The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1)

by Lance McMillian

  “Your Honor! Corey Miller is on trial for killing a witness. The State believes that the life of this witness—”

  “I’ve made my ruling.”

  “Your Honor, may we approach—”

  “I’ve made my ruling, counselor, sit down!”

  I throw down my pen on the table in disgust. Ella places her hand on my arm lest I toss something else. Ross stares at me hard, mulling over his next actions. Incompetent bastard. Ella yanks me down, and I sit.

  Ross allows the moment to pass without further admonitions to me. Joe asks his question again.

  Tasha looks at me confused. I nod. She answers, “With my Aunt Patricia.” She then provides house number, street name, city, everything. Belinda’s soft sob behind me tortures my ears. My emotions fly right past anger to fury.

  Across the way Miller writes down something in the wake of Tasha’s answer. Clarissa Simon, Juror Number Seven, observes Miller’s action and takes it the same way I do—the transcription of Tasha’s current residence. Her stunned face shows that she gets it. Miller has only one use for that address.

  Listening proves elusive. My body sits still in my wood back chair, but my insides shake with uncontrollable stress. The clash between the motionless outside and the racing cauldron within demolishes my ability to process information. The physical imbalance takes me back to the night Amber and Cale were killed. The same feelings of wrath and helplessness grip me now. I might explode on the spot.

  Joe ends his questioning. Judge Ross is forced to address me: “Mr. Meridian, any re-direct?” I look at Ella dumbfounded. She shakes her head. I look at Ross and shake my head.

  “All right. The witness is excused. Court’s adjourned until tomorrow.” The gavel bangs.

  Scott walks with Belinda to the witness stand. Mother and daughter hug. Belinda’s tears water Tasha’s hair. Three uniformed deputies summoned by Scott encircle the two. Officers tonight will no doubt station themselves outside Aunt Patricia’s house where Tasha is currently staying, but Scott will have Tasha and Belinda tucked away safely under police guard somewhere else until the end of the trial.

  I attempt to pack away my trial materials, but the numbness in my hands makes grasping papers and pens a struggle. The only thing I feel is the gash to my professional pride in losing control at a critical moment. Ella caresses my arm.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Did Joe hurt us on cross?”

  “Not even a nick. Tasha did great.”

  The laborious packing job concludes. I try standing on wobbly legs. They hold. I walk—each step a little firmer than the last. We make it to the office.

  I tell her, “I need to take the rest of the night off.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll hold down the fort.”

  We part for the evening. I collapse in my office chair—thankful that Lara doesn’t leave for Hollywood until tomorrow morning. After the horrible last hour, I need her and no one else.

  ***

  While Lara and I lie next to one another late into the night, firefighters rush to Pittsville to put out an explosion at the one-time home of Belinda and Tasha Favors. No injuries are reported. The previous inhabitants no longer live there.

  17

  “The defense calls Anthony Wayne.”

  The defense’s star witness shuffles up to the stand. Joe cleaned him up as best he could—jewelry and exposed tattoos out, slacks and a tie in. The rough edges prove harder to wash away. His mother may have named him Anthony, but everyone else calls him Q-Bone. The pre-trial order states that Q-Bone will provide an alibi for Corey Miller at the time of the murder. I’m all ears.

  Leery of his own witness, Joe doesn’t waste any time and asks, “Do you remember where you were on the day when DeShawn Carter was shot?”

  “Yeah.”

  The lawyer looks at Q-Bone expectantly and gets blankness in return. Each of them waits for the other to speak. Joe blinks first.

  “Where were you?”

  “Watching TV.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joe’s face sags. He clearly prepped Q-Bone to provide better answers, but Q-Bone is dropping the ball on his end of the performance.

  “Who was with you?”

  “Corey.”

  “The defendant Corey Miller?”

  “Yeah.”

  Joe stands behind Miller to give everyone a good look. As identifications go, it’s weak stuff. Placing his hands on Miller’s shoulders, Joe tries to put lipstick on the pig, “You’re sure you were with Corey Miller at the time of the shooting?”

