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

by Lance McMillian

  “Yes … I mean no … no.”

  Dangling the carrot, I follow up, “Were you under the influence of any medication at the time of your sister’s murder?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Were you off your medication?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you still deny that you killed your sister?”

  “I didn’t.”

  The answer lacks conviction. The fight starts to seep out of her. The crying commences. Real or pretend tears—I cannot begin to guess. She beseeches, “Can I take a break?”

  “No. Isn’t it true that you resented your sister’s Hollywood career while you were stuck at home with a bad husband?”

  “I loved my sister.”

  “What was your father’s name?”

  The tears cascade into a flood. She heaves as if struggling for breath. The last piece of the disguise crumbles. I’ve been chipping away at it, but her father is the sledgehammer to deliver the final blow. A real person emerges from the wreckage of everything she has endured.

  “It was Bill, wasn’t it?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Isn’t it true that Bill molested you, but not your sister, and you have hated Lara ever since?”

  “Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!”

  “Think back to your childhood. Your father violated you in repulsive ways, but never laid a finger on Lara. And it made you crazy and you had to kill her, right?”

  “Yes! Are you happy now? Yes!”

  I back away from her. Breathless. I did what I had to do, but I don’t have to feel good about it. The stunned courtroom teeters on the precipice of upheaval. The tearful moans resume with more force, and a sense of discomfort from spying such raw emotion constrains the crowd to maintain proper decorum. I grab a box of tissues and place them in front of her before retreating to a safe distance. The spontaneous gesture on my part sobers her up quick. The tears dry out. Cold fury replaces pain.

  I tell Judge Woodcomb, “I think that is all.”

  Millwood helpfully announces, “No questions from the defense, Your Honor.” The judge nods. I signal Scott to do his part. He approaches the witness box, takes out his handcuffs, and tells her she’s under arrest.

  “You have the right to remain silent—”

  “Get your hands off me!”

  A scuffle ensues, and the bailiffs rush to lend Scott a hand. She makes it half way toward me before they wrestle her to the floor. As they drag her from the courtroom, she looks at me and me alone. She bellows, “I’ll kill you.”

  I believe her.

  50

  “Your honor, the State moves to dismiss the indictment against Bernard Barton with prejudice.”

  Stunned liked everyone else in the courtroom, Judge Woodcomb takes a few moments to collect herself and asks, “Any objection, Mr. Millwood?”

  “None, Your Honor.”

  “So ordered. Mr. Barton, you are a free man. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. Your obligation has been fulfilled. Whether you talk to anyone about the case—the lawyers, the press, whomever—is solely up to you individually. You may return to the jury room to collect your things. Court’s adjourned.”

  The gavel strikes, and people explode from the courtroom. I want to crawl into a hole and stay there forever.

  Ella asks, “When did you know?”

  “Friday night.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “A deep, abiding, unquenchable feeling of shame and ruin.”

  She gets up and leaves. I watch her depart and feel a piece of my heart go with her. Millwood comes over to shake hands.

  He declares, “I know I taught you better than to come to court and wreck your own case.”

  “Well, you weren’t doing much damage to it, and I figured somebody had to do something. You’re no longer my boss, and I’m still having to do all your work.”

  “Did you tell Bobby beforehand?”

  “No.”

  “Good luck with that.” He laughs and walks off.

  Barton exits the courtroom—a mixture of shock and relief carrying him out the door, the smugness gone for a moment at least. I should send him a bill. Framed for murder by his own wife, he avoided spending the rest of his life in prison by a hair’s breadth. The jury was going to convict. But I still can’t view him as a victim. He remains a sexual predator. The wrath of the #MeToo movement will be his just due.

  I look around the courtroom one more time and head back to my office. Another trial over. My first loss.

  ***

  Bobby bursts into my office.

  “I have one question. This is the biggest murder case for the office since I became D.A. The eyes of the nation, and more importantly, the eyes of Fulton County voters are watching what happens. And what do you do? You go and drop a hydrogen bomb in open court that proves the defendant did not commit the murder that we charged him for. Do I learn about this from my trusted deputy before the fact? No! I have to find out about it on live television. Why?”

  “No time.”

  “You make time for that!”

  “I was working the case.”

  “I don’t want to hear about working the case! You went and lost the case!”

  “I know you don’t want me to convict an innocent man.”

  “Don’t make this about me! It’s about you. If I lose the next election, you won’t be working any cases. I need to know everything that might affect my electoral prospects.”

  “Sorry.”

  Having made his point, he is losing steam on his demonstration of righteous indignation. But I know what he will say next, how I will respond, and how poorly he will react to my response.

  “Well, you get a chance to redeem yourself. The media is gonna want a press conference, and we’re going to give it to them.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m spent. I can’t do it.”

  The wheels of calculation spin behind his eyes. How far should he push? He wants his press conference. But he doesn’t know his chief prosecutor and the murderer were having an affair. He is sitting on dynamite without realizing it. I try to give him an out.

  “Look, we don’t know how this thing is going to play out in the media. If it goes south, you’re going to want a fall guy. Hold me back from the reporters for right now. Take the temperature of where this is headed. Make me the scapegoat if you have to. But if you put me out there right now, you become too tied to me and you might regret that later.”

  He thinks on that and nods his head slowly. He likes the plan. It gives him time and flexibility.

  “Okay. I’ll bite. But I need to know if there is anything else I don’t know that could blow up in my face?”

  It’s a shrewd question, and frankly his asking it makes him smarter than I give him credit for.

  I lie.

  He says, “All right then, we’ll do it your way for the time being. You stay away from the press. I will do it alone. But I need your help. They are going to ask me why we didn’t immediately dismiss the charges against Bernard Barton when we finally figured this whole thing out. How do I answer that?”

  I offer the following:

  “Despite repeated requests from law enforcement, Bernard Barton consistently refused to provide any information to shed light on his whereabouts at the time of the murder. Last Friday in open court was the first time this office learned of Mr. Barton’s account that he had spent the night of the murder at the residence of his sister-in-law. Based on this testimony, prosecutors over the weekend developed the theory that Sara Barton murdered Lara Landrum, assumed her identity, and staged the death to make it appear that Sara Barton herself was murdered. An open question remained as to whether Bernard Barton was a willing co-conspirator in this plan with his wife, or if his wife was trying to frame him for her own murder. This morning’s questions focused on that point. At this time, we do not believe that Mr. Barton had any invo
lvement or knowledge of his wife’s actions. The investigation is ongoing.”

  Bobby reflects for a second and says, “I can work with that. Write it up.”

  Before leaving, he warns, “You know, you’re not the only good trial lawyer in the city. You can be replaced.”

  “I know.”

  “Good.”

  He walks out as a man with a lot on his mind. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes.

  ***

  A light knock on the door, and Ella lets herself in. She says, “I just got a call from Murph at the jail. She’s demanding to see you. He wants to know what we want to do.”

  I can list a million reasons to stay far away. Yet the pull of having a real conversation with her is strong. I also have one more question I want answered.

  I respond, “Only if you come, too.”

  “I actually insist on that.”

  ***

  Ella and I sit down across the table from her. The murderer is handcuffed to a chair. Murph, the ancient jailer who knows where all the bodies are buried, leaves us alone in a large visiting room. We have the place to ourselves. I waste no time.

  “Well?”

  She focuses on Ella.

  “What is she doing here?”

  “I wanted her to be here.”

  “Afraid to face me on your own?”

  I stay mute. I don’t know what I feel. At one time I felt myself falling in love with the illusion represented by this woman. Now she wears handcuffs and prison clothes. Maybe I should feel relief. She could’ve killed me, too.

  Always the diligent prosecutor, Ella says, “On the night of the murder, you pretended to be your sister and slept with your husband. But why didn’t Bernard know it was you and not Lara? The two of you were married. He had to know.”

  Ella hits on the question that vexed Scott and me all weekend. Was there any way Barton wouldn’t have known that he was having sex with his own wife? Until I saw his bewildered face in the courtroom during the questioning this morning, I remained convinced of Barton’s involvement in the murder for this precise reason. But he didn’t know. I still don’t understand it.

  Sara Barton smirks. She answers Ella’s question but looks only at me while doing so.

  “You should know better than anyone, Chance. Men are stupid. You believe what you want to believe, and every man wants to believe that he is God’s gift to women. You men live in your porn-filled fantasy world where women want nothing more than for you to rip off our clothes and dominate us. Idiots! That’s not how women think!

  “Bernard was easy to fool. He lusted after Lara for years. In Lara’s house, he saw Lara. With the lights off, it was Lara in his arms. His ego wanted it to be true. Just like Brice believed that another man’s wife would simply ring the doorbell to his apartment and throw herself at him. Just like Sam believed that a client going through a divorce would naturally seek comfort in his arms.

  “And just like you, Chance. A famous actress shows up at night in your living room and starts taking her clothes off. Really? That didn’t make you suspicious? Why not? Because you wanted the fantasy to be true. You’re a man. You’re stupid.”

  I certainly feel stupid.

  A confused Ella asks, “You had an affair with Sam Wilkins? Did you kill him, too?”

  I pretend to share her surprise. Sara laughs and rolls her eyes. She responds, “I’m done answering your questions. I want to say something to him, without you listening in. So just go over there and let the two of us have a moment. Be a good girl and run along.”

  Ella looks unsure. I give a nod. She hesitantly walks back against the wall, out of hearing range. Sara leans in.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do—you’re going to quit your job and be my defense lawyer. Make the best deal you can with your girlfriend over there and get me as little jail time as possible. You do that, I’ll keep our little secret.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I? It seems pretty sane to me. I know I have to do jail time, but I am still a young woman. You have a good career going. We can make this work. If not, I’ll ruin you.”

  “I am prepared to accept the consequences of my actions. You should do the same.”

