Joe Victim: A Thriller

The day drags on. Every day does. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d rather be hanged than endure this for the rest of my life. This isn’t exactly living the dream.

After a while we’re escorted into the lunch hall. Different cellblocks all eat at different times, and our slot is one thirty. Lunch is made up of food that has to encompass at least forty different elements on the periodic table. It’s a colorless and flavorless exercise that lasts fifteen minutes, but, surprisingly, always leaves me feeling full. The trays are made from thin metal that can’t be broken into sharp useful pieces. The tables are all bolted to the ground, as are the long seats we share. Half a dozen guards all stand around the perimeter of the room watching us. The food is wet enough so you can hear everybody else chewing. Another inmate, a guy by the name of Edward Hunter, stares at me as he eats, gripping his knife quite hard, while I stare at the man who burned down the fish store, gripping my knife hard. But even though I’m staring at him I’m thinking of Melissa and how much I miss her. We could have been great together.

Or will be.

Once the jury lets me go.

I take my tray over to the table where Caleb Cole is and sit down next to him. There are scars on his arms and hands. He has the face of a man who has experienced a lot of physical pain. He has the kind of thinness and skin about him that suggests he’s lost a lot of weight in a short time. Prison food isn’t going to reverse that. He looks up at me then back at his food.

“My name’s Joe,” I tell him.

He doesn’t say anything.

“It’s Caleb, right?”

Still nothing.

“So, Caleb, I was thinking, maybe you and me could be friends.”

“I don’t want to make friends,” he says, talking into his food.

“Everybody needs friends in here,” I tell him. “You were in here for fifteen years, so you know that, right?”

“Fuck off,” he says, which isn’t a great way to start a friendship.

“We have a mutual friend,” I tell him. “A guy by the name of Carl Schroder. He arrested you, right?”

“I can’t talk about Schroder,” he says, still looking at his food.

“Why not? He’s the one who arrested you, right? Just before he was fired. I just want to know what happened that night. Something happened, I’m sure of it.”

“Like I said earlier, fuck off, okay?”

“You feel like you owe him something to stay quiet?”

“Schroder is the reason I’m in here with you, and not in general population.”

“Yeah? So why are you acting like his best friend?”

He stops eating. He puts his knife and fork down and twists toward me because I haven’t fucked off like he originally asked. He puts his hand onto the side of my tray and slides it off the edge of the table. It crashes onto the floor with a loud bang and the food goes everywhere. Everybody in the room is staring at me. They’ve all gone quiet.

If he were a woman, I’d know what to do. I’d stab her right where she was. But he’s not a woman. And he’s not a man that I’ve already clubbed with a frying pan or shot or stabbed in the back. I suddenly feel very much out of my depth.

“I’m glad you came over to see me,” he says, and suddenly I feel nervous. “I was in the hospital for a bit after being arrested, then they had me on suicide watch. They thought I wanted to die, and back then that was true. Not now. See, I have more to do before I want to die. Things to take care of. That’s why I can’t talk about Schroder. See, I just need to be left the fuck alone for the next twenty years so I can get out and carry on with my life.”

“I heard you carried on with it a few months ago,” I tell him. “Carrying on with your life doesn’t bode well for others. That’s why you’re back in here.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you.”

Yes. “No.”

Sound starts back up in the room. More conversation. We stop being the center of attention.

“See, the thing is,” he says, “even if I do make it another twenty years, the people I want to see on the outside may not even be around. So I’d have put up with twenty years of bullshit for nothing. That’s a depressing thought. It’s been with me since getting arrested. It gets me down. It’s why I was on suicide watch. What got me through that was figuring I needed to focus on other things. And in a place like this, a man doesn’t have too many options.”

“One option is to tell me about Schroder,” I remind him.

He shakes his head. “I already told you I’m not telling you about Schroder. Never. I tell you about him, and I’m back in general population.”

“Come on, what did he do?”

“I think I’m going to start focusing on you.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re talking to me right now. Because I’ve been thinking about you over the last few weeks. Everybody in the city has been thinking about you. Tell me about your trial. I’ve heard things. I’ve heard you’re running with an insanity defense.”

“What of it?” I ask.