The Getaway Man by Andrew Vachss

his chair.
    “Are you claiming your
    acts were justified?” he yelled.
    “Which acts?” Tim
    said, grinning at him.
    “Murder!”
    Tim lifted his
    shackled wrists so he could point his finger at the DA. “That
    wasn’t murder,” he said. “That was justice.”
    Tim’s voice was like stone. “That coward killed my brother, and I
    killed him.”
    The DA stuck his chest out, talking real loud.
    “If you and your brother hadn’t robbed that bank, this never would
    have—”
    “Me and Virgil robbed
plenty
of
    places,” Tim cut him off. “And all that time, we never shot nobody.
    Never beat anyone up. Never raped any of the women. If that punk had just kept
    his hand in his pocket, he’d still be alive. And me and Virgil would be
    down on the beach in Biloxi, spending that bank’s money.”
    “You and Virgil and your co-defendant, you mean?”
    “What co-defendant? You mean Eddie?”
    “That’s right. Your poor, innocent friend Eddie. You testified
    earlier that he didn’t even know the car he was found in had been stolen,
    is that correct?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Would it surprise you to know that your friend Eddie has been to
    jail for stealing cars?” the DA said. He stepped off a little, like he
    had just landed a good one.
    “Hell, no,” Tim laughed at him.
    “Eddie’s a natural-born sucker. Fifty to one, somebody else stole
    those cars, and left Eddie to take the weight.
    “That boy’s
    not all there in his head. He couldn’t plan to take a shower. Look at
    what he did, for Christ’s sake. We tell him to wait for us, and so he
    just sits there. And when the cops start blasting, he
still
sits
    there, like a lump of clay.”
    I could feel people looking at me. I
    didn’t want to look at them, and I didn’t want to look down, like I
    was afraid. For the first time, I looked at Tim.
    “Eddie’s
    not like other guys,” he told the jury. “He’s a retard.
    Slow.” Tim’s eyes were like chips of blue ice.
    “It’s like Eddie’s just a kid,” he said, shaking
    his head. “A simple, dumb kid.”
    T he jury found me guilty
    of something, some charge I never heard of. I wasn’t guilty of the
    killing, or even of the robbery. I guess it probably had something to do with
    the car I was in.
    My lawyer was really happy. He said the most the
    judge could give me would be five years, and I probably wouldn’t get even
    that much.
    “I guess you heard how Tim made out,” he
    said.
    I just shook my head.
    “Capital murder,” the
    lawyer said. “And the jury found special circumstances. Do you know what
    that means?”
    I shook my head again.
    “It means the
    death penalty,” the lawyer said. “If he hadn’t come across
    like such an outlaw when he testified, they might have cut him some slack, I
    think. It wasn’t an intentional murder. I would have thought a life
    sentence would be more appropriate, myself.”
    “Yeah,”
    I said.
    The lawyer looked at me hard, like he could stare through to
    the truth. I think he was mad because he knew I would never trust him.
    W hen you first come into prison, they keep you separate from everyone
    for a few weeks. They have to make sure you don’t have a disease, I
    guess. Once in a while, they bring you out of your cell to see a doctor or to
    talk to different people. Everybody asks you a lot of questions.
    One
    man, I guess he wasn’t a guard, because he didn’t have a uniform,
    it was his job to tell new guys what prison is like. I know that because he
    started to tell me stuff like don’t borrow money from anyone. He was
    reading through a bunch of papers while he was talking to me, moving his finger
    down the pages.
    “Oh, you’ve been in the system for a long
    time,” he said.
    “I guess,” I told him.
    “Well, then you already know the score,” he said.
    I t
    was in prison that I first learned what I was. I mean, what to call myself: a
    getaway man.
    I learned that from J.C. He was an older guy, maybe
    forty or something. He