We offer condolences and ask Lara about her sister. Calmly and determinedly, she explains why she wanted to meet with the police.
“Bernard did it. He killed her.”
That accusation changes the mood. One of the most famous women in the world just told us that her brother-in-law murdered her sister in cold blood. Unfazed, Scott asks, “Why do you say that?”
“Sara was going to divorce him. He wanted to control her, and she wasn’t going to let him do it anymore. She had already made a fool of him by having an affair with that boy. That enraged him. After he found out, he flat-out told her he was going to kill her.”
I speak up, “Did you hear him say that?” The potential trial is on my mind. If Barton told his wife he was going to kill her, I face a hearsay problem since Sara can no longer testify about anything Barton said to her. But if Lara heard the comment herself, the statement qualifies as an admission of a party opponent, erasing any hearsay worries.
“No. I didn’t hear it. Sara told me.”
Scott asks, “What affair are you referring to?”
“Brice Tanner.”
Lara proceeds to describe the details of Sara’s involvement with Brice. The affair was a revenge ploy to make her husband look like a fool for his serial adultery. Except Brice took matters more seriously, even speaking of marriage and a new start in a different city. Sara dismissed such sentiments as youthful folly.
Scott asks, “Are you aware that your sister and Brice Tanner were filmed having sex together?”
Lara dabs a tear that slowly exits one eye. We let her have her grief. A silent interlude passes before she speaks up, “Yes. Bernard was infuriated when he found out. He texted her and called her a whore. When he got home that night, he hit her. You know about the 911 call, right?”
We don’t but keep our ignorance to ourselves. Instead, Scott nods and asks, “Why don’t you tell me what you know about the call?”
She responds, “They had a big fight the day he learned about the video. Bernard punched her in the back. She locked the bedroom door and called the police. He banged on the door the whole time, threatened to kill her. The police arrived. Sara decided not to press charges. She didn’t show them the bruises on her back. The police left. Sara showed me the bruises the next day. I took a picture.”
The crying starts in earnest. I hand her a box of tissues, thinking about that picture. When the tears slow, Scott gently continues with his questioning, “Why did she stay with him?”
“Why does any abused woman stay with her abuser? I don’t know. I tried to get her to leave. She said she didn’t have the energy. Her life was dark, full of disappointment. She was trapped in her unhappiness and didn’t see a way out. I should’ve been more insistent.”
Things linger for a bit until Scott nudges forward again, “Thank you for answering our questions during this difficult time. You are being a tremendous help to the investigation. But I have to ask you another question that may upset you. Did Sara have any other affairs besides Brice?” Given what we know, Scott cannot avoid this topic.
Lara fires back, “What do you take my sister for, Detective Moore?” Based on the video with Brice and Sam’s description of Sara, I have a pretty fair guess how Scott would answer.
“I have to ask.”
Lara sits in stony anger. I jump in.
“Ms. Landrum, let’s assume that Bernard murdered your sister. We go to trial. With his life on the line, he will throw the kitchen sink at anyone and everyone he can. He will attack your sister’s character. The gloves will be off. The more we know at the outset, the better we can handle whatever Bernard throws at us. At trial, knowledge is power. Detective Moore is right. We have to ask this question because Bernard’s lawyers are going to go around town asking it.”
I often use this tactic when questioning friendly witnesses on uncomfortable topics. I reference the defense team, make them out to be the bad guys, and tell the witnesses that the bad guys are going to ask them some terrible questions. I then ask the witnesses the terrible questions. The witnesses still don’t like being put on the spot, but they blame the ruthless lawyers on the other side, not me. I count that outcome as a double win. My messy questions get answered, and I build a sense of solidarity with my witnesses.
Lara accepts my explanation, “I’m sorry I overreacted. The answer is no. My sister didn’t have any other affairs.”
She doesn’t know about Sam. The answer portends caution. Sara did not share everything with her sister. What else is out there about which Lara does not know?
