Stacey

Everything hangs on this moment, but it’s so difficult to concentrate. Breathe, stay calm, stay composed; don’t let the journalists see you cry. They’d love that.

I’ve been coming to this court room for the past two weeks, every single day, like I said I would, even though he didn’t want me to. It was important for me to hear the evidence for myself, listen to what the police had to say. I didn’t want to just read what was happening in news reports. The reporters are all convinced my son is guilty and the newspapers always twist things. Some of the headlines they’ve printed about my son, and family, have been wildly inaccurate, laughable, but of course, no one wants to listen to me when I complain.

My gaze fixes on my son, Joshua, standing in the dock. He’s so smart in his suit. His usually wavy brown hair is a little bedraggled though. If it was a normal day, I’d be telling him to go to the hairdressers, even though he’s thirty, and hasn’t been living at home for five years. From my position up here in the public gallery, I can still make out the faint scar above his right eye, from where he had an accident, while playing with a friend when they were both ten-years-old. They thought it would be a good idea to launch themselves from a chair and onto the sofa, some sort of super hero game, until the chair gave way under them. My son’s forehead gashed open on the corner of the fire place. My heart stopped when I saw the blood gushing out of his wound.

The very first day of the trial, he’d glanced up at the public gallery and his eyes found mine. I’d seen the look of horror on his face as he realised I was sitting there. He hasn’t looked up to face me again. Right now his gaze is fixed on the judge ahead. What must be going through his mind? In one reality he could be walking out of here a free man, all smiles, vindicated, free to live his life. In another he’ll be escorted out of here to a waiting police van. Fate has yet to decide what scenario we’ll find ourselves in.

The court usher makes her way across the room. I hold my breath, squeezing the fabric of my clothes. This is the moment. Her shoes slap against the marble floor. She turns to the jury. I’ve tried to study the facial expressions of each member of the jury since the trial began. On being shown evidence, some let out audible gasps of shock and horror. Others managed to keep their expressions neutral.

The usher, a woman, in, I suspect, her early fifties, turns to the jury.

‘Would the foreman please stand,’ she says.

A middle-aged, dark haired woman on the end of the row obeys. She’s nervous. She doesn’t want to look at my son, that’s pretty obvious. He hasn’t even so much as glanced in the direction of the jury since the trial began. The usher’s next words drift in through one ear and out the other. I can’t understand what she’s saying. This is the part I need to hear. I’ve given the foreman a name inside my head, Georgia. She looks like a Georgia, in my opinion.

‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

It seems to take an age for Georgia to respond. I want to be sick. This is impossible. How are we in this position? He’s innocent. My son is innocent. Surely they can see it. I grip the armrests on my seat.

‘Guilty.’

In my head Georgia’s voice falters a little as she delivers the verdict. There are excited murmurings from the journalists sitting around me. No. This wasn’t meant to happen. The next few moments are a blur. My son remains composed in the dock. I want to call out to him, tell him I will save him. I will get this decision overturned. This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. My heart feels as though it’s about to burst open. Tears prick my eyes.

Before he’s led away, he glances just once up at the public gallery and his eyes find mine.

My son is innocent and by God I will prove it.