Over the Borderline

by Leanna Floyd

  From what Jacob had observed, even towards her client, Zach Barton, Ms. DeMato said the bare minimum in terms of being compassionate, and even when she did, it came across as forced, as if she had been desensitized by the intricacies of the legal system over the years. Ms. DeMato only worked on murder cases, and throughout her career she had dealt with some of the most heinous murders. Jacob had to assume she was bombarded with images of murder victims on a regular basis, so at some point, she had to shut off her emotional sensitivity and human compassion to such graphic scenes.

  “Okay, we have ten minutes before Judge Ranier is due to make her grand entrance, so take your places and do more than I pay you to do,” DeMato said. Jacob suppressed a smile and thought that was some rah-rah ending to their little pep rally. They shuffled back into the courtroom, walked down the aisle to the front, and took their places behind the defense counsel. The room buzzed with the whispered voices of various comments and conversations from the spectators. Tension hung thick in the air.

  The calm before the storm.

  I waited as long as I could but knew the time would come when I would have to get away and take another drive and find another beach. Several weeks had passed, but the craving had been building inside me ever since that night. Most of the time, I kept it locked in the cellar of my subconscious, protected by my desire to be normal—whatever that means. And I don’t remember what day it was or what exactly happened, only that my head pounded like a giant blade was splitting it in two. It was no trouble to leave work early. What were they going to do, fire me? I started driving home but somehow never got there.

  Instead, I was taking State Highway 90 West, watching the sun seem to remain in place as I drove toward it. The farther away I drove, the more my head stopped hurting. Of course, I knew what I was going to do, even if I couldn’t admit it to myself. I was just taking a leisurely drive after work one evening in mid-autumn, chasing that glowing burnt-red ball along the horizon.

  I wonder if I did know, somehow, where I was going because after two or three hours, and many turns on several other state and county roads, I realized that I was headed to Horseshoe Beach. I couldn’t remember ever having been there before but wondered if maybe it, too, held memories from my childhood.

  The evening progressed very similar to that first time. Once I got to the beach, the sun had flatlined along the horizon into a band of pink and gold. The wind was picking up, making the water choppy as waves grew higher before crashing along the shore. The air held the clean, salty scent of the sea and made me remember how my father had always said, “There’s nothing like sea air to cure what ails you!”

  I took my shoes and socks off, rolled the cuffs of my jeans up, and walked along in the dull glow of twilight. Occasional glimmers of white from the wet sand along the surf caught my eye, and I went closer to inspect. Lots of tiny butterfly clam shells, silvery and slick. Several cockles and a beautiful Calico scallop shell broken in jagged halves. Then I saw the most coveted of shells, at least when my sister and I used to collect them: a sand dollar.

  About the size of a fifty-cent piece, it was perfect, with no cracks or fissures running across the ghostly-grey five-pointed star on top. I knew I couldn’t put it in my pocket, so I just held it in my open palm. That’s when this beautiful redhead showed up.

  “Whatcha got there?” she said. She wore jeans and flip-flops and a Jacksonville Jaguars t-shirt. The wind was blowing her hair into her pretty, freckled face as she stood there with an empty leash in her hand. Far behind her, I could see a frisky golden retriever bounding toward us.

  “My sister and I used to love collecting these when we were kids,” I said, turning to show her my find.

  “Wow,” she said, pushing a copper strand of hair behind her ear and leaning to look. “I haven’t seen one of those in a long time! You must be having a lucky day.”

  “I met you, didn’t I?” I said and smiled in a way that tried to be both convincing and apologetic of how cheesy that line sounded.

  Fortunately, she laughed and extended her hand. “I’m Wendy Jo,” she said. “And this is Brody.” The retriever came up beside her, kicking up sand and carrying a piece of driftwood in his mouth, which he dropped to emit a low growl in my direction. I extended my palm for him to sniff, which he did and then licked in a seal of approval.

  We walked together for a few hundred yards while Brody raced the surf and looked for more driftwood to fetch. Twilight turned into darkness. No one else was on the beach.

  An hour later, I was alone when I returned to the car parking area. I’m not even sure why I placed the sand dollar in her hand. It just seemed like the thing to do since it had brought us together.

  Yeah, I felt bad about the dog, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Chapter 9

  “I want you to see something.”

  Brooke sipped her latte and looked up at Dr. Gregory. He had proposed they extend their regular weekly dissertation meeting by another hour to discuss the Barton trial, and she was excited to dig in. She had intended to tell him about Jacob’s involvement with the firm handling Barton’s defense, hoping Dr. G wouldn’t reconsider her involvement in profiling the accused and the victim. But she had to choose the right moment.

  “You read through all the case notes I gave you, right?” Dr. Gregory retrieved a flash drive from his old battered leather briefcase beside his desk.

  “Yes, of course,” Brooke said. “Lots to process, but I’ve been through it all twice.”

  Reseating himself at the small conference table in his office, Dr. Gregory popped the drive into his laptop and placed it between them. “Watch this and tell me what you think—both of the subject being interviewed and the way the interview was conducted.”