Before we leave, Lara texts each of us the picture of her sister’s blackened back after Barton hit her. The photo speaks for itself. Barton didn’t hold back. I hate him already.
***
Back in the car, I ask Scott, “What do you think?”
“She’s hot.”
“You’ve always had a weakness for blonds and that wasn’t what I was talking about.”
“I think I want to hear that 911 call.”
***
Scott and I meet up again early evening. He has promised his ex-wife that he will not miss his daughter’s softball game, and time is short. He first plays a recording of the 911 call. The incident occurred a few months ago. Sara screams into the phone, “My husband is trying to kill me!” I hear loud banging on a door as Barton tries to get into the room. Sara pleads, “He has already hit me. Please hurry.” The final sounds on the call tell the story without words—more thunderous banging on the door, yelling, a woman crying. The line goes dead.
The call is chilling but evidentiary gold. I ask why Barton wasn’t arrested. The story is familiar. By the time the officer arrived, things had settled down. Both Barton and Sara were calm, and Sara did not want to press charges. No outward signs of physical abuse were present, which makes sense since Sara’s bruises were on her back. The officer departed, filled out his incident report, and left Barton and Sara alone to resume their dysfunctional lives.
Scott announces, “Bernard Barton speaks to my policeman’s gut.”
“The current does seem to be pushing that way.”
“One more thing before I go. Here’s the traffic cam data from the closest camera to the scene, about a mile away.”
Scott hands me a list of the 500-plus cars that crossed that intersection last night between 8:30 and 10:30 p.m. and says, “Third page, in the middle.” A Chrysler minivan owned by Sam Wilkins passed through the traffic light at 9:51 p.m.—away from the direction of the Barton residence. No minivan was parked on the street when I arrived at the murder scene. Scott adds, “Sam Wilkins drove a Volkswagen Passat to the victim’s house.” I nod. The minivan must belong to Sam’s wife, Liesa.
Scott says, “I’m late. Has to be the wife, right? It’s a busy road, probably nothing. You know her. Want to take the first crack at following up on this?”
“Sure.”
***
The phone is ringing off the hook when I walk into my house. Only one person calls me on my home number—my mother. I remember the camera crews on the street outside Lara Landrum’s house. Mom always calls when she sees me on television in the vain hope that the publicity will push me into politics.
My father’s death accelerated this desire to see my career advance. A long time ago, Daddy was lieutenant governor. He shocked everybody when he passed up a near-certain opportunity to run for the top spot. He once explained himself to me by quoting Shakespeare: “To thine own self be true.” Mom was not so philosophical. Having sacrificed for years as a political wife, she felt cheated when her husband walked away a step short of the Governor’s Mansion. Now she lives her life vicariously through her two sons. My brother is a preacher, meaning Mom sees me as the one to be the governor that my father never was.
Except that I do not want that position or any other political office. The courtroom is my home. Mom knows my stance and rejects it. At the end of our call, she notes, “You will be really well-known after this case. It could open up a lot
of doors.” Her words fall flat.
To thine own self be true.
5
Amber.
I cannot sleep. Lying in bed, my wife invades me. She establishes a foothold and refuses to retreat. I try to resist. I analyze the Sara Barton case. I think of Bernard Barton, Lara Landrum, Sam Wilkins, everyone. The effort fails. Amber chases me down like a runaway locomotive. Faced with her determination, I allow myself to look at her.
Love at first sight is a myth. You cannot love someone you do not even know. Claiming otherwise is an act of projection. We see someone and create in that person’s smile and face an ideal we wish to exist—a fictional cut-out that places on the living the burden of expectations not of their own making. No matter. I loved Amber the moment our paths crossed as college sophomores. The intensity of that love was both the silliest and most serious thing in the world.