  I interrupt, “Objection, leading. This a direct examination, not cross.”

  “Sustained.”

  Lawyers don’t get to ask their own witnesses leading questions that suggest what the answer should be. Q-Bone is making Joe work too hard, and a visibly flustered Joe wants to take shortcuts.

  “How do you know you were with the defendant at the time of the shooting?”

  “Corey and me have been boys for ten years. I know who he is.”

  I stifle a laugh. Whatever rehearsal Joe had with the witness didn’t take. Getting testimony out of Q-Bone is like pulling teeth one at a time, tooth by tedious tooth. The work is bloody and unpleasant for everyone.

  “That’s not what I meant. How do you know you were with Corey when DeShawn Carter was shot?”

  Q-Bone still fails to see the light. He stares at Joe for help, but their telepathic connection fails to generate a spark. Dead airtime again hangs in the courtroom between lawyer and witness.

  “Say that again,” Q-Bone says finally.

  “Were you with Corey watching TV when you heard the gunshot?”

  “Objection, leading and lack of foundation.”

  “Sustained. Rephrase.”

  Joe circles back to his previous question, hoping that Q-Bone can pick up the hint: “How do you know you were with Corey when DeShawn Carter was shot?”

  The witness finally understands and testifies, “We was watching TV together when we heard the gunshot.”

  The answer is so obviously coached that a male juror chuckles. Joe gets the testimony he wants, but the journey to get there kills Q-Bone’s credibility. Snake bit by the unreliability of the witness, Joe hustles back to his seat before any more damage can be done. He got his client’s alibi on the record, and that is good enough.

  “No further questions,” he announces with the relief of a man who just escaped from an inferno and lived to tell about it. But I haven’t had my turn with the witness yet, and I aim to see Q-Bone burn.

  ***

  “Your friends call you Q-Bone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a member of the gang called the Rattlesnakes?”

  “Nah, man.”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “Yeah, man. Them some bad dudes.” He laughs, thinking himself to be some kind of comedian. The courtroom is silent.

  “You have a rattlesnake tattoo on your arm, don’t you?”

  I hold a manila folder up in my left hand. Q-Bone’s criminal history makes for a thick file. I have pictures of his arm if he wants to get cute.

  “Yeah.”

  “But you’re not a member of the Rattlesnakes?”

  “Nah. I just like rattlesnakes.”

  He laughs, but this attempt at humor bombs, too. The awkward void of the quiet unnerves him. He really thought that was a funny joke, and he can’t understand why the audience fails to appreciate his winning sense of humor.

  Q-Bone’s list of priors is prime impeachment material, but attacking his character seems superfluous after that disastrous direct examination. His credibility is already shot. My needs at this point are few—attack the fabricated alibi and grill Q-Bone about the murder of Tavon Munson shortly after he appeared on the witness list. I start with Tavon.

  “Do you know a Tavon Munson?”

  “Used to.”

  “The same Tavon Munson that was murdered
in your neighborhood two weeks ago?”

  “That him.”

  “The same Tavon Munson that was murdered two days after being put on the State’s witness list for this case?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you know who was on my witness list?”

  It’s typically poor form to ask an open-ended question on cross-examination because a cross-examiner should never give a hostile witness an opportunity to explain anything. But every rule has exceptions, and if the witness’ answer can’t hurt you, an open-ended question here and there can be put to good use. Q-Bone sits there like a stone. The non-answer speaks volumes. I press forward.

  “Did Corey Miller tell you Tavon Munson was on the witness list?”

  “Nah, not him.”

  “Did Mr. Parks tell you Tavon Munson was on the witness list?”

  Q-Bone looks to Joe for guidance, but I’m having none of that.

  “Don’t look at him. Look at me. I’m asking the questions. Did Mr. Parks tell you Tavon Munson was on the witness list?”

  “Nah.”

  “Did Mr. Parks give you the witness list?”

