NEWFANE — I'm coming up on my 16th year working for the Windham County Sheriff's Office. This story became a cornerstone for my philosophy on how to treat people, first as a sheriff's deputy and now as a sheriff.
When asked what a sheriff's deputy does, most people would first assume law enforcement. Yet that represents only about a quarter of the work that those of us in the Windham County Sheriff's Office do.
In 2005, I was assigned to transport an incarcerated gentleman - I'll refer to him as John - from the Southern State Correctional Facility to Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center. John had, sadly, been stricken with throat cancer, for which he required regular treatment. But John also had a stubborn streak: For weeks, he kept refusing to be transported for his treatments.
When I arrived, John walked out from his cell and sized me up. About half his age, I introduced myself simply as “Mark,” the person who was there to give him a ride.Unaware of the battle he faced, I asked if he needed any food, to use the bathroom, or anything else.
He was then placed in restraints, as was standard procedure for prisoner transports.
John wanted to look in my car before we went. Not the pride of the fleet by any means, it had a cloth seat and an old “waffle” cage. But John ultimately agreed to go.
* * *
On the way, John and I chatted, mostly small talk. As we got closer, he started getting more and more apprehensive.
When I asked what was wrong, he told me he didn't want to go in.
Assuming that he feared the treatment in store for him, I began offering words of encouragement.
“It's not that,” he responded. “I just don't want people to see me like this.”
That's when it clicked. John was going to arrive in a marked sheriff's cruiser, behind a cage, with handcuffs and leg restraints, wearing the prison's blue inmate clothing, and escorted by a deputy in uniform. He was terribly embarrassed.
As we talked through it, I searched my mind for solutions.
John told me that the first time he'd gone for treatment, he hadn't realized how far he would have to walk in this humiliating state. Very simply stated, he put his health second to how others would see him.
Familiar with hospitals, I suggested I push him in a wheelchair, which would remove the difficulties of being seen in leg restraints. And I would cover him in a blanket so he would not be recognized as a prison inmate while getting out of the car.
John agreed.
I wheeled him to the oncology department, where he was checked in and treated. We then reversed the process for his return.
* * *
As we talked on the ride back, John told me what these seemingly small acts had meant to him.
John earlier had given me other reasons he'd turned down police transportation in the past: It was cold in the back of the car because of the type of partition in place, and he didn't perceive the transport officers as very friendly - this after trying to size them up in the first 30 seconds.
His biggest reason, though, was that he simply wanted to be seen by others as human.
The lesson I learned from driving with John was that it's often difficult to imagine what someone else is going through.
John's eventual willingness to go with me and share his feelings taught me the crucial lesson I've tried to carry forward in my work as a deputy, a field training officer, a school resource officer, and now a sheriff: the importance of meeting people where they are.