Listening is our SUPERPOWER

There was always a deep sense of satisfaction at the end of serving a search warrant, especially when we found what we were looking for. It had been an exhausting, but productive day. The home owner/subject (let’s call him “Henry”) had been understandably shaken when we first arrived, but for the most part, stayed cooperative and normal throughout the day.

The noise from the hustle and bustle of the day was over, leaving behind an awkward, heavy silence. With all the agents gone, it was up to my partner and I to make final contact with Henry and be on our way. There, in the middle of Henry’s living room, stood the three of us, my partner, myself, and Henry. I handed Henry the list of the items we had taken, told him that I appreciated his cooperation, and gave him my business card to give his future attorney.

Instead of responding, Henry began pacing back and forth in his living room, zoned out and withdrawn. Maybe he realized to what extent the gig was up. Maybe Henry knew he was going to prison for a long time, not on that day, but soon enough. Whatever the reason, Henry was unraveling right in front of us.

I tried to engage him in small talk, but Henry wouldn’t respond and continued to pace back and forth, rambling nonsense. He wasn’t interested in us or the search of his home any longer.

“Henry, are you okay?” I asked, but Henry just ignored me and continued to have a meltdown, turning his attention toward the sliding glass balcony door. The balcony overlooked a tall hillside, filled with trees, bushes, and rocks. All we knew was it was not safe grounds for someone in Henry’s state of mind. But Henry was laser-focused in that direction, moving closer and closer.

It’s at this point in the story where people usually assume one or both of us tackled Henry into submission, perhaps drew our weapons, or karate kicked our way into preventing him from running through the glass door to throw himself over the balcony.

Wrong. The situation needed calm, not more chaos. Why would we pour accelerant on an already out of control fire?

I told Henry that we were all tired, so it was best to sit down and figure out what was going on. I communicated with as much calm and sincerity as possible. It wasn’t easy. My partner also encouraged Henry to sit down and tell us why he was in such distress. We told Henry that we were worried about him and would not leave until he was feeling better and we believed he was safe. Something must have clicked in that moment because Henry stopped pacing and became less focused on the balcony and made eye contact with us. He quietly said that his life was over and that he felt like a complete failure as a husband and father. Even though he still seemed agitated, we knew we had connected with him because he finally responded.

We told Henry that we wanted to hear more about his family and why he thought he had failed them. Staying calm seemed to diffuse him. The calmer we stayed, the calmer he responded.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “When you leave, I think I’ll kill myself.”

We assured Henry that we weren’t going anywhere and that we had time to listen, but he needed to sit down. My partner politely motioned for Henry to take a specific seat while asking about Henry’s wife and kids. Finally, we were all seated. Just the physical act of sitting brought down the temperature in the room. Henry’s agreement to follow our lead was an indication that he was willing to consider an alternative to jumping off the balcony, or possibly attacking us out of rage, fear, or frustration, or whatever else he was considering in his troubled state. Sitting down and talking, mostly listening on our part, bought us time we needed to figure out the next best move and avert tragic outcomes.

Only in hindsight did I understand what had happened in those few minutes. It wasn’t that Henry needed to “vent.” Henry needed someone to share his pain with, even if his circumstances could not be changed. Given his state of mind, the only available option to him (so he thought) was to share his pain with death. We gave him an alternate option — to share his pain with us. We listened as he explained his financial woes, the life pressures he had been under, how no one understood the difficult upbringing he had endured, and how he felt like a failure as a husband and father. We listened attentively, probably making him feel validated in some way. He was decompressing.

Some of the details Henry shared were rather difficult to listen to, and frankly, some aspects of his story made me view Henry as a self-absorbed narcissist. At one point I thought about all his innocent, trusting victims whose lives had been upended because of Henry’s selfish actions. What about them? Who was listening to them? But I didn’t have to agree or even like what Henry was saying. The goal was not to win an argument with him. Our objective was to make Henry feel heard, understood, and to encourage rational, safe behavior. Our tactical approach was empathy.

Henry did not want to go to the hospital and insisted his family not be contacted. He couldn’t stop talking about how embarrassed and ashamed he felt in letting everyone down, especially his children. We leveraged this information by explaining to Henry that in the context of the entirety of his life, no single mistake or traumatic event could prevent him from putting one foot in front of the other and taking the next positive step forward. Wasn’t that kind of resiliency the example he wanted to set for his children? The past could not be changed but how he handled the future was completely in his control. This resonated with Henry, and he finally agreed to call a family member to come over for support and further intervention. After the relative’s arrival, we left.

Henry was eventually prosecuted and sentenced to several years in prison. I never saw or talked to him after that day, but I did see that same family member who had come to the house standing in the lobby of the federal building. It may have been the day of Henry’s sentencing. He shook my hand, and said, “thanks for reminding him.”

“Remind him of what?” I asked.

“That this too shall pass…”