Joe Victim: A Thriller

“No, Joe, what you do is risk your entire defense. For a guy who can’t remember anything, this is a stupid ploy. You tell them where the body is, that proves you can remember things.”


“Doesn’t work that way,” I tell him. “Jonas Jones is going to ‘find’ the body,” I say, and I use air quotes around the word find, and when I do I realize I’ve never used air quotes before and never will again because they must make me look like a complete asshole. “That’s what the contract is for. They can’t afford for the public to find out what really happened. It’s safe,” I tell him.

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Joe.”

“This isn’t a game,” I answer, somewhat annoyed at him. “This is my life. The world is telling me I’ve done these terrible, terrible things, when I really haven’t. Not me, not the person in front of you. A different Joe, maybe, but this Joe doesn’t remember that Joe. When the jury realizes that, when I’m set free, I’m going to need money. It’s that simple.”

I can tell he doesn’t believe a word I tell him. I can tell he’s starting to think that I really must be insane. “Well, it’s your decision,” he says. “Things must be going really well with the psychiatrist for you to be this damn confident.”

“Things are going okay,” I tell him, confident that this isn’t going to go to trial. I’m going to show Schroder where the body is. And Melissa is going to come and save me.

“Fifty thousand dollars isn’t going to help you if you’re executed. If you want to make a deal, then we’ll make a deal. If you want to show them where the body is, then we use that as a bargaining chip. We can start by getting them to take the death penalty off the table.”

“It’s not even on the table.”

“It will be,” he says.

“The public won’t vote for it.”

He shakes his head. “You’re wrong. They’re going to vote for it.”

“I need the money,” I tell him.

“You need to listen to your lawyer.”

“I am listening,” I tell him, “but you’re not the one facing life in jail, you’re not the one being accused of these awful things. It’s your job to tell me what you think, but I still get to make the decisions, right?”

He nods. “That’s right,” he says.

“Then let’s do this,” I tell him.

“Let me read this contract,” he says, and he opens up the folder.

I watch him as he reads it. He’s either a slow reader or a slow understander. Or it’s written by a lawyer who’s never used plain English in his life. The contract is three pages long. I could write it up in two paragraphs. When my lawyer has read it, he reads it again—this time making notes on a pad. I grow impatient. I don’t interrupt him. I just keep staring at him, and after another few minutes I let my mind drift. I start to think about Melissa, and how we’re going to spend our first night together. I have a pretty good idea of what we’ll be doing. Then I drift further into the future—a week, a month, ten years. Then my lawyer brings me back.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Joe? There is every risk it will come back and bite you in the ass.” His face is without any expression. He’s like a man watching a football game who not only doesn’t care who wins, but also doesn’t understand the rules. Or perhaps this is the face of a lawyer who doesn’t give a damn about his client.

“I want to do it,” I say.

“Okay,” he says. He gets up and bangs on the door. The guard opens it and they talk for a few seconds, then my lawyer sits back down and a few minutes later Schroder comes back in. He looks tired. And annoyed. There’s a lot of that going around.

“Do we have a deal?” Schroder asks.

“We do,” my lawyer says.

“Almost,” I say.

Both men look at me. My lawyer sighs and breaks his don’t give a shit expression. Schroder sighs too and maybe they’ll leave here together and sigh each other to sleep tonight.

“The thing is, it’s vague,” I say. “I can’t quite remember where he’s buried.”

“Yeah. You said that a thousand times already,” Schroder says.

“Because you need to understand just how vague it is.”

“We get the point, Joe,” my lawyer says, “now how about you get to yours.”

“Well, my sense of where Calhoun is is so vague it’s impossible to give directions. I’d have to show you.”

Both my visitors go quiet. Schroder starts shaking his head. Then my lawyer starts shaking his head too. It looks like they’re having a competition. Then they look at each other. To their credit, neither man gives a What are you going to do? gesture.

“You’re not showing us anything,” Schroder says. “We’re not making any deal that lets you outside of here even if it’s only for an hour.”

“Then you’ll never find Calhoun,” I say.

“Yes we will. Dead people have a way of showing up eventually,” he says.