Kansas Corncob(s) – Part 4 (Patreon)

Everyone in this story is 18+

The courtroom smelled like old wood and stale coffee. Three days had passed since the cops dragged me out of that Hamptons mansion. I sat at the defense table in plain black jeans and a button-up shirt my parents had brought me. My aunt Maria sat beside me in her sharp gray suit, looking calm and focused.

My parents were two rows behind us. Dad’s jaw was locked tight. Mom kept dabbing her eyes with a tissue, whispering quiet prayers. They were furious. I could feel their disappointment pressing against the back of my head the whole time.

I had tried to tell my side to the cops and the lawyers, that Dillon had supplied most of the stuff, that he invited me, that the party was already wild when I got there. But Dil had a high-priced Manhattan lawyer who worked fast. Rich parents, big connections. Dillon walked away clean. I was the one left sitting here.

Aunt Maria believed me, though. During a break she had leaned over and said quietly, “Rich kids always need someone to blame when things go wrong. I’ve seen it too many times.” I just nodded, the same thought looping in my head: Shit, I was so stupid. That was all it was. I was the entertainment. The easy target.

The judge, a no-nonsense older woman with steel-gray hair pulled into a tight bun, listened carefully as the hearing moved forward.

“It seemed that several of the partygoers had prior charges for minor possession. Others suddenly could not recall many details when questioned.”

Aunt Maria fought hard, pointing out how unlikely it was that one eighteen-year-old had forced his way into a heavily secured mansion and made a group of wealthy young adults take drugs against their will.

The judge finally leaned forward, rubbing her temples.

“I doubt Mr. Russo actually broke into Mr. Dillon Francis Grantchester’s mansion and forced a group of young people to consume drugs,” she said, voice dry. “Not with the security systems and panic rooms present on the property. However, you have yourself admitted that the bag in your possession contained marijuana, which you must be twenty-one to consume legally in New York and you are only eighteen. It also contained cocaine and isobutyl nitrite, both illegal substances in this state. We have a low tolerance for teenagers and drugs here. I cannot let this pass with just a warning or community service.”

My stomach tightened. Aunt Maria stood up before the judge could say anything more.

“Your Honor, if I may. My client is eighteen and still has time to turn his life around before this follows him into adulthood. There is a New York sanctioned program called the Horizon Youth Rehabilitation Initiative. It’s a 3-month program designed for troubled young adults aged eighteen to twenty. Participants are placed with responsible foster families, required to attend regular school, weekly counseling sessions, AA meetings, and perform community service. It provides structure and accountability while keeping them out of juvenile detention. I believe this would be far more beneficial than incarceration.”

The judge looked at me for a long moment, then glanced down at the paperwork in front of her.

“We usually prefer in-state programs or standard foster placements,” she said. “But I see this Horizon Youth Rehabilitation Initiative has recently been sanctioned by the state government and has been officially approved for use. I think Mr. Russo could benefit from a complete change of scenery and some distance from his current crowd.” She paused, then nodded once. “So I will allow it.”

My heart sank.

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

Aunt Maria gave me a small, steady nod. But all I could think was: Shit, should I just say I would rather go to jail? Three months stuck in some random foster home sounded like pure torture. No freedom, no parties, probably stuck in the middle of nowhere with people who went to church every Sunday and thought eyeliner was a one-way ticket to damnation.

The judge tapped her pen on the desk a few times, then continued.

“Given the circumstances and the fact that Mr. Russo has no prior record, I am will approve the plea deal. The possession charges will stand, but sentencing will be suspended in favor of immediate enrollment in the Horizon Youth Rehabilitation Initiative for a minimum of three months. You will be placed with an approved foster family, attend classes, counseling, and all required meetings. Any violation and you could serve real time. Do you understand, Mr. Russo?”

I swallowed hard. My mouth felt dry.

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said quietly.

The gavel came down with a sharp crack.

It was done. Three months in some stranger’s house, going to school, talking about my feelings, and pretending to be reformed. All because I let myself become the entertainment for a rich idiot who threw me under the bus the second things got real.

As the bailiff led me out, I caught my mom crying quietly and my dad looking like he wanted to shake some sense into me. Aunt Maria gave my shoulder one last squeeze.

“You’ll get through this, Jett,” she said under her breath. “It’s better than a permanent record.”

I didn’t answer. I was already wondering how the hell I was supposed to survive three months in the middle of nowhere.

A few hours later the papers were signed and the arrangements made. They were sending me to Manhattan, Kansas. The irony was hard to miss. From finance bros and glass towers to corncobs and wind-bent fields Manhattan.

Some farm family on the edge of town. Population around fifty-five thousand if you counted the corn. Endless flat fields stretching in every direction.

I was getting shipped off to literal corn country.

And there was nothing left to do but pack, unless I wanted to go to jail.