So it’s not like I was expecting this to be an Instagrammable situation or anything, but still. I look like shit in my mug shot. My eyes are dead, my hair is shorter than it’s ever been and yet still somehow looks greasier than a fried eggplant cutlet. I haven’t shaved in days. What seemed like organized stubble a couple nights ago now looks like the unkempt beard of an unhinged criminal. And let’s not even talk about this atrocious lighting. Honestly — where’s the Valencia filter when you need it?
Mom and I were booked separately, so I never got to see her picture. But I’m sure it came out a million times better than mine. Her hair is as sleek as it’s ever been, and she cleansed her face with a Neutrogena makeup-removing wipe and did a quick touchup in the car mirror before we came in. (I’m not kidding.)
“I just thought of something,” Mom says. “We never got to make a phone call. Isn’t that a thing? You get to make a phone call?”
We’re alone, locked in a fluorescently lit white room waiting for a detective from the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office to get here. We were so out of sorts when we got to Jersey that we forgot our crime was committed in Short Hills — which is in a totally different county than the Bayonne Police Department building we’ve been confessing in for the past half hour or so.
“Oh, yeah! We should use it to call Nonna. You know she’s not sleeping tonight. I feel so bad. I hope she doesn’t have to see our mug shots. Those would destroy her.”
Mom flips her hair. “I looked kinda cute in mine, actually.”
“Of course you did.”
We both laugh.
I know, right? Laughing at a time like this. But I have to say. Aside from the unflattering photography, so far the experience hasn’t been nearly as traumatic as I expected.
All week we’ve been so petrified of… sitting around in a sterile office that hasn’t had a design facelift since probably 1993? While a pair of doofy overworked cops make phone calls and fill out paperwork? I thought getting arrested would be at least twenty percent more hardcore. I mean, there was a picture of us on the news. You’d think we’d be handcuffed or tasered or yelled at or something. But no. Instead it’s like we’re registering a new car at the DMV. At midnight.
I guess it helps that Mom went to high school with both of the officers. They seemed sad to watch her get in trouble.
The door swings open and one of them — Officer Nelson — walks in with his hand on his duty belt. He’s a stocky black dude with a bald head.
Mom and I stop laughing immediately. We are still being booked for arson, after all. And we have no idea what he’s about to tell us.
“Good news and bad news,” he says. “Which do you want first?”
“Bad,” we reply in unison.
“You can’t go home. We have to keep you in custody until your arraignment.”
“That’s the good news. The prosecutor is in a rush to sort this out. They think they can fit you in sometime tomorrow morning. We can hold you here until then. Got a couple open holding cells in the basement.”
“A couple?” she asks. “You’re splitting us up?”
“They’re singles,” he explains.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “We’re just gonna sleep.”
Mom looks at me and then up at Nelson. “What’s gonna happen at the arraignment?”
“Up to the judge,” he says. “You might get to go home.”
I spoke too soon. His word choice is worse than getting tasered.
“Might?” I ask. “When do people not get to go home?”
“If you can’t post bail —”
“Bail?” Mom repeats in terror.
Marco didn’t say anything about bail! But we should have known. We’re over here worried about the one phone call when literally every cinematic depiction of getting arrested always talks about “getting out on bail.” Duh. It always comes down to money.
“Yeah, bail.” Nelson straightens his posture. “But since there were warrants out for both of you, and you did disappear all week, they might say you’re a flight risk and —”
He cuts himself off in that way people do when they realize they’re in the middle of a sentence that could destroy you. It’s clear he was gonna say they might not let us go at all — bail or no bail.
“And what?” Mom asks.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Flight risk?” I ask. “But we just turned ourselves in. That has to mean something.”
“It probably does.” Nelson tugs on his belt uncomfortably. “Listen, I’m not a lawyer. I really have no idea what they’re gonna say tomorrow. If you do have to post bail, I’m sure you’ll find a good bondsman. This is Jersey, after all.”
“Can we make a call?” Mom pleads. “My mother is probably worried sick about us. I just want her to know we’re here.”
“We gotta get you in your cells,” he says. “But give me her number. I’ll let her know.”
I consider trying to fight this, but decide it’s better this way. Nonna will be kept in the loop without Mom and me having to hear the pain, anger, and disappointment in her voice again. We all win. (Well, I mean. Technically nobody is a winner in a scenario like this. But at least it’s one less thing to worry about.)
Officer Nelson leads Mom and me back out into the main office where Officer Stamato — a fellow lanky Italian — meets up with us. They exchange glances and seem to nonverbally confirm that their next steps are to guide us to the cells.
The four of us walk down some concrete stairs into a hallway full of motivational posters. There’s TEAMWORK, COURAGE, PROFESSIONALISM — but one poster in particular grabs my attention: ATTITUDES ARE CONTAGIOUS. MAKE YOURS WORTH CATCHING. How appropriate. The whole reason we’re here is because I forced Mom to catch my attitude that night. Sure, she was reeling from the Richard news. But I know it was my heartbreak that started it the night before. I was patient zero.
