Joe Victim: A Thriller

I go back to staring at the walls. I think about Melissa and I think about my auntie and I think about the psychiatrist and I think about the death penalty, and all that thinking makes me hungrier, and I realize I have more doubts than I thought about my future. The public has built up a profile of me without even getting to know me. A jury pool will be drawn from people who have been reading and watching a whole lot of negative shit about me over the last twelve months. How is it I can be judged by a panel of my peers? Are there twelve men and women out there who have taken lives, banged a few lonely housewives, had part of their genitalia removed, and tried shooting themselves? No. I’m going to be judged by dentists and shoe salesmen and musicians.

The communal area between the cells is open. The same people are there doing the same things—playing cards, talking, wishing they were all outside doing the kinds of things that got them locked inside. Other than an hour a day exercising in a small pen outside, most of us haven’t seen outside in a long time. Outside could be destroyed by aliens and it wouldn’t make a difference to any of us.

Another hour goes by. My stomach is rumbling even louder. Adam comes back to see me. “You have a phone call,” he says.

He leads me back through the cellblock. We head down a corridor and past a locked door to a phone that’s been bolted to the wall, the same size and shape of a payphone. It’s bolted pretty securely not because prison is full of thieves, but full of people who could beat somebody to death with a nice heavy object like that. The receiver is hanging from it, still swinging slightly from where it was dropped. Adam leans against the wall a few feet away and watches me.

I pick up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Joe, it’s Kevin Wellington,” he says.

“Who?”

A sigh, and then, “Your lawyer,” he says.

“You’ve got a deal?”

“It’s your lucky day, Joe,” he says, which is good because I need to string a lot more lucky days together and this could just be the one that gets the ball falling. “Between me and the prosecution, yes, we’ve struck a deal. You’re getting immunity on Detective Calhoun if you show them where the body is. It can’t be used against you in the trial. You just have to keep your mouth shut about everything else and just show them where the body is and nothing more. Do you get that?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Repeat it to me.”

I look up at Adam, who’s still staring at me. I lower the phone. “It’s my lawyer,” I tell him, “doesn’t that entail me to some privacy?”

“It’s entitle, you idiot,” he says, but I’m not so sure he’s right. “I’m sure it does entitle you,” he says, but doesn’t make any effort to move.

I turn so my back is to him and talk into the phone.

“I get it,” I tell my lawyer.

“No, Joe, tell me what it is you get.”

“I’m to keep my mouth shut,” I tell my lawyer.

“That’s right. You don’t answer their questions, you don’t make conversation. And most importantly, you don’t act like a cocky smart-ass because that’s the exact attitude that’s been making life difficult.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your attitude, Joe. You think you’re superior to everybody else, and you’re not. Your belief that—”

“Uh huh, okay, cool,” I say, interrupting him because he’s making it sound like a bad thing to be superior to other people. It’s that kind of attitude that turns small-minded people into losers. “Moving on,” I say. “What happens with the money? How do we know they’ll pay?”

“The money goes into escrow.”

“Where the hell is that? Europe?”

“Are you for real, Joe?”

“What the hell are you on about?”

“It’s not a where, Joe. It’s a what. It’s like a middleman for the money. It’s like a referee looking after it. Once the body has been identified as Calhoun, you get paid.”

“So I’ll get it when, tomorrow?”

“That depends, Joe, on how easy he is to identify. What condition did you leave him in?”

“Shit,” I tell him. “So this escrow guy, no matter what happens now, the money comes to me if the identity is confirmed, right?”

“That’s right.”

“No matter what.”

A pause, and then, “No matter what,” he confirms.

“Let’s say a nuclear bomb goes off and half the country is killed, there are dead cops everywhere, nobody to run the prisons so we’re all set free. I still get paid, right?”

“What are you getting at, Joe?”

“I just need to make sure. No matter what, I get paid. If I were to walk out of here a wanted man after I’ve shown them the body, then—”

“You get paid,” my lawyer says. “The only condition it’s subject to is Calhoun being identified. However, if you were to walk away somehow a wanted man, you’d find it very difficult to access your bank account.”

“Oh,” I tell him. “Can we get it in cash?”

“No, Joe, you can’t. And what does it matter? Are you planning on walking away a wanted man?”

“No, no, of course not. But having a bank account is no use to me in here,” I tell him. “It’s not like there’s an ATM in here. It’s not like I can offer to write a check to somebody who wants to kill me.”

“And it’s not like you can store fifty thousand dollars under your mattress, Joe.”

“Can you set up a separate account? Something under your name that I can access?” I ask.

“No. Listen, Joe—”

“Okay, then put it into my mother’s account,” I tell him.

“Why?”