  I’m still mad at Joe for asking Tasha where she now lives and have no qualms creating the impression that Joe is a conspirator in Tavon Munson’s murder. Maybe I’ll indict Q-Bone for the killing of Tavon and name Joe as an accomplice for fun.

  “I don’t remember where I got the list.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “Nah.”

  “But you got the list?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Tavon Munson’s name was on that list?”

  He pauses, again uncertain as to what he should do. He’s already admitted he knows Munson was on the list. Walking that back now would be hard for him. He apparently reaches the same conclusion.

  “Yeah.”

  “And Tavon Munson is now dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Shot in the gut?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you know he was shot in the gut?”

  More uncertainty fills his eyes. He wrestles with his brain to spit out some answer that won’t lead to his arrest. Struggling, he starts to glance at Joe—

  “Stop looking at him! How do you know he was shot in the gut?”

  “I just know.”

  “You just know that Tavon Munson got a bullet in the gut?”

  “That right.”

  The answer satisfies me. He sounds like a man who was at the scene of the shooting. If I push harder on the origin of his knowledge, maybe he says someone else told him about Munson and that does me no good. Jack Millwood, my mentor and now Barton’s attorney, taught me, “Always cash in your winnings.” I’ve won this point with Q-Bone. No need to keep sitting at the table and foolishly lose it all back.

  I announce, “Let’s move on to the DeShawn Carter murder.”

  It’s a statement, not a question. That doesn’t stop Q-Bone from blurting out, “Tavon Munson shot that dude.” All the energy in the courtroom suspends itself in mid-air, waiting for the other shoe to drop. My heart speeds like a bullet train, but I smother any emotion to make sure my surprise doesn’t reach the surface.

  “Tavon Munson?”

  “Yeah, man. I saw him do it.”

  God bless America. Q-Bone sits there pleased as punch. His stupid grin proclaims his certainty that he has pulled one over on all of us. He fails to realize that the joke’s on him. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Joe, who looks morose. Miller, for his part, wears his customary scowl.

  “You saw him shoot DeShawn Carter?”

  “Sure did.”

  “I thought you were at home watching TV with Corey Miller when the shots were fired.”

  Q-Bone’s smile vanishes. Even he understands that a person cannot be in two places at one time. Or as my Grandpa used to tell me, “You can’t ride two horses with one ass.” In the heat of the moment, Q-Bone got greedy. Not content with merely lying about being Miller’s alibi, he fabricated seeing Tavon Munson kill DeShawn Carter, too. I don’t press the contradiction, I’m tempted to sit down right now with the score tilted heavily in my favor. But something tells me that Q-Bone will be the gift that keeps on giving.

  “We can’t ask Tavon if he killed DeShawn Carter, can we?”

  “Don’t look like it.”

  “Cause Tavon’s dead?”

  “Tavon’s dead.”

  He laughs another solitary laugh, as if the idea of murder makes for good comedy. Everything he says is wrong. The jury loathes him.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Nah, man. Not me.”

  “Shoot him in the gut?”

  “Nah, man. Not me.”

  “Isn’t it a fact that the Rattlesnakes killed Tavon Munson before he could come to court to testify that Corey Miller killed DeShawn Carter?”

  Q-Bone pauses on this one. He starts to swing his head toward the defense table, but stops halfway when he remembers my earlier admonitions not to look at Joe for answers. Like a trained puppy, Q-Bone now adapts his behavior to what I’ve taught him to do. I love cross-examination. With no answer forthcoming, I ask the question again.

  “Isn’t it a fact that the Rattlesnakes killed Tavon Munson before he could come to court to testify that Corey Miller killed DeShawn Carter?”

  Truth is, I had no intention of calling Munson to the stand, know nothing about him except that he was murdered, and have no idea if he was even in Georgia at the time of the DeShawn Carter killing. The speculation that Tavon witnessed the Carter murder is based on the thinnest of reeds. If the jury draws the wrong inferences, so be it. I don’t care as long as Miller gets convicted.

  Q-Bone finally answers, “Nah.”

