“Let’s Go Crazy” — Prince
I worked for nine years as a field agent for the Michigan Department of Corrections. I supervised a guy on probation for criminal sexual conduct with an underage girl, a 15-year-old high school student. My duties required me to have him into the office for regularly scheduled visits, and to go, unannounced to his home from time to time. This guy was married. He seemed totally under the control of his wife – except for the crime, of course. But they stayed together.
His wife was a difficult person. She was loud and obnoxious. She used a wheelchair, as I noted the first time they came to my office. His first office visit, a sort of welcome-to-probation for my adult felony offenders, was lengthy, as they always were. I reviewed all the standard terms of probation, and then reviewed special conditions, which were customized for each individual.
We talked about how probation could be expected to proceed. It depended upon the behavior of the probationer. If the offender followed all the rules, paid all the fees, avoided new criminal behavior, probation could be completed, and discharge from probation could be expected. His probation had begun after he completed a term of jail incarceration. Jail is no fun, but he wouldn’t go to prison if he followed the rules.
Of course, he would have a felony on his record, and be registered as a sex offender on the Michigan Sex Offender Registry, a list of convicted sex offenders available to the public on the Michigan State Police website (an interesting site available to the public, which lists convicted sex offenders, and even provides a map showing the names and addresses and conviction offenses of sex offenders living close to your home).
If rules were violated, one could expect prison. An important part of the initial interview was to discuss the crime. This often came with rationalizations and justifications offered by the probationer. We’d discuss. I would offer my point of view about the matter. This guy and I had a long initial talk.
On the next visit, he brought his wife with him, and asked if she could come with him back from the lobby to my office. I said OK.
It didn’t go well. She was a large woman. I’d made a space for her wheelchair, but she wheeled it closer to my side of the desk. She spoke often and loudly. She would answer questions that I asked of her husband. I sent her back to the lobby. I suspected that she formed a dislike of me, in part because I may have been a reminder of her husband’s crime, and, perhaps in greater part, because I was unwilling to cede control to her.
Not long after that, I made an unannounced home call. I was surprised to see that they lived in an upstairs apartment, accessible only by use of stairs. The stairs were outside and open to the weather. She was about double his weight. It must have been a project to get her up and down those stairs.
During our interview, she again persisted in answering questions that were directed to her husband. I reminded her that he was the one with the felony, he was the one serving a term of probation, and that he was the one who needed to answer my questions.
We were on her turf now, and she did not like having me direct how things would go. She persisted in answering. I continued to remind them both that he was to answer, not her. It was a hot day in July.
She became increasingly agitated. She began to yell at me, her theme being that she would tell him when to speak, and what to say.
I got up from my chair, and told her that he and I would be stepping outside to continue our talk in the apartment parking lot. The apartment was small, and I was within five feet of her. There was a TV table in front of her, and on it was a very large plastic container of margarine, rather liquified because of the heat. This woman picked up the tub of margarine. It was apparent to me that she was preparing to throw it at me. As she drew back her arm, I knocked the margarine tub from her hand, redirecting it away from myself. It landed mid-chest (on her bodice, one might say), and slithered down the entire front of her dress and into her lap.
To my great surprise, she arose from her wheelchair, reached with both hands, and grabbed my necktie. The tie was actually one of my favorites, depicting a tropical scene, with palm trees and in vibrant pastel colors. This woman, as noted, was every bit of hefty, and as she got my tie in her grasp, she went somewhat limp.
As a safety measure, field agents are advised to wear clip-on ties, just so as not to run the risk of strangulation in a confrontation. This was a rule never followed by any of the POs, despite the logical reason for doing so. Clip-on ties were available in unappealing shades of solid brown or solid blue. Every day I made a brave choice for fashion. I thought of this as she continued to pull on – and apply her body weight to – my tie.
“Let go of my tie,” I said, in a hoarse rasp, “Or you might be the one going to jail today.” She did not relent. I felt myself getting increasingly red in the face. The probie just stood there staring. He was in a difficult position. His PO was being attacked by his wife. He wanted to be viewed as favorably as possible by the probation officer, but he had to live with his wife. “Honey,” he said in a wheedling voice, “please don’t do that. Please.”
She ignored his plea, as well as what I’d said. I was carrying a sidearm, but this didn’t call for that kind of response. I bent one of her fingers back. She didn’t let go. I bent it some more. Still, she hung on. I bent the finger to what must have been near the breaking point. Did I hear or feel a bit of a crunching sound? Perhaps. She did let go.
She stood up, and then ran from the apartment, down the stairs, and vanished to somewhere unknown to me or to her husband. “Maybe she went to a friend’s place,” he said. She had a friend? That seemed impossible – but I was glad she’d left.
I asked him about the wheelchair, my voice having returned (mostly) to it former melodic timbre. “Oh,” he said, “she just likes it. She thinks that people will feel sorry for her if she’s in it.” I thought: Munchausen’s, maybe, but not Munchausen’s-by-proxy. But then who am I to diagnose mental illnesses? It occurred to me that perhaps the kindest thing I could have done for this guy would have been to have taken him to the Kent County Jail. Jail had to be preferable to what life must have been like living with her.
But I’m not that kind, and, of course, he hadn’t really done anything wrong that day.
From that day forward, she never accompanied her husband to his office appointments with me. She stayed in a bedroom with the door closed when I’d make a home call.
The guy did OK, and completed his term of probation. He was an interested participant in sex offender therapy, and the therapist described him as cooperative. He seemed motivated to not go to prison.
My Critical Incident Report (Use of Force) seemed to be thoroughly enjoyed by my supervisor. He passed it around to other Field Agents — for training purposes, he said. My palm tree tie was elevated to an office favorite, and seemed to generate comments from the other POs whenever I wore it.
