Joe Victim: A Thriller (26 page)

Chapter Forty-One

The prison comes up on the left. We turn off. Having the windows down in the van has helped, but only marginally. Being cold was a sacrifice everybody seemed prepared to make, only the damp air that flooded in seemed to soak up the smell and then cause it to stick to every surface like a thin film of condensation. We pass the barrier gates and go to the same entrance I was taken out of earlier. The warden is there to greet me. He looks at me with disgust. Everybody does. Just because I’m used to that look doesn’t mean I like it. In a fair and just world, I wouldn’t be in chains and these people would all be drawing short straws.

“Get him cleaned up,” the warden says to nobody in particular, and nobody in particular takes any notice because I end up standing there with people who don’t want to look at me. I’m standing on a slight angle because of my missing shoe. The warden seems the most annoyed out of everybody, and if he’d joined our trip and been part of the vote I’m sure I’d still be out there now, surrounded by spotlights and crime-scene tape. There is more paperwork. I stand there watching it get filled out and signed. Then the same four guards that escorted me out earlier escort me back in. They don’t look pleased with the job. They don’t want to touch me. I’m tossed the key for the cuffs and told to undo them myself then step away from the chain. I’m told to take my remaining shoe off first because it’s muddy, and the opposite sock too. The concrete floor is cold. The pressure in my stomach has built back up. I’m taken directly to the showers. I’m given sixty seconds to clean myself up. I make use of every one of them. I don’t think I’ve ever had a shower feel so good. When the water is shut off I’m thrown a towel and a fresh jumpsuit and socks and given another minute to get dressed. Then I’m taken back to my cellblock. There are others sitting around playing cards and watching TV and making idle chitchat, the kind of idle five-or-ten-or-twenty-year-passing chitchat that gets repetitive after day one. I don’t partake in it, instead I head into my cell and I climb onto the toilet and I spend ten minutes feeling about as sorry as a guy can for himself, the toilet no doubt feeling even sorrier.

I keep waiting to feel better. I don’t.

I try to figure out what happened with Melissa. I can’t.

I should have been free by now. I’m not.

Optimistic Joe is struggling to live up to his name.

I’m off the toilet for barely a minute before the guards come in and lead us all away for dinner. I still have no shoes. There are no new people in our group. Nobody has left. It’s the same mystery meat. Caleb Cole is sitting a few tables away. He’s sitting by himself. Seeing him, my face starts to hurt. I look at the food and can’t touch any of it.

“Looking forward to Monday?” Santa Suit Kenny asks me. He sits down on my left and starts in on the meat that could have easily started out the day as somebody’s pet. Or as somebody.

I think about his question. I’m not sure. In some ways no, because there could be a travesty of justice and I’m found guilty. In other ways yes, because it’ll be different from the rest of this bullshit. It gives me a chance to clear my name.

I sum all of this up by shrugging.

“Yeah, I know what you’re saying,” he says, which really goes to prove I should sum more things up by shrugging. I’ll remember that for when I’m on the stand.
Mr. Middleton, did you kill those women? You’re shrugging? I see . . . well, I think we all understand now.

“Trials are tough,” Santa Kenny says. “People don’t see the real you. They judge on the potential of bad things you can do just because of the bad things they think you’ve done, and that potential grows with every cop show and serial-killer movie they’ve seen. To them, we’re all Hannibal Lecter, but without the class.”

I don’t bother pointing out that to them Kenny is just a child rapist in a Santa Claus suit, and no amount of cop movies or Christmas movies is going to alter that.

“It’s totally unfair,” he adds.

I push my tray aside. At this stage any food entering my body would trigger a violent reaction. Santa Kenny stuffs in his mouth some mashed potatoes that, like the meat, probably started the day as something completely different. He chews quickly and swallows it with an audible gulp, then starts up the conversation again. No matter what anybody hears, prison can be full of really friendly folk.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “of what I should do with my life if the band doesn’t want to get back together.”

For the first time I answer him. “It seems being an inmate is something you’re good at,” I tell him. “And you’re experienced at it.”

“I’ve always wanted to be an author.”

I can’t contain my surprise. “Really?”

