The Warrant

November 2024.

I found out there was a warrant out for my arrest. And this time, I didn't wait for the knock.

I called my attorney and turned myself in.

Here's the goofy part nobody tells you. You can't just walk into the courthouse. You have to get to the jail before 6am so they can process you and put you on that day's docket.

So there I was. Standing outside a jail at 5:30 in the morning, in the dark, waiting for them to open the door and take me in.

I was early to my own arrest.

The moment a warrant exists, your life splits in two. Before you know, and after you know.

Once you know, every day you don't deal with it, the floor under you gets thinner.

Most of you have never had a warrant. You've still lived in that second timeline. It's the unopened IRS letter. The client you owe a hard call. The number in the ad account you won't look at.

You know. You're not acting. And the floor keeps thinning.

Busy is the most respectable way to hide. I hid that way for years. In November 2024 I finally picked up the phone.

They took me in. Put me in oranges. Put me back in one of the pods. I sat there ten, fifteen minutes. Then they called me back to holding and told me I was free to go.

Except the judge had set bond at $2,000 cash. My attorney later told me she wondered if that was even something the judge could do.

That afternoon, my parents bailed me out.

Third time they'd had to be the ones who showed up.

Luke 15:20 gets me every time. The prodigal is "yet a great way off" when his father runs to him. He hadn't earned it. He hadn't even finished his speech.

That's my parents. Three times. If you deserve it, it isn't grace. It's a paycheck.

I drove home thinking: okay. Manageable. Out the same day. This is just paperwork now.

I was wrong.

To get a decent deal, I had to come up with the money for everything. Restitution. Fees. All of it. And I'd be standing in front of the same judge I'd had before. The one who didn't like me. Third time.

I told my attorney I was worried. He said don't worry about it.

I want to be really clear about this part.

The court date was coming up, and I asked my attorney to move it. I did that so I could come up with the money for the restitution.

That's the whole reason.

I wasn't dodging. I'd just turned myself in at 5:30 in the morning. The deal depended on walking in with the restitution in hand, and I didn't have all of it yet. Walking in a little late with the money felt better than walking in on time without it.

He said that wouldn't be an issue. Told me not to come in.

The date didn't get moved.

Now we had two days before a bench warrant would be issued.

I showed up. My attorney said not to worry. I was really fucking worried.

It didn't go well. The judge upped my bond to $100,000 and sent me to jail.

From $2,000 to $100,000. In one hearing. Over a date I'd tried to move so I could pay what I owed.

Intent is invisible. The docket only shows what happened. And what happened was I wasn't there.

Sheldon was sitting in my car. In Michigan. In the winter. My dad had to come get Sheldon and the car.

Then I sat in jail and waited my fate.

Epictetus opens the Enchiridion with it: "Some things are in our control and others not."

The judge's decision wasn't mine. Whether the date moved wasn't mine.

Turning myself in was mine. Working to pull the restitution together was mine. Showing up two days later instead of running was mine.

And the reason there was restitution at all? Also mine. I'll get into that Wednesday.

The lesson I actually kept, the one I use in business every week: if the consequences land on you, the follow-up belongs to you. "Don't worry about it" isn't confirmation. Check the docket. Get it in writing. Call the clerk yourself.

The first time, I ran. The second time, I hid. This time, I walked in the front door and turned myself in.

And it still ended with a $100,000 bond and a dog in a cold car.

Doing everything right doesn't guarantee anything. But it guarantees you can live with yourself.

That had to be enough. Because in January, it was all I had.

Name your second timeline. The thing you know about and haven't acted on.

Write it down in one sentence. Then make one call about it before Friday. Not the whole fix. Just the call.

The call is always the whole ballgame.

Episode 12 is live now. Including why running never made anything smaller, and why jail turned out to be lighter than hiding.

One step, one day. Grace over guilt.