“Well, I don’t think I can do that,” I say uncertainly, slightly hurt that he has turned my confession to his advantage. “I can promise you I’ll read the passages in the Bible you were talking about, but I’m not going to the TV stations. They’ll think, pardon me, that I’m a little nutty.” I hold my hands up. “No offense to you, that’s just how they would view that.”
“If we are going to build a kingdom on earth, we are going to have to put ourselves on the line,” he says with the confidence of a minister. “What’s your name?”
“Peter,” I say.
“Peter? Peter?” His eyes widen, then narrow, as he assesses me more closely. “Why, you are the one who denied me. Three times you denied me.”
“No, that wasn’t me, that was another guy,” I say. “It wasn’t Peter.”
He thinks for a moment. I’ve thrown him off guard. “Well, maybe I’m wrong.”
Then Arthur chimes in from the front. “No, it was Peter. He betrayed Jesus three times.”
“That’s right,” the man says, delighted. “You were trying to confuse me.” His eyes gleam. “It was you who betrayed me. Don’t betray me again.”
“Three times,” Arthur calls. “Three times.”
“All right, all right,” I say. “Maybe it was Peter, but I’m still not going to the TV stations.”
After we have turned him over to the ward staff at the hospital and are saying good-bye, he holds his Bible to his chest and gently waves his finger at me. He recites, “ ‘He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.…’ ” Arthur puts his arm around him and joins in. They stand together, brother ministers: “ ‘… for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ ”
“Very nice,” I say, waving to them as I back away toward the door. “I’ll see you guys in two weeks.”
Victor
I’m working an overtime shift and we get called to a suburban police station, where the dispatcher tells us they have a prisoner who needs to be checked out. We enter the holding area, where a police officer stands with a short male, who is pacing about nervously. “I need my medications, man. I need my medications.”
“He needs to get checked out to see if he’s having some kind of reaction to his medications,” the officer says. “He’s a little tense.”
“I don’t want to go to the hospital. I just want my medications. I got to take them three times a day. Man, I had them. I gave them to you. You lost them. They were right there.”
“We’re just waiting for his summons to get printed up. We’re going to do a committal—or can you just take him?”
“We need a committal if he doesn’t want to go.”
“Yeah, okay. We’re just waiting for the other officer.”
I turn to the prisoner. “Can you sit down for a second? I’ll take your blood pressure and …”
“Don’t touch me. Just don’t touch me.”
“All right.”
He scowls. “I’ll roll up my own sleeve. I don’t like people touching me.”
“What’s he in for?” Scott Dykema, my partner, asks.
“He pulled a knife on his roommate.”
“I only did it ’cause he got me annoyed. You know that. He was asking for it. He abusing drugs. I don’t. I take my medications regular.”
“Take off your jacket,” the officer says, “so they can take your blood pressure.”
“Shit!” He takes off his jacket and throws it on the table.
“Take off your shirt, too.”
“My shirt. My shirt! Why?”
“ ’Cause I’m asking you to.”
“Damn!” He takes off his shirt. On his chest is the tattoo of two manacled arms, a knife cutting the chains, and the date, June 17, 1996, on top.
“Now take off your beads.”
“My beads! Not my beads! Why?”
“ ’Cause I’m asking you to.”
“Why? I’m not going to hang myself with my beads.”
“ ’Cause I’m asking you to.”
He takes them off, shaking his head, looking like he is either about ready to cry or to explode.
He stands impatiently while my partner takes his blood pressure and I take his pulse. “What medications are you on?” I ask.
“That’s a personal question. I’m not answering that. You’re a nosy mother. I hate nosy motherfuckers!”
“I just need to ask you. It’s part of my job,” I say.
“Tegretol,” he says.
“You have seizures?”
“Yes! I have seizures. You’re a nosy motherfucker. I don’t like you.”
“Anything else?”
“Xanax. Are you done?”
“Do you have any allergies?”
