Mr. Willbanks, You Are Under Arrest...

Those were the words the deputy said to me this morning at my home in the driveway.  I had gone shopping for dog food and a few other household items at the local dollar store, only to realize I had left my wallet at home.  I returned to find a deputy sitting in my driveway, with a stack of papers in his hands.

"Are you Mr. Willbanks?" he asked.
"Yes," I responded.  "What's this about?"
"Michael Shane Willbanks?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, timidly.
"I have some papers here, sir. This is a Body Attachment out of Logan County for child support," he added.

I know what a Body Attachment is, having seen many of the parolees we deal with in our ministry serve jail time for non-payment of child support over the years.  I think I gulped audibly.  "Oh," I said. "I don't understand, I've been dealing with that office for the past few months trying to get them to modify my payments. They never mentioned a Body Attachment," I told him. "I'm trying to get square with them and fulfill my obligations, I'm just struggling financially right now," I said as I realized I was telling this to the wrong person.

"Well, they've issued one, and I hate to do this, but I'm going to have to take you with me," he said.
"Are you arresting me?" I asked him, still in disbelief.
"Yes, sir, I'm afraid so. Mr. Willbanks, you are under arrest," the deputy replied. "Turn around and face the vehicle. Now place your hands behind your back, palms together," he commanded as he placed the hand cuffs around my wrists.  "You can just get in back here," he said as he opened the back passenger door of his white Dodge Durango.  I stepped inside.

We had a nice conversation about the recent snow storm and other pleasantries as we drove to Unit 2 and pulled into the back drive way in front of some garage doors.

"I've got one," he told the man's voice in the drive-through speaker. "Faulkner County."
The middle door opened and he pulled into the warehouse where detainees were dropped off and sent to booking.  A white van pulled up beside us and seven inmates in grey and white striped or orange jumpsuits were escorted inside behind me.  Each one was wearing shackles on his or her wrists and ankles.

A very nice female detention officer met me at the door and began the process of taking me in.  She removed my cuffs and asked me to remove my cap, my hoodie sweatshirt, my shoes, and the contents of my pockets.  She then placed my right wrist in a red cuff chained to the wall and began to inventory my belongings.  Once I answered her medical questions and assured her there were no drugs or drug paraphernalia or anything that might stick her on my person, she placed some latex gloves on her hands and searched me from head to toe.  She ran her hands through my hair, checked the collar of my t-shirt, then felt my armpits, my chest and waist, then my back.  Down my legs, groin and rear end she ran her gloves, then searched my socks and felt between each of my toes.  She then gave me a pair of jail-issued flip-flops and put my belongings in a bag with my name and case number printed on the side.  I was taken to the booking desk where I was allowed to make one three minute phone call to my father, who assured me that my bond had been posted with the Office of Child Support Enforcement in Logan County, and we would have to await a fax from their office to the Faulkner County Sheriff's Office before I would be released.

As I awaited her filling out some paperwork, a young woman in an orange jumpsuit was brought in wearing shackles.  She had just returned from court and she was crying.  "Where are they going to take my baby?" she asked a detention officer in a loud, crying voice.
"Calm down," he told her.  "Your child has been taken into State custody."
The young woman wailed and fell to the ground as she screamed, "NO! NO! Please! Take her to my mom! Please!"
The officers took her away to a holding cell as they attempted to calm her down.

An old, grey-haired man, probably in his seventies, looked at me through a glass window in another holding cell.  He was yelling something, but his voice was inaudible.  Seven inmates stood behind me in shackles, awaiting their turns to be taken to another van and transported to a state prison.  "I got 18 months in ADC!" a young man yelled to another young man in a holding cell.  "Eighteen f***ing months!" he yelled again.  The other six inmates looked stoically straight ahead as they awaited their destinies.  They appeared as if they had no life in their eyes.  I can only imagine what was running through their heads as they came to the realization that they were headed to prison for months or years.

I was escorted to a holding cell, issued a blanket, and was told to sit on a concrete bench.  The cell was about eight feet by eight feet, with yellow concrete cinder block walls and a grey concrete floor.  There was a stainless steel sink with a toilet attached to the left side near the floor.  The toilet was still full of the cell's last resident's bowel movement.  There was an opened and used bar of soap on the lip of a sink, and a small toothbrush wrapped in a cellophane wrapper next to it.  There was a roll of toilet paper in a small cubby hole in the front of the sink.  Overhead there was a three-foot incandescent bulb blaring its light through a steel light housing.

I stared intently through the window, which had been scratched by some sharp object and still had wet droplets of spit on it, watching the fax machine on the desk to see if it had any papers in its incoming tray.  It had a stack in it about an inch thick.  No one was paying it any attention as more papers filled the tray.

A young woman in another cell looked out her window at me.  She was chewing her lips and tongue and swaying frantically back and forth.  She was undoubtedly still "tweaking" on meth, as her stringy hair, sunken face and pock-marked skin indicated.

I stood at the door and watched as the inmates came in and out of the booking center.  There was a boy, no older than nineteen, who had been "showered in" and covered in delousing powder.  He was carrying a plastic covered mattress and a blanket into his cell.  He had no emotion whatsoever on his face.  There were several men and women--black, white, Hispanic, and oriental--moving about the detention center.  Most were covered in "prison ink or tats," which is easy to spot since it is always black and blurry.  Nearly half of them had a black tear drop tattooed near one eye or the other.  Most were smiling a devious or down-right-evil smile, holding their heads up and cocked to one side.  In all my years experience in dealing with inmates and parolees, that is their "go-to" stance when they are standing in line.  "Don't f*** with me!" their demeanor screams out to all those around them.

I thought about all the mothers and fathers, husbands and wives and children who were out there, missing their incarcerated loved one, wondering where things had gone wrong, wondering when Daddy or Mommy will be coming home, or perhaps having given up long ago any notion that their no-good child or spouse or parent would ever come home, or ever change.  I thought about the men and women I teach each week in prison, who desperately want to get out and do the right thing this time, and I thought about the ones who had no intentions of ever changing.  I thought about my own life, and the mistakes I had made.  I thought about my divorces, and how my infidelity and alcoholism drove my wives away, which resulted in this whole child support debacle.  I closed my eyes and repented again, begging God to forgive me all over again.  I thought about my children, and how they might feel when some kid at school tells them that their parents saw their dead-beat dad in the paper.  I thought about a lot in that short time, and I resolved in the end that I would not let this get me down.  I know God has blessed my efforts in the past several years and allowed me to be in this ministry, and I chose instead to look at this experience as yet another way I can relate to the inmates and parolees I minister to.

After just over two hours, an officer came to the door of my cell and unlocked it.  "Step back!" he yelled. "Sit on your hands while I open this door!" he demanded.

"Now, stand up, take your blanket over there and drop it in that grey bin," he said to me as he stood over me in the cell.  "Then go stand on the red line in front of that desk and wait for them to finish your paperwork.

As I awaited having my mug shot taken and my exiting paperwork to be completed, I smiled as I knew I would be going home today, and that I had a new reason to provide comfort and aid to the men and women incarcerated or on parole in the state of Arkansas.  There is a lot of pain out there, and I got to see first-hand today where much of it begins.

As I look down at the red marks the hand cuffs left on my wrists and type this blog, I realize that life is precious, and forgiveness and grace are divine.  The life of a felon is not a fun one, but no one ever said this life would be easy.  I vow to continue to work for something other than myself, and I thank God I have the freedom and the desire to do so.