Between the Verdict and the Prison Walls

From the series: Life After the Label – Stories They Don’t Print 

‍

When the jury foreman said “guilty,” the world didn’t shatter the way I’d imagined. It went numb. Maybe that was the sertraline doing its job, or maybe it was just the body’s way of surviving the worst moment of your life. The worst possible outcome had just played out, right there in front of my fiancée, my parents, my family, my friends. And still, in the middle of the devastation, there was this tiny flicker of relief, at least it was over.  

‍

Being convicted but not yet sentenced is a strange kind of limbo. On paper, life carried on. I was already hiding from the world, already dodging conversations like they were live grenades, already keeping my head in the sand. Now I was also on “the register,” with its restrictions, but it didn’t really change how I lived day to day. I’d already been an ostrich long before. 

‍

We clung to the hope that sentencing might mean community service. That’s what social work had put forward as the best option. But the Sheriff gave me 9 months in custody, 9 on licence, the lightest custodial sentence she could hand down. At the time, devastation. In hindsight, maybe an act of sympathy? 

‍

My circle sat in that courtroom with me. Smaller than it once was, but stronger. Most people had drifted away in the months after arrest, quietly disappearing rather than standing beside me. But the ones who remained, my family, a few true friends, were there, in the gallery, stunned at the verdict but unshaken in their support. I lost most but I kept enough to survive. And sometimes enough really is enough. 

‍

If your only understanding of prison comes from TV shows, then you probably expect orange jumpsuits, daily violence and a constant threat to your safety. That’s all I had in my head too. Prison Break. Orange Is the New Black. The “don’t drop the soap” jokes. Then the hate-filled comment sections online: “let them rot,” “hang them,” “they’ll get what’s coming.” 

‍

Walking down those stairs in cuffs, those were the pictures and words burned into me. 

‍

The reality, as I found out, was different.  

‍

My first strip-search told me everything I needed to know. Dignity wasn’t optional, it was disposable. You stand there, naked; lift this, show that, even the soles of your feet. Never mind the scanners, never mind the x-ray chair. Dignity was the first thing stripped from me and I’m not sure I’ve ever got it all back. 

‍

Then there was the randomness. Inductions promised but never delivered. “Operational requirements” became the magic excuse for anything that didn’t happen as it should. You’d go to bed one night and at 7am be told to pack your things: you’re being moved to another prison. No notice. Why am I moving? “Operational requirement mate”  

When I got to my first cell, I was told my “co-pilot” would be back soon. Co-pilot? What was this, a flight? Turns out that’s prison slang for cellmate. He came back from working in the kitchens and, like most things inside, it was a lottery. Thankfully, my first co-pilot was a good one. 

‍

The first conversations out at exercise or in the mornings are all the same - how long are you in for, who was your lawyer, who was your judge, what meds are you on. Apparently, my IBS tablets weren’t of much interest on the prison market. You also never ask directly what someone’s in for, you just learn to guess by their sentence length. 

‍

A normal day was numbers called at 7am, a quick shower if you were lucky, cleaning the cell, then exercise. Exercise in the first prison was a one-hour walk around a concrete square. In the second, a more modern facility, it was an astroturf field. Slightly better scenery, same routine. If you were working, you worked. If not, you waited. Days blurred together: shower, exercise, socialise if you felt safe enough, dinner, lock up. 

‍

And always the waiting. Always the mental game. 

‍

The officers were a lottery too. Some were decent, some even funny. Others treated it like just another job. And when people treat prison like just another job, that’s dangerous. A few played the “fear” game, making comments like, “Oh, putting in another complaint? Making a name for yourself? We can always move you…” Policing by consent, again, but consent built on fear. 

‍

I learned quickly to be a chameleon. To be polite. To nod, comply, and never cause fuss. Not because I thought it was right but because I thought it was safer. 

‍

So, is prison in Scotland what the TV shows you? No. Is it a holiday camp, like the hate groups claim? Absolutely not. It’s somewhere in between: a system overstretched, underfunded and not fit for purpose. A place where punishment is easy but rehabilitation is little more than a word on paper. 

‍

The truth is, trouble is there if you go looking for it, but most don’t. Most are just surviving, keeping their heads down, hoping to get out intact. Violence happens, yes, but less often than you’re led to believe. What gets everyone isn’t the violence — it’s the monotony, the waiting, the loss of dignity. 

‍

So, when people ask what prison here is “really like,” I tell them: it’s not what you’ve seen on TV, and it’s not what the angry headlines say either. It’s a broken system, stripping dignity before you even begin, keeping you waiting and leaving you wondering if rehabilitation is even on the agenda. 

‍

Here’s the question I’m left with: if prison is supposed to punish but also to rehabilitate, what chance do we really give people when the system itself is broken? 

‍

At Next Chapter Scotland, we know people are afraid of what awaits within the prison walls. We hear it every day. And we’re here to say: you’re not alone. Call, email, message, no question is too small, no fear too silly. 

‍

— Mark‍

‍Next Chapter Scotland

‍‍#LifeAfterTheLabel