I NEED A MIRACLE. I NEED YOUR PRAYERS!!!

I am a divorced father and grandfather. Over the last six-months I have not
been able to find work after being laid off from my retail manager position of
two years. Since 1998, I have had two heart attacks, and had a "stint" placed
in my Right Coronary Artery. During my illnesses and recovery from 1998 - 1999,
I was not able to work for a time, and then could not find work once I
recovered. Though I was homeless, living in a shelter and utilizing Westchester
County's public health clinic for free samples of the blood pressure
medications I need every day, I was still labelled a "deadbeat dad" by New York
State, which suspended my driver's license, and my professional license to
practice as a Respiratory Technologist in New York.

During this same time period, the State continued to assess my child support at
US$1200.00 per month, the same amount I paid unfailingly for over five years as
a Respiratory Technician. I paid my child support even though my ex-wife
married the man she had an affair with, and took my children to Michigan --
without my prior knowledge, consent, or as much as a "say goodbye to your dad
kids." It really crushed me. I had put myself in thousands-of-dollars of debt
to fight for - and finally be awarded - joint custody of my children just the
year before. I never missed a child support payment until two months after my
hospital position of nine years was eliminated. I simultaneously lost my
low-cost hospital housing (studio apartment and utilities for $500 mo.), and
then had my first heart attack.

Even though the State knew I was on welfare, (the good people of Westchester
County, New York paid for my heart surgery), even though the bureaucracy agreed
that I qualified for food stamps and free prescriptions from the Veteran's
Administration because I was an "indigent, honorably-discharged veteran," the
state continued to tack another $1200.00 in arrears on me every month.

After almost 19-months of unemployment, I talked my way into a position as a
weekend manager for a large, well regarded beverage shop. As expected, my wages
were immediately garnished for child support, but to my surprise, I was also
ordered to appear in Family Court to answer the charge of, "Wilful Neglect To
Pay Child Support," over the previous 19-months that I had been out of work and
ill!

When I appeared in court with my court-appointed attorney (who talked to me for
about ten minutes before we went in) I was ordered to pay a lump sum of $5,000
on the nearly $30,000 in back child support I owed at the time, or go to jail.
Still living in a friend's garage, with no car, phone or savings, I was not yet
able to pay the money, and explained to the judge it would take time to comply
with her order. The assistant District Attorney asked my ex-wife if she wanted
me to go to jail. My ex looked at me and said, "Yes," without missing a beat.

The judge asked the prosecutor what her recommendation was, and she asked the
court to imprison me for six months in the County Penitentiary, and moved that
the court grant my ex-wife the full $30,000 judgement in back support. The
judge asked me if I had anything to say, but when I stood up and began to
address the court, saying, "I have been accused of wilfully choosing not to pay
child support your Honor..," she raised her hand and said, "I've changed my
mind, sit down."

She immediately told me I was "in contempt," of her order and, inexplicably,
ordered me to report to the County prison every Friday at 5pm, to be imprisoned
until 5pm Sunday evening, for a period of five months. Even though my
"attorney," asked her not to jail me so I could keep my job, the judge stood
fast. Needless to say, I lost my job, and at the end of my five month
sentence, I had served 22 consecutive weekends, or 1,056 hours behind bars.

Think of it this way. For five consecutive months every Friday afternoon, you
are arrested and put in jail. You present yourself to the correction officer on
duty who already doesn't like you because you represent more work than he or
she is already dealing with. You are walked through a metal detector, frisked,
then taken into the booking area and put in the "holding tank" with twelve
other inmates until the officers that will process you into the prison are
ready.

Usually, after an hour or so, you are taken out of the tank in groups of three,
and led to stalls, where a surgical-gloved correction officer (C.O.), tells you
to strip and place your clothes in one pile. You are then instructed to put all
of your other belongings on his table. The C.O. records all of your belongings,
searches your clothes and underwear, you sign the receipt, he bags your clothes
and puts your valuables in a bag for the prison safe. You are then searched
nude, initially facing the Officer. The C.O. instructs you to: "Show me the
bottom of your feet." Spread your toes." "Show me the palms of your hands, flip
them over, spread your fingers." "Hold your arms out to your sides." "Open your
mouth." "Lift up your tongue." "Move it around in your mouth." "Say AHH." "Turn
around." "Run your fingers back and forth through your hair," or "Lift up your
hair." "Grab you butt-cheeks and squat down." "Stand up and turn around." "Lift
up your penis and testicles." "Get dressed."

