Star Tribune
In Washington County, ‘boots-on-the-ground’ social work is transforming police response to people in crisis
A police radio crackles, and Washington County social worker Hannah Driver listens in. If the call is for a person with a mental health crisis — about one-fifth of all 911 calls, studies show — Driver might hustle out the door with her partner, a detective with the Washington County Sheriff’s Office, to go help.
The person on the other end of that call could be an addict struggling to shake free from their addiction, a person riding out a wave of extreme paranoia, or someone who’s just lost their job and, along with it, their will to live.
“No person-in-crisis call is ever the same,” said Driver, who started working with the Sheriff’s Office last year.
This is the “co-response” model of social workers embedded in law enforcement, a growing strategy in Washington County and across Minnesota as reform-minded police departments answer calls for change — and explore new methods of handling mental health emergencies.
Driver, along with Sheriff’s Office detective Matt O’Hara and Deputy Julia Weegman, is on track to make contact with about 500 people by the end of this year. She’s one of three social workers embedded with law enforcement in Washington County; Angie Shackleton has been with the Woodbury Police Department for just over two years, and Nicholas Pilney joined the Stillwater Police Department in July.
The extra help has been welcomed by police chiefs and county sheriffs, in part because data shows that a small number of people struggling with mental health can account for an outsized demand on officers’ time. A social worker can divert someone to therapy or to other services that may be more appropriate than sending them to jail and tying up the criminal justice system with people not facing charges.
It can be safer for the person in crisis if they feel less threatened when their call for help brings a social worker in civilian clothing, rather than a gun-toting officer in uniform. Some 23% of people killed by police nationwide since 2015 were mentally ill, according to a Washington Post database.
“Every department should have this,” said Stillwater Police Chief Brian Mueller. “It’s a great partnership.”
Police officers can’t be all things for all crises, said Mueller.
“Gone are the days we expected police officers to be everything, to have medical knowledge, to be jack of all trades,” he said.
The Stillwater department pairs Pilney with detective Chyrisse LeMoine. The partnership works well, though there are logistical challenges: Pilney has access to social services databases and case worker information, while LeMoine sees criminal records and investigations. Mueller said it needs to be easier for responding teams to quickly access all relevant information.
“That lies with the Legislature to open up the avenues to get us to talk to each other. There’s more work to do on that for sure,” he said.
The early success of embedded social workers has Washington County prepared to spend $1.7 million to keep the three social workers already in place while adding six more over the next three years.
The county would pay 75% of the social worker’s salary for the first year, and then split the cost with the city.
In Woodbury, Shackleton said she and detective Adam Sack have gone out on calls dealing with substance abuse, domestic violence and homelessness — situations she encountered when she previously worked with the county’s crisis response unit, which had a 24/7 mental health hotline. Now that she’s with the police, she’s on the front lines.
“It’s really boots-on-the-ground social work,” she said.
The county still has its crisis response unit, staffed by civilians, but they’re more likely to get engaged when someone voluntarily calls for help.
It was a good start, said Jen Castillo, the county’s director of human services. But by working with law enforcement, social workers can reach more people in crisis. A call to 911 brings the co-responders, while a call to 988, the national mental health hotline, goes to the county’s civilian-staffed crisis response unit.
“A lot of people won’t come to us,” said Castillo. “We have to meet them where they’re at.”
For example: An unsheltered and chemically dependent young adult generated a lot of 911 calls over drugs and criminal activity, but Driver and O’Hara were able to persuade him to go into inpatient treatment.
“They were able to develop a trust with this individual and avoid any sort of incarceration,” said Castillo.
Driver, the social worker, works typical day hours during the week, and some of her job requires looking through 911 calls from the previous night. If she sees someone she knows from previous contacts, she might reach out to see how they’re doing.
O’Hara, the sheriff’s deputy who teams up with Driver, said safety is always a priority. “The detective isn’t going to put [the social worker] in a situation where it’s starting to turn in the wrong direction,” he said. “She knows she can always leave.”
But O’Hara said he’s also adopted some of the social worker’s approach: He might dress in civilian clothing, keeping his badge and a gun tucked away. He’ll use an unmarked squad so that if he responds to someone’s home, the person doesn’t face the shame of having their neighbors see a sheriff’s car in their driveway.
“We’re not trying to intimidate somebody or make them nervous,” said O’Hara.
A man they’ve been working with was calling 911 five or more times per week, reporting things he had seen and heard in a state of paranoia. Once O’Hara started visiting him routinely, the man’s 911 calls dropped to one or two a month. O’Hara and Driver bring a tablet to help the man check his court dates and avoid ending up with a warrant for his arrest.
In another case, a person well-known to O’Hara and Driver with a significant mental health history was reported for trespassing within Washington County but outside of the sheriff’s jurisdiction. O’Hara was able to call the police department that was about to respond and share the best way to approach the man.
“It could have gone one of two ways with him and it could have turned volatile,” said O’Hara.
