Paul Cleave - Joe Victim

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.”