Bobby probes, “What do you think?”
I answer, “A path exists for us to get there, but it complicates the case. We seek death and get the one squirrely juror who opposes capital punishment, then the whole conviction is in doubt because some crusader wants to make a stand. Enough weirdness will surround the trial already because of the media. I’d prefer to keep it simple.”
“Ella?”
“The defendant is not a sympathetic figure. We should avoid giving anyone a reason to make him into one. I always have this fear, too, that jurors hold us to a higher standard in death penalty cases. As Chance said, the trial is going to be a circus as is. We don’t need any more volatility in the kettle.”
Bobby strokes his chin, no doubt looking at all the electoral angles that might flow from each possible choice.
“All right. Let’s take the death penalty off the table. Just make sure you get me my conviction.”
Willie Joe Sawyer and Harry Fleming were both black. Bernard Barton is white.
13
After spending another night with Lara, I ponder the logistical problem of how to carry on a secret love affair in a city of six million people. Going to her house is impossible. Someone’s liable to be staked out there at all hours. My place is safer but hardly ideal. I have neighbors, and Scott drops by unannounced like clockwork. Hotels are out. Lara is too famous, and every hotel I know has surveillance cameras everywhere. Envisioning myself on TMZ as grainy video of Lara and me plays nonstop doesn’t sit well. I’ll pass.
The solution grabs me with bittersweet fervor—the condo in Midtown where Amber and I first lived after moving to Atlanta. The real estate crash made it unsellable when we bought our house, so we converted it to a rental. The place now sits vacant after a long-term renter moved out last month. Perfect. I notify the property management company to take the rental listing off the market. Lara and I can escape to the condo whenever we like. Secure underground parking would allow us to come and go in relative anonymity. Even if paparazzi follow her as far as the garage, they still couldn’t tell who in the building she would be visiting. No one will ever know.
***
Two days later, I wait for Lara in the condo I once called home. The furnishings that I cobbled together yesterday are sparse—a bed, a couch, some chairs, a table—but enough for its intended purpose. The balcony faces east away from the city. Trees cover the landscape, the exact opposite of the concrete jungle to the west. Stone Mountain rests in the distance.
Like a green teenager on his first date, my pulse quickens when I hear the knock on the door. The nerves stay with me as I tiptoe to the entry way and wave her in before anyone lurking in the hall can see us together. The disguise she wears is not bad—baseball cap, large sunglasses, baggy clothes to hide her figure. Only when she removes the hat and the blond hair comes tumbling down does she resemble Lara Landrum again.
She inspects the bare accommodations and taunts, “I love what you’ve done with the space.”
“I’m a minimalist by nature,” I respond.
“You realize I’m accustomed to a certain style, right?”
“That’s what you get for associating with a commoner.”
The smile I receive in return confirms the wisdom that less is more. I suspected as much. She is not with me because of her taste for the finer things. Our shared experience of loss unites us, and high-priced decor speaks little to those stuck in the valley of pain. The bond we have is simple, raw. Authenticity is the only thing I can give her, and that realness is somehow enough.
Lara sheds the dreary clothes and sits on the couch wearing only a bra, panties, and a playful grin. I stand there dumb, mesmerized by the sight. It’s Friday afternoon. All across Atlanta cars battle bumper to bumper to flee the harsh world of the city. But all is tranquil in the condo. Lara teases with dancing eyes and asks, “What are you thinking?”
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
The little remaining natural light left in the eastern sky maneuvers through the gaps in the blinds and produces a black and white effect throughout the room. The blood red of her matching undergarments pops against this shadowy background. I’m afraid to move because the scene is too perfect—the peaceful unreality of a fragile snow globe.
“You can come over and kiss me, you know.”
The words snap me out of my daydream. I float over and kiss her, softly at first, testing the reality of the experience.
She says, “For a minimalist, you seem to be wearing a lot of clothes.”
