Although my surgical practice was in Northern Virginia, I lived in Washington, D.C. , a cosmopolitan change from my suburban upbringing. Briefly married, I was the sole custodion of my baby. My mother lived with us, so even with a nanny, the baby always had family around. Relatives in a near-by state wanted visits and a D.C. judge ordered them. My baby did not come home happy. As soon as it could speak, it described terrible things being done to it at that home. Another child had visits at the same time; it made the same complaints. The state investigated and permanently protected the child living there. In Washington, D.C. the judge ordered me to send my child back. I refused and appealed his order but lost. In those days at least, judges in Washington, D.C. were known to not protect children. I was in despair. One day, a strange Nigerian Christian missionary knocked on my door. He said that God had sent him to save my soul. When the missionary left, I had a vision – I could not save my child. I had to leave it to God. I did so. Incredibly and against the odds, a few weeks later my child was safely out of the U.S.A. with my parents and I was on my way to jail. The D.C. jail was a 1,600 bed male and female facility for accused criminals – and for me, accused of no crime. As long as my child was safe, I was content, doing what I could to help my fellow inmates. Yet the employees of the D.C. jail and many male and female inmates were upset with what the judge had done to my child and to me. Against his orders and risking their jobs, the employees let every person who asked interview me. They created such publicity and outrage that after twenty-six months, the U.S. Congress, which oversees the city, released me by an Act of Congress. What would I have done without this help? I would have been behind bars for thirteen years, until my child was grown. Why did they help me? That is an extraordinary story.