The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (top 20 books to read TXT) 📕

“You lied to the police about the alibi?”

“Yes, but—”

“Because you saw the defendant pull the trigger?”

“No!”

“Because you were with him?”

“No!”

“You were at the Barton house?”

“No!”

“You weren’t at the Barton house?”

“I wasn’t.”

And there’s the first breach in the perimeter of her fairy tale from this morning. Monica’s good at memorizing lines, but bad at improvisation. The only way to get this witness to tell the truth is to make her think that the truth helps Barton. I press on.

“Being asked if you saw the defendant pull the trigger makes you now realize you weren’t at the house?”

I stand between her and the defense table, purposely blocking her view. She actually cranes her head to the side to see around me. I turn my head in a slow, dramatic fashion to follow her gaze and eye Millwood and Barton with great amusement. The jurors follow my eyes just as I followed Haywood’s. With so much attention focused on them, Millwood and Barton remain on their best behavior. I then face the witness again and say: “You don’t need to look at them to answer. Would you like me to repeat the question?” She nods.

“Being asked if you saw the defendant pull the trigger makes you now realize you weren’t at the house?”

“No. Yes. It’s just that I remember now.”

“Remember seeing the defendant pull the trigger or that you didn’t go to the house?”

“Didn’t go to the house.”

“But you’ve already lied to the jury today?”

“Yes.”

“Lied to protect the man you love?”

“He didn’t do it.”

“He didn’t pull the trigger?”

“No.”

“But you weren’t there, were you?”

She slumps. The question remains unanswered. That’s okay. Everyone in the room can taste her defeat. I let the moment breathe, hoping that the constant refrain of “pull the trigger” tattoos the image of Barton shooting Sara into the brains of the jurors.

“You lied to the police in your condo on the morning after the murder?”

“Yes.”

“Lied to the police in the police station a week after the murder?”

“Yes.”

“Lied in this courtroom this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Lied in this courtroom this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Lied about not seeing the defendant pull the trigger?”

“That’s not a lie.”

“You didn’t drive the four and a half minutes to the Barton house to help the defendant kill Sara?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it true that the reason you know your condo is four and a half minutes from the murder scene is because you and the defendant timed your getaway?”

“No.”

“You parked your car near the playground as part of that getaway plan, didn’t you?”

“No.”

Surprise registers with her. The specificness of the question catches her off guard. I doubt she helped Barton murder Sara, but the question and others like it will at least get the jury thinking about what a conspiracy between the two to kill Sara would look like.

“You tossed the gun in the playground on the way to your car?”

“No.”

“You didn’t do any of that?”

“No.”

“Because you weren’t there?”

“I wasn’t there.”

I decide to wrap up. Lara awaits. The damage to Haywood is fatal. I glance at the defense table and take in a sullen Millwood and a truculent Barton. I breathe a sigh of relief. The gambit worked. I approach the witness again.

“Are you going to have dinner with the defendant and Mr. Millwood tonight?”

“Objection!”

“Withdrawn. No further questions, Your Honor.”

Millwood’s glare accompanies me back to my seat. For him to break character and reveal his true emotions, the questioning must’ve been devastating to the defense. He tried to offer up young Monica as substitutionary atonement for the sins of the defendant, but the trial gods rejected the sacrifice. Still entrenched in the witness chair, Haywood sends a plaintive look toward Barton, but he is in no mood to receive it. I doubt dinner is in the cards. After some tense moments of silent contemplation, Millwood releases the witness.

42

Ella’s voice announces loudly, “The state calls Lara Landrum.”

Lara stands, drawing all eyes to her like an outdoor light beckons the summer bugs. Her celebrity hangs over the trial like the carcass of a dead animal. The cameras in the courtroom, the looks the jurors steal toward her, the extra buzz radiating throughout the building—the origin of all of it is Lara.

She now walks the walk of a confident beauty queen. Her blue dress is properly conservative, and she wears it well. She is gorgeous but not in a way likely to be offensive to other women. The men on the jury are impressed. Be careful what you wish for, I think.

Ella asks, “Will you please state your name for the record?”

“Lara Denise Landrum.”

I dumbly realize I didn’t even know her middle name. I watch her now, still mesmerized despite the razorblade slashes that mark our history.

“Did you know the victim in this case, Sara Barton?”

“Yes, she was my twin sister.”

“Tell us about Sara.”

“Sara was the happiest little girl. She loved to draw and give people her drawings to make them smile. She had big dreams about how she was going to change the world. I remember one time—I think we were six—she saw a news story about an orphanage in Nigeria. The next day she sold all her dolls to raise money to give to those kids. That was the kind of person Sara was.”

Lara continues along these lines. Millwood could object to the testimony as improper narrative but refrains. Americans are suckers for celebrities, and the jurors sit there transfixed by Lara’s presence. Interrupting her now would only bring their annoyance down on his head. As he taught me, sometimes the best objection is the one not made.

Lara finishes her answer, “But Sara married the wrong man and lost all her dreams in the process.”

Millwood flinches but nothing more. The words are already out there. No need to bring even greater attention to them.

“Who did Sara marry?”

“Bernard Barton. The defendant.”

Lara looks away from Ella and the jurors. She directs her attention across the courtroom to Barton, not with eyes of anger like I would expect, but with profound sadness. I’ve never seen a witness simultaneously convey pathos and accusation, all without saying a word.