The next poster says: ACCOUNTABILITY: THE CONSEQUENCES OF AVOIDANCE CANNOT BE DODGED. Are these bitches trolling us?
We finally reach a fork in the hall. Nelson and Mom go to the left while Stamato and I take a right. Eventually I’m led into a tiny windowless room with nothing more than a twin-size cot built into the white concrete wall. Instead of sheets and blankets there’s just a tattered old sleeping bag on top. Overall it looks more like a janitor closet than a jail cell. There are no steel bars; just a big metal sliding door that looks like it weighs three tons.
“Love what you’ve done with the space.” My attempt at a joke lands awkwardly. “Cozy.”
Stamato doesn’t laugh.
“This is as good as it gets, bud.” He reaches for the big iron door handle. “You should see what it’s like in actual jail.”
I wonder if he’s an Asshole in real life. He has one of those deep man-voices that suggests he might be.
“What happens if I have to pee?” I ask.
“Do you have to pee?”
“No. But I might —”
“You can hold it ’til the morning.”
He slides the door shut and locks me in for the night before I can start telling him about how I learned from watching Seinfeld reruns with Nonna that holding pee in for too long can lead to bladder problems, including involuntary urination. Does this bitch want me to involuntarily urinate? I guess I could always just pee in the corner. What are they gonna do? Arrest me (again)?
I kick my shoes off and stuff myself into the sleeping bag like a piece of manicotti. Have you ever slept on an actual sidewalk? I imagine this is exactly what that would feel like. And don’t even get me started on the “pillow.” I’ve seen fluffier piles of rocks.
So I guess that’s one jail stereotype that’s true. It’s not comfortable!
I close my eyes and focus on my heartbeat. I honestly can’t remember the last time it wasn’t going a zillion beats a minute. I’ve gotten so used to it by now that “racing” has become my new “resting.”
I try to visualize a successful outcome tomorrow. Good weather. Friendly judge. Speedy hearing. Maybe even some kind of pardon or something. We’ve already confessed to the cops here, but we made it extremely clear that the fire was not at all intentional. It was just an accident that got out of hand. We didn’t break and enter — Mom had the code to Richard’s garage because he gave it to her. This was all just an accident and a misunderstanding. Richard’s the one who belongs in jail. Not us.
Oh, wait. I forgot I don’t do this anymore. I’m a reality person.
But I can be at least somewhat optimistic. Twenty-five years in prison would just be silly.
My mind wanders back to that ACCOUNTABILITY poster. The consequences of avoidance cannot be dodged. What a rude-ass quote to have on display at a police station — in the hallway between the office and the cells, no less! Anyone who will ever see that poster has clearly already learned this lesson for themselves. The hard way.
I roll the word “accountability” around in my head for a moment. That’s what this has been about all along, hasn’t it? We were trying to hold Luke and Richard accountable for what they did to us. If you cheat and lie, there should be consequences.
I still believe that. I really do.
But also? It wasn’t worth it. The high of revenge barely lasted a second past the time it took to twist the knife, drag the key, swing the bat. After that, it was all reckoning with the damage — a whole new set of consequences that pinged from Luke back to me. If anything, I gave him a reason to feel less bad about cheating on me. He could tell himself I deserved it.
A better way to retaliate would have been to just block his ass entirely — stop feeding his ego by demanding his approval. Focus on my own healing and allow the real consequences to be enforced by an impartial third party. Like, I don’t know, God or karma or some shit.
I roll over to lay on my side, but doing so on this surface makes me feel bones in my hip that I didn’t even know existed. I place the back of my head on the pillow and try once more.
Eyelids closed. Deep breaths.
Aaaand now I’m thinking about Will. His voice, his hands, his eyes. I wonder if he’s been trying to text me. Or if he’s even been thinking of me.
I guess it doesn’t matter either way. Even if I could talk to him right now and try to fix things between us… then what? Tomorrow he’ll be back in Manhattan living his perfect rich life. Even if Mom and I get sent home in the morning, there’s no way he’d want to have anything to do with me. I’d be a hideous reminder of the wagon-trainwreck waiting for him back at his dad’s lake house.
But maybe I can find someone else like him after the dust settles from this nightmare. No more Assholes. Only Nice Guys from now on. If nothing else, Will at least helped me understand that nice doesn’t necessarily mean boring. It just means — you know — not fucking evil.
You know what? I need to stop thinking about guys!
What I need to do is figure out a way to fall asleep on this unnatural slab of concrete. No matter what happens in my brain from now until the morning, absolutely nothing will change. I’m locked in this closet for at least the next six hours. Six? Maybe seven. What time do they wake you up in jail? Oh, my God. It doesn’t matter. Overthinking won’t get me anywhere. My brain can’t help me. I need to turn it off.
I close my eyes harder and focus on breathing — long inhales, longer exhales. Eventually my heart rate slows down to something that almost seems manageable.
I can do this.
I’m basically asleep.
And then the words bail and flight risk barrel into my mind like a stampede of elephants.