Mental health among rural deputies’ duties
The isolation cell at the Delta County jail is stark.
Its bright-white walls are padded with a dense rubber so people can’t thrash against a cinderblock wall and harm themselves. There’s a floor drain that serves as a pit toilet, and there’s a bench built into the wall for sitting or sleeping. A fluorescent light shines down, and a video camera records every move. Deputies peek inside every 15 minutes, and inhabitants are stripped of their clothes and given a thick blanket, called a suicide smock, to wear over their bodies.
It is not the ideal place for a someone in the throes of a psychotic episode.
In Colorado, however, cells like the one on the second floor of the Delta County Detention Center are where people suffering a mental health crisis often end up.
“What a terrible place to put a sick person,” Delta County Sheriff Fred McKee said. “Once a week, have someone in there because of a mental health episode. We call it a ‘safe cell’ because you can’t hurt yourself in there.”
The state’s law enforcement officers, particularly those in rural counties, find themselves on the front lines of mental health care. When a family can’t handle a person or when the crisis plays out in a public place such as a school, grocery store or park, law enforcement officers are called.
It’s one more responsibility for rural sheriffs and deputies who already must provide a long list of services mandated by the state, including courthouse security, fire protection and issuance of concealedcarry permits. The work is expensive, and counties still struggling to recover from the recession can be challenged to pay for it. Those same deputies find themselves working long hours, patrolling alone and far from any backup.
On May 1, a new Colorado law will prohibit the incarceration of people simply because they are in a mental health crisis. And it is largely because sheriffs such as McKee lobbied the Colorado General Assembly to force changes in hopes of bringing some relief.
In rural areas, where psychiatrists and other mental health professionals are in short supply, law enforcement officers often make the critical decision that someone needs to go to a hospital. Police officers and sheriff’s deputies have the authority to place people on mental health holds, take them to jail and hold them in jail for 24 hours simply because they are having a psychotic episode.
“Now think about that,” McKee said. “We’ve got deputies out here who are two years out of the academy who can put you on a mental health hold.”
Under the new law, sheriffs must get someone to a mental health facility more quickly, which will force them to work more closely with hospitals and behavioral health specialists.
People with mental health issues who face criminal charges still will be booked into county jails.
The legislature appropri- ated $7 million to the Department of Human Services when it passed the bill last session, and that money is intended to establish a new crisis center on the Western Slope, train first responders on mental health holds and fund law enforcement mental health programs that will assist agencies with transportation costs, in-house counselors and screenings.
Driving the distance
Not every Colorado county has a mental health hospital, which means they often must send deputies on long trips across the state in search of an open bed.
In Costilla County, which does not have a hospital, people are driven west across the San Luis Valley to Alamosa or La Jara, depending on which end of the county they live, said Undersheriff Ricky Rodriguez. Hospitals in both towns are 30-minute drives, he said. Costilla County avoids putting the mentally ill in its jail, he said.
In November, the Costilla County Sheriff’s Office had back-to-back calls to transport people to mental health hospitals. Both happened between 8 and 9 p.m., forcing the sheriff to ask off-duty jail staffers to come to work.
“It’s difficult, especially when we have to do longdistance transports,” Rodriguez said. “We don’t have it in our budget and we’re running in the red at times because we have to do these transports.”
Jackson County Sheriff Gary Cure prefers not to house mentally ill people in one of his county jail’s six cells. There’s simply not enough room, and he is reluctant to use those cells for someone suffering from delusions or contemplating suicide. Cure talks about two residents who recently could have been locked up amid mental health episodes.
“We’re not doing that because we don’t want them in here,” Cure said.
One is a Vietnam War veteran who barricaded himself in a motel room with a rifle. Cure, also a Vietnam veteran, knew the man and was able to talk him into surrendering. The sheriff found space in a Veterans Affairs hospital and drove him there.
When someone must be transported for mental health care, Cure or one of his two deputies drives three or more hours to get to the closest mental health facility. The county’s one behavioral health specialist died a couple of months ago and has not been replaced.
“We’re up here in the middle of nowhere,” Cure said. “We adapt. We have to because we’re so isolated.”
In the Delta County jail, people occasionally have stayed in the “safe cell” longer than 24 hours as McKee and his staff searched across the state for a mental health hospital with a spare bed.
Then, deputies would have to drive mentally ill people to Denver, Colorado Springs or even Fort Collins. They would be gone for an entire shift and sometimes would earn overtime pay for the trip. If they were transporting an especially combative person, McKee would send two deputies.