After the inspection the C.O. issues you a one-size-fits-all hospital
scrubs-style prison uniform, and a pair of slip-on sneakers. Then you and
10-or-so other inmates are placed into a 12'x12' holding cell with a flat
concrete floor, bullet-proof glass walls and no benches for at least three
hours -- and often as long as twelve. No one gets out of the holding cell until
they get permission from a passing C.O., and are escorted to and from their
destination. A lot of men urinate or defecate on themselves long before that
ever happens.

Eventually, when the officers have made room for you in "their" already
overcrowded prison, you are given two sheets, a pillow case (not that you'll
actually get a pillow, but it is handy for carrying your toothpaste, and the
other linen in), a wool army blanket, a small white cotton towel, a bar of
soap, a small plastic toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste. You are then
assigned randomly to a wing within the prison where room has been made
available for you. The word has already spread to the inmates permanently
housed there of course that, "a weekender is comin' in," and some men are
already planning to use the new weekender for any number of things -- none of
them good.

I was housed in almost every part of the Westchester County prison during my 22
visits. In "D-block," located in the "Old Jail," my "house" -- as cells are
called -- was one of the jail's originals from the early 1900s. There, the cell
walls are rough, reinforced 22"-thick concrete, block and plaster, covered with
thick coats of dull brown and grey paint, graffiti of every imaginable type,
and more often than not, human feces. The doors to the cells are solid ¾"
steel, and measure just two-feet wide, by five-feet in height. Men yell, talk,
rap, sing, cry, moan, try to sleep, scream profanities and write all night,
every night.

In D-block, we were "locked-down," or locked in our cells, 18 hours a day. It
was the other six hours you had to worry about. That's when you were out of
your cell, going to meals in the "mess hall," exercising in the gymnasium, or
watching cartoons or Spanish dance TV shows with angry 18, 19 and 20-year-old
gang members and other assorted violent and mentally unstable men in the "day
room."

Lots of things can happen to a new guy in prison, and "weekenders," are
especially vulnerable to extortion and harassment. Simple things like someone
"disrespecting" you, by going into your cell, or "house," while you're in the
day room and stealing your toilet paper, can lead to bloody confrontations or,
at best, going without toilet paper -- a valued commodity in prison which is
also used as rolling paper for bootleg tobacco and marijuana, stuffing air
vents that blow cold air in the winter and hot air in the summers, and for
making paste.

Other scams include "asking" weekenders to smuggle in cigarettes and drugs. My
second weekend, I was assigned to A-block in the Old part of the County Jail.
It is a large open bay, with about 50 bunk beds, and seven chairs in a small
television area near the front of the room where a Correction Officer sits.
When I first arrived, I was assigned a bunk number by the C.O., and quickly
discovered there was no mattress on it. Several of the bunks around me had two
mattresses, so I waited a few minutes to see if anyone was going to react,
especially the C.O., who could plainly see I had no mattress.

After about five minutes, three guys left the television area and came over to
where I was sitting. The largest one said, "You a weekender?" I said yes. He
said, "What you in here for?" With as straight a face as I could muster, I
said, "I capped the mayor's dog. It was crapping in my yard again, so I double
clicked the mother****er. They popped me for unlawful use of a firearm within
the City limits and cruelty to ****ing animals. Can you believe that ****?" Two
of the guys actually laughed. I don't think they had a full set of teeth
between them.

The brain surgeon who was apparently the leader simply because he was the
largest, smiled and said, "Well, we got rules `round here. People get hurt when
they ain't got no friends watchin' their back. We'll help you get a mattress
cause you need some friends to teach you whazzup, but you gonna' bring us
something next time you come, right? You Know what I'm sayin'? Yo, you want us
to hook you up, right?"