“Yeah. A crime writer,” he says. “You read romance books right? Well, people love crime books more than romance books,” he says.

I have the urge to tell him to fuck off.

“I think I’d try and combine the two,” Santa Kenny says.

“Yeah? How’s that going to work out?”

“I don’t know, that’s the thing. I just need one really good idea.”

“You probably need lots of really good ideas,” I tell him, but I’m not looking at him, but over his shoulder at Caleb Cole a few tables away. Cole is looking at me too. He looks angry. If I were a betting man I’d bet that after dinner and before we’re put back into our cell, he’s going to come for me. My heart starts racing at the thought and my stomach starts to rumble, but not the hunger rumble—the rumble of things getting ready to let go. “Especially if you want to write more than one novel.”

He starts nodding. “Yeah, that’s true. Completely true,” he says, almost as though he hadn’t thought of this. “Between you and me,” he says, but he doesn’t lower his voice so it’s between him and me and the guy to my left and the guy to his right, and the few guys sitting opposite us too, “I’ve tried a few times, you know. Back before I was arrested. I’d sit at the kitchen table with a computer and try to come up with something, but it never happened. I thought it’d be like writing lyrics, you know? But it’s not.”

“You need to write what you know,” I tell him, which is something authors always tend to go on about.

“Yeah, I’ve read that before,” he says. “And it makes sense. I need to write what I know,” he says, his voice trailing off.

“The problem is I don’t think people want to read books on how to molest children.”

He frowns at me and tries to figure out if I’m joking or being mean or being helpful, and comes to the right conclusion. “You really can be an asshole, Joe,” he says, then picks up his tray and walks off.

When dinner is over I ask one of the guards who isn’t Adam or Glen if I can use the phone. He’s a big guy made up of as much muscle as fast food, the kind of guy who looks like he could knock your head off in a single blow, but would double over after it from the exertion.

“This isn’t a vacation you’re on,” the guard says. He’s one of the night-shift guards. He starts at six o’clock and escorts us to and from dinner or showers then sits in a cubicle watching TV for seven hours while we’re all stuck in our cells. I think his name is something like Satan, but not Satan—Stan or Simon.

“I have a right to use the phone,” I tell him. “It’s important and my trial starts in two days.”

“You don’t have any rights in here,” he says, but at least he doesn’t laugh.

“A hundred dollars,” I tell him.

His eyes narrow as he stares down at me from the few inches of extra height he has. “What?”

I figure I have money to spare. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”

“Hand it over.”

“I don’t have it, but my lawyer can bring it in tomorrow.”

“Two hundred,” he tells me.

“Deal,” I tell him.

“If there’s no cash tomorrow your day around here is going to become a little more difficult,” he says. “Don’t fuck with me.”

I think about how bad today was, and the sad thing is that he’s right—it could have been worse. It’s like what Santa Kenny said—it’s all about the potential. The guard leads me down to the phone. He leans against the same patch of wall that Adam leaned against earlier, but he doesn’t keep making the same threats.

“Two calls,” I tell him.

“Just make it quick.”

First call is to my lawyer. It’s getting late and it’s a Saturday, but I have his cell number. He picks it up after a few rings. I can hear conversation and music in the background.

“It’s Joe,” I tell him.

“I know,” he says, and I figure he probably has the prison phone in his caller ID. I figure I’m lucky he even answered. Could be the ball is still falling when it comes to my luck—after all, I wasn’t shot this afternoon. From here on out I’m going to be living the good life.

“Did the deal go ahead?”

“You’ve held up your end of the bargain,” he says. “Of course it’s going ahead. Once the body is identified the money will be transferred into your mother’s account. I have the details. Your mother is . . . well, she’s quite something,” he says, which on one hand is exceptionally accurate, but on the other hand doesn’t sum her up in the least.

“How long until they identify the body?” I ask him.

“You’ve got a break,” he says. “Five years ago Calhoun was chasing a rapist in his car,” he says, and I wonder if that’s the way most rapists get caught. “There was an accident. So now Calhoun has a metal pin in his leg. Pin has a serial number on it. So if the body you led them to has that same pin, then the money will be cleared. Jones is going to have a vision in the morning. It’s too late tonight and too dark and he wants a buildup. Autopsy will take place tomorrow afternoon. Funds will be transferred tomorrow night. Monday morning your mother will have them.”

