If the outside of it is any indication, the Essex County Courthouse is going to be a hell of a lot less like the DMV than the police station was. It looks all grand and fancy and shit.
I trudge up the stone steps slowly — escorted by Mom, Michael, and yet another new cop. Nonna drove separately. (She was very excited to get her car back, you know.)
I marvel at the large lion statue outside the entrance. Who knew places like this existed in Newark? It’s like this entire scene was plucked right out of a primetime legal drama.
My sense of awe vanishes, though, the moment we approach the metal detector inside and I remember that we’re here because we’ve been charged with a crime. Nerves wriggle through my veins like tadpoles. What if this is my last time walking into a building as a free man? What if they refuse to let us out on bail? What if I set this metal detector off with a gun I didn’t realize was in my shoe? Wait. Do people even keep guns in their shoes? I swear I’ve seen characters in movies pull guns out of their shoes before, but now that I really think about it, that seems logistically impossible.
The tadpoles multiply and spread through my entire body by the time we enter the actual courtroom.
Scratch what I said out there about grand. This place looks like a ramshackle old classroom with rows of wooden benches instead of desks. And criminals and lawyers instead of students and teachers. There are two giant flags — America and New Jersey — on either side of the big judge desk (stage?) in the front, but everything else just looks cheap, dated, and plain.
“Holy shit.” Mom squeezes my hand in a direction toward the front. “Look.”
It’s Richard, wearing a dark-gray suit and a soulless facial expression. Even after looking our way and clearly seeing Mom and me walk in, he’s dead in the eyes.
She turns to Michael and whispers. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be here for this.”
“You’re being charged with property damage,” Michael replies. “He is the owner of said property. I thought his presence was implied.”
Mom rolls her eyes.
“He looks like shit,” I whisper. It’s the truth. Richard clearly hasn’t been getting much sleep. Good! He doesn’t deserve sleep. “Where’s his wife?”
Mom tugs at her pencil skirt. “If she hasn’t left his ass because of all this, then she’s even stupider than I am.”
“Oh, my God, look.” I now draw her attention to a few seats over from Richard. It’s the late-night runner who’s basically turned herself into the media spokesperson for this entire case. Joggy McBitch. She’s traded in the purple Reebok hoodie for a taupe blazer, solidifying her status as a total Hillary. She might as well have popcorn in her hand, the way she’s clearly here to watch her favorite personal drama unfold like our lives are nothing more than bingeable reality TV to her. “The jogger.”
“This bitch,” Mom quietly mutters.
We slide into a bench and wait for our case to be called.
What if the judge is a total asshole? What if we don’t get to go home after this? What if Marco’s experience was only so easy because all he did was bash my father’s head in? What if turning ourselves in was yet another delusional decision? What if coming back to New Jersey was a huge mistake?
I think about that last one for a second. Maybe it wouldn’t have been that impossible to start over with new lives. Given how little fanfare there was when we showed up last night, I almost feel like the cops were never even planning to look very far for us anyway.
This feeling — that we chose to be here to beg a judge not to ruin our lives over one mistake — is suddenly the only thing I can think about. I consider poking Michael to ask if warrants ever just “expire” when they can’t find the suspects, but the room has become totally silent over the past few seconds.
An officer gets up in the front and tells us to “please rise” for the entrance of “Honorable Judge Turner.”
Oh! The judge is a woman.
She kind of looks like Beyoncé!
Mom and I exchange quick looks, like, this is good. Maybe she’ll understand where we’re coming from. Maybe she has a lying ex of her own. A knockoff Jay-Z. She’ll set us free in the name of Lemonade. Blessed Bey.
Our case is the first one called.
“Gianna Maria Rossi and Joseph Anthony Rossi,” Judge Turner says from atop her highly intimidating perch. “Are these your true names?”
“Yes,” Mom answers.
Judge Turner looks at me. I can’t breathe. Michael pats my shoulder, which helps me get just enough air to answer this admittedly very simple question.
“Thank you.” She looks down and begins reciting some legal mumbo jumbo. “This complaint alleges that in the early morning hours of April 19th, you initiated a fire on the second level of a residential property located at 33 Marble Lane in Short Hills, New Jersey, in violation of penal code 2C:17-1, resulting in a charge of felony arson in the third degree. It is further alleged that the property, owned by Richard Massey, has suffered significant damage, resulting in a charge of…” She keeps rambling on like this for another few robotic sentences until finally peeling her eyes off the paper and focusing them on Mom and me like laserbeams. “Ms. Rossi. Mr. Rossi. Do you understand the charges as I’ve recited them to you?”
