Death Row

Jeffrey Lockwood. Jeff. My man. Best man who was my Best Man for mine and Rita’s wedding. Mr. Lockwood: wealthy-ass motherfucker who drove a run-down SUV. DJ Lock: best underground DJ in lame ass Utah who simultaneously coded in the basement of his standard two-bedroom townhome. The man who made me famous. The man who got my name--first AND last--out across the whole state (maybe the whole US). Gotta love him.

I’m sorry, Jeff. You deserved better.

The day I met Jeff, I was ditching PE Sophomore year of high school to get high in the handicapped stall of our dingy-ass locker room. I stared at the ‘Ass or Tits’ graffiti poll on my stall door when someone’s shoes scraped the floor, prompting me to pull my feet onto the toilet seat. Jeff had the nerve to knock on my stall and shout, “You smoking in there?” Told him to fuck off when I recognized his voice--he was a straight A student, mind you. Good kid. Teacher’s pet. Student Council President. But the way my body caved under the weight of my laughter when he whispered, “Give me a hit.” 

Friends ever since. 

A long time’s passed now. But I’ll never stop thinking about him.

If I could turn back time, would I? Hell yeah. Without a doubt. It’s all I’ve thought about since the cops broke the news to me on my doorstep all those years ago. We definitely wouldn’t be here now, would we?

I wonder how his wife’s coping now. I know she had their firstborn, what, three weeks before his death? Man, when he showed me that picture of his son the night he was born, I couldn’t help but notice how his ears stuck out like Jeff’s. Probably had an ear for music, too, ha. Same pale-ass skin that would probably fry in the sun, same goofy smile. That kid’s gonna be handsome, just like his dad. 

He’s what, eighteen now? I forgot the kid’s name.

I’m ranting now, aren’t I?

Fun fact: Jeff cheated death once before. Not everyone’s given a second chance at life, but he was. That was just his kind of luck.

Jeff was diagnosed with cancer when he was nineteen. Can you imagine a nineteen year old diagnosed with cancer? We were fresh out of high school. Had big dreams. Wanted money, wanted experiences. He wasn’t supposed to make it…God only knows how he did.

We all prepared for the worst: sent flowers, drove city to city for road trips, took pictures of every. Fucking. Thing. Did plenty of drugs (don’t ask for the source, I don’t snitch). And somehow, that motherfucker still beat the odds. Months after his diagnosis, he was cured.

Guess this time, he wasn’t so lucky.

Fuck. Last time I cried was after mine and Rita’s divorce.

Ever felt regret so heavy, it haunts you in your dreams? Sometimes, you dream it all over again, except this time…you do things differently. You send the text, you make the phone call, you wake up earlier, you say no, you take a left instead of right, you swat the devil on your shoulder, you keep your ass inside that fateful night. Redemption. Atonement. It’s what we all crave, isn’t it?

I’m sure all of us have replayed that awful night in our heads hundreds of times. We’ve all asked ourselves at one point or another, where did it all go wrong? What could I have done to prevent this?

Those were probably Jeff’s final thoughts, too.

I run through it in my head every single day. So often, in fact, that my memory’s refrained from omitting a single haunting detail. Not for the sake of remembering, but for the sake of punishing myself. After all these years of remembering? I know exactly where it all went wrong.

It was that damn weed.

June 20th is the night we’ll never forget.

Jeff spent the first two weeks of his baby’s life with his wife, Elle. (That man was obsessed with his baby and probably would’ve taken more time away from his coding job and the stage if not for my influence.) But June 20th was the first hot night of the year and everyone wanted to go out. I encouraged Jeff to DJ at the club for some extra bank for the baby. Texted him that I couldn’t make it since I had to pack my bags; my move to Canada was happening soon.

Except…Jeff was my best friend and the only person who stood by me through my rocky divorce. And with his usually supportive wife stuck at home with the baby, Jeff needed some moral support for being the badass he always was. I’d clear my schedule just for him.

That night, with my satchel full of money, weed, wraps, and other essentials for the night, I headed to the club.

(One perk of being best friends with the DJ is free entry to all his shows via a keycard to the back. Another perk is never getting your bag or hoodie searched by the one bouncer managing the line inside.)

From nine to midnight, I moshed with the crowds (as I’d done many times before), danced quite moderately, and whistled as he morphed from Jeffrey Lockwood into DJ Lock. He noticed me at the whistle, and got the biggest, goofiest grin on his face. He blasted bass through the speakers and the laser lights burned through the dark.

That guy really did it. In high school, DJing was just an idea. Years later, all his hard work and talent made it a reality.

It wasn’t a night for drinking since I wanted to remember every moment and be present for every second. Contrary to popular belief, not a single drug nor sip of alcohol entered my system that night. (Not before, anyway.) Is that what makes this so heinous? Is that why Elle stared at me in the courtroom like I was the Devil?

Jeff performed better than any artist I’d ever seen in my life, and with that Happy New Dad look about him, performed the best he ever had. But for the sake of avoiding cameras (according to Jeff, they’d been broken for weeks, anyway), I left before the crowds cleared and security locked up for the night. Didn’t talk to anyone, didn’t make eye contact with anyone, kept my hoodie over my eyes, and quietly waited for Jeff by our secret spot outside the bar--the spot we always did, ya know, a bump.

