I’ve been thinking this week about Joe Prude, Daniel Prude’s brother. Daniel was killed by police in Rochester, NY six months ago, but the autopsy report revealing the cause of death as asphyxiation prompted his family to release the video of his police encounter. I want to look away, but we’ve been looking away for too long, and so we return to this ugly truth again and again.
As I watched the video and then the series of events that followed in the news, I realized that Joe and I share something in common. We’ve both made the choice to call the police when a family member is experiencing a mental health breakdown. However, because of the nature of policing in this country and the lack of mental healthcare, the outcomes of our situations could not be more distinct. Joe didn’t know that his phone call to the people paid to protect our communities would end his brother’s life. He just wanted some backup support when the situation got out of hand.
I know this feeling.
And I can say firsthand that you’re not thinking clearly about how it all might play out. You just know that your family is not safe and you need some help.
I remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I heard my family member in a full paranoid delusion over the phone. I remember the text messages as the situation escalated and the torture of waiting (seconds) for the dots to become confirmation in response to my text, “But are you safe?” My wife, more practiced at dealing with mental health crisis than I, didn’t want to add to the paranoia of the situation in case our family member did something rash or violent, and so talking on the phone as I rushed over wasn’t possible.
I remember my heart pounding through my throat as I realized that yes, this had turned violent and yes, I needed to call 9-1-1. I remember the fog of adrenaline making it difficult to answer the dispatcher’s questions about the apartment number or how old my family member was, or really anything helpful besides the name of the complex. Somehow, they got the info they needed to respond.
And here is where my situation takes a detour from Joe Prude’s:
1) The police arrived in 3 minutes. My hometown is in an affluent area where taxpayer dollars mean community resources are abundant and speedy. (For reference, in the community of Flint, 50 miles north of my hometown, police response time averages 58 minutes.) And this was not a shooting, stabbing, or other domestic violence-type situation.
2) When officers arrived, I did not have to say anything to the effect of, “He’s not a threat to anybody but himself, do not kill my brother”, as Joe did. This was presumed, in our case.
3) I was present with the officers when they interacted with my family member and they conducted themselves calmly, and with controlled authority. The police spoke softly and didn’t lay a finger (nor a handcuff) throughout the encounter. The officers who responded at Daniel Prude’s case can be heard joking about the state he’s in, meanwhile, Daniel sits in the freezing cold without any clothes on. After Joe called the police, he didn’t see any of the excessive force later used on his brother. When the EMT arrived to transport my family member to the hospital, they spent 10 minutes gently persuading them to load on to the gurney.
4) 15 minutes after I called the police, my heart rate was coming down, the situation was de-escalated, and we were following the ambulance to the hospital, where our family member would be stabilized and receive treatment. 15 minutes after Joe called the police, his brother was on life support.
This past weekend, a grand jury was established to investigate Daniel’s case, and it remains to be seen whether any of this will bring his family justice or prevent another horrific incident. There is a reason my encounter with police looked so different — the criminal justice system was built for me. But until everyone qualifies to be “protected and served”, then what are we even talking about?