“What are you going to do to them?”
“If you help me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You don’t do what I say . . . well, then it gets interesting.”
Trish nods. Melissa glances behind her at Jimmy. Not too many places to hide an unconscious body, but she can make do. First she just has to strip him out of his uniform. She’s going to need it.
“I want you to tell me we’re on the same page,” Melissa says.
“We’re on the same page,” Trish says.
“Good,” Melissa says, “because we’ve got a few things we need to discuss on our way. And you can start by giving me your cell phone—best you don’t have it, because something like that in the wrong hands is only apt to see that hole of yours get a whole lot deeper.”
Chapter Fifty-Six
The police escorting the empty van are nowhere to be seen. It’s like a ghost being escorted into town. Except it’s not. It’s some kind of decoy van. There must be a crowd of people outside the courthouse. The police must be expecting trouble and are sneaking me through a different entrance. We reach the edge of town. Then we’re closer to the center. We can hear people. Lots of people. We’re on the one-way system heading toward the courts.
“Oh my God,” Kent says.
I look up out the window. I’ve managed to not pass out, which I really think deserves a medal. Protestors are lining the street close to the courthouse. They’re yelling and screaming at the police escort, which I can now see is further up ahead. The escort is swamped by a sea of people. Many of them are carrying placards, but I can’t read what they say. In a way it’s a relief to know all these people have come out here to support me. Nobody wants to see me punished. I’m too likeable. I wasn’t in control of my actions. I’m an innocent man, driven by needs that I’m not even aware of, driven to do things that I can’t even remember. I’m Joe Victim. The justice system is going to save me. A six-foot monkey is waving at everybody going past, a can of beer in his hand with a drinking straw, a big monkey grin on his face. So maybe I have passed out or crossed over because I don’t understand what the fuck is going on. But what I don’t understand the giant panda does, because that’s who I see next, and I guess it’s friends with the monkey because it runs up behind him, throws his arms around him, and starts humping him before the monkey turns around and they touch beers and then both of them are drinking.
“This is going to be worse than I thought,” Kent says.
“You think it’ll end today?” Jack asks.
Kent shakes her head. Are we all seeing the same thing? “Either today or this week,” she says. “University students like this can’t commit to much more than drinking and smoking weed and fucking. I just think committing to dressing up as wildlife and movie characters for more than a week is too much for them.”
I finally realize what’s happening—they’re university students in costumes, all of them have come along to support me. Young people get me, I suppose.
The van turns right. Beads of vomit run across the floor. We get to the end of the block and turn left. Beads of vomit run the other way. Now we’re running parallel to the street we were just on. There are people, but not as many. They are carrying placards. It seems like the entire city has come out to let the world know of my innocence, to let the world know that the real crime is our justice system.
“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.