Paul Cleave - Joe Victim

At least it would stop the stomach pains.

Then, slowly, Kent shakes her head. “This is ridiculous,” she says, without any emotion, as if she’s reading The cow goes moo off a cue card. Then she injects a little more conviction into it. But only a little. “I’m not going to risk my career for him,” she adds.

“There’s no risk,” Jack says.

“Of course there is,” she says. “You think we can say Joe ran so we had to shoot him? That we couldn’t catch him?”

“Why not? You think people will care?” Jack asks, and suddenly it’s looking like if Kent doesn’t agree, I’m not going to be the only one having new holes made inside them. They can say I got hold of a gun and shot her before they shot me. Then they’ll have an excuse for putting so many holes into me. Kent doesn’t see it. If she did, she’d stop arguing.

“People will care,” she says.

“Who?” Jack asks. “Come on, Rebecca, this is a freebie. This is why we became cops, right? To right some wrongs. To give justice. If we do this, then we can be honest about why we were out here. We don’t have to fuck around with this psychic shit.”

She doesn’t answer right away. There’s a pendulum swinging-or a wrecking ball-and she still hasn’t decided to go with it or against it. “Family members of victims will care,” she says.

“No they won’t. They’ll be thrilled,” Officer Dick says.

“They deserve to face him in court,” she says. “They deserve the right to confront him.”

Everybody goes quiet. More thoughts and no Melissa, just tension mounting upon more tension, and more tension rising in my stomach. I push my thumb a little deeper. Something in there swirls around. Something in there doesn’t want to be in there anymore.

“We can do this, Rebecca,” Jack says. “We can do it and say whatever we want. You know that, right?”

She nods. A slow, purposeful nod. “I. . I don’t know,” she says. “But. .”

“You can’t do this,” I say.

“Shut up,” Jack says. “Rebecca. .”

“Can we live with it?” she asks.

“Don’t-” I say.

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack says.

“I can live with it,” Officer Dick says.

My stomach does one final turn, then my legs turn to jelly and my ass muscles just can’t hold on, and before anybody can add anything else a sound like a thunderclap tears itself free from my ass. It echoes through the trees and across the fields. The mess that follows is like a mudslide.

“Oh fuck,” Jack says, and Officer Nose says something similar and so does Dick and Kent, so it’s a chorus of fuck s. They all jump back from me. I fall to my knees and into the mud. There are more thunderclaps, quickly followed by what sounds like a bucket of water being thrown at a mattress. I fall onto my side. Dick looks like he’s going to throw up, and then Jack starts laughing. He throws his head back and he has to hold on to the shovel to stay balanced, and he laughs just as hard as Adam and Glen did earlier-harder, probably. He laughs like a man who is in danger of tearing his vocal chords. Kent starts to laugh too, just a grin at first that widens and makes her look even more beautiful. Jack’s laugh becomes infectious, the harder he laughs the harder the others join in. Officers Dick and Nose are on the brink of losing control. My stomach lets go once more-not so much a thunderclap this time, but like somebody sticking a knife into a car tire. I can feel fluid running across my thighs. I try to get to my knees, but don’t have the strength.

“Now we really should shoot him,” Jack says, and he’s laughing as he’s saying it, but there’s still some seriousness in there, some tension, but it’s been broken. “Let him stink up the coroner’s van instead of ours.”

Kent is smiling and shaking her head. She is holding her nose with one hand and talking into her hand. “Let’s just get him back,” she says, “and let the prison clean him up.”

Nobody objects. Nobody suggests they ought to shoot me again. Part of that may be to do with the technical details-I’m covered in shit, and shooting an unarmed man covered in shit is going to be a much harder sell.

“It’s gonna smell,” Dick says, and they’re all still laughing only not as hard now. It’s dying down.

“Let’s just go,” Kent says.

“Wait,” I say. I’m still lying on my side with my face in the cold mud.

“What for?” she asks.

For Melissa to shoot you. All of you. For her to come and save me. It’s getting darker, but the sun hasn’t quite set yet. Isn’t this twilight? Didn’t Mom pass along my message?

“I want to pay my respects,” I say.

“Let’s go,” Jack says, and he reaches down and pulls me to my feet. Officer Dick puts the dirt back into place and pats it down.

The trip out here is put into reverse order. Now the mountains in the distance are on my right. Same trees, same dirt, same rocks with mold. Same view all around except darker. A hundred yards. Two hundred. The seat of my prison jumpsuit is cold. It’s sticking to my legs and ass and smells just like the sandwich. The walk is slow thanks to the chains around my ankles. The pain in my stomach has lessened, but I can already feel it starting to build again. Melissa is in the trees somewhere, but taking her time, just waiting for the perfect shot. Being covered in my own shit will be a mood killer for her, but I’ll clean up good. I lose my shoe in the same place I lost it earlier, but don’t have the strength to bend down and look for it. It’s getting darker by the minute. My sock is soaked in mud and my foot is cold and it hurts when I step on a tree root or a stone or anything else that isn’t flat. Then we’re at the fence. We go over it the same way as before, two ahead of me to drag me, but the two behind me don’t want to push. They don’t want to touch me. So the two ahead have to do all the work because I don’t have any strength to help them. When I’m over I break the fall with my arms and am given only a few seconds before being pulled back up. We approach the van. My feet are heavy with mud. My bank account is about to be heavy with cash. Cash I can’t use unless Melissa starts shooting. Only she doesn’t. Nobody does.

We all stand at the back of the van wondering how to make the next step less messy than it’s going to get, but nothing comes to mind, there’s nothing to lay across the seat first, so I head in and the reverse order continues. Hell, even Calhoun was found and then not found. The only thing that hasn’t been taken back is me shitting myself-that one was for keeps. The chain between the eyelet and my handcuffs is fastened. I’m all hunched over. The two cops back here sit as far from me as they can. Jack opens his window. Kent opens hers the rest of the way. There’s a moment where the van doesn’t want to start, a good two-second turnover of the engine where I get to think Melissa has done something to it, but then it catches and Jack pumps the accelerator a few times then releases the hand brake and pulls a U-turn. More lefts and rights, but in the opposite order. Jack flicks on the headlights. A rabbit on the road twenty yards away is all lit up and seems happy with the idea of being hit by the van, and that happiness probably fades as he goes tumbling under the wheels. Moths are flying into the lights and splattering over the windshield. It’s as though nature is trying to kill itself around me, that we are a van of death driving into town. Traffic is thin. My feet are wet and cold. Melissa didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

The outer shell of the building is complete. Inside are offices in various stages of completion. The complex won’t reach the finish line until hard economic times become good economic times. Nobody knows when that will be. Opposite the building are the Christchurch Criminal Courts that, until recently, were also under construction. Hard times or good times-it doesn’t matter where the economy is at when it comes to prosecuting crime. The old courts are a few blocks away, but Christchurch was a growing city with bigger problems, and it needed bigger courts to reflect that and to feed bad people into the prison population at a faster rate.