I get the hint and follow her lead to the bedroom, becoming more minimalist with each step. Police sirens wail in the distance, and I think about the hold such sounds have had on so much of my life. Like an expert witness who understands the nuances of obscure topics inside and out, I know that the volume level of police response can inform the careful listener. When the noise reaches a certain crescendo, murder again stirs in the Atlanta air. But today I resist its pull on me. Lying next to Lara, the dirges of the outside world whimper out of my consciousness. The focus now centers on life, not death. When she falls asleep later that evening, I stroll out on my balcony and peer deep into the night, marveling at how I landed in this position. The city is quiet, and I welcome the change.
***
One week later, we seek an indictment for murder against Bernard Barton from the Fulton County grand jury. The proceedings are decidedly one-sided. To proceed to trial requires merely a majority vote of the grand jurors. Probable cause, as opposed to beyond a reasonable doubt, is the governing standard of the day. It’s a low bar. The rules forbid lawyers for the defense from even appearing, so the prosecutors are the only game in town.
Ella and I start with the 911 recording. The horrified faces of the grand jurors confirm what I already know. The emotional impact of the call packs a powerful punch. The room sits in tense silence as the voice of Sara Barton screams out for justice from beyond the grave.
“My husband is going to kill me!”
“He has already hit me. Please hurry.”
The line goes dead, and we let the silence linger before passing around the photo Lara took of her sister’s back. Multiple black bruises scar the landscape of the otherwise beautiful white skin. The picture makes the words on the 911 call even more terrifying.
The rest of the morning until mid-afternoon features Scott’s testimony about the other evidence in the case. The process is methodical. The crime scene and autopsy photos establish that Sara Barton died from a gunshot wound. The fingerprint and ballistics evidence show that the defendant loaded the bullets into the murder weapon. The gambling debts and Monica Haywood’s fabricated alibi demonstrate Barton’s desperation before and after the murder.
We also show the sex tape of Sara Barton and Brice Tanner at the High Museum to gauge how that evidence plays in real life. The footage strikes me as a double-edged sword. While the video provides Barton a strong motive for murder, the visuals of the victim atop a younger man on the floor of a museum could lessen a jury’s sympathy for her.
One incredulous grand juror asks Scott, “Her husband was there at the party while this was going on?”
“Yes.”
“Was this before or after the 911 call?”
“A few days before.”
The grand juror whistles, and the others nod in recognition of the almost certain cause and effect. I take note. The video is so bad that it is good—the greater Sara’s open and notorious adultery, the greater the rage felt by her husband toward her.
When our presentation is complete, the grand jurors waste little time. The vote is unanimous. Bernard Barton now stands indicted for the murder of his wife.
But first things first.
14
Corey Miller leads a southwest Atlanta gang called the Rattlesnakes. Last year, he executed DeShawn Carter in broad daylight on a pothole-riddled street in Pittsville—the city’s most menacing neighborhood. Witnesses to the killing numbered at least two dozen. DeShawn
Carter had testified against a Rattlesnake in a small-time drug case and sent Miller’s fellow gang member to prison. Miller sent Carter to the morgue in return.
The witnesses to the crime kept their mouths shut. Except one. From behind a curtained window in her house, Tasha Favors, a 10-year old girl, observed the execution in all its awfulness. The police didn’t find her. She came to them. Tired of the violence destroying her community, Belinda Favors brought her daughter to the police to report what happened.
The first time I met Tasha remains engraved in my mind. She told her story to Scott, Ella, and me:
“I was doing my math homework at the kitchen table. My Nana was taking a nap in her bedroom. I heard a bunch of noise from the street. I know not to go outside by myself so I just looked out the window. Mr. Corey had a gun in his hand and was yelling at a man on his knees. I was scared and hid behind the curtain, but I could still see. There was a bunch of people standing around, just watching. Then Mr. Corey walked up and shot that man in the head. I didn’t see nothing else. I ran to my room and got under my covers and cried.”
