Think of the Babies

THINK OF THE BABIES

January, 1990

The green hills that flanked the freeway sped by as we drove our way to Martinez.  Stuart, a member of the church Don pastored, was driving. He was so kind in offering to take me there.  The drive seemed to take forever. Now and then, I would see cows sluggishly moving about in the sun or horses resting under the shade of a tree along the freeway. Clumps of spreading trees sometimes appeared, breaking the green spread of the hills.  I stared out the window while talking to Stuart. I think he knew I needed to take long pauses during our conversation.  The reality of my husband being in jail hadn’t quite sunk in. I’ve never visited anyone in jail. I felt strange.

It had been several days since Don surrendered to the Martinez county jail; the last time Kristy, Matthew, and I saw him as he began his 25-day sentence. It seemed so unreal.  I wanted the children to see their Dad go through this painful experience. I wanted them to see that there were things worth standing for, even if it meant jail time.

Don was one of four Pro-Lifers who were convicted of trespassing in an abortion clinic. One was a longtime friend who was a retired US Navy Chaplain.  He had been previously jailed a few times for the same criminal charge.  At one time, he served 38 days. There was also the Catholic lay leader and another retired serviceman. 

We have been Pro-Lifers. We have picketed a particular abortion clinic close to our neighborhood every chance we had. Sometimes sympathetic passers-by gave us the thumbs-up as we walked up and down the length of the abortion clinic.  We have met like-minded people from different walks of life.  At times, we got the middle finger salute. At this particular clinic, an old lady in a wheelchair sat in front of the clinic, praying the rosary. She was a member of the Catholic Church nearby that faithfully demonstrated for the unborn.  We heard that she had been arrested, and Planned Parenthood sued the church. 

Just a few days before Don was arrested, we discussed this possibility as he planned to join the demonstration at a Planned Parenthood Clinic in Walnut Creek. I saw the incident on tv.  There were several demonstrators arrested along with Don and Chaplain Robinson.

During the trial, Chaplain Robinson’s wife, Fleta, and I, Kristy and Matthew, sat together in the courtroom.  Our children were about 8 and 10 at the time. They knew that their Dad was there because we were protesting the killing of the unborn children. Fleta sat next to me. She saw my pain as we watched the trial. Softly she whispered in my ear, ”Think of the babies, Raquel.  Think of the babies.”

Soon Stuart exited the freeway and on to a barb-wired enclosure, which I found out later was called “The Farm,” though it was not a farm.  It was a low-security facility where there were dormitories for the inmates. We stopped at the gate where Stuart talked to the guard, answered some questions, and signed papers. A strange feeling came over me.  I was in a jail facility, visiting my husband. 

We joined the rest of the visitors in the cafeteria that had chairs and tables. We waited for Don to come. A guard brought him in.  He wore the orange-colored jail uniform, had plastic ties on his wrists, and shackles on his ankles. The guard took the ties and shackles off and motioned to us.

Stuart, Don, and I sat at a table. Don told us about that night when he surrendered and how he was processed as an inmate. He signed several papers, was asked many questions that included whether he was homosexual. He was made to strip. The Deputy Sheriff put on gloves for some kind of inspection on his naked body. Don felt so dehumanized, and shock must have shown on his face. The officer smiled understandingly.  He knew why Don was there. Mercifully, the Deputy Sheriff spared him the physical inspection. He was issued the orange-colored uniform. 

It was near midnight by the time Don made it to his cell. The cell did not have the usual iron bars we expect of a jail.  It had a clear plexiglass door that allowed his full display to whoever came by.  There was a toilet against the center of the back wall and a washbasin next to it. The prisoners were not allowed even a smidgen of privacy. 

There was a two-bunk bed. His cellmate occupied the lower bunk and was already asleep. A book about serial killers was very noticeably laid on a chair. In the morning, when they first met, his cellmate turned out to be a friendly guy.

Don wondered what he got himself into.  The prison authorities had almost complete control over him – when he could leave the cell, when he was to have his meals, what he could do and could not do. His cell was locked and unlocked by someone. All his movements were watched, and he was always in plain view of everyone. 

This painful, traumatic experience was definitely never a part of my dreams as a young woman. However, God had profound reasons for allowing it to happen to our family. It was like a pebble thrown into a pool of water. The ripples went far and wide. 

During the trial, as I sat next to my friend Fleta in the courtroom, I felt the pain of the moment, but to this day, the whisper of my friend echoes in my ear, “Think of the babies, Raquel. Think of the babies.”