Delta County Memorial Hospital is now working with the sheriff’s office to accept mentally ill people.
“We’re not equipped to deal with those issues. We’re not a medical facility,” said Sgt. Ben Schroeder, who helps run the county jail.. “Quite frankly, you’re putting someone in jail who has not committed a crime. It’s a moral issue.”
Inspired by the pending change in state law, McKee said he has decided to hold only one person in his “safe cell” in the past seven months. He now works with a private ambulance company to drive people to mental health facilities in Grand Junction, Denver and Colorado Springs.
“It put our guys back on Delta County roads answering Delta County calls,” McKee said. “That’s one of the highlights of my career — to be on the front line to get that changed.”
The change has brought a level of relief for a sheriff’s office already stretched thin with 64 people to watch over more than 30,000 residents who live across 1,149 square miles. Of those 64, only 15 patrol the county’s roads, and another four investigate crimes. The remaining staffers manage the jail, provide court security, and work in dispatch or administrative roles.
Rural law enforcement officers struggle with smaller budgets and fewer people than their colleagues in more populated and prosperous urban areas.
“We talk about it all the time,” Chris Johnson, executive director of the County Sheriffs of Colorado, said of the gap between rural and urban agencies.
Paying for policing
Many Colorado counties find it difficult to recruit and retain deputies because their wages can’t compete with the larger sheriff’s offices and police departments along the Front Range.
“We get a little help there in that there are people in this world who don’t want to live on the Front Range,” said Doug Atchley, a Delta County commissioner and a lifelong resident who worked in banking before his retirement. “They want to be able to drive 10 minutes and be on a trail where no one else is.”
In Delta County, a new deputy starts at $43,100 a year.
“You’re always going to lose personnel, but you hate to lose them because of salaries,” McKee said.
In Summit County, home to ski resorts, Sheriff Jamie FitzSimons said rising housing costs pose the biggest challenge to keeping deputies.
When he hires young, single deputies, they often meet someone, get married and start a family. “They can’t afford to stay here, so they move to the Front Range. At that point, I just write good recommendation letters,” FitzSimons said. “We’re in a constant state of recruiting and hiring and trying to maintain.”
The deputies who choose to stay recall driving long distances to answer calls when someone’s house has been broken into or when the neighbors get into a fight. They say it can be unnerving to pull over a stranger in a car in the middle of nowhere during the darkest hours of the night.
“It certainly isn’t for everyone,” Delta County Detective Sgt. Quinn Archibeque said.
If a Delta County deputy is called to the town of Crawford — on the border with Gunnison County — he is 32 miles away from the sheriff’s headquarters. It could take another deputy almost 45 minutes to reach him. Until recently, radio coverage was spotty; cellphones remain so. Deputies rely on backup from police officers in Delta, Hotchkiss, Paonia and Cedaredge, and from the Colorado State Patrol.
“It doesn’t work in this part of the county without a lot of help,” Archibeque said.
But deputies also cite the bonds of community with those they serve and the love of the outdoors as among the reasons to stay. It’s not unusual for a deputy in a mountain area to hop onto a four-wheeler or snowmobile and ride through the backcountry to rescue a stranded hiker.
“It’s why we’re here,” Archibeque said. “Because we do this kind of stuff anyway. It’s what we enjoy.”
He reminds fellow deputies to keep their neighbors in mind when approaching people during a crisis, especially during an arrest. What they do during a 10hour shift can impact their private lives. A deputy is likely to see the suspect or a suspect’s family member at the grocery store or at a restaurant on a Saturday night.
“You don’t come into this county, work 10 hours and make citizens mad and then go home to Montrose,” Archibeque said.
Deputies learn to de-escalate volatile situations by being able to talk to people.
“We have to learn to talk them into handcuffs instead of forcing them into handcuffs,” Archibeque said. “You learn a different way to deal with people and communicate with people here than you do in the city.”
And in rural areas, law enforcement officers say they see more people who appreciate their work. Small-town deputies and police officers don’t face the protests and public criticism aimed at their big-city counterparts.
On a recent Thursday, a group from Grace Community Church in Delta walked into the sheriff’s office carrying baskets of cookies, muffins, Chex mix and rice pudding. They gathered in a conference room where McKee handed out plastic badges and coloring books to children. He and deputies thanked the grown-ups for the treats.
“We see all these deputies as protecting our county and keeping us safe,” said Brian Workman, the church pastor. “Nothing says we appreciate you like sugar and carbs.”