Paul Cleave - Joe Victim

“Just keep driving,” Kent says, even though Jack wasn’t showing any sign of not driving. Just one of those dumb things people say. People are ignoring the van. I practice my big-boy, friendly-neighborhood-retard smile. I need it warmed up and ready for when we get to the courthouse.

Kent turns back and stares at me. “What the hell are you grinning at?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I tell her.

“You’re such a smug bastard, aren’t you,” she says. “You think it’s all going your way. You think the money you earned by showing us where Calhoun was is going to help you, but it’s not. Somehow it’s going to bite you in the ass and people will find out.”

“Detective Calhoun was a killer,” I tell her.

“What are you talking about?” she asks.

“He’s the one who killed Daniela Walker. He went to talk to her and he ended up killing her. Her husband used to beat her up, and instead of helping her, Calhoun took a shot at her too. Then he staged the scene so you would think it was me.”

“You’re full of shit,” Jack says.

“It’s true,” I tell them. “Half the people at the station thought it was somebody else. Well, it was him.”

“Shut up,” Jack says.

“Hey, I don’t care if you believe me or not. I got my money, so what do I care? But you people are worshipping the guy because he was killed in the line of duty, but you’re worshipping a rapist and a killer. You know the difference between him and me?” I ask, and I’m ready for their answers, for the You got caught and he didn’t, the You’re a sick fuck and he wasn’t, but none of them answer, and I realize they’re all hanging on to every word I’m saying, they’re praying for me to say something they can use against me, something one of them can get up on the stand and tell a courtroom full of people.

“The difference is he was a cop. I’ve only ever been the person I am,” I tell them. “I’ve never pretended to be anything else. Calhoun pretended to be on the good side of good versus evil, he was supposed to be somebody above the law, he’s the one everybody should be hating, not me.”

“You’re full of shit,” Jack says.

“And you’ve said that already,” I tell him, then I look at Kent. “I know you don’t believe me, but give it time. By the end of the day you’ll be thinking more and more about it, and by this time tomorrow you’ll be working on proving it one way or the other. Let me know how it works out for you.”

Jack has to swerve around somebody who walks out in front of him, the vomit on the floor starts moving in a new set of directions, and so does my stomach. Then we take a left, coming in behind the courthouse. I once stole a car from this street. I once kicked a homeless man in the nuts and threatened to set him on fire on this street-though of course I was only kidding. I’m not sure if he got the joke-that’s the thing about people, they don’t get irony.

“Are you enjoying this?” Kent asks.

“I’m just trying to do the best I can.”

There are a few people behind the court-a few dozen at the most. Jack pulls up outside a gate and waits for a few seconds for it to roll open. There are office buildings opposite us and lots of parked cars and people walking to and from work. There are road cones in the intersection. I can see some of the signs now. They don’t make sense. An eye for an eye. Slow Joe must go. Kill the fucker.

What the hell is going on? Kent sees my confusion and my smile disappears and now she’s wearing one. “Did you think these people were here to support you? Oh, Joe,” she says, “you truly are dumber than we all thought.”

The gate opens and we drive through. The gate rolls closed behind us. My stomach suddenly constricts and I lurch forward a little. Jack brings the van to a stop. I’m still confused by the signs. An eye for an eye for who? Kill who? Slow Joe must go -well, that one makes sense, it means Slow Joe must be allowed out of jail. There are other cars, an ambulance, a security guard. I can tell I’m not the only one feeling sick now, the stench of vomit churning everybody else’s stomach. Jack and Kent get out of the van and walk around to the back and open the doors. I stare at the ambulance, just wanting to climb into the back, just wanting somebody to take care of me. There’s a sharp pain going across both sides of my stomach, but more so on the side where Cole punched me. I start retching, but all that comes out are a few flecks of vomit.

It takes me a minute, but eventually I get out of the van and onto my feet.

Melissa tenses up when she sees Joe. Her heart quickens. Last time she saw him for real was the Sunday morning he walked out of her apartment. They’d spent Friday night and all of Saturday and Saturday night in bed together. They had ordered pizza and watched romantic comedies on TV, and she hated romantic comedies, but with Joe they were funny. He liked them. He laughed. She laughed. Joe was a romantic guy. He was supposed to come back that afternoon. He was only going home to feed his cat. He even left his briefcase with her. It had some knives in it. He left and didn’t come back and she was angry at him. She felt used. Angry. Angry enough to go looking for him and maybe take a knife to him. But she didn’t. If Joe didn’t want her, then fuck him. It was his loss. Only that’s not what happened. She saw Joe again on TV that night. He’d been arrested.

Right now Joe is on his feet. He doesn’t look good. He looks pale. What have the prison people been doing to him? Any second now the plan will either work or it won’t. It all depends on how good a shot Raphael is under pressure.

Joe collapses.

He falls into a ball on the ground. Yet there wasn’t a gunshot, was there?

The people who were in the van with Joe stand around him, then help him to his feet, and they’re not panicking, so no, there’s been no shot. They move Joe toward the courthouse, half carrying, half dragging him, and she knows from Raphael’s viewpoint there is no way he can get an accurate aim on him.

Joe is whisked away into the courthouse. No screams and no blood.

“Why are we here?” the paramedic asks. “I mean, why did you want to come along?”

“Shut up,” Melissa says. “I’m trying to think.”

“Do you know him? The Carver? Listen, I understand if you’re here to kill him, I do, and Jimmy, he’ll understand too. Please just don’t hurt my kids. I’ll do what you ask.”

Melissa stares at her. She’s never killed a woman before, but she’s starting to think it’d be worth it just for the life experience. It would be character building. “I said shut up.”

“Please, please, you have to let us go.”

Melissa turns and points the gun at her. “Listen, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to stick a hole in you. Okay?”

The woman nods.

Melissa pulls out her cell phone. Calls Raphael. He answers after one ring.

“There was no clear shot,” he says, and he sounds panicky. “No shot.”

“I know,” she says. “Listen to me carefully,” she says. “You need to stay calm. We still have time. In fact we have all day. They’ll be bringing him back out. I’m not sure when, but it will happen later this afternoon. It has to. Just stay calm and stay put.”

“You want me to wait around until then?” he asks, sounding incredulous. “Up here in my police uniform?”

“Yes,” she says.

“What? Up here in the office?”

“Where else would you wait?”

“What if somebody comes in?” he asks.

“Nobody is going to. Listen to me, you need to stay calm. It’s going to work out, I promise you.”