Knowing her transformed me, particularly my relationship with God. I was a believer, of course. Everyone is washed in the blood where I’m from. Yet my faith was cultural, not spiritual. Not so with Amber. She lived out her walk, daily seeking God’s will because He was the most important thing in her life. She taught me to turn my fear over to Jesus. My selfishness waned, and I strived to be a man after God’s own heart. Amber made it clear that sex before marriage was out of the question. My friends thought her crazy. But I waited, we married, and then I didn’t have to wait anymore.
Now I question whether my faith was fraudulent all along. I ask Amber but receive no answer. She is gone.
***
The woman in my life these days is Ella Kemp, an assistant district attorney. Our relationship is unspoken, but the affection we have for one another is a living, breathing thing. The problem is me. Two years have passed since Amber’s murder, and I’m still not ready. The life I want—the life I had—is gone from me forever. What’s the point of starting over?
But Ella is special—smart, attractive, determined, compassionate, fun-loving. We’ve clicked since the day she joined the homicide team in the D.A.’s office. I taught her the ropes and soon we were trying cases together as trial partners. Romance was never on the table when I was married, yet my affection for Ella felt adulterous in the aftermath of Amber’s murder. The lingering guilt infects my relationship with Ella to this day.
There’s something else, too. Amber’s hold on me remains an anchor to my sanity, an enduring link to my former life. I still want to be the man she wanted me to be—abstinence and all. Starting a relationship with Ella figures to upset that balance, and rejecting that part of Amber’s example paralyzes me into inaction. At least for now, being alone is the safest cure.
***
The funeral is a media event. Scott and I arrive early, ignoring the cries from the hornet’s nest of reporters amassed just outside the church property. Safely inside the sanctuary, we sit down to watch and observe. In a case like this, where the murderer might be someone close to the deceased, the funeral presents a valuable opportunity to gather information. The exercise may prove useless, but that’s the thing about an investigation. You never know which avenue of inquiry will bear the most fruit.
The hostility between Lara and Barton underlies a tense atmosphere. She shoots daggers of pure hatred his way. He avoids all eye contact with her and stands off from the crowd, excreting the sense that being here is a distasteful chore. I fail to detect in him a single hint of grief.
Scott gives me a nudge and directs his head across the aisle. I fix upon the object of his gaze and spy Monica Haywood for the first time in the flesh. I recognize her from the Marsh & McCabe website. Incredulous, I say, “The mistress?”
“Alleged,” Scott reminds me.
“Sure.”
Monica wastes little time making her way toward Barton. They give each other a quick hug. Barton allows his hand to lightly rest on the top of her thigh with the familiarity of someone who has placed his hand there many times. His dead wife’s coffin is only a few feet away.
A furious Lara absorbs the spectacle before charging straight for them. She whispers to Barton with force. Monica’s nerve falters, and she averts her eyes from Lara’s withering scowl. The scene attracts the attention of everyone in the room.
I notice Jack Millwood out of the corner of my eye. I point him out to Scott, whose surprise matches mine.
He asks, “Why is he here?”
His presence is curious. Millwood is my former boss—a giant in the Atlanta criminal bar. I pegged him as a prosecutor for life, but Bobby’s ascension to District Attorney changed the plan. The two never saw eye to eye, and Millwood switched to the world of criminal defense. He asked me to join him. Coming from a father figure whom I greatly admired, the offer was tempting. More autonomy and more money would’ve followed. Amber urged me to take the job and never look back.
I said no. Bobby offered me Millwood’s position as the head of all homicide prosecutions, which helped. But the promotion wasn’t the decision point. The work itself bothered me. Nearly all defendants are guilty, and being a criminal defense lawyer means representing a lot of bad people—an uncomfortable truth that I could never get comfortable with. That Millwood made such a smooth transition surprised me. Scott, evincing a cop’s contempt for defense lawyers, felt personally betrayed when one of his favorite prosecutors went over to the bad guys. He has barely talked to Millwood since. And now Millwood sits across the way at Sara Barton’s funeral.
