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didn’t have to come with me. He wasn’t getting paid and had taken time off just to come with me as a friend. I’d tried to discourage him, but in the end I was glad he was there. Even though we’d lost, I’d never regretted hiring Reid, Kevin and David as my legal team – they had done their best for me.
    We sat silently for a while in a cafe. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Reid eventually asked, looking up from his coffee cup. ‘Or we can talk about something else.’
    ‘No, it’s fine, we can talk about it.’ I realised he had something he wanted to say.
    His question was frank, brutal and to the point. The lawyer in him had usurped the friend for a few critical moments; his icy blue eyes looked right into me. ‘Are you afraid?’
    He was very matter-of-fact now and I realised I’d liked it better when he was a hesitant, embarrassed friend. I paused for a moment. Of course I was afraid of going to prison and I was especially afraid of going to an American prison. I had seen all the television programmes; I’d watched The Shawshank Redemption , like everyone else. I knew that, as non-US nationals, we wouldn’t be allowed to go to the low security relaxed, open regime of what the Americans term a ‘Camp’ – that it would be much tougher for us. Tougher still for a Scot who was part of a high-profile case. How true to life would those TV shows, those movies, be? How would I cope with the tattooed nutcases, the hardened criminals, the psychopaths? I’d had some very dark moments, where I felt deeply afraid.
    It didn’t help that to Calum, my family and close friends I had to appear relaxed, almost unconcerned. I had learned the hard way that showing my true fears to them was very damaging.
    When I had originally been indicted – could it really have been six long years ago? – I had spent about a month openly ‘catastrophising’ to anyone who would listen. How selfish I was. Eventually, my Uncle Martin – having listened to me lament pathetically for a number of days – took me aside and spoke to me. He was a man’s man, the quintessential working-class Scot, and the nearest thing I’d ever had to a real father.
    ‘You need to get a fucking grip of yourself and stop acting like a fanny,’ he’d growled at me. ‘Can ye noo see the impact of what yur doin’ on the people around you?’
    ‘I . . . I haven’t . . . I didn’t . . .’ I stammered back, realising in that instant that he was, of course, right.
    ‘Aye, ye “hav’nae this”, ye “did’nae that”,’ he said, mimicking me with real disdain, shocking me all the more because I knew how much he loved me.
    ‘This is hard on all of us, and we all need you tae be strong. We all need ye . . . tae . . .’ he hesitated, suddenly becoming very emotional. ‘Well just get a fuckin’ grip will ya?’ With that he let me go and stormed away. I stood there rooted to the spot. I’d never thought Uncle Martin needed me as well – I’d never thought I had to be strong for him too – but now I understood. I understood how I had to be, for his sake, for my sake, for everyone’s sake.
    Reid was still waiting for an answer. ‘I try not to think about it much,’ I bluffed. ‘Anyhow, if you’ve lived in Glasgow through the seventies, everything else is a cakewalk.’
    ‘It’s good you can joke about it,’ Reid replied, solemnly. ‘Because I would be terrified. I wouldn’t be able to sleep thinking about all those gangs and nutcases there and how you’ll stand out like a sore thumb and you’ll . . .’
    ‘Reid.’ He stopped. ‘Shouldn’t we be going or something?’
    We took a taxi to Bush International, and quickly boarded the 8.35 a.m. Continental flight to Midland/Odessa. The plane was pretty empty and Reid kindly offered me the window seat. No one else looked like they were casually flying up to go to prison, and it felt distinctly odd to be doing this of my own free will. I sat with my head pressed