  She sneers, “Nice of you to start playing Dudley Do-Right now, but you don’t want to go down this road with me. You’ve seen what I can do.” True enough. But hers is a wild play, and she knows it. No more deals with the devil. Instead, I have a question.

  “Why did you kill Sam?”

  “You’re not pinning that one on me.”

  “I know you did it. We were at my Mom’s. You broke the wine glass. You knew Sam died from being shot, but I never told you that. You already knew because you shot him. Why?”

  She stares at me a long time but eventually admits, “He figured me out.”

  Then I remember Sara Barton’s funeral and finally comprehend the significance of Sam’s intense staring at the woman claiming to be Lara Landrum. Barton’s ego blinded him from recognizing his own wife, but Sam cracked the code, probably from memorizing his secret cache of pictures. The story from there is easy. Sam told Sara what he knew, wanted to learn the reason for her deception, and maybe even hoped to share her bed again. She has that kind of power—the same power with which she lured him to the woods to put a bullet in his brain.

  Resentment lights her face. I’m just another man who has disappointed her along the way. I remember our discussions about her father—the truest words she ever spoke to me. Everything starts with the family. She grew up abused by a monster and ended up marrying a man who preys on young women. The separation between Barton and her father is one of degree, not kind. History repeats itself.

  She goes into attack mode.

  “You know, you were the easiest one to dupe. You were under my spell the first time you caught a whiff of it. You couldn’t get your pants off fast enough. You dropped your girlfriend over there faster than a hot potato.”

  She looks toward Ella and snorts before turning her glare back to me.

  “How dumb do you feel? You bought everything I said hook, line, and sinker.”

  She’s not wrong, but my pride won’t let me concede the point. I respond, “Says the woman handcuffed to a chair, wearing an orange jumpsuit.”

  She spits at me and misses before launching another broadside.

  “There is more than one type of prison. You may not wear a jumpsuit, but you’re no freer than I am. You’re a prisoner of your own lack of imagination. You call what you do living? I gave you a chance to break out, to be different, be a man of action who chases after what he wants, consequences be damned. And you know what? It was the only time you’ve been free in your life. When you’re on your deathbed bemoaning the end of your sad little existence, you’ll be thinking about the thrill of sneaking around to thrust yourself inside me. But you couldn’t handle it. Remember the last time we were together? You couldn’t handle it. Instead of enjoying the moment, you hated yourself for being happy.”

  I think of the memory and my crazed eyes staring back at me in the mirror. I did hate myself, but not for being happy. Consumed with moral sickness, I saw for the first time the depths of my debasement that night—personal, professional, spiritual.

  “Did killing your sister make you happy?”

  The question scores a body blow. She refuses to answer. More insults follow. I stop listening. She cannot say anything to me that I have not already said to myself. I get up to leave, turn my back, and walk away from her forever.

  As I reach Ella waiting by the door, the murderer raises her voice and says the only words in the world that could make me turn around.

  “I know who killed your wife.”

  I turn and stare. I have no idea what she knows or how she knows it, but she is a master of surprises. She smiles at me with sadistic pleasure. I don’t believe her. I’m afraid to believe her.

  “Don’t you want to know?”

  I offer a slight nod. She smiles some more and milks
the moment a little longer before the big reveal.

  “You did.”

  I stagger as feeling returns to my body. Blood shines in my eyes. I take a step toward her mocking face, but only one step. She wants me to lose control.

  “She’s dead because of you. I know it. You know it. You didn’t pull the trigger, but you loaded the gun. No signs of robbery. Nothing sexual. Just a random killing because the man who was supposed to be the victim was not there. Those bullets were meant for you, yet your wife and son paid the price. You live with that the rest of your life, you son of a bitch.”

  Ella screams at her, “What’s the matter with you?”

  I approach the murderer, look her dead in the eyes, and say, “Remember what I promised you? I promised you that I would bring your sister’s killer to justice, and I did.”

  She tries to stand, but the handcuffs that keep her attached to the chair pull her back down as quickly as she rises. She kicks the table in anger, her legs flailing in every direction—up, down, east, and west. The racket she makes is terrible. Her momentum finally gets the best of her. The chair loses its balance and tips over, leaving her squirming on her side on the floor. Gravity always wins in the end.

  Old Murph pops his head in, “Is everything all right?”

  I point to the body on the floor, touch Ella on the arm, and lead us both out of the room. No more looking back this time. She is somebody else’s problem now.

  “You hear me. You killed them. You live with that—” I don’t hear her anymore. I don’t hear anything.

  I walk back to my office brooding over her parting shot. I loathe to give her credit, but she finally spewed an insult that delivered. I fear that she speaks the truth about my dead wife and son.

  51

  Alone again in my office, I pick at my lunch without enthusiasm. A tired-looking Scott pushes through the closed door and crashes into a chair. The weekend was hell on both of us as we worked like rented mules to unravel our own case. Scott pursued the fingerprint evidence of Sara Barton’s ancient DUI arrest that eliminated the last remaining remnant of conceivable doubt.

  He says, “We searched Lara Landrum’s residence.”