you where these people are?”
“Something like that, yes. I don’t know. Not exactly. I can see the pieces there, I can feel the potential, I’m just trying to piece it all together. I don’t know what we could offer Joe that he would accept. But if we can figure something out, well, there could be a much bigger bonus in it for you. What do you think?”
He decides not to tell Jones what he really thinks. Instead he goes with, “I’m sure you’ll work it out.”
“I’m sure I will,” Jones says, his mouth stretching into a smile. He goes back to scrubbing at his shoe. “Tell me, have you heard anything about this morning’s homicide?”
“Probably less than you.”
“I’ve heard the victim was shot twice in the chest,” Jonas says. “Could be a professional killing.”
“So I do know less than you.”
“At the moment, yes, but you have the ability to find out more. Maybe there’s something in this for us. How about you look into it? Give some of those detective friends of yours a call.”
The problem is the detective friends haven’t been great friends since Schroder started working for the TV station. “I’ll do my best. I’m due on set in an hour.”
“You want some lunch first?” Jonas asks, putting his shoes back on. “I’m starving.”
“I’ve already eaten,” Schroder says, and gets up and heads back to the elevator.
Chapter Eleven
Same view. Same voices. Every day like the last, only this week things are more exciting with all the visitors coming to see me. Once the trial is over I’ll be back home and never having to worry about jail again—or visitors, for that matter—unless I get sent to a psychiatric hospital for a year or two first. Then I just have to worry about being gnawed on by other inmates and getting used to pastel-colored rooms.
I wait in my cell alone, which is the best kind of company in a place like this and really sums up the jail experience I’ve had so far thanks to the fact that nobody has tried to rape/stab me. After a while I need to stretch my legs a bit so I head out into the communal area where, if you were to take a poll, you’d learn I’m one of thirty innocent men. I’m Slow Joe. I’m a victim to my needs. I’m Joe Victim. I kill time chatting with a prisoner who was arrested and convicted after setting fire to a pet store. There were cats and dogs and birds, and there were fish. Lots of fish. I keep thinking of a way I could kill him. Fucking fish killer. There’s nothing worse.
The pedophiles and other high-risk prisoners are chatting to each other, some playing cards, the damn weather a hot topic of conversation again. Others have retreated to their cells, and not all of them alone—laughing coming from some of them, grunts and whispers and the sounds of pillows being bitten coming from others.
The day drags on. Every day does. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d rather be hanged than endure this for the rest of my life. This isn’t exactly living the dream.
After a while we’re escorted into the lunch hall. Different cellblocks all eat at different times, and our slot is one thirty. Lunch is made up of food that has to encompass at least forty different elements on the periodic table. It’s a colorless and flavorless exercise that lasts fifteen minutes, but, surprisingly, always leaves me feeling full. The trays are made from thin metal that can’t be broken into sharp useful pieces. The tables are all bolted to the ground, as are the long seats we share. Half a dozen guards all stand around the perimeter of the room watching us. The food is wet enough so you can hear everybody else chewing. Another inmate, a guy by the name of Edward Hunter, stares at me as he eats, gripping his knife quite hard, while I stare at the man who burned down the fish store, gripping my knife hard. But even though I’m staring at him I’m thinking of Melissa and how much I miss her. We could have been great together.
Or will be.
Once the
“Something like that, yes. I don’t know. Not exactly. I can see the pieces there, I can feel the potential, I’m just trying to piece it all together. I don’t know what we could offer Joe that he would accept. But if we can figure something out, well, there could be a much bigger bonus in it for you. What do you think?”
He decides not to tell Jones what he really thinks. Instead he goes with, “I’m sure you’ll work it out.”
“I’m sure I will,” Jones says, his mouth stretching into a smile. He goes back to scrubbing at his shoe. “Tell me, have you heard anything about this morning’s homicide?”
“Probably less than you.”
“I’ve heard the victim was shot twice in the chest,” Jonas says. “Could be a professional killing.”
“So I do know less than you.”
“At the moment, yes, but you have the ability to find out more. Maybe there’s something in this for us. How about you look into it? Give some of those detective friends of yours a call.”
The problem is the detective friends haven’t been great friends since Schroder started working for the TV station. “I’ll do my best. I’m due on set in an hour.”
“You want some lunch first?” Jonas asks, putting his shoes back on. “I’m starving.”
“I’ve already eaten,” Schroder says, and gets up and heads back to the elevator.
Chapter Eleven
Same view. Same voices. Every day like the last, only this week things are more exciting with all the visitors coming to see me. Once the trial is over I’ll be back home and never having to worry about jail again—or visitors, for that matter—unless I get sent to a psychiatric hospital for a year or two first. Then I just have to worry about being gnawed on by other inmates and getting used to pastel-colored rooms.
I wait in my cell alone, which is the best kind of company in a place like this and really sums up the jail experience I’ve had so far thanks to the fact that nobody has tried to rape/stab me. After a while I need to stretch my legs a bit so I head out into the communal area where, if you were to take a poll, you’d learn I’m one of thirty innocent men. I’m Slow Joe. I’m a victim to my needs. I’m Joe Victim. I kill time chatting with a prisoner who was arrested and convicted after setting fire to a pet store. There were cats and dogs and birds, and there were fish. Lots of fish. I keep thinking of a way I could kill him. Fucking fish killer. There’s nothing worse.
The pedophiles and other high-risk prisoners are chatting to each other, some playing cards, the damn weather a hot topic of conversation again. Others have retreated to their cells, and not all of them alone—laughing coming from some of them, grunts and whispers and the sounds of pillows being bitten coming from others.
The day drags on. Every day does. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’d rather be hanged than endure this for the rest of my life. This isn’t exactly living the dream.
After a while we’re escorted into the lunch hall. Different cellblocks all eat at different times, and our slot is one thirty. Lunch is made up of food that has to encompass at least forty different elements on the periodic table. It’s a colorless and flavorless exercise that lasts fifteen minutes, but, surprisingly, always leaves me feeling full. The trays are made from thin metal that can’t be broken into sharp useful pieces. The tables are all bolted to the ground, as are the long seats we share. Half a dozen guards all stand around the perimeter of the room watching us. The food is wet enough so you can hear everybody else chewing. Another inmate, a guy by the name of Edward Hunter, stares at me as he eats, gripping his knife quite hard, while I stare at the man who burned down the fish store, gripping my knife hard. But even though I’m staring at him I’m thinking of Melissa and how much I miss her. We could have been great together.
Or will be.
Once the
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