore?”

“I guess I’m a hypocrite.”

“And you were hanging out with your own mistress at the same event?”

“Same answer.”

“So you’re angry about the video, go home, and start beating on the locked bedroom door with Sara on the other side?”

“I wanted to pack some clothes. She wouldn’t let me in.”

“And you contend that her call to 911 claiming you were about to kill her was some kind of set-up to help her divorce case?”

“All I wanted to do was get my suitcase. She escalated it. She was going to try to milk me in the divorce.”

“Except the night before she was due to file her divorce papers she was murdered?”

He doesn’t provide an answer, and I don’t press him for one. Every person here can do that math. I remember the phrase: “She was going to try to milk me in the divorce.” The jury will hear those words again in my closing.

“From your work on domestic violence causes, you know that battered women often lie to the police to protect their abusers?”

“They do.”

“These women lie because they’re afraid of more abuse if they tell the truth?”

“Women who are abused, yes. Sara was not abused.”

“You never hit Sara?”

“I did not and that’s exactly what she told the police.”

“Let me get this straight—Sara lied on the 911 call to stick it to you in the divorce, but told the truth exonerating you when the police arrived?”

He spots the contradiction immediately and stares at me blankly. If Sara Barton had wanted to maximize her leverage in a divorce case, Barton would have left his house that day in handcuffs. He didn’t.

“I guess she thought better of it.”

“You don’t think she was ever afraid you were going to kill her?”

“She couldn’t have been.”

“Yet she was murdered two months later?”

“Not by me.”

“Murdered in your kitchen?”

“Not by me.”

“With your gun?”

“Not by me.”

“Two months after she told 911 you were going to kill her?”

“I didn’t kill her!”

He screams out that answer and earns himself a stern admonition from the judge. A courtroom deputy moves closer to the witness stand just in case. The jurors closest to Barton shift their bodies in their seats to get farther away from him. Veins bulge on his thick neck as they did earlier in the trial. I keep up the attack.

“You didn’t kill her?”

“No, I did not.”

“Just like you’ve never sexually harassed any women?”

“That’s right.”

“Just like you never instructed Monica Haywood to lie?”

“Same answer.”

My body stands parallel with the jury box as I ask these last questions. My eyes rest only on the jurors, not Barton. The audience and I are on the same skeptical page. I allow myself a second or two to enjoy the thrill of what’s happening—to savor the moment. I was born to do this. Life is good.

“Let’s go to the day of the murder. From approximately 7:30 p.m. to 2:30 a.m., you have no proof of your whereabouts?”

“My testimony is proof.”

“You don’t have a receipt from The Tilted House for that dinner?”

“I didn’t keep it.”

“But you did keep the one from the night of the 911 call when you claim you and Sara went out?”

“I paid with a credit card that night. I keep those.”

“You paid cash at The Tilted House?”

“I did.”

“You have no receipt or credit card charge that could corroborate your story?”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

“And your cell phone can’t be used to track your movements because you left it home that day?”

“Couldn’t find it.”

“No phone, no receipt, no credit card purchases, no other witnesses that can back up your claim as to your movements between seven-thirty at night and two-thirty in the morning?”

“Lara could, but she won’t.”

“She’d lie about it, just like your wife lied during the 911 call, just like the multiple women who accused you of sexual harassment lied?”

“Pretty much.”

The man is a misogynistic marvel. He wears his contempt for women like a badge of honor. Putting on my psychiatrist hat, I bet growing up seeing his father batter his mother internalized in him a hatred of women. When Sara got the better of him with Brice in such a publicly humiliating way, that hatred boiled over. I size him up for one final run.

“Let’s talk about your testimony about your sister-in-law, Lara Landrum. You never told the police about this alibi, did you?”

“No. I knew she wouldn’t back me up.”

“You never told the District Attorney’s office?”

“Same answer.”

“You believed she would lie?”

“Yes.”

“That if you told the truth to the police, she would lie to the police?”

“Yes.”

“Even though, if you’re telling the truth, she would know that you didn’t kill her sister?”

“That’s right.”

“She would choose to lie, see you convicted, and her sister’s real murderer go free?”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t like you.”

My words are a statement. The implications of Barton’s answer sink in around the courtroom. If Lara doesn’t like him, then she wouldn’t sleep with him. Perfect. I drop my remaining questions and sit down. Millwood doesn’t even bother with a re-direct. The defense rests, and court adjourns for the weekend.

48

Friday night feels heavy. I sit at home alone and assess the state of the case. Unless I put Lara back on the stand to deny Barton’s last-minute alibi ploy, all the witnesses have said their piece. The rest is up to Millwood and me as we deliver dueling closing arguments. I relish the opportunity. Every closing is personal for me—the chance to act as the voice for victims everywhere.

Barton’s testimony sank him. He came across as a villain, and that’s enough. I wasn’t expecting a confession. The attempt to make Lara his alibi, while brilliant in its way, had little chance of success. I know enough about Jack Millwood to know that he didn’t draw up that play. Lara’s look of revulsion and her well-timed shakes of the head delivered an instant rebuke