Instead, the police were able to talk to the man, and he was sent home in a rideshare.
The only debate between DFL U.S. Sen. Amy Klobuchar and GOP challenger Royce White started Sunday on the street outside WCCO Radio.
As White approached the building, he loudly called some two dozen flag-waving and cheering Klobuchar supporters a “whole lot of commies.” The 33-year-old provocateur and podcaster also told them to thank Republican former Vice President Dick Cheney — who endorsed Democratic Vice President Kamala Harris — because there was “no chance in hell” that Harris would defeat Republican former President Donald Trump on Nov. 5.
Klobuchar, 64, had arrived moments earlier, smiling and wishing “good morning” to her supporters. Once inside, the two took questions for an hour from moderator Blois Olson. Their tone was generally polite with White often interrupting a Klobuchar response with, “rebuttal,” indicated he wanted to respond.
The senator repeatedly raised White’s claims on X, formerly Twitter, that “The bad guys won in World War II” and that there were “no good guys in that war.” She called that stance offensive to veterans.
U.S. Sen. Amy Klobuchar arrives at WCCO Radio for a debate with Royce White in Minneapolis on Sunday, Oct. 27. (Richard Tsong-Taatarii)
Klobuchar, who is seeking a fourth six-year term, portrayed herself as a pragmatist. She opened by saying that we live in “incredibly divisive times politically” but that she has listened and worked with Republicans to bring down shipping costs, drug prices for seniors and to help veterans and push for more housing and child care.
“Courage in this next few years is not going to be standing by yourself yelling at people,” she said, her opening allusion to White’s rhetoric, which she said is often vulgar.
White, a former NBA player, is a political novice, but a close ally of Steve Bannon, the jailed former chief strategist for Trump and right wing media executive. Last summer, White won the state GOP endorsement to run against Klobuchar.
“Our country’s coming undone at the seams. I think we can change that,” White said in his opening statement. He said he threatens the status quo, decried the “permanent political class” and referred to the two major parties as the “uniparty.”
Other buildings destroyed at Khojir and Parchin likely included buildings where Iran used industrial mixers to create the solid fuel needed for its extensive ballistic missile arsenal, Eveleth said.
In a statement issued immediately after the attack Saturday, the Israeli military said it targeted ”missile manufacturing facilities used to produce the missiles that Iran fired at the state of Israel over the last year.”
Destroying such sites could greatly disrupt Iran’s ability to manufacture new ballistic missiles to replenish its arsenal after the two attacks on Israel. Iran’s paramilitary Revolutionary Guard, which oversees the country’s ballistic missile program, has been silent since Saturday’s attack.
Iran’s overall ballistic missile arsenal, which includes shorter-range missiles unable to reach Israel, was estimated to be ”over 3,000” by Gen. Kenneth McKenzie, then-commander of the U.S. military’s Central Command, in testimony to the U.S. Senate in 2022. In the time since, Iran has fired hundreds of the missiles in a series of attacks.
There have been no videos or photos posted to social media of missile parts or damage in civilian neighborhoods following the recent attack — suggesting that the Israeli strikes were far more accurate that Iran’s ballistic missile barrages targeting Israel in April and October. Israel relied on aircraft-fired missiles during its attack.
However, one factory appeared to have been hit in Shamsabad Industrial City, just south of Tehran near Imam Khomeini International Airport, the country’s main gateway to the outside world. Online videos of the damaged building corresponded to an address for a firm known as TIECO, which advertises itself as building advanced machinery used in Iran’s oil and gas industry.
Some take him up on it and fret when he’s not around.
“It is nice to be missed and be part of the school’s culture,” Arzola said. But mostly, he added, he wants kids to know that police aren’t around just for when the bad stuff happens. He’ll hand out his stickers and bracelets, even a trading card bearing his image. Then, they’ll talk about dogs and family.
School resource officer Al Arzola talks to students in his office at John Adams Middle School in Rochester on Oct. 11. (Leila Navidi/The Minnesota Star Tribune)
Two months ago, Rochester played host to a three-day training session for new SROs from across the state — an event organized by the Minnesota School Safety Center. On the final day, the 26 officers learned about surveillance challenges at the other school where Arzola works: Dakota Middle School.
It is a beautiful building with a scenic view. There is a lot of glass, too. Arzola, handling the role of instructor and tour guide, took the group outside and noted how one could look straight through the entrance to the large groups that gather inside. There were no curbs in front, either.
“There is nothing stopping any vehicle whatsoever from going through my front doors,” Arzola told the officers. “Law enforcement wasn’t talked to before this building was made. It was kind of like, ‘Here it is. You’re the SRO. Do what you do.’”
He showed them his office, too, which is separate from the main office and near those of other school support staff members. That makes sense, said Jenny Larrive, SRO coordinator for the Minnesota School Safety Center, given than SROs spend more time connecting with youth than on actual law enforcement.
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