Joe Victim: A Thriller

“If the law passes,” I say.

“In theory it could go either way. But it won’t. It will pass. The decision is yours. You’ve been given twenty-four hours to decide.”

“How can they do this to an innocent man?” I ask.

My lawyer sighs and leans back, not an ounce of belief anywhere in his features. He looks like he’s frustrated, like he’s been trying to tune into a TV station he can’t quite land on.

“I don’t need twenty-four hours,” I tell him. “I’m innocent. The jury will see that.”

“Joe—”

“They can’t convict a man for being sick, and that’s what I was. I was sick. It’s not right. There must be human violations against it. We must have other options.”

“You’re out of options, Joe. You didn’t leave yourself many options when you got caught with that gun, or that videotape in your apartment. The trial is only a show, Joe. The jury hasn’t been picked yet, but it’s already made up its mind. The whole world has. And you pass up this deal and you could be swinging from a rope in a year.”

“I’d rather that than life in here. Send our shrinks in. Let them evaluate me. They can go up on the stand and contradict everything Benson Barlow will say about me.”

“Listen, Joe, for the last time, I’m telling you it’s not going to work.”

“I’m not taking the deal.”

“Fine,” he says.

“Anything else?” I ask him.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something encouraging, maybe. Seems all you ever do is bring me bad news. Seems like you’re just trying to bring me down.”

“I’ll let the prosecution know you’re rejecting the deal,” he says. He glances at his watch. “You’re talking to our psychiatrist at nine o’clock in the morning,” he says, as if I’d forgotten the time. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“I won’t.”

“We’ll see about that,” he says, and he stands up, knocks on the door, and leaves.





Chapter Nine


Melissa parks outside the house and stares at the front door for two minutes, getting her thoughts in order. It’s a typical house in a typical middle-class street. Twenty or thirty years old. Brick. Garden slightly overrun compared to the neighbors’. Tidy, warm, livable, boring. She has the window wipers off, so the view becomes distorted as more rain gathers on the windshield. She planned what she wanted to say on the way, now it’s just a matter of seeing if it will work.

She looks at the fat suit and wonders if it’s worth putting on, and decides that it is. And instead of the red wig, she goes with a blonde one. She climbs out of the car and holds a newspaper over her head and dashes for the front door. She isn’t sure if he’ll answer, if there’s going to be anybody home—after all, it’s only one in the afternoon. After twenty seconds she knocks again, and then there are footsteps and the rattle of a chain.

The door opens. A man in his late thirties opens it. He has black hair that is slowly receding. His stubble is black on his cheeks, but gray around his chin. She can smell coffee. His skin is pale white—as if he spent summer, last summer, and the summer before that all indoors. He’s wearing a red shirt that’s hanging over blue jeans, and cheap shoes. She hates it when people wear cheap shoes. It’s poor form. Already she’s starting to think this is a bad idea.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Mr. Walker,” she says, and it’s not a question but a statement because she saw Walker’s photograph in Schroder’s file.

“Are you a reporter?” he asks. “Because if you are, you can fuck off.”

“Do I smell like I just went through your garbage looking for tidbits of information?”

“No . . .”

“Then I’m not a reporter,” she says.

“So who are you?”

“I’m a woman who has a job proposal for you.”

He looks confused, as well he should. “What kind of proposal?”

“Can I come in?” she asks. “Please, it’s important, and it will only be a few minutes and I’m sick of standing in the rain and my feet are tired.”

He looks her up and down and seems to finally notice that she’s pregnant. “Are you selling something?”

“I’m selling you the chance to sleep like a baby,” she says.

“Huh. You must be selling some kind of miracle pill,” he tells her.

“It almost is.”

“A miracle pill disguised as a job proposal?” he asks.

“Please, just a few minutes of your time, then it will all make sense.”

Walker sighs, then steps aside. “Fine.”

“Are the kids at school?”

“Yeah.”

She puts the wet newspaper down by the door. “Then lead the way,” she says.