He noticed me instantly and smiled. ‘Cane!’ (Not my real name, but the nickname he made up for me in high school.)

I wouldn’t redo anything leading up to that moment. The night was going as planned: he DJ’d, I supported. As far as my texts appeared, I couldn’t even make it to his show. No one could track me through Uber or Lyft; my car remained in my driveway until the cops towed it weeks later. I walked to the club that night. I covered all my bases.

 If only I could turn back the clock. Not yet…we’re not there yet. 

‘Sure you wanna go home now?’ I asked him. ‘You might wake the baby and piss off your wife.’

He laughed, put a hand on his hip, and looked down the road leading home. 

If Jeff could turn back time, I bet that’s the moment he’d amend. He’d say he had a family to go home to. That’s probably where Elle would amend things, too. She might’ve waited up til he got home, or set an alarm to check in on him after his set ended.

We all wish we could go back to that night, see. With a consensus, we should be allowed, right? That’s how the jury decides. That’s why I’m here now.

Instead, Jeff agreed, and we drove around the city.

After living in the same state our entire lives, it was weird knowing we wouldn’t really see each other again. But he understood; I’d been telling him about my move to Canada since my divorce. The goal was to start living parts of my life all over the world from there on and trying a new identity with each move. After all, I had the money: my dream to become a surgeon manifested, as well. 

That drive, we both knew it was the end for us. Just for different reasons.

We parked along an embankment and hiked up to the bright red bridge where we continued reflecting on our childhoods. 

We laughed. We talked shit about each other’s exes. We remembered all the sports games and concerts. How he was my wingman throughout college and I was his, resulting in his marriage to Elle. We reminisced over all the times we got lectured by cops to not keep doing the shit we were doing as juveniles, as far as drugs and alcohol went, and how we both hoped to eventually find our purpose in life (did you ever find yours, Jeff? I found mine).

We leaned over that rail and looked at the still water below until I pointed at a murky shadow wading beneath the surface. Do you see that, Jeff? He saw it. But at three a.m. and not a single light illuminating the bridge, we needed to climb down the embankment. We’d use our phone lights. Just like college Bio, we’d find fossils in contaminated waters.

It’s a tragedy, what happened to him. He really deserved better.

According to reporters, Jeff’s body was so mutilated, cops struggled identifying him. Fish began picking at the smaller pieces of flesh in the water as if to finish the job. And though they found him two days later, cops couldn’t recover all--oh wait, I’m not allowed to share the details here, right? Well, I’ve been told everything’s censored later, anyway. Cops couldn’t recover all of him, though they did find a black trash bag in the water, the one I planted there. The knife was never recovered, and both the bridge and rocks below were clean of any blood droplets. The murderer’s job was immaculate.

My job was immaculate. 

I strategized everything. The knife still hasn’t been recovered. No one could tie it back to me: trash was common in any body of water around there, my texts made it clear I was packing, my car was parked at home, and not a single camera caught my face at the club. So where did it all go wrong?

Right. I already figured that part out.

After I ensured Jeff would sink to the bottom of the water, I made my way back up the bridge and stared out at the water and the sun that rose before it. I wouldn’t flee immediately since that would appear suspicious; my flight wasn’t for another week, anyway. No one could accuse me of hiding when I’d been planning to move for years. Everything inside me stilled and I smiled as life awoke around me. It was finally time for a smoke.

THIS is where it went wrong. So Elle, as much as you wish to believe my actions resulted from impairment, you’re still wrong.

I smoked only a few puffs. Every inch of muscle in me relaxed. I waited only five more minutes before tossing the blunt on the bridge and stomping it out. We ended how we started. From there, I briskly walked back home, hands in my pockets, no blood on my hands, and a cloud of serenity encompassing me.

To think…of all the evidence they didn’t find, that blunt is the thing that got me caught.

My saliva led them back to me. The tracks of my shoe that remained on the blunt: perfect match. Why didn’t I just toss it over the fucking bridge?

Cops arrived on my doorstep the night before my flight. I didn’t get to live in different parts of the world. I didn’t get to change my identity in each one. I didn’t get to put my past behind me because I left that fucking blunt on the goddamn bridge. No, I don’t want pity. I’ve just been asked to make a final statement, and I’m here to let you know I’ve served my time.

I know what you all want to hear: if I could turn back time, would I still have killed him? Would I still leave his wife a widow and his child fatherless?

Yes.

Without a doubt.

I don’t regret anything, which I guess is why I’m here. 

I bet you’re asking, Why?

We all have our motives. Sorry, you don’t get to hear mine. I did have one, though, if that brings any sense of closure.

No, I wasn’t jealous of him. We both had money. We both got married. I was happier when it ended. I just knew from the moment he asked for a hit of my blunt, he was going to die. Not because it upset me, but because he walked in just as I was deciding who the first one would be.

If I could turn back time, I’d make it so I wouldn’t get caught, so I wouldn’t be sitting here writing my final speech on Death Row. In a few hours, my time will be up.

Thanks, Jeff, for making me famous, for getting my name all over the news, for bringing me the same fate I brought you. Today, you have more fans than ever. Rest in Peace, my good friend. Sorry it had to be you.