One grand jury indictment later, I now ready myself to put Corey Miller on trial for murder. But I have a problem.
In America, a criminal defendant has the constitutional right to face his accuser in court. To convict Corey Miller, I must put Tasha on the stand. Miller has already killed one witness and would no doubt murder another one to save his own skin. To guard against such threats, some states allow witnesses to testify anonymously behind a screen or even in disguise when their lives are in danger. Not Georgia. Here, I must name my potential witnesses ten days before trial, and they must testify out in the open. Protecting Tasha under these rules requires hiding her in plain sight.
I make the mandated disclosure to the defense team and report 219 names as potential witnesses—the most I’ve ever listed. Ninety percent of these names are decoys. I name every adult and child who lives in the vicinity of the murder, every member of Miller’s gang, every criminal informant from the area. I disclose Tasha and Belinda Favors as required, but breezing over their names in a list of 219 people is easy. Or so I hope.
***
The pre-trial conference takes place a few days before the scheduled trial date. Outside the judge’s chambers, I shake hands with Miller’s counsel, Joe Parks. I like Joe. He falls into that great sea of mediocre trial lawyers. No shame exists in being average, and Joe seems content with being who he is and nothing more. We go in to meet the judge.
Judge MacDonald Ross sits before us behind a massive desk, a bored expression dominating his ruddy face. A court reporter sits to the side, her machine ready. Ross wears his robe in chambers, one of the few judges to do so. The conceit is telling. Just like lawyers, judges come in all shapes of good, bad, and mediocre. Ross is a bad judge. He’s just not that smart, and I question how he ever passed the bar exam. But he’s reliably pro-prosecution, so I live with his shortcomings without much fuss.
The first issue Joe raises is the size of my witness list. Ross’ face jumps from boredom to horror when he hears the 219 number. I doubt he can even count that high, much less competently handle a case with that many people testifying. He looks to me for an explanation, plainly hoping I will make the problem go away. I reassure him.
“Obviously, Your Honor, we’re not going to call 219 witnesses. But this case is complicated with a lot of moving parts, involving a gang that calls itself the Rattlesnakes. Defendant Corey Miller is the gang’s leader, and he murdered a police informant in front of a large crowd of people to teach the neighborhood about what happens when they cross the Rattlesnakes.”
I pause here to build drama for the next point—my ace in the hole that I doubt even Joe knows about.
“People are scared out of their minds down there, Judge. And they have reason to be. One of the people on the witness list, Tavon Munson, was shot and killed on Sunday. I turned the list over to Mr. Parks on Friday.”
The judge turns his head to look at poor Joe, who based on his reaction had no idea about Munson’s murder.
Joe responds, “Well, I didn’t kill him.”
Ross pivots to me for help.
I ask Joe, “Did you show your client the list?”
“Maybe.”
The response earns a dubious look from Ross. I press forward with my argument.
“And since Miller has already shown a violent disregard for the workings of the criminal justice system, I would ask for extra security in the courtroom and around the jury.” I hesitate before adding, “And courtroom staff.” I throw my best somber face at Ross and hope he catches my meaning that Miller might very well kill him, too. He answers me with an acknowledging nod. He’s not that dumb.
Joe chimes in, “He can still narrow his list down some out of fairness to the defendant.”
I counter, “The case law supports our position, Your Honor. The appellate courts have upheld witness lists of this size. Everyone we’re going to call to the stand is on that list, and everyone on that list possesses relevant information. Many on that list frankly refuse to testify because they fear ending up like DeShawn Carter and Tavon Munson. We’re hoping to change their minds between now and trial.”
Ross has never been reversed on appeal when ruling in my favor. He may not know much about the law, but he knows his reversal stats and that I’ve always done right by him on that score. He’s going to side with me on this one.
Ross says, “The witness list is fine. Let’s move on to other things.”