I slowly stood up to my full height of six feet. When I was married, my wife
and children would accompany me frequently, to take part in local road-running
events from "5K's," to half marathons. When I finished the Long Beach Island,
New Jersey "18 Mile Lighthouse Run," in two hours, thirty-three minutes, I
weighed 255 pounds. When I went to jail, I probably weighed about 290. The
point being, I am not a small man, and I wanted these three fellows to
understand that there was a chance one of them could get hurt before they were
able to overpower me, unless one of them had a weapon I did not yet see. I also
wanted to draw the C.O.'s attention, and I did.

I said, "What are you talking about dude?" The man's eyes hardened, and the
forward lean of his buddies toward me was just perceptible. "You can do a
couple of balloons man. It's easy. We'll hook you up and it don't have to go no
further. We'll make sure you're fly when you in here man. You get high right?
Why not be makin' some cash money? We can do that for you man, we can hook you
up." I knew I had a problem, but I was experiencing brain lock. I stepped
through the three of them and said, "Yo dude, I gotta' think about it." The
leader turned to follow my eyes and said, "Don't be thinkin' too long -- dude."

My heart was pumping wildly, I was nervous. Adrenaline was suddenly surging
through my system. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to think as I sat
down in an empty chair near the television. I find it odd that I remember the
TV was tuned to a Spanish variety show. Having been in the Army, I recognized
the beginning stage of the human "flight or fight" reaction in myself. I tried
desperately to think, and I asked God to help me. After thinking and praying
about it for five minutes or so, and bringing my heart rate down under a
150-beats-a-minute, I chose my poison.

Walking over to the Correction Officer in charge of the block, I said, "C.O., I
need a mattress for my rack, can you help me out?" Then, without waiting for an
answer I turned and began walking back into the common area between the bunks
and stopped. I took a look around the bay, and intentionally tried to make eye
contact with whoever was looking in my direction. I was scared, but I tried not
to let it show. When I spoke, my voice was flat and unbroken.

"My name is Terry," I said, just loud enough to be heard over the television.
"I'm the new weekender, so I'll be taking your orders for herb, rock, smack,
meth, Marlboros or Newports between six and eight." I had everyone's attention
at that point, including my three new friends and the young C.O., who had a
perplexed look on his face. "I must caution you though," I continued, "the
first two balloons I swallow on Fridays, will contain a large thermos of hot
****ing coffee with milk and a German Chocolate Cake. Those are my two drugs of
choice gentlemen, and all other orders will be considered on a fist come, first
served basis."

A few inmates laughed nervously. My new friends pretended they didn't see me
anymore, one guy said, "That mother****er is crazy," to which a chorus of other
voices agreed. The now perturbed Correction Officer, told me to shut up and go
sit on my bunk. I got a mattress about 10 minutes later, a five-minute lecture
on respect from the C.O., and aside from some evil looks, my three friends
didn't ask me for any more favors that weekend.

I know now that some judges use imprisonment for contempt, as a "tool," to pry
loose hidden funds from deadbeat dads, their friends or relatives. I think this
tactic is probably very effective, because no one that could pay and get out
would subject themselves willingly to prison. Generally, I have observed that
the dads that show up with their own lawyers for court, can usually stay out of
jail by agreeing to pay a small amount of cash, usually less than $2,000 to
settle their arrears.

But for people like me, people who have already lost our children and
everything we ever had financially and materially, there is no way out. We
become the statistical deadbeat dads in prison, adding daily to the "debt we
owe our children." It's apparently very important for Family Court Judges to
have notches of convicted deadbeat dads on their gavels come election time.

I'm not sure exactly what it has cost the County to prosecute, house,
supervise, feed and medicate me during all those hours (I hear it was about
$10,000.00) I spent in their custody, but whatever the cost, I wish the money
could have gone to kids who need it, or jobs programs and new job training for
indigent non-custodial parents.

And just in case you think my children are living in poverty, they're not. I
thank God every day that the man their mother committed adultery with and later
married, provides for them financially better than I could. He and my ex-wife
list their net assets at well over a half-a-million dollars, and even felt
comfortable enough financially to have another child together. They live in a
large home in the upscale Detroit suburb of Rochester Hills, Michigan. Once
again, I thank God my children are living in a solid and healthy environment.

My children's mother told me years ago that if I would give up the children for
adoption by her new husband, she would drop the judgements against me for back
child support, but if not, she would make my life "a living hell."
Unfortunately, she has pretty much succeeded in her goals. As much as I despise
my children's mother, I hope she will never have the nightmares I have, or know
the pain of having three children ripped from her life.

In November of 2000, I got a job as a retail department manager at a large
department store here in White Plains where I live. I was able to pay $1,325.00
monthly in child support and arrears from my $36,000.00 a year salary, and did
so until I was laid off in December of last year. I have not been able to find
work since, and now the Family Court says unless I can pay $5,700.00 by August
6th, I'm going to jail for six-months.

I need a miracle. You see, I have two older children from a previous marriage.
One daughter is getting married August 10th, and the other will give birth to
my grandson on or about August 25th. Jail is bad enough, but missing my child's
wedding, and the birth of my grandchild - that is unbearable.

Do I have a right to feel -- as a father, that I have been forgotten not only
by "Family law," but indeed by common sense itself? Should fathers have to
fight, sometimes go into debt, just for the right to stay a "legal" guardian of
their own flesh and blood - just to stay a dad after divorce? Should my
ex-wife have the privilege of spiriting my children out of state after I was
awarded joint custody and visitation rights by the courts, and then be able to
use those same courts to impoverish, and imprison me?

I NEED A MIRACLE!!! IF YOU CAN, PLEASE SEND A CHECK IN ANY AMOUNT MADE OUT TO:

"Westchester County SCU / Acct: BC34126Q1"
PO Box 15355
Albany, New York 12212-5355

My friends and church have also set up a Post Office Box for me to receive your
mail and prayers at:

HeartBroken Father
PO Box 275
White Plains, NY 10602

If you are broke like me, PLEASE PRAY FOR ME. If you are a reporter, I want to
get my story out there because I KNOW I AM NOT ALONE!!! Thank you all, and God
bless you!!!!!

Such a SAD story, but just so much BULL****. Suck it up and do your time. Say
hi to Bubba and don't drop the soap......

I need a check to, please make it out to CASH I would be greatful and give
you a ride in my new boat.

I NEED A MIRACLE. I NEED YOUR PRAYERS!!!

I am a divorced father and grandfather. Over the last six-months I have
not
been able to find work after being laid off from my retail manager
position of
two years. Since 1998, I have had two heart attacks, and had a "stint"
placed
in my Right Coronary Artery. During my illnesses and recovery from 1998 -
1999,
I was not able to work for a time, and then could not find work once I
recovered. Though I was homeless, living in a shelter and utilizing
Westchester
County's public health clinic for free samples of the blood pressure
medications I need every day, I was still labelled a "deadbeat dad" by New
York
State, which suspended my driver's license, and my professional license to
practice as a Respiratory Technologist in New York.

During this same time period, the State continued to assess my child
support at
US$1200.00 per month, the same amount I paid unfailingly for over five
years as
a Respiratory Technician. I paid my child support even though my ex-wife
married the man she had an affair with, and took my children to
Michigan --
without my prior knowledge, consent, or as much as a "say goodbye to your
dad
kids." It really crushed me. I had put myself in thousands-of-dollars of
debt
to fight for - and finally be awarded - joint custody of my children just
the
year before. I never missed a child support payment until two months after
my
hospital position of nine years was eliminated. I simultaneously lost my
low-cost hospital housing (studio apartment and utilities for $500 mo.),
and
then had my first heart attack.

Even though the State knew I was on welfare, (the good people of
Westchester
County, New York paid for my heart surgery), even though the bureaucracy
agreed
that I qualified for food stamps and free prescriptions from the Veteran's
Administration because I was an "indigent, honorably-discharged veteran,"
the
state continued to tack another $1200.00 in arrears on me every month.

After almost 19-months of unemployment, I talked my way into a position as
a
weekend manager for a large, well regarded beverage shop. As expected, my
wages
were immediately garnished for child support, but to my surprise, I was
also
ordered to appear in Family Court to answer the charge of, "Wilful Neglect
To
Pay Child Support," over the previous 19-months that I had been out of
work and
ill!

When I appeared in court with my court-appointed attorney (who talked to
me for
about ten minutes before we went in) I was ordered to pay a lump sum of
$5,000
on the nearly $30,000 in back child support I owed at the time, or go to
jail.
Still living in a friend's garage, with no car, phone or savings, I was
not yet
able to pay the money, and explained to the judge it would take time to
comply
with her order. The assistant District Attorney asked my ex-wife if she
wanted
me to go to jail. My ex looked at me and said, "Yes," without missing a
beat.

The judge asked the prosecutor what her recommendation was, and she asked
the
court to imprison me for six months in the County Penitentiary, and moved
that
the court grant my ex-wife the full $30,000 judgement in back support.
The
judge asked me if I had anything to say, but when I stood up and began to
address the court, saying, "I have been accused of wilfully choosing not
to pay
child support your Honor..," she raised her hand and said, "I've changed
my
mind, sit down."

She immediately told me I was "in contempt," of her order and,
inexplicably,
ordered me to report to the County prison every Friday at 5pm, to be
imprisoned
until 5pm Sunday evening, for a period of five months. Even though my
"attorney," asked her not to jail me so I could keep my job, the judge
stood
fast. Needless to say, I lost my job, and at the end of my five month
sentence, I had served 22 consecutive weekends, or 1,056 hours behind
bars.

Think of it this way. For five consecutive months every Friday afternoon,
you
are arrested and put in jail. You present yourself to the correction
officer on
duty who already doesn't like you because you represent more work than he
or
she is already dealing with. You are walked through a metal detector,
frisked,
then taken into the booking area and put in the "holding tank" with twelve
other inmates until the officers that will process you into the prison are
ready.

Usually, after an hour or so, you are taken out of the tank in groups of
three,
and led to stalls, where a surgical-gloved correction officer (C.O.),
tells you
to strip and place your clothes in one pile. You are then instructed to
put all
of your other belongings on his table. The C.O. records all of your
belongings,
searches your clothes and underwear, you sign the receipt, he bags your
clothes
and puts your valuables in a bag for the prison safe. You are then
searched
nude, initially facing the Officer. The C.O. instructs you to: "Show me
the
bottom of your feet." Spread your toes." "Show me the palms of your hands,
flip
them over, spread your fingers." "Hold your arms out to your sides." "Open
your
mouth." "Lift up your tongue." "Move it around in your mouth." "Say AHH."
"Turn
around." "Run your fingers back and forth through your hair," or "Lift up
your
hair." "Grab you butt-cheeks and squat down." "Stand up and turn around."
"Lift
up your penis and testicles." "Get dressed."

After the inspection the C.O. issues you a one-size-fits-all hospital
scrubs-style prison uniform, and a pair of slip-on sneakers. Then you and
10-or-so other inmates are placed into a 12'x12' holding cell with a flat
concrete floor, bullet-proof glass walls and no benches for at least three
hours -- and often as long as twelve. No one gets out of the holding cell
until
they get permission from a passing C.O., and are escorted to and from
their
destination. A lot of men urinate or defecate on themselves long before
that
ever happens.

Eventually, when the officers have made room for you in "their" already
overcrowded prison, you are given two sheets, a pillow case (not that
you'll
actually get a pillow, but it is handy for carrying your toothpaste, and
the
other linen in), a wool army blanket, a small white cotton towel, a bar of
soap, a small plastic toothbrush and a small tube of toothpaste. You are
then
assigned randomly to a wing within the prison where room has been made
available for you. The word has already spread to the inmates permanently
housed there of course that, "a weekender is comin' in," and some men are
already planning to use the new weekender for any number of things -- none
of
them good.

I was housed in almost every part of the Westchester County prison during
my 22
visits. In "D-block," located in the "Old Jail," my "house" -- as cells
are
called -- was one of the jail's originals from the early 1900s. There, the
cell
walls are rough, reinforced 22"-thick concrete, block and plaster, covered
with
thick coats of dull brown and grey paint, graffiti of every imaginable
type,
and more often than not, human feces. The doors to the cells are solid ¾"
steel, and measure just two-feet wide, by five-feet in height. Men yell,
talk,
rap, sing, cry, moan, try to sleep, scream profanities and write all
night,
every night.

In D-block, we were "locked-down," or locked in our cells, 18 hours a day.
It
was the other six hours you had to worry about. That's when you were out
of
your cell, going to meals in the "mess hall," exercising in the gymnasium,
or
watching cartoons or Spanish dance TV shows with angry 18, 19 and
20-year-old
gang members and other assorted violent and mentally unstable men in the
"day
room."