Scott’s next question shows that he and I share the same thought, “Do you think that he is representing Barton?”
The explanation makes the most sense. Millwood and Barton might have some sort of personal association, but interaction between the criminal bar and the civil lawyers who populate Atlanta’s biggest law firms tends to be limited. The two worlds occupy separate solar systems. As the service begins, I text Millwood to ask why he is here. I watch him shift, glance at his phone, and look around until our eyes meet. He types a reply, and the incoming text reads: “We’ll talk later.”
The response does nothing to quell my interest. I answer back and ask if he is representing Barton. The return text reads: “We’ll talk later.”
Millwood’s greatest strength as a trial lawyer is his extraordinary patience. He reveals information only on his own terms. Like a great general, he plans out every detail, saving his strongest move for the precise instant when it will have its maximum impact. Disclosing whether he represents Barton is apparently of the same cloth. He’ll tell me when he is ready and not before.
We have never opposed one another in the courtroom—the teacher versus the student. Given the work we do, the confrontation is inevitable. The possibility fills me with nervous excitement. Millwood holds a place second only to my father in teaching me how to be a trial lawyer. With Daddy gone, no one’s approval means more to me.
One of Sara’s friends—a tennis partner—shares some remembrances of their time together. The lack of a personal connection is obvious, and I lose interest. I scan the crowd. A shaken Brice Tanner—Sara Barton’s sex tape co-star—sits near the front. Lara told us that Brice was in love with her sister. I wonder if he knew that Sara was also making time for Sam on the side. It would give Brice a motive. Murder can originate from love as easily as from hate.
I search for Sam and find him in the back of the sanctuary. The eyes are tired, the face withdrawn. He stares ahead as if hypnotized. I follow his line of sight to the object of his focus—Lara Landrum. Whatever spell he is under continues for some time. I have yet to follow up on the traffic cam evidence about Sam’s minivan from the night of the murder. I could ask Sam, but his wife Liesa seems the better bet. Sam cannot drive two cars at once, which means that Liesa is the witness holding the information we need. Sam figures to be livid—betrayed even—if I go behind his back to interview his wife. That’s unfortunate, but the man lied to police during a murder investigation. I’ll go talk to Liesa, and Sam can deal with the fallout.
***
The bishop delivers a
perfunctory message about the meaning of death. I get no sense that the bishop actually believes anything that he says. The scene plays out every hour across the world. People perish. We attend their funerals, fake listening to the worn sayings of the tired religious leaders who speak at such events. We go home and push away the gnawing sense of unease about what happens when we die. The next morning we wake up one day closer to the end, always with the foreboding that death’s march proceeds unabated.
I used to be afraid of the grave. Not because I lacked faith but because I feared missing out on the lives of my wife and son yet to be lived. My jealousy recoiled at the thought of another man taking my place—touching Amber’s body, putting Cale to bed at night, calling him “Son.” Those experiences belonged to me and me alone. In these anxious moments, the flip side of the mortality equation never entered my contemplation. I never dreamed that I would be the one having to live without them. But here I am.
My faith teaches that there will be an eternal reunion in Heaven for all who are saved. I will be with Amber and Cale again. Because of that promise, death’s hold over me has lost its grip. I’ll keep living my life, but I won’t fear the end. Sometimes, often late at night, I hear the echo of faint voices inside of me sowing doubt about God, Jesus, and everything in between. But I still believe. I have no choice.
***
The service ends, and the mourners slow-foot their way outside. Reporters emit a distasteful buzz in the distance. Scott and I camp out to the side and maintain our watch. Lara appears next to us and launches into Barton.
“Did you see his whore here?”
The question is rhetorical. No one failed to notice Barton and Monica together. Tears bubble in her eyes.
“I know she didn’t decide to come on her own. He wanted her here. He wanted to prance her around in front of everybody. He is poking his finger in the eye of my sister’s memory. It’s disgusting.”
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 3