  “Isn’t it a fact that the Rattlesnakes killed Tavon because they didn’t want this jury to hear what Tavon had to say?”

  “Nah.”

  “The Rattlesnakes knew that Tavon’s testimony would put Corey Miller away?”

  “Nah, man. We didn’t do it.”

  “We? We? I thought you weren’t a member of the Rattlesnakes.”

  His earlier denial of being a Rattlesnake recoils back to bite him hard. Everyone in the courtroom looks to Q-Bone for an explanation of the discrepancy. Joe should object since I didn’t actually ask a question, but he looks like a man playing out the clock, waiting for the game to end. The silence marches on and grows in its harshness. I let Q-Bone sweat. I won’t be the first to talk. I can stand here all day.

  “Man, I was just kidding about that.”

  “Just like you were kidding about not killing Tavon Munson?”

  I don’t let him answer.

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  18

  “I can’t find Brice Tanner anywhere,” Scott says. We meet for lunch at Harold’s B-B-Q, just down the street from the Atlanta federal penitentiary. I have time. The Miller trial is off today because Judge Ross has to attend the funeral of one of his former colleagues on the bench. Harold’s isn’t located in the best part of town, but the food tastes good. I see two federal judges a few tables down eating over a plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloth. It’s that kind of place.

  “What do you mean you can’t find him?”

  “He’s vanished. Moved out of his apartment and no longer works at Marsh & McCabe. I tried getting some information from the law firm, but they wouldn’t tell me anything except that he doesn’t work there anymore. I told them that it was important, but they said that was all they could tell me.”

  “Well, you did arrest one of their partners in their offices and made sure the news was there to cover it.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Hold on.”

  I take out my phone and find Jeff Yarber’s number, my friend at Marsh & McCabe. He answers on the second ring. We catch up first, then I ask about Brice.

  “I heard Brice Tanner no longer works for you guys. What happened there?”

  “Ah, I doubted this was a soci
al call. You never want to just talk. Yeah, Brice left us a few weeks ago. He came back from some time off sporting a beard, a diamond stud in his ear, and perhaps a tattoo. Reports vary. You met him, right? He was completely clean-cut, clean-shaven, all-American type. Not anymore. He came back, said he didn’t want to practice law anymore, and went away.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I heard the mountains. Brasstown Bald area or something. We have the address. I’ll shoot it to you.”

  I give Scott the scoop. Like everything else about the case these days, I filter the information through the lens of how it will look at Barton’s trial. Innocent explanations abound for Brice’s retreat into the mountains—the murder of the woman he loved, disgust at working for the same law firm as that lover’s murderer, the general discontent that affects almost every lawyer Brice’s age who works for the faceless, soulless mega-firms. The problem is Millwood. Brice is a canvas upon which many different stories can be painted, and Millwood is a creative artist. Using Brice’s abandonment of his prior life as evidence of a guilty conscience is almost too easy. Scott and I decide to pay Brice a visit in the near future to scout out his mental state.

  ***

  Closing arguments offer no great insights about the Miller case. Joe relies on Q-Bone as an alibi witness—the only game in town for the defense. The same Q-Bone who testified that he was in two different places at the same time when the shooting went down. Joe dances around Tasha and whines about the unfairness of convicting a man for murder solely on a child’s testimony. The State must offer more proof, he pleads. Then he sits down.

  I start with Tasha. A man was murdered right in front of her house. She witnessed the killing, a visual that will give her nightmares for the rest of her life. Tasha knows Corey Miller well—“Mr. Corey” she calls him. She came to court at great risk to her personal safety and identified him for all to see. No mistake exists here. Corey Miller fired that gun.

  We have Tasha on one side, and Q-Bone on the other, one with no motive to lie and one with every motive to lie. Which voice has the ring of authenticity? I invoke the ghost of Tavon Munson. Q-Bone knew Tavon, knew that Tavon was on the State’s witness list, knew that Tavon was shot in the gut. I ask the jury, “What did Tavon know about the murder of DeShawn Carter that got him killed?”