Lots of things can happen to a new guy in prison, and "weekenders," are
especially vulnerable to extortion and harassment. Simple things like
someone
"disrespecting" you, by going into your cell, or "house," while you're in
the
day room and stealing your toilet paper, can lead to bloody confrontations
or,
at best, going without toilet paper -- a valued commodity in prison which
is
also used as rolling paper for bootleg tobacco and marijuana, stuffing air
vents that blow cold air in the winter and hot air in the summers, and for
making paste.

Other scams include "asking" weekenders to smuggle in cigarettes and
drugs. My
second weekend, I was assigned to A-block in the Old part of the County
Jail.
It is a large open bay, with about 50 bunk beds, and seven chairs in a
small
television area near the front of the room where a Correction Officer
sits.
When I first arrived, I was assigned a bunk number by the C.O., and
quickly
discovered there was no mattress on it. Several of the bunks around me had
two
mattresses, so I waited a few minutes to see if anyone was going to react,
especially the C.O., who could plainly see I had no mattress.

After about five minutes, three guys left the television area and came
over to
where I was sitting. The largest one said, "You a weekender?" I said yes.
He
said, "What you in here for?" With as straight a face as I could muster, I
said, "I capped the mayor's dog. It was crapping in my yard again, so I
double
clicked the mother****er. They popped me for unlawful use of a firearm
within
the City limits and cruelty to ****ing animals. Can you believe that
****?" Two
of the guys actually laughed. I don't think they had a full set of teeth
between them.

The brain surgeon who was apparently the leader simply because he was the
largest, smiled and said, "Well, we got rules `round here. People get hurt
when
they ain't got no friends watchin' their back. We'll help you get a
mattress
cause you need some friends to teach you whazzup, but you gonna' bring us
something next time you come, right? You Know what I'm sayin'? Yo, you
want us
to hook you up, right?"

I slowly stood up to my full height of six feet. When I was married, my
wife
and children would accompany me frequently, to take part in local
road-running
events from "5K's," to half marathons. When I finished the Long Beach
Island,
New Jersey "18 Mile Lighthouse Run," in two hours, thirty-three minutes, I
weighed 255 pounds. When I went to jail, I probably weighed about 290. The
point being, I am not a small man, and I wanted these three fellows to
understand that there was a chance one of them could get hurt before they
were
able to overpower me, unless one of them had a weapon I did not yet see. I
also
wanted to draw the C.O.'s attention, and I did.

I said, "What are you talking about dude?" The man's eyes hardened, and
the
forward lean of his buddies toward me was just perceptible. "You can do a
couple of balloons man. It's easy. We'll hook you up and it don't have to
go no
further. We'll make sure you're fly when you in here man. You get high
right?
Why not be makin' some cash money? We can do that for you man, we can hook
you
up." I knew I had a problem, but I was experiencing brain lock. I stepped
through the three of them and said, "Yo dude, I gotta' think about it."
The
leader turned to follow my eyes and said, "Don't be thinkin' too long --
dude."

My heart was pumping wildly, I was nervous. Adrenaline was suddenly
surging
through my system. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to think as I
sat
down in an empty chair near the television. I find it odd that I remember
the
TV was tuned to a Spanish variety show. Having been in the Army, I
recognized
the beginning stage of the human "flight or fight" reaction in myself. I
tried
desperately to think, and I asked God to help me. After thinking and
praying
about it for five minutes or so, and bringing my heart rate down under a
150-beats-a-minute, I chose my poison.

Walking over to the Correction Officer in charge of the block, I said,
"C.O., I
need a mattress for my rack, can you help me out?" Then, without waiting
for an
answer I turned and began walking back into the common area between the
bunks
and stopped. I took a look around the bay, and intentionally tried to make
eye
contact with whoever was looking in my direction. I was scared, but I
tried not
to let it show. When I spoke, my voice was flat and unbroken.