The rest of the conference bogs down in the standard stuff. The judge loses interest in most of it. Joe and I do what we need to do, and everything is pronounced ready. The trial starts Monday.
***
Over the weekend, we employ other last-minute measures to keep Tasha safe. Scott floods the neighborhood with law enforcement personnel asking questions of everyone. Police huddle with any members of the Rattlesnakes they can round up, hoping to sow distrust in the gang. Uniform officers make a big show of going to Belinda Favors’ front door to ask questions. Belinda emphatically refuses to talk to them, shakes her head back and forth, and slams the door in their faces.
Tasha moved out some time ago to live with an aunt in neighboring Clayton County. Belinda wanted to make the move with her daughter, but we prevailed upon her that moving now would raise too much of a red flag. So she stays put, sweating out the time until Miller is convicted. No one seems to notice that Tasha doesn’t live there anymore. I take that as a good sign.
The recently deceased Tavon Munson lived one street over from where Corey Miller murdered DeShawn Carter. No evidence suggests that Munson witnessed the murder or had any other knowledge about the case. I put him on the witness list because he lived in the area. Now he’s dead. Did he die because of my strategy to cast a wide net of suspicion over everybody in the neighborhood? I push the question aside. The danger to Tasha leaves me with nothing but bad choices. I do the best I can and live with the consequences. If Miller did order Munson murdered, making sure Miller never walks the street again is the best medicine.
***
The day before the trial finds me at the condo with Lara. I try to savor the moment, knowing that she will board a plane later in the week to handle neglected business in Los Angeles. The timing is as good as any. Trials are 24-hour affairs, so I’ll have less time to miss her. The symmetry bites. For two years prosecuting murder has been my sword to ward off the pain of my separation from Amber. Now work will serve the same purpose but with a different woman.
Lara asks, “Are you going to miss me?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t know. You’re going to have a lot of late nights with that sexy assistant of yours.”
“Do you sleep with all your co-stars?”
“Of course!”
Her laugh lets me in on the joke. Whether she’s truly concerned about Ella and me is harder to gauge. After seeing Ella on TV arguing at Barton’s bail hearing, Lara quizzed me about wh
ether the two of us were a thing. She need not worry. Sleeping with a witness is already a dance on the live wire. Throwing the dynamite of another woman into the mix exceeds my tolerance for risk.
Later on, we eat Chinese take-out. I am quiet as I work over the Corey Miller case one last time—the pre-trial habit of a man who has always lived too much inside his own head. Lara notices my detachment as I chew mechanically on my food.
“You’re not saying much.”
“I’m mentally preparing myself for battle.”
“You make it sound like a war.”
It is. Law is the price the victors of history impose on the defeated, and a prosecutor’s job is to wage war against those who think the terms of peace somehow do not apply to them. Trials may lack the bloody violence of the battlefield, but they are a species of combat all the same. The trial lawyer who doesn’t go into trial with the mindset of a warrior starts from a position of weakness.
I explain none of these thoughts, don’t give her an answer at all. The conversation dies, and Lara doesn’t try to resuscitate it. She leaves me to myself. I sit on a couch and stare straight ahead at the barren, off-white wall—thinking.
My concentration breaks. Lara says something I don’t quite catch.
“What?”
She asks, “After this trial, then it’s Bernard’s turn?”
“Yes, then it’s Bernard’s turn.”
15
Corey Miller sits across the way in the courtroom—contemptuous, defiant, cocky to the end.
I reckon he was a cute kid once upon a time, but all I see now is a monster. The diminishing Christian inside of me recalls that, according to Jesus, being angry toward someone in your heart is the same thing as murdering that person. The anger in my own heart—enough to strike down a mountain—refuses to accept the rebuke. Actions matter. As a prosecutor, my entire career rests on the certitude that the act itself—the actus reus—possesses a singular moral significance. The law doesn’t punish thoughts. Corey Miller made a choice to kill, and he must reap the consequences.
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 8
