Editor’s note: What makes a person want to become a first responder? Who would become a cop after her brother died in the line of duty? What guy rejects joining a lucrative family business to become a local firefighter instead? Why would a Mexican American combat veteran choose to work as a medic for the Border Patrol, knowing the stigma he’d face? Johnny Joey Jones, a combat veteran, double amputee and FOX News contributor, explores these questions through nine first responder interviews and introduces readers to the first responders who serve their communities. This excerpt is the introduction to “Behind the Badge.”
Introduction
Back the Blue! A call to action I often see on social media or hear from guests on air. You see it on bumper stickers or as a tagline in a post. A simple but seemingly necessary proclamation of support for law enforcement officers. Of course, the reason for that motto is the existence of an opposing sentiment in very different circles, also expressed by the motto “defund the police” or, worse, ACAB, all cops are bastards. The battle lines of the debate about who and how we protect our communities have seemingly been drawn for us by two very different and very passionate groups of people with a message to . . . yell. So then, where does that leave the rest of us? What should regular, law-abiding Americans think of the passionate pleas for more fair policing, or the cries of anguish from families who’ve lost their heroes on his or her final watch? For me, it’s a relatively easy choice, I back the men and women who put their lives on the line to protect my family from the mishaps and evil acts that plague anyone living in such a free country. But also, I can understand that a mother seeing her teenage son arrested again for what she feels to be a minor offense or a crime he might’ve been pressured into might wonder if the officers arresting him are going looking for him as low-hanging fruit. I don’t want any American judged for his or her race or appearance. I also know that in dangerous situations, it’s hard to discern who’s just fallen in with a bad crowd, or who’s the bad crowd themselves. Would you or I, if we were in that police officer’s shoes, be able to make snap judgments with perfect accuracy?
For example, imagine from any number of movies or rap songs that a young man is dressed a certain way—pants sagging, speaking with a certain slang, and demonstrating blatant disrespect for authority. Sometimes he’s displaying a red or blue bandanna. Do those things make him a criminal? Is indulging in what is called urban counter-culture a crime? Not at all. But, if nine out of ten of the young men who fit this nuanced description and who police encounter in the act of or having just committed a crime, how is it as black and white as racism that they treat the one that isn’t as if he probably is? I’m not suggesting we don’t have the freedom in this country to dress and speak however we want. I vehemently defend that freedom. But to throw a blanket over what has been proven to be an involuntary human conditioning of “if this, then that” and assign hate and racism as motives is to remove the humanity of police officers altogether.
To give an example that represents my own upbringing: Every redneck in a pickup truck with Hank Williams blaring out of his radio late on a Saturday night is a pretty sure bet to be a drunk driver, but if driving a pickup truck, wearing a mullet, and blaring the radio isn’t breaking the law, should an officer treat him as such? I don’t blame the officer that does, they pulled me over often when I was that loud teenager in a lifted truck. But thankfully I was never the drunk driver they expected.
But not everyone sees it that way. One of the defining moments for this national trend of young and vocal people embracing an outwardly antipolice narrative was in 2016 with the media firestorm that surrounded Colin Kaepernick, who was at the time the starting quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers. He started sitting on a bench while his teammates stood with their hands over their hearts for the singing of our national anthem. My reaction, like that of many veterans, was visceral. I was appalled and pissed off. Who the hell does this millionaire who does nothing more than play a game for entertainment think he is anyway? I thought.
After all, I lost pounds of flesh for that flag and anthem. I’ve stood graveside on prosthetic legs as my brothers were buried six feet underground draped in that flag as that anthem played in the background. I was pretty resolute in my condemnation of Colin’s sitting. But then, as fate would have it, I read an open letter from former Army Green Beret and Seattle Seahawk Nate Boyer. The letter, addressed to Colin, was published in the Army Times. In it, Nate explained why he has so much pride in our country; he acknowledged that he believed racism was still a problem and even wrote about his own experiences in Africa that inspired him to join the Army special forces. I didn’t really agree with the abundance of concessions he made to Colin, but what drew my curiosity was how Nate ended the letter, “I look forward to the day you are inspired to once again stand during our national anthem. I’ll be standing right there next to you. Keep on trying . . . De Opresso Liber.”
Colin responded by inviting Nate to stand next to him as he sat at the next game so that Colin could show his gripe wasn’t with the military or veterans. Nate accepted Colin’s invitation, but only if Colin would meet with him first. In that one-on-one meeting, Nate asked Colin to kneel with good posture rather than sitting lazily. Not unlike when a player is injured on the field. Nate explained, kneeling itself might be a sign of respect while acknