It’s 31 degrees outside, but the wind makes it feel like 19. When I arrived at the New York Supreme Court Criminal Term at 100 Centre Street around 10am last Friday, watercolor pencils and sketch paper in hand, there weren’t many people there except for a handful of journalists wielding cameras. I found this relatively sparse turnout strange until I overheard a woman say that they had started lining up at 5am and were already inside the courthouse. I hurried across the street, surprised at how quickly I got through security, camera in tow ready to take pictures of the scene I would find outside after the hearing — people hoisting hand-painted signs, prayer-style cards of “Saint Luigi,” and bright-green plushies of Mario’s twin brother in the Nintendo franchise.
My heart raced as I pushed the elevator button to the 15th floor. A Hyperallergic accreditation allowed me to slip past the metal police barricades into the press area, where two lines had formed, one for photographers and another for reporters. A sign outside the courtroom door read “Part 96.” My nerves were taking a toll on me, and I sensed that the other journalists could tell it was my first rodeo. But I was in, and there was no turning back.
Lining the hallway, people sitting on the cold ground typed away on their computers. The olive-green floor stretched for what seemed like miles, and a strawberry-blond cop paced back and forth, ready to assert his dominance at the first opportunity. I hadn’t noticed the crowd gathered at the end of the marble hall: Luigi Mangione supporters, mainly women aged 18 to 35, some donning the accused UnitedHealthcare CEO shooter’s signature burgundy court sweater.
My attention shifts back to the press line when I hear someone in the pool of photographers crying hysterically and insisting they get the space to take photographs. I found myself sympathizing with them — everyone wants “the shot,” and this work is clearly not for the faint of heart. I overheard someone say that Chelsea Manning was among the crowd of supporters; 20 minutes later, I saw her enter the restroom as members of the press yelled her name for a photo. The hallway is getting hotter by the minute, the crowd of crammed bodies like bees generating heat in a hive. Only a few more minutes until they’re supposed to let us into the courtroom.
It’s now 1:16pm. Photographers tap their fingers on their cameras, tapping on the metal barricades. I can’t tell whether it’s boredom or, if they, like me, feel like their heart might jump out of their chest. The heat is becoming overwhelming, and I try hard not to focus on my dipping blood sugar after skipping breakfast and discarding my tea prematurely. 1:44pm: Luigi’s lawyer, Karen Friedman Agnifilo, enters the 15th floor, and walks past the increasingly eager supporters, who cheer for her as she marches down the long hallway and past the press. Cameras flash, and reporters yell out seemingly random questions, none of which she answers. Her face is soft, and a slight smile stretches across her face in mauve lipstick. She’s not much taller than me, but she radiates with the energy of someone over six feet.
We’re in now. The stress is far beyond anything I expected. Luigi’s lawyers are seated in the front; Karen paces the room. I spot the famous courtroom sketch artist Jane Rosenberg, who was given a seat in the jurors’ box. I find a seat in the last row, where my view is obstructed by police and reporters, but I make a mental note of the space. Finally, after 15 minutes, Luigi enters the room. He’s shackled like the Joker in a Batman film, but his face looks like a marble sculpture you’d see at The Met.
I tremble as I pull out my pencils and attempt a sketch as fast as possible. Before heading out that morning, I had contemplated bringing a copy of my aunt’s pending UnitedHealthcare medical bills as a canvas to draw on, but I decided against it — I didn’t want any unnecessary attention drawn to me — and resorted to paper and a few dollar bills.
A towering female cop obscures my view, leaving me with just a glimpse of Luigi’s shoulder and a sliver of the bulletproof vest he was sporting. I scribbled lines across sheets of paper, trying to find my composition. Luigi’s lawyer asks for them to remove the shackles, arguing that her client poses no threat, but the judge denies the request “for the safety of those in the room.” Karen Agnifilo is like a bull. When it’s her turn to speak, she seizes the opportunity to express her frustration at a new HBO documentary, Who is Luigi Mangione, which she claims contains information she still had not accessed herself. “They paid actors to read his alleged journal. They didn’t even sound like him,” she argued. The judge stopped her before she could go any further.
And then the screams began. I could hear what sounded like hundreds of Luigi supporters screaming outside the courtroom: “Free Luigi!,” they whooped and hollered.
Then, just like that, it was over — 20 minutes max. He got up and walked out the same way he came in. Everyone seemed to absorb every inch of his physical existence. I hear a woman behind me say: “He smiled at me, did you see?! He smiled at me!” Luigi never smiled at anyone.