“I told you I take Tegretol. Damn. You are stupid. Do I have to answer all these questions?”
“Yes, you do,” the cop says.
“It’s just that I need my medication. I know where it is. It’s back there. It’s back there. I want you to take me back so I can get it. I need it.”
“You can get more at the hospital,” I say. “You want to go to Hartford?”
“Hartford! Hartford! No, I hate those motherfuckers. They aren’t taking me to Hartford!” he says to the cop.
“They can take you wherever you want.”
“I want you to take me home to get my medication. It’s right there. It’s right there. I know where I left it. I need it. I need my medication.”
“How’s Saint Francis?” I say. “We can get you medication there. They’ll check your levels and if you need it, they’ll give it to you.”
“Check my levels! Check my levels! All right, okay. I’ll go to Saint Francis. Shit!”
“I’m going to have you step into the cell,” the cop says.
He lets the officer lead him into the cell. It closes behind him but he seems to take no notice. He paces about, talking to himself. “I don’t see why you even lock me up. It wasn’t my fault. I just need my medication. He probably took it and sold it. He abuses drugs. He probably sold them, the motherfucker.” He kicks the cell, rattling the bars.
“He gets like this when he gets tense. We’ve had him in a few times before,” the officer says. “He just needs to get his medications straightened out.”
“You talking about me—that’s personal,” he shouts. “Fucking cops. I hate cops.”
“Calm down, Victor,” the cop says. “We’re just waiting on the paperwork. Then we’ll get you to Hartford.”
“Hartford! Hartford! I’m not going to Hartford. I hate them at Hartford.”
“Saint Francis. We’re going to Saint Francis,” I say. “Is an officer coming with us?”
“Depends on what the sergeant says. We don’t want to tie up an officer if we can help it.”
Another officer comes back and says, “We’re probably going to have to detain him. He’s got a bad record. The liability would be pretty great. He’s got a manslaughter conviction.”
Manslaughter?
“Detain me. Detain me. For what? For what?”
“You held a knife to the man’s throat.”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“I know he aggravated you, but you can’t be pulling knives on people.”
“Shit. I wouldn’t have come with you if I’d known it was going to be this big a deal. I just need my medication. I had it, and you took it. You lost it, and now look where we are. I hate policemen. Stupid motherfuckers.” He mimics, “ ‘Are we going to detain him or wait for the paperwork?’ Motherfuckers! I hate cops!” He kicks the cell again.
The sergeant comes in. “How’s he been? Calm?”
The other officer says, “A little uptight.” She gla
nces at us. “I don’t think they’ll be comfortable transporting him, plus the liability.”
Victor paces back and forth. “I hate cops,” he says. “You can all come in here and kick my ass. Just kick my ass. Bring in all your officers and beat me down, and when you’re done, that’s when I’m going to get up and kick your asses. Then I’m going to drag you all outside and say, ‘Judge, I done this, now put me back in.’ Stupid motherfuckers!” He kicks the cell again.
For the first time on this job, I admit I am a little uncomfortable with the prospect of transporting. I feel I could do it, but Victor doesn’t seem stable. I might be able to sweet-talk him, but if I couldn’t I don’t think I could take him in a fight. I think I would just curl up in a ball, play dead, and hope he would ignore me after a few kicks and punches to the head.
They decide to transport him in the squad car. Driving back to the city, I think: I hope Arthur doesn’t blow his air horn at this man if he ever crosses the road in front of our ambulance. Or if he does, I hope he’s on Art’s side of the ambulance.
Restraints and the Voice
According to the father, the man has just assaulted his mother, and has been acting crazy all day. He has not been taking his medications. The man is in the other room, babbling. Does he speak English? I ask. No, Portuguese. No police officer is available. The mental health team will take at least an hour to get there.
I decide to give it a try in Spanish.
I enter the room. He turns and glares at me.
“Hola, señor,” I say. “Soy un paramédico.”
He lets loose a tirade at me that I cannot understand.