"My name is Terry," I said, just loud enough to be heard over the
television.
"I'm the new weekender, so I'll be taking your orders for herb, rock,
smack,
meth, Marlboros or Newports between six and eight." I had everyone's
attention
at that point, including my three new friends and the young C.O., who had
a
perplexed look on his face. "I must caution you though," I continued,
"the
first two balloons I swallow on Fridays, will contain a large thermos of
hot
****ing coffee with milk and a German Chocolate Cake. Those are my two
drugs of
choice gentlemen, and all other orders will be considered on a fist come,
first
served basis."

A few inmates laughed nervously. My new friends pretended they didn't see
me
anymore, one guy said, "That mother****er is crazy," to which a chorus of
other
voices agreed. The now perturbed Correction Officer, told me to shut up
and go
sit on my bunk. I got a mattress about 10 minutes later, a five-minute
lecture
on respect from the C.O., and aside from some evil looks, my three friends
didn't ask me for any more favors that weekend.

I know now that some judges use imprisonment for contempt, as a "tool," to
pry
loose hidden funds from deadbeat dads, their friends or relatives. I think
this
tactic is probably very effective, because no one that could pay and get
out
would subject themselves willingly to prison. Generally, I have observed
that
the dads that show up with their own lawyers for court, can usually stay
out of
jail by agreeing to pay a small amount of cash, usually less than $2,000
to
settle their arrears.

But for people like me, people who have already lost our children and
everything we ever had financially and materially, there is no way out. We
become the statistical deadbeat dads in prison, adding daily to the "debt
we
owe our children." It's apparently very important for Family Court Judges
to
have notches of convicted deadbeat dads on their gavels come election
time.

I'm not sure exactly what it has cost the County to prosecute, house,
supervise, feed and medicate me during all those hours (I hear it was
about
$10,000.00) I spent in their custody, but whatever the cost, I wish the
money
could have gone to kids who need it, or jobs programs and new job training
for
indigent non-custodial parents.

And just in case you think my children are living in poverty, they're not.
I
thank God every day that the man their mother committed adultery with and
later
married, provides for them financially better than I could. He and my
ex-wife
list their net assets at well over a half-a-million dollars, and even felt
comfortable enough financially to have another child together. They live
in a
large home in the upscale Detroit suburb of Rochester Hills, Michigan.
Once
again, I thank God my children are living in a solid and healthy
environment.

My children's mother told me years ago that if I would give up the
children for
adoption by her new husband, she would drop the judgements against me for
back
child support, but if not, she would make my life "a living hell."
Unfortunately, she has pretty much succeeded in her goals. As much as I
despise
my children's mother, I hope she will never have the nightmares I have, or
know
the pain of having three children ripped from her life.

In November of 2000, I got a job as a retail department manager at a large
department store here in White Plains where I live. I was able to pay
$1,325.00
monthly in child support and arrears from my $36,000.00 a year salary, and
did
so until I was laid off in December of last year. I have not been able to
find
work since, and now the Family Court says unless I can pay $5,700.00 by
August
6th, I'm going to jail for six-months.

I need a miracle. You see, I have two older children from a previous
marriage.
One daughter is getting married August 10th, and the other will give birth
to
my grandson on or about August 25th. Jail is bad enough, but missing my
child's
wedding, and the birth of my grandchild - that is unbearable.

Do I have a right to feel -- as a father, that I have been forgotten not
only
by "Family law," but indeed by common sense itself? Should fathers have
to
fight, sometimes go into debt, just for the right to stay a "legal"
guardian of
their own flesh and blood - just to stay a dad after divorce? Should my
ex-wife have the privilege of spiriting my children out of state after I
was
awarded joint custody and visitation rights by the courts, and then be
able to
use those same courts to impoverish, and imprison me?

I NEED A MIRACLE!!! IF YOU CAN, PLEASE SEND A CHECK IN ANY AMOUNT MADE OUT
TO:

"Westchester County SCU / Acct: BC34126Q1"
PO Box 15355
Albany, New York 12212-5355

My friends and church have also set up a Post Office Box for me to receive
your
mail and prayers at:

HeartBroken Father
PO Box 275
White Plains, NY 10602

If you are broke like me, PLEASE PRAY FOR ME. If you are a reporter, I
want to
get my story out there because I KNOW I AM NOT ALONE!!! Thank you all, and
God
bless you!!!!!