  She nodded and leaned in toward the screen. In a deep baritone, a man’s voice announced, “May 4, 9:24 A.M., first interview with Zachary Malone Barton, age 29, concerning the shooting death of Abigail Winters. Conducted by Detective Joseph Lawson, Sumter County PD headquarters. Begin interview.”

  On the screen, the interrogation room was small and bare. There was a small table and two battered folding chairs on each side of the table. Behind the table near the door, a uniformed officer stood like a statue, broad-shouldered and unmovable. The camera was positioned behind the head of one of the men, presumably Detective Lawson, and focused on the younger man slumped across from him, Zach Barton. The suspect wore dark chinos, a red polo, and topsiders with no socks. Beard stubble clouded his tan face, and his eyes looked bloodshot. Brooke thought he looked like one of the hung-over frat boys who often crawled into her 8 A.M. class.

  “Mr. Barton, can you understand, read, and write English?” asked Lawson.

  Barton murmured something and sneered. His head was hung low, and he refused to make eye contact with Lawson, who repeated the question.

  “When am I getting my watch back? If anything happens to my Daytona, I swear to God, I’ll—that baby costs more than you’ll make this entire year. Did you know that, Detective?” He smiled but refused to look at Lawson. “And you realize I’m doing you a favor by agreeing to talk to you without my attorney. Once my father finds out—you’ll wish—”

  Lawson boomed, “Just answer the damn question! Do you understand English or not?”

  “Yes!” Barton roared back. “I read and write and speak English! But I’m not one of the helpless wetbacks you’re used to scaring with your little song and dance. Maybe I should wait until one of my dad’s lawyers gets down here…”

  Unfazed, Lawson wrote something in the notebook in front of him and said, “Your choice—questions are the same with or without ’em. Are you currently under the influence or intoxicated?”

  “No,” Barton said, calmer and more composed.

  “When was the last time you drank alcohol or smoked cannabis?”

  “I don’t know, man…me and the boys had a few brews last night. You already took my blood—probably the only reason you brought me in—so you tell me.�
�

  “Can you tell me how you knew Abigail Winters?”

  Barton answered, “I don’t remember—through a mutual friend, I think. Maybe at one of the clubs a few years ago. Ladies can’t keep their hands off me. Always wanting some of the Zach-Man.” He chuckled to himself.

  “And what was the nature of your relationship with Ms. Winters?”

  Barton was shaking his head and suppressing more laugher. “So, we were together for a couple years, okay? Maybe longer. On and off—no biggie. She wanted to play house, and I wasn’t ready to settle down, so we split. Breakups happen all the time. No big deal.”

  “Approximately when did you break up with Ms. Winters?”

  “Uhmm…well, the last time,” he snickered. “I guess maybe a few months ago. Like, right after Christmas—yeah, I felt bad ending it during the holidays. I’m a classy guy, so I got her some nice bling from Santa and waited until January.”

  “Can you be more specific? What day in January?” Lawson’s voice became more animated, as if the date were clearly significant.

  “I told you…I don’t know…maybe about a week after New Year’s, something like that.”

  Lawson scribbled in his notepad before continuing. “And when was the last time you saw Ms. Winters?”

  Barton shifted and looked uncomfortable. “Last night. We ran into her at a friend’s place—she saw us come in and immediately started saying shit about me and my brother. Wouldn’t leave us alone, started crying about getting back together. So, me and my guys left.”

  “The name of this friend?”

  “Sabrina Anderson—she’s an actress. You might have seen her in—”

  “Is it true that Ms. Winters told you she was pregnant with your child at this party last night? Several witnesses told us they heard her shouting”—Lawson looked down and read from his notes—“‘It’s Barton’s baby, y’all!’ and ‘He’s my baby daddy!’—true?”

  Shaking his head, Barton said, “I don’t know what that crazy bitch was sayin’ about me. She definitely had put on some pounds, but I just figured she was eating too much, you know? I don’t mind a little extra—you know, more Kardashian style—but Abby was past her sell-by date. Zach don’t look back.”

  “So, did she or did she not inform you that she was pregnant with your child last night when you saw her?” Lawson was clearly growing impatient.

  “She might’ve said something like that,” Barton said and then quickly added, “But you gotta understand Abby—that’s just who she was. Always about the drama—always talking shit or planning something or wanting more. I quit paying her rent after we split, but she was always begging for more. I just figured this was one more of her stunts to clean my pockets.”

  “Had Ms. Winters ever told you she was pregnant before last night?”

  Barton looked around, as if the guard by the door might overhear them. “I just said the bitch was crazy, didn’t I? Yeah, she blew up my phone and Facebook with all kinds of ‘baby announcements’, so it’s no secret. But she and I hadn’t hooked up for a long time—and once she started using…well, she’d screw anybody who’d give her a fix.”

  “Had she ever slept with your brother Brent?”

  Barton lunged lightning fast toward the detective before the guard grabbed the suspect from behind and restrained him. The screen went to black as Lawson said something Brooke couldn’t quite make out. Then the video resumed but clearly some time, at least a few minutes, had passed since Barton’s outburst.

