Joe Victim: A Thriller

“My daughter was murdered,” he says. “Fifteen years ago. You heard about that?”


I shake my head. Other people and the things that happen to them don’t bother me unless it relates to me somehow.

“She was murdered by a guy who should have been in jail, but you want to know why he wasn’t?”

I shake my head. I don’t really want to know, or care. He takes the headshake as an indication to carry on.

“Because he’d escaped conviction two years earlier of hurting another little girl because he used an insanity defense.”

I slowly nod. This is good. Very good. “So what you’re saying is it works.”

He stares hard at me. Then he slides his food tray away from himself and steps out from behind the table. He’s thinner than me, a little taller, but there’s something in his face that is frightening. I think if he were put into general population he’d get by just fine.

“I don’t want you using an insanity defense,” he says, and maybe he should be my lawyer. “People need to be responsible for what they did. It’s not right that doctors can come along and make it otherwise.”

“It truly isn’t my fault I did the things they say I did,” I tell him. “I don’t even remember any of it.”

“Uh huh. So you’re using it,” he says, pointing at me. “The defense. You’re using the defense. The same defense that allowed my daughter to be killed.”

“How old was your daughter?” I ask.

He’s not ready for the question, but he’s been studying because he knows the answer. “She was ten.”

“Then there’s no reason we can’t be friends. No reason you can’t help me out and tell me what Detective Schroder did to lose his job.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Well your daughter was too young to be my type.”

He stares at me angrily and I’m not sure why. All I can put it down to is his jealousy. I’ll be getting out of here in a matter of weeks, and he’s stuck here for twenty more years, and that’s the kind of thing people in here don’t like.

“Three days,” he says.

“Three days for what?”

“Your trial starts in three days, so that gives me three days to decide whether or not I want to kill you,” he says. “I’m in here for twenty years no matter what. Killing you won’t add to that. Killing you may even get my sentenced reduced. I’ll think about it,” he says. “I’ll let you know soon,” he says, and he walks away.

I watch him go. Nobody else does. Nobody is watching me either—they’ve all gone back to their meals. My meal is all over the floor and Caleb’s is mostly still there, so I start in on his. I think about his three days and wonder if it’s possible he can do what he just said. Three days to kill me. But I see it as three days to win him over. Show him some of the Joe charm and get him talking. I see it like that because I generally have a positive outlook on life—it’s why people like me so much. Even so, my hands are shaking a little as I eat.

Thursday afternoon carries on and, like all other Thursdays and Mondays, I have a visitor. It seems as if today people just can’t get enough of me. From Monday the country won’t be able to get enough of me. They’re all going to be glued to their TV sets watching the news.

The same two asshole guards lead me down to the visitors’ area. It’s a much bigger room than the rooms my last two visitors spoke to me in. It’s the size of a large conference room that can accommodate perhaps a dozen prison members at a time, along with those coming to see them, and along with some guards. Today the room is mostly empty. A couple of prisoners talking with their wives. With their kids. There are hugs and tears and there are guards watching everything with eagle eyes. There’s a baby in a pram that keeps staring at me, and for a moment I wonder what life would be like having children. If I had a son I could teach him to fish, to throw a ball, to use a hooker and not pay. Then I think about nappy changes and sleepless nights, and I allow myself a few seconds to think about that life, then I turn toward the person who has come here to see me.

My mother.

She is sitting in the corner with a handbag clutched in her lap and an old man by her side. She doesn’t look like she has aged. If anything, she seems to look younger. She is certainly dressing better. And she looks happier. I hope that’s because of Walt, and not because her only and favorite son is in jail.

She starts smiling the moment I sit down opposite her. It’s unusual. If my mom can smile it means I can win the lottery.