Joe Victim: A Thriller

Schroder said a similar thing. “Then why can’t I remember any of it?” I ask, remembering each woman in turn, the horror in their faces, the blood, the sex. Mostly I remember the sex. Good times. “You’re talking like you think I’m guilty,” I say. “And I still want my trial. Now, what the hell is this death penalty you’re talking about?”


He adjusts his tie, making me think that out of all the ways to kill somebody I’ve never strangled anybody with a tie. I’ll put it on my bucket list. “Here’s the thing, Joe. Since you’ve been in here things have changed out there. In a way you’ve made that happen. People don’t like the way Christchurch has gone, and you’ve become, well, you’ve become the poster boy for that. People try to figure out how it all started, and you’re the guy they point to. There’s a referendum taking place. The government is spending nine million of the tax payers’ dollars to get their opinion on whether or not to bring back the death penalty.”

I exhale hard through my nose, almost scoffing. I’ve seen that on the news, but it’s not going to lead anywhere. It’s all bullshit.

“They’re sending out voting forms to everybody on the electoral roll. The country wants to be heard, Joe, and everybody over eighteen years old is going to get that chance. I have to be honest with you. Judging by the climate that isn’t good news for you. So the prosecution is offering you a deal. Plead guilty now, accept you’re never going to get out of prison—”

“But I’m innocent!”

“Again, or they’re going to push for the death penalty.”

“But the referendum . . .”

“You ever read the Bible, Joe?”

“Only for the recipes in the back.”

“An eye for an eye,” he says, ignoring my answer. “That’s what this referendum comes down to. And it will pass. Trust me on that. And if it passes, you’re going to swing.”

“Swing?”

“That’s how they used to do it here, Joe. They used to hang people. Hasn’t happened since nineteen fifty-seven, but if you don’t take this deal you’re not only going to go down in history as being the Christchurch Carver, you’re going to go down as the man who brought back the death penalty.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, Joe,” he says, and his tone is the same as the one I grew up with, and I don’t like it any more now than I did then. “Listen to me. They want to start hanging people. Okay? They think it’s the only path back to a civil civilization. It’s an election year. And the politicians are listening to the voters. They’re being asked if they’ll pass the law if the public votes for it, and they’re saying they will because they want the votes. It’s a minefield. You need to take this deal. You have to listen to me when I tell you it’s the only way of saving your life.”

“You can save my life by getting me out of here,” I tell him. “I can’t help what I did. It wasn’t my fault. With drugs and counseling I can . . .”

He starts tapping his fingers on the table, starting with his pinkie and rolling on down to his thumb, over and over. “I tell you to listen to me, but you’re not listening.”

“What?” I ask.

“Let me put this to you more simply, Joe. You,” he says, and he stops rolling his fingers so he can point one of them at me so I know exactly who he means. “Are. Completely. Fucked,” he says, pointing hard with each word. “So take the deal and tell the police everything they need to know about Melissa, about where Detective Calhoun is buried. Let the city avoid an unpleasant trial. There are going to be masses of people protesting. Half want to kill you, the other half only want you in jail forever—but all of them hate you. It will get ugly. You have no supporters here, Joe. Nobody on the jury is going to be on your side.”

“I can’t do life in here. I can’t do twenty years,” I say, and I begin to imagine it. I imagine being in my fifties, my hairline sliding back the same way my father’s did. I imagine trying to steal a car. I imagine the mechanics of stuffing somebody who I wasn’t getting on well with into the trunk with bad hips and perhaps a dash of arthritis too. I try to imagine sneaking up somebody’s set of stairs with a knife in my hand and a bad back, having to use a cane. The world comes out with brand-new, twenty-five-year-old women every year that I’d like to visit, and I imagine spending some quality time with one of them in her bathroom then leaving my hairs in her sink. I’m used to these women looking at me with fear in their eyes. What will they look at me with in twenty years? Humor?

“No deal,” I say. “I want the trial. At least I have a chance. There’s no difference between twenty years and the death penalty. What if I die in jail in eighteen years? It all would have been for nothing. I want another option.”

The whole time Kevin is slowly shaking his head, scratching the side of it at the same time. Small pieces of dandruff land on his spotless suit jacket. “No, Joe, you’re missing the point. Life is life in this case. It’s not twenty years. It’s not thirty years. Life is you never stepping beyond these walls again. Take it, or in a year’s time you’ll be getting fitted for a noose.”