I hold my hands up. “Entiendo,” I say. I understand. “Pero, pienso que es un buena idea para tu va al hospital para hablar con el doctor.” But I think it is a good idea for you to go to the hospital to talk to the doctor.
He lets out another rash of angry words. He takes a hard step in my direction, like an animal getting ready to charge.
“Entiendo, entiendo,” I say. “Pero pienso que es un buena idea para tu va al hospital para hablar con el doctor. Nuestro ambulancia está en la calle. Viene con nosotros, por favor.” Our ambulance is in the street. Come with us, please.
He shrugs. “Okay,” he says.
I turn and he walks calmly out of the room with me. My partner, Chris Chause, looks at me openmouthed. “What did you say?” she asks.
I shrug. Some days you get lucky.
I pride myself on getting psychs to come peacefully. Countless times I arrive, and with calm voice, persuade the patient to come without a fight. It’ll be okay, my friend. Come with us. My partner will drive. You and I will sit together in the back and talk. Where we are going is a good place. People will listen to you, give you a fair shake. Come.
The man speaks Spanish only. He is flushed in the face. His body is shaking. He is holding a photo in a gold frame. His mother shows me her empty pill bottles. Glyburide for her diabetes. Xanax for anxiety. She says he has taken all of them.
I stand in the doorway of the room. He looks up at me, then back down at the photo.
“¿Qué pasa?” I say. What’s going on?
“¡Mi bebé!” he screams. Then looks back down at the photo.
“¿Dónde está su bebé?” Where is your baby?
“No se.” I don’t know.
“Entiendo. Pienso que es un buena idea para tu va al hospital para hablar con el doctor.” I understand. I think it is a good idea for you to go to the hospital to talk with the doctor.
He glares at me. “No. ¡Mi bebé!”
“Entiendo. Entiendo.”
I whisper to my partner to call HPD to find out what is taking the cops so long. While I have faith in my ability, he does seem on the verge of violence. I am not a fool.
I stay in the doorway and keep talking to him. I ask him when he last saw the bebé, whom I learn is with his wife. He has seen neither for two weeks. With the medication he has taken, his blood sugar may soon plummet if it is not already low. This will lead to more combativeness.
I try my patented line again. “Pienso que es un buena idea para tu va al hospital para hablar con el doctor y las enfermeras simpáticas.” The doctor and the nice nurses.
He lets out an animal grunt, turns, and knocks over a table and a small bookshelf. “¡Mi bebé!” he screams.
“Entiendo. Entiendo,” I say, holding my hands up. “Entiendo que su corazon es triste, pero pienso que es un buen idea para tu va al hospital ahora. Nuestra ambulancia está en la calle. Venga.” I understand that your heart is sad, but I think it is a good idea for you to go to the hospital now. Our ambulance is in the street. Come.
“¡Mi bebé!” He takes a step toward me.
I hold up my hands. Peace.
The cops show up, and one of them is Hispanic. He tells me to keep talking to him. Give him some time. I keep talking but make no progress. The man suddenly goes for his jacket that is on a chair. I tense, but I see he is just pulling out a pack of cigarettes. His hands shake violently. He looks around but has no match. I look to the cops. None of them smoke. An EMT from a crew that has come to back us up steps forward and lights the cigarette for him. The patient keeps shaking.
“Venga con nosotros,” I say. Come with us.
“Let him smoke,” the cop says. “Give him time.”
He smokes the cigarette.
“Venga con nosotros,” I say.
He suddenly smashes the picture on the ground, then walks toward us, a little too fast. He brushes against me, trying for the door. “Hold on, my friend,” I say. I put my hands on him lightly. He turns toward me, looks up in my eyes. Suddenly, the little cop is on him, throwing him to the ground. The others join him. There is a brief scuffle with some close-range pummeling. The man is handcuffed, screaming like an animal.
“Enough of this shit,” the cop says. “We gave him time. Let’s go.”
