Joe Victim

Chapter Forty-Four

I wake up with a queasy stomach and I’m a little unsure of where I am. For the first week in prison I woke up like that every morning. Somewhat sick, somewhat forgetful of where I was, only the sickness would hang about all morning and the forgetfulness would last two seconds at the most, maybe three, before the reality would come crashing back in. The second week was easier, and since then it’s only happened a handful of times-certainly never as bad as that first morning. This morning my stomach is clenched tight, and the room is just a dark room and not a cell in solitary confinement until the memories start filling in the gaps left by the seconds ticking by and leaving. I climb off my cot and hover in front of the toilet for a few minutes thinking I’m going to throw up, but it doesn’t happen, and then it almost does again, but still doesn’t. The only moisture coming out of my body is in the form of sweat. It turns out the room isn’t as dark as I first thought. I have no idea what the time is. I know I’m going to be taken out of here soon-I have to be. Still, there is that nagging sense of doubt, that small voice telling me that this is it, that these four walls and the cave-dwelling light are going to make up my future. No trial, no lawyer, no more guards-just this.

I move away from the toilet and lie back on my bed. My knees are sore and starting to bruise from when I fell on them in the van yesterday to start retching. In fact, I’ve fallen on them a lot over the last few days-when being force-fed a sandwich or when being punched by Caleb Cole. What I think is probably an hour goes by before there’s a buzzing noise and the door unlocks and swings open, a prison guard I’ve never seen before standing on the other side of it.

“Let’s go, Middleton,” he says.

So we go. The guard has the height of a basketball player and the girth of a truck driver and leads me toward the breakfast hall, one big hand on my shoulder the entire way. All the guys I’ve come to know and love and wish were dead are already eating breakfast. I’m given my share and sip at the water and look at the food, but can’t eat it. I sit uncomfortably, focusing on keeping what’s inside me still inside me, focusing on winning the battle-which I’m managing to do. Then we’re taken outside. I look at people exercising and don’t join in. My stomach still feels like a meat grinder, which is better than it felt yesterday. It’s looking like it’s going to be a pretty nice day, though cold, but good following-women-home weather, though the reality is I’m kind of like the mailman in that regard-I deliver no matter what the season. After an hour we’re led back inside. Nobody mentions the broken phone, but I know it’s only a matter of time. Maybe the message will be delivered in the form of another shit sandwich.

When I’m back in my cell I divide my time between staring at the books and staring at the toilet, but my thoughts are divided between Melissa not saving me and Calhoun being found. I’m waiting for twelve o’clock to roll around. When it does we’re allowed out into the common area. My stomach isn’t feeling great, but it’s certainly feeling better. Things down there are on the mend. I find a good position where I can see the TV. The news has already started. There’s a special report. An exciting report. A body has been found in Canterbury farmland. Yes! The reporter is live at the scene. She’s attractive. Yes! Female reporters in their twenties often are. I wish she was reporting live from my cell. It would be an exclusive for her. This just in.

Over her shoulder are police cars and trees and a piece of land that is having its fifteen minutes of fame. The land belongs to a guy by the name of Mark Hampton. Hampton is a farmer. He grows wheat and paints barns and fucks cattle and is helping police with their inquiries. The identity of the body has not been confirmed. However, the circumstances in which the body were found strongly suggest it’s Detective Inspector Robert Calhoun, who went missing a year ago.

“We can’t confirm exactly how he did it,” the reporter with her lush lips and beautiful eyes says, “but Jonas Jones led a film crew here shooting next week’s episode of Finding the Dead, which revolves around the disappearance of the policeman. It’s been well-known that the policeman was murdered last year by Melissa X, who so far has continued to evade police capture. According to the producers of the show, Jonas Jones was experiencing a psychic link with the deceased detective.”

The story carries on. I wait for her to pitch the fact that Finding the Dead is on the same network as them, but she doesn’t. At one point the camera focuses on Carl Schroder. He looks tired. The reporter confirms Schroder works for the TV station that produces Jonas Jones’s show. It confirms Schroder was present when the body was found. Then it focuses on Jonas Jones, who is being spoken to by the same woman who escorted me out to the farm yesterday.

Watching it unfold, I feel buoyed by the entire situation. Not just because there is now a guaranteed payday, but because if there are people out there who believe in psychics, and there are people out there who watch their shows, then that means there are people out there who will believe anything.

That means there are people who will believe in my innocence.