  Dr. Gregory hit pause and then leaned back in his chair. “Tell me what you see so far.” He said and nodded encouragingly, resting his palms together into his chin as if in prayer. Brooke had seen this pose of his many times, a sign that he was deep in thought and wanted his students to join him there.

  “Well, Barton looks like he’s straight out of central casting for the spoiled young trust fund type,” she said, speaking slowly while she thought through her response. “There’s indication of narcissism, self-aggrandizement, mood fluctuation, anxiety, repressed anger toward women, misogyny, and anti-authoritarian behavior.”

  “Which you could find in half the undergraduate males on this campus,” countered Dr. Gregory.

  “True,” said Brooke, “but there’s something very contrived about Barton’s demeanor—almost like he’s auditioning for a part in a film. He’s shielding his personality from view.”

  “What evidence do you have for this conclusion?”

  Brooke nodded, used to Dr. Gregory forcing her to focus on evidence and not just intuition. “I would have to review the footage again to be sure, but it looked like Barton was very deliberate about not maintaining eye contact with Lawson. His references to himself border on dissociative at times: referring to himself in third-person as ‘Zach-Man’ and that comment about ‘Zach don’t look back’.” She looked down and realized she had been doodling the letter Z. “That sounds like a quip he’s used before—you know, a set piece that he uses frequently around his friends. And all that talk about his father’s attorney—like he’s doing Lawson a favor by deigning to talk to him without a lawyer present.”

  “Excellent, Brooke,” said Dr. Gregory, nodding in agreement and resuming the video. “Let’s finish the interview.”

  Lawson said, “Suspect Barton requested bathroom break, which was granted. Interview is now resumed at 9:57 A.M.” The detective paused before asking, “Mr. Barton, were you aware of your brother Brent ever dating or being involved with Ms. Winters?”

  Brooke thought it might be interesting to profile Lawson as much as Barton.

  Someone, probably his superior officer, had obviously told him to act more professionally during the little break when they were filming.

  “Yes,” Barton said without emotion. “Abby got her hooks into Brent about a month after I broke up with her this last time. They hooked up at a party and probably spent about a week together before Brent reached the same conclusion his big brother had: Abby Winters was a user—she always had been and she always would be.”

  “And how did Ms. Winters handle it when your brother broke up with her?”

  “The same—you know,” said Barton, composing himself again. “Just like she’d done with me, she harassed him constantly…calling, leaving messages, telling him what she was going to do to him if he didn’t come see her,” Barton said. “All her usual tricks.”

  Detective Lawson raised an eyebrow and asked, “And did she tell your brother she was pregnant?”

  Barton hesitated and said, “Well, you’d have to ask him.”

  “To your knowledge, had Ms. Winters ever been pregnant before your involvement with her? Had she ever told you she had an abortion?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Barton. “She told me the football coach got her pregnant when she was in high school, and he paid for her to have an abortion. Then she told me she had an affair with a married man who also paid for her to have one. She could spin a yarn, our Abby.”

  “So, you didn’t believe her?”

  “Not really,” Barton said, shrugging. “I took everything with a grain of salt with that girl. She loved to lie when it was just as easy to tell the truth.”

  “Did you go to Ms. Winters’ residence last night after leaving the party at Ms. Anderson’s?”

  “Nope. Went straight home. Chilled with the guys. Called it a night.” He paused and swallowed hard. “It’s a shame about Abby—it really is—and I hope she finds the peace she never had in this life.” His voice cracked as he lost his swagger.

  Brooke noted the time marker of the interview because it was the first time Barton had shown any real emotion. She still wondered if somehow it was part of the act.

  “Do you own a gun, Mr. Barton?”

  “You know I do,” he said. “They’re all registered and kept in a safe at my dad’s place. Well, except the protection I keep at home.”

  “And what is that ‘protection’ you keep at home?”

  “It’s an H & K 9mm,” he said. “Y
ou know, just in case someone breaks into my place.”

  “Did you shoot Abigail Winters with it last night?”

  “No,” said Barton. “Did you?”

  “Did you kill Abby Winters, Zach?”

  Barton paused, as if the use of his first name had surprised him. “No, Joe,” he said. “I did not.”

  Detective Lawson asked, “Prior to this incident, have you had any previous encounters with law enforcement?”

  “Yeah,” Barton said sheepishly, “I was arrested when I was 15 for driving without a license while under the influence. Then for assaulting a police officer, and then six months from that date, there was a vandalism charge for slashing some a-hole’s tires—he tried to steal my girl! You probably know more of the details than I do.” He nodded toward the stack of files in front of Lawson.

  “Do you recall a young woman named Teresa Anne Montgomery—she went by Terri?”

  “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell,” said Barton.

  “She filed charges against you six years ago for rape, aggravated assault, and attempted murder. Now ring any bells?”

  Barton smiled from the side of his mouth, and Brooke once again thought he looked like a little boy, this time caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He said, “Oh, that—year, I remember some bitch giving me grief when things got a little too rough for her. Those charges were dropped, though, as I recall.”