Twelve strangers

Adoor slams shut and Nina jumps, her nerves vibrating just under her skin. She glances over her shoulder. It’s the usher, who just a few minutes ago was outside having a coffee, rushing back into the courtroom.

Does that mean it is time? Have the jury finally made a decision?

The tannoy crackles.

“All parties in R v Humes to Court One. All parties in R v Humes to Court One.”

A door to her right opens and the barristers appear, the prosecutor righting her wig, the defence hoisting his gown onto his shoulders, tugging it forward as it continues to slide off one arm.

“Mrs Humes,” he says, stopping to speak to her as the prosecutor nods politely and continues towards the courtroom.

“What’s happening?” she asks, even though, deep down, she already knows the answer.

“The jury have returned a verdict.” Nina stares, unable to speak, unable to even think a singular thought other than to repeat his words over and over in her mind. The jury have returned a verdict. Twelve strangers have decided the fate of her son.

“Are they… Will we find out now?”

“Yes,” he nods. “They’ll be up very shortly. We should go.”

The heat of the courtroom hits her as she walks through the double doors. It’s breathless compared to the waiting area, the air stifling. The room has no windows, no natural light. Just the lawyers, and the judge and jury, and the strange curiosity of the people in the public gallery. Why are they here, she had wondered on the first day of the trial. Is this some kind of entertainment? For them it is just something to watch, an activity to fill an otherwise empty day. A tourist attraction. But for her – for her son – it was everything.

She steps up to the first row of the gallery and slides past the men and women in the seats on the end, muttering a meaningless “sorry” in a low voice as her legs knock against their knees. She can feel their eyes on her back, sense them leaning towards each other and whispering their judgements. “I’d die if it was my son. What kind of mother is she?”

But it isn’t anything new. It’s what Nina has been thinking herself, night after night, since the day he was arrested. What kind of mother is she? How didn’t she prevent this?

The sound of the phone ringing had been so innocent. “Nina Humes?” a voice said as she answered. “Your son has been arrested for conspiracy to murder.”

A door clangs and then creaks as it swings open. Nina’s head darts towards the sound which has now become familiar. It’s the door to the dock opening. And through it steps Luca. Her

“she can sense them whispering their judgements. ‘i’d die if it was my son. What kind of mother is she?’”

eyes widen, her hand lifting to cover her mouth as he enters his glass cell, a security guard on either side. He looks so tired, the eight months in custody ageing him by years. He no longer looks like her baby-faced son — bright eyes and glowing tanned skin. Now he is sallow, his eyes glazed over. His youth gone.

He meets her eye and his mouth wavers. And just like that, she is torn from the stifling courtroom, full of strangers and critics, and is back in their front room, a four-year-old Luca peering up at her, his eyes overflowing with tears, his bottom lip trembling.

“Mummy,” he had said, his voice cracking. “The spider is dead.”

“Which spider, sweetheart?” she had whispered, stroking his forehead, trying to rid it of its worried creases.

“The one in the corner,” he cried. “I squashed him.”

“You didn’t mean to, though. Did you Luca?”

“No… Accident.”

She had held him, his head close to

her chest, her fingers curling through his hair, over and over, until his cries finally stopped. Luca was never a child with a temper. Never violent; always gentle. He couldn’t hurt anything. Or anyone. And that’s what he said to her after he was charged, and she was finally able to speak to him. “I didn’t do this, Mum. I promise. The others planned it but they didn’t tell me. I just thought we were meeting someone they knew. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I didn’t even know Ethan.”

“I know,” she whispered. “I believe you.”

She had never liked the other boys. She hadn’t wanted Luca to be friends with them when he started at the new school. But how do you stop a teenager from creating friendships with whoever they like? How do you stop an 18-yearold boy, a foot taller than you, who can drive, and vote, and drink, from having relationships with people who are plainly leading them down a road they’ll never be able to return from?

It was at the Crown Court that the fissures between them all became completely clear. Each of the others stood, one by one, and declared their plea, muttering the one word that Nina had never expected.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

She had watched in horror as Luca got to his feet, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed to the floor. What was it in the evidence that had made the other boys admit their guilt so easily? There must be definitive proof that they had planned to ambush Ethan Marcel that night. That, together, they had conspired to trick him into meeting them for one purpose only. But what if her belief in him was misplaced? What if she didn’t know her son at all?

She held her breath as Luca inhaled, readying himself to speak.

“Not guilty,” he whispered.

Her exhale tumbled out of her in relief. But that was only the beginning. What came next was eight months of waiting, eight months of visiting her son in prison, simultaneously counting down the days to the trial and hoping that it would never come.

It tortured her that she should have done more. That she could have sent him to his dad’s, or introduced him to some new friends, or moved him to a different school again. She is his mother. She should have done more. So now here they are, eyes locked together across a courtroom, waiting for the verdict.

The jury file in and it’s as if time has paused, as they take their seats.

“Luca Humes, can you please stand,” the Judge’s clerk says.

Luca rises slowly, steadying himself on the glass.

“Can the foreman please stand.” A man in the front row, greying hair and glasses, gets to his feet. “Have you come to a verdict upon which you are all agreed?” the clerk asks.

“We have,” says the man. “And what is your verdict?”

Luca closes his eyes and Nina does the same. And in that moment, it’s as though she is being thrust forward, into the future, into the life that Luca might have lived if she had only done more. The drive to university, settling him into halls. Meeting his first serious girlfriend. Building a career. Running in the park with his own children, laughing so hard it hurts, just as she had done with him.

Please, she thinks. Just let him have his life. Let him have a future.

‘“Not guilty.”

Nina’s eyes fly open and dart to the dock. Luca’s head rocks forward to rest against the glass as emotions overtake him. She turns to the jury, searching their faces. The foreman’s eyes meet hers, and Nina’s face breaks into a smile. They believed him. These 12 people are strangers no longer. They gave Luca his life back. They gave her his future.

Lia Middleton’s new novel, Your Word Or Mine (Penguin, £7.99) is out now.