We both respond with yes, even though everything inside of me wishes I could have said no. The way she rattled off the charges — so cold, so matter-of-fact — made it sound like she was taking Richard’s side by default. I guess penal codes don’t offer much room for the complexity of the truth. (Also, I’m sorry, but why the fuck is it called a “penal” code anyway? That word sounds penis-adjacent, and frankly it’s distracting. Especially in a courtroom setting.)
“And have you discussed these charges with your lawyer?” Judge Turner continues.
“Yes,” we answer again.
“And do you wish to enter into a plea at this time?”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Rossi?”
“Not guilty,” Mom answers.
“Mr. Rossi?”
I start to speak, but then I tense up. Suddenly my throat is drier than a slice of stale focaccia. It’s almost like I’m afraid the judge is gonna call bullshit on me. Not guilty? Bitch, I heard all about your confession last night! Now get the fuck out of my courtroom with your lying ass and go rot in a jail cell. To the left, to the left.
Michael nudges me.
“Not guilty,” I choke.
Judge Turner shuffles some more papers as the court-record-taking-guy in the corner types away on a laptop.
Finally she says, “Does the defense have any remarks before bail is set?”
My body twists and pangs with the impulse to scream at the top of my lungs about how setting any kind of bail at all would be akin to a life sentence of its own.
“Your Honor,” Michael begins. “As I’m sure you have noticed, this is not a black-and-white case. My clients — neither of whom have any criminal record to speak of — were suffering from severe emotional distress during the event in question.”
He sounds super lawyer-y and professional. And surprisingly passionate about defending us. He must have been saving all his energy for the courtroom.
“This fire was an accident in every sense of the word. Their intention was to burn a few garments in the bathtub and put it out quickly — an act of admittedly petty revenge, but one they felt driven to as the result of a personal situation between my client Ms. Rossi and the owner of the property, Mr. Massey, who had been deceiving Ms. Rossi with regard to his marital status for a period of two years.”
He pauses to take a breath. A sense of relief washes over me. I still feel like Mom and I are walking on a tightrope from jail to freedom — but this impassioned soliloquy is making it feel just a little less thin. Like we might actually be able to make it to the other side.
“I understand that no degree of interpersonal conflict can excuse an act of arson — or any crime — but I tell you this to explain that my clients are not a danger to society,” he continues. “They were caught up in an emotional moment that quickly escalated far beyond anything they had intended. They turned themselves into custody and have been cooperative throughout this process. In light of these factors, I implore you to consider releasing them from custody based on their own recognizance.”
Judge Turner doesn’t give us so much as a nod, a smile, a look. She just turns her attention to the prosecutor across from us.
“Does the prosecution have anything to add?” she asks.
“Yes, your honor.” Her hair is in a messy bun and she looks like she might yawn at any moment. This fills me with hope. Maybe she’s exhausted and overworked and won’t even bother trying to do her job of prosecuting us. “We are aligned with the defense’s proposed conditions of release and are willing to negotiate a plea bargain in the coming days.”
“That’s all?” Judge Turner says.
“Yes.”
The tightrope seems even thicker now. Just a few more steps!
I start thinking about what I’m going to do when we get home — starting with a long shower, some sfogliatelle, and a nap. And then maybe a bottle or three of Luna di Luna.
Just as I’m envisioning Mom’s and my freedom celebration on the couch, I notice Richard squirm in his seat from the corner of my eye. My relief is his frustration. He probably wanted the prosecutor to eviscerate us.
“I can appreciate the complicated nature of this situation,” Judge Turner says. “But the codefendants’ own recorded confession indicates that they made the conscious choice to light a match and throw it in a bathtub. As a result of that choice, a fire was started. As a result of that fire, a house — a very expensive house in a very expensive location — was destroyed.” She pauses before turning to address Mom and me directly. “And rather than report the fire to authorities, you made another choice: to leave the state. It was a small miracle that, thanks to a neighbor who keeps a very unusual jogging schedule, this fire was reported at all.”
Please stop. Please stop. Please stop.
But she keeps going.
“Other homes could have been damaged. People could have been hurt.” She straightens her posture and flips a piece of paper over. She’s clearly made her decision. “And the Court just cannot ignore that.”
Mom and I interlock our fingers and squeeze each other’s hands so tight our palms might form a fire of their own.
“Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars per codefendant,” Judge Turner coolly proclaims.
Nonna gasps.
Richard scoffs.
Joggy McBitch sighs.
Michael shakes his head.
Mom and I collapse into each other.
Turner slams her gavel against her desk — which might as well be our faces, hearts, throats — and calls for the next case.