Paul Cleave - Joe Victim

“Who buried the body?” he asks. “You or Melissa?”

“Like I said, it’s all so vague,” Joe says. “I know I didn’t kill him, and you know that too, because there’s a video of it. I don’t know who filmed the video.”

“The video was in your flat,” Schroder says. “It had your fingerprints all over it.”

“All so vague,” Joe says, and Schroder wants to punch him.

“And fifty thousand dollars will help you remember,” Schroder says.

“That’s the feeling I get,” Joe says, and then he flashes that stupid smile of his that he used to flash back at the police station when he was walking around with a bucket and mop. Back then it was endearing, but now it’s repulsive. “You know, Carl, you don’t give people enough credit. You need to be more positive in life. These bad thoughts-they’ll bring you down.”

Weirdly, he would have to agree, which in itself is a pretty dark thought-one that brings him down.

“You have a contract already drawn up?” Wellington asks.

“We do,” Schroder says, and slides a thin folder over to the lawyer, who doesn’t pick it up, but stares at it, and Schroder wonders if the lawyer can see a future that he doesn’t want to be a part of and if so, then good for him.

“I’m going to need ten minutes with my client,” he finally says.

“No problem.” Schroder stands up and knocks on the door. “Let me know when you’re ready,” he says, and one of the guards comes and gets him and leads him back out to the waiting area.

My lawyer is wearing the same outfit and has the same annoyed expression on his face. We sit in the same room and make the same kind of conversation.

“What’s going on here, Joe?” he asks.

“It’s simple. I tell them where I think the bodies are. If I’m right, I get fifty thousand dollars.”

“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.

“Not all the time,” I answer. “And you know that. Let me show you. Maybe you’ll find something there that will help you track down Melissa-that’s what you want, right? More than anything? You get that, and your psychic sidekick gets what he wants.”

“More than anything I’d like to see you hang for what you’ve done to this city,” Schroder answers, and I think what he really means is he’d like to see me hang for what I did to him. I made him look like a fool. He starts to stand up. My lawyer reaches out and puts a hand on Schroder’s arm, and if my mother were here she’d be convinced by now that outside of these walls these two men would start doing the kind of thing my mother would highly disapprove of.

“Wait,” my lawyer says, and Schroder lowers himself back into the chair. My lawyer looks at me. “What exactly is it you want, Joe?” he asks. “What is it you’re trying to gain by showing where Calhoun is buried? Do you think that by showing instead of just telling that somehow you’ll manage to break free?”