“Por favor, por favor,” the man cries. “Mis manos, mis manos.” My hands, my hands.
“Tough shit, buddy,” the cop says. “You had your time.”
We take him to Hartford, a cop riding with us who uncuffs him when we get him on a hospital bed, where security puts soft restraints on him.
I say to my partner afterward, “I almost had him. Another five minutes and he would have been mine. I understand why they did what they did, but I would have had him.”
The truth is I was surprised the cops jumped him. The cops in Hartford are truly some of the most patient people I have ever seen. They deal with unremitting abuse and are rarely provoked.
“Another five minutes,” I say, “and he was mine.”
* * *
We’re sent for a violent psych at the McKinney Homeless Shelter. Don’t go in until the cops get there, they tell us.
The crisis worker meets us out front. The man we have come for is just up from Florida. He is out of control, mumbling about hitting someone, displaying violent tendencies. He was wielding a stick, and he is making no sense.
When the cops show up, one of them suggests that they ask him to step outside, so we don’t have to make a scene in the shelter.
The shelter officials gradually ease him outside, giving him space. He is a man in his fifties, with a hard, wrinkled face and few teeth, his hair mussed, his clothes dirty. He looks like a man who has been doing some hard traveling. He sees the cops and the health workers, who form a semicircle around him, with no one closer than twenty feet. His eyes look right and left, then they meet mine. I step forward. “Señor,” I say, “Me llamo Pedro. Soy un paramédico. Entiendo que su está cansado por su viaje. Vengo conmigo. Vamos al hospital. Hay comida caliente allí.” I understand that you are tired from your trip. Come with me. We go to the hospital. There is hot food there.
He says he has already eaten. He does not want to go.
I step closer. I hold my hand out. My voice is right on pitch. There is no one else in the world, except the two of us. We are just two poor workers of the earth. Life is hard and our
hearts are often sad. Come with me, and we will share our burdens together, compadre. The only thing to fear is the fear of being alone, unloved in this vast cold world.
He comes to me like a child to candy, like a tired sinner to a priest, like a drone to a hypnotist. I hear one of the cops remark, “That was easy.” I hear someone else say, “That was great.”
En route to the hospital, we talk. He babbles a rush of words. He meant to hurt no one. They were trying to hurt him. A man in Florida took his money and tried to lay the blame on him. He is innocent, he declares. When I mention medicine, he gets agitated. No, he will not take it, it makes him feel ill. I continue to speak calmly. He is in my care, under my spell. I am the voice.
At Hartford Hospital, I guide him through triage and back to the psych room. I give my report, then say good-bye. You are a good man, I tell him, they will take good care of you here. I walk out and stop at the triage desk to talk with Alison, one of my favorite nurses. Over the intercom I hear, security to 105. The guards go rushing past. “Oh, no,” I say.
“Your friend?”
“I hope not.”
I feel like a betrayer sometimes. I get them to come, get them to trust me, and then at the hospital, they strap them down. There is a fight, a struggle. Do they blame me? Do they remember me as good? A friend? Or I am evil? The seducer?
Back in the car, I tell my partner, “I hardly ever need restraints. If you’re calm, and you use your voice, you can get them to go peacefully.”
The very next call. Not the next day or two calls later: the very next call. Vanity takes the fall.
Unresponsive, Franklin Avenue. Third floor. Hurry, the cop says. A nineteen-year-old girl sits in a chair, her head down, drool coming from her open mouth. She is pale with black hair over her eyes and a tattoo of a dead flower on her neck. She passes the hand-drop test. Her pupils are pinpoint. She barely breathes. Her mother says she has taken a bottle of the mother’s Xanax, a depressant. Does she do heroin? I ask. Yes, the mother says. She doesn’t look a hundred pounds. I think about just picking her up in my arms and carrying her downstairs, working her in the ambulance, getting on to the hospital. I think there is more going on here than just heroin, more than just a blast of Narcan will fix.
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