Joe Victim: A Thriller

“Go ahead,” Raphael says.

She clears her throat. “Well, this referendum . . .” she says, and a murmur goes through the crowd, a unifying sound that tells her she’s touched a hot topic, one where everybody in this room is on the same side.

Raphael puts his hands up and waves his palms down slightly. The crowd goes silent. “Carry on,” he says.

“Well, this referendum coming up, we all get the chance to vote on the death penalty,” she says. “My sister, she was murdered,” she says, and she was murdered by a policeman who raped her first, killed her second, and took his own life for thirds. Some would call that a hat trick. She would call it a piece of bad luck followed by a piece of even worse luck followed by a piece of great luck. She doesn’t mention any of this. “And I’m thinking, if anybody deserves the death penalty, it’s Joe Middleton,” she says. “His trial starts next week, and trials can be tricky things. I mean, he deserves to die, that’s what I—”

“He totally deserves to die,” somebody calls out, a woman on the opposite side of the circle whose face is red and angry and hasn’t seen makeup in a long time, her black hair long and messy.

“I second that,” somebody else says, this time a guy a few seats away. Everybody pauses, waiting for more outbursts, and there’s only one more, a Kill the fucker from a guy two seats down.

“Go ahead,” Raphael says.

“Well, what happens if he gets away with it? What happens if he pleads that he’s insane and the jury lets him go? What then? He goes free? That’s not fair. Not fair to me, to my sister, not fair to many others in this room. What do we do then to make sure he gets justice?”

“It’s a good question,” Raphael says, and Melissa knows it is. It’s why she asked it.

“With a simple answer,” a man further along the circle says. “We kill him.”

Another man stands up. “Yeah, we kill him. Hunt him down and shoot the bastard.”

Raphael puts out his hand. “Sit down,” he says. “Please, we’re not here to condone violence.”

“We should be,” the woman who first spoke out says, and Melissa studies the people speaking up, adding them to her list of possible partners. At this rate everybody in the room would probably be willing to help. She could have an army.

“That’s not what this is about,” Raphael says. “Miss . . . what’s your name?”

“Stella,” Melissa says. “I couldn’t handle it if he got away.”

“Well, Stella, he won’t get away,” Raphael says, his voice hardening, and in that moment Melissa forgets about the others in the room because she has a strong sense about Raphael. It’s the same sense she got last year when she first met Joe Middleton. It’s something she’s developed over the years since her university professor raped her, a sense that was drummed into her as she lay pinned and bleeding beneath him. Raphael is her guy. She can sense it. Some people can see poets inside people, or a sense of peace; others have gaydar. Her thing is seeing the anger inside people, and there’s definitely something dark inside Raphael, the exact something dark she was hoping to find tonight.

“But if he does? If he’s found not guilty?” she asks.

“Then we get him,” somebody from across the circle says, but Melissa doesn’t look in that direction, doesn’t see who the voice belongs to, because she only has eyes for Raphael now. Raphael with his blue eyes behind the designer glasses staring back at her, Raphael with the pulse in his forehead and a tightening jaw. Yes, there are bad thoughts behind those bright blue eyes. No doubt about it.

“He’ll be in protective custody, or he’ll be placed somewhere nobody knows. It hurts,” she says, “it hurts missing her and if, if Joe were to get away I’d kill myself, I’d . . . I’d just kill myself.”

Fiona puts an arm around her and Melissa fights the urge to shrug it off and shoot her. Most of the people in the room are leaning forward now.

“Stella,” Raphael says, and Melissa holds a hand up to her face and Fiona grips her a little tighter.

“I need a bathroom,” she says, and she slips out from beneath Fiona’s arm and gets up and rubs her belly and heads toward the back of the hall. People try talking all at the same time. She can hear footsteps following her. She makes it to the bathroom and splashes water onto her face to streak her makeup so it looks like she’s been crying. Then Fiona comes into the room.

“Are you okay, honey?”

“I’m fine,” Melissa says, and wipes at her face.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Raphael said it was time for things to start wrapping up,” she says. “Everybody seems worried about you, and I get the idea you’re not the first person to have run in here crying. Can I get you a coffee? Oh,” she says, then looks at Melissa’s stomach, “perhaps some water instead?”