“What time are you coming in tomorrow?”

“It’s my day off tomorrow,” he says. “It’s Sunday.”

“But we need to talk about the trial. It’s our last day,” I say, more desperate now since Melissa hasn’t set me free, so maybe the luck ball isn’t falling that much at all.

“Well, we’ll see what happens. If I can make it I’ll make it.”

“And I need you to spot me two hundred dollars,” I tell him.

“Good night, Joe,” he says, and hangs up.

The prison guard is still leaning against the wall. He’s playing a game on his cell phone. I make the second of my two calls listening to the theme music and then to the explosions coming from the guard’s direction. My mother answers after the first ring, as if she were expecting the call.

“Hello, Mom. It’s me.”

“Joe?” she asks, as if it could have been one of any amount of people ringing and calling her mom.

“It’s me,” I tell her.

“Why are you calling? It’s Saturday night. Date night. We’re about to head out for dinner.”

“I wanted to—”

“You can’t come along, Joe. It’s date night. Why would you try to ruin date night?” she asks, sounding annoyed, and I can picture her on the end of the phone frowning at the wall. “It’s our last one before the wedding.”

“I’m not calling about date night,” I tell her.

“Why? You’re too embarrassed to be seen with your mother on a Saturday night?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?” she asks, no doubt the frown now being joined by, rather than replaced by, a look of confusion.

“I’m calling about something else.”

“About the wedding?”

“No. Remember how I called you last night?”

“Yes. Of course. You called about your girlfriend,” she says. “I’m so glad you have a good woman in your life, Joe. Every man deserves a good woman,” she says, sounding happy again. “Do you think you’ll get married? Is that why you’re calling? Oh my, I’m so excited for you! Perhaps we can have weddings on the same day! Just think about it. It’s so fantastic isn’t it? Oh, oh, how about if Walt is your best man? By golly, that’s a great thought!”

“I’m not so sure that’s going to happen, Mom.”

“Because you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. You know, Joe, I didn’t raise you to be this way.”

We’re getting off track—but of course my mom has been off track for at least thirty years. “Mom, did you call her?”

“What?”

“Did you call my girlfriend? Did you tell her that I’d gotten the message?”

“What message?”

“Did you call her?”

“Yes, of course I called her. That’s what you asked me to do. She didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“The message,” I tell her, “the message in the books.”

“What books?”

“The books you brought in for me. The books she gave you to give me.”

“Oh, oh
those
books,” she says, and I hope the force of everything flooding back to her knocks her over. That way she’ll break a hip and the wedding will have to be postponed. “Did you enjoy them?” she asks. “I thought they were okay. Not as good as TV, but nothing ever is. I can’t count how many times I’ve read a book after seeing the movie on telly and been so disappointed. I just wish authors could get it right. Don’t you think so, Joe?”

I don’t answer her. I can’t spare the energy, because I’m using all of my strength to have an out-of-body experience. I’m trying to figure a way to reach my arm down the phone line and put my fingers around her throat.

“Joe? Are you still there?” she asks, and then she taps the phone against her hand—I can hear it banging once and twice, then a third time, and then it’s back and her lips are against it and I’m still trying to reach her with my hand. “Joe?”

“You read them?” I ask.

“Of course I did.”

“But you’re a slow reader.”

“So?”

I face the concrete wall. I wonder how far I could bury my forehead into it. “So when exactly did my girlfriend give them to you to give to me?”

“When?” she asks, then she goes quiet as she’s figuring it out. I can picture my mom standing in the kitchen on the phone, dishes behind her, cold meat loaf on the counter, using her fingers to count off the days. “Well, it wasn’t last month,” she says.

“So it was this month.”

“Oh Lord no. No, it was, now let me see . . . it was before Christmas, no, no, wait—it was after. Yes, I think it was after. Probably around four months ago, I suppose.”

I tighten my grip on the receiver. The other hand curls into a ball. I can’t hear my mom choking. “Four months?”