Deputy kills mentally ill man in scuffle

A man with a history of mental problems and drug addiction was shot and killed in a confrontation with sheriff’s deputies Tuesday morning, according to authorities and the man’s family.

About 10:50 am, two Palm Beach County sheriff’s deputies knocked at the door of Allen H. Hunter, 45, ready to arrest Hunter on a felony charge of violating his probation.

…Hunter seized on deputy’s baton and used it to bludgeon him. A second deputy shot Hunter with a stun gun but the jolt did not stop him. The first deputy recovered, drew his gun and shot Hunter dead outside the house at 191 Hibiscus Tree Drive, north of Boynton Beach…The deputy who fired was treated for minor injuries.

As investigators worked at the house Tuesday afternoon, Hunter’s younger brother, Christopher, stood to one side, trying to make sense of what had happened.

“All the confrontations he had with the police,” said Christopher Hunter, 37. “They knew he was sick. They knew he was bipolar.”

Christopher Hunter described his brother as a “very intelligent” man who struggled with mental illness. He said Allen Hunter eventually turned to drugs and was capable of cocaine binges that lasted three days.

–The Palm Beach Post, March 24, 2010

It is too early to pass judgment here, on the deputies or Allen Hunter. A man with bipolar disorder in the throes of mania and strung out on cocaine has super-natural strength and super stupid judgment. Imagine how disorientating it was for the cops? A person who knows you have a gun, grabs your baton and starts beating you with it, all within sight of your partner — who also has a gun.

I mean, come on, what kind of person would do that in the face of that kind of odds — two against one — and that kind of fire power? Answer: A person with bipolar in the throes of a manic episode who is wigged out on cocaine. What the article does not tell us is whether the officers had completed the department’s Crisis Intervention Training — a program designed to teach law enforcement how to handle the mentally ill.

Amen. Hallelujah. God bless America.

Health care passed.

I am one of the few taxpayers who does not care how much I must pay in taxes to guarantee that everyone in this country — and I mean everyone — receives the medical care they need when they are hurt or sick.

To me, this is not a political battle. It is common sense. We take care of each other. When someone is hurt, sick or in pain, you help them. That’s how I was raised. My mother called it The Golden Rule: “Do unto other as you would have them to unto you.” It is that simple.

According to the Associated Press, “thieves cut a hole in the roof of warehouse, rappelled inside and scored one of the biggest hauls of its kind …” About $75 million worth of antidepressants and other drugs.

What?

I have been a reporter for a long time and I have covered a lot of heists, but this is really, really weird. It gets even weirder: “The pills — stolen from Eli Lilly & Co. in quantities big enough to fill a tractor trailer — are believed to be destined for the black market, perhaps overseas.”

What!

It appears the thieves scaled the brick walls of the warehouse in Enfield, Connecticut, during a rainstorm before daybreak on Sunday. They lowered themselves to the floor, disabled the alarms and loaded up on Prozac, Cymbalta and Zyprexa. (I am having a vision of George Clooney, Matt Damon, Brad Pitt and Bernie Mac studying the blueprints of a drug warehouse in quaint, little, historic Enfield — also the U.S. headquarter of toy maker Lego and a major distribution center for Hallmark Cards. I’m not making this up.)

I love dogs. Honestly, I like dogs more than a lot of humans. I have had 5 dogs in my life that touched my soul. Four carried the same name — Belle — because I believe that the soul of one passes on to another. My current hound is simply named “Dog.” He came with that name, and it seems to be working for him.

My father, God bless his soul, was an alcoholic. It was painful for him to express his feelings. I don’t recall him ever kissing my mother, holding her hand or putting his arm around her. I never heard him say “I love you” or a nice thing about her. If he ever told me he loved me or hugged me, I do not remember it. I was never daddy’s little girl. He was not violent, but he was sarcastic and passive aggressive. Archie Bunker, literally, was his role model.

Our family dog, a German Shorthair, was the only living thing with whom he could express physical affection. He took every and any opportunity to show her his love. On a table next to “his” chair — where he drank, read the newspaper, and watched endless hours of football, golf, boxing, baseball — he kept a bowl of hard candies.

He fed Belle hard candies and made sure she had a pillow when she cuddled up in front of the fire, which he made in our fireplace, seemingly just for her. It got to the point where she would only go outside to the bathroom if he took her. In the morning, she accompanied him to the our large bathroom upstairs, where he would turn on a space heater for her as he listened to the radio, shaved and showered.

He adored that dog. I resented my father for many years for not showing my mother and me as much attention and affection as the dog. But in hindsight, I am very glad he had Belle. Without that dog his life would have been void of any physical and emotional affection.

I inherited my father’s alcoholism and passion for dogs. Throughout most of my life I have felt as though I did not fit in. I felt safe when I was alone, but I hated the loneliness. As a teenager, when my depression and alcoholism hit their stride, Belle was always there for me.

I am on vacation. This is the first time I have flown since Delta imposed a $25 fee on each piece of luggage — which is really a slap in the face after paying an arm and two legs for a ticket.

Anyway, my resentment over the baggage fee melted — a little — when I saw the choice of in-flight movies and television programs. I found an HBO program called Diagnosis Bipolar. So, at 34,000 feet I learned what it was like to have a child with bipolar disorder.

I wish all the anti-psychotropic naysayers out there could see this program. These are the kids that are allegedly being drugged by pill-popping-happy parents who don’t want to deal, don’t know how to deal or aren’t willing to deal with their child’s bad behavior.

These are the legions of kids who just need more exercise and structure, less sugar and television and good old-fashioned discipline. They need consequences and “traditional” two-parent homes.

Puh-leeeeeez.

Four years ago when I was diagnosed with depression and then bipolar disorder, the clouds parted and my life finally made sense. I did a timeline of my life with my therapist and bingo, there it was — my alcoholism, depression and mania had been singing in perfect harmony as I plowed through the chaos that I had called my life.

The amazing thing is how far back we were able to trace the illnesses. I started swimming competitively when I was 7. I swam hard and fast. I liked the way it made me feel. My coach and parents and teammates cheered me on. Swimming made me feel part of something — and I finally fit in with the other kids. At 14-years-old, I had had enough of swimming back and forth, staring at a black line on the bottom of the pool. I slid into a teenage wasteland and the endorphins stopped working.

This will come as a shock to some of you, but many journalists do have a moral compass. Occasionally, we take one out and see if anyone remembers how to use it.

These newsroom debates are passionate and I have been at the center of many. For years, I argued that omitting details of sex crimes because “some readers might be not want to read about that over their Cheerios” misrepresented the true level of brutality against women in America.

I mean, come on, the music industry turned misogyny into entertainment a long time ago. Why not throw in a little reality for balance? I am not arguing for gratuitous details. However, very often the word “rape” does not capture the true horror of many of these crimes.

The same is true for media coverage of suicide. There is an unspoken rule among editors throughout the land that covering a suicide — especially details of a suicide — is morally wrong. It unnecessarily inflicts  more pain upon the loved ones left behind. They argue that suicide is not newsworthy unless a celebrity kills himself or the suicide affects the public — for instance, when  tortured soul jumps off an overpass during rush hour and brings traffic to a halt.

I disagree.

I think I would like to go to rehab.

I didn’t go to rehab when I got sober in 1998. I went to the local AA clubhouse, which was a former Shriner’s clubhouse with a spiffy wood bar (promptly converted to a coffee shop) and a meeting room that seemed large  enough to drive around in little cars. I love my AA clubhouse and have had some wonderful times there. It had a major overhaul a couple of years ago and now features a nice pool table, a flat, large screen television above a fireplace, pin ball machines, a public access computer, and a lovely little cafe. Did I mention the coffee? We have cappuccino, too.

Still, I think it might be kind of nice to go to rehab. I don’t need it but I hear other recovering alcoholics talk about their rehabs like they’re sororities or  spas and I think I could use 30 days to “work on myself” … and my tan. I got the idea while trying to plan a vacation. I wanted to find a resort or spa for recovered alcoholics. A place where we could go and continue and expand our programs with lectures and seminars and yoga and massages and pedicures and really great healthy food. Meetings morning, noon and night. Movies. Tennis. Group meditations and long walks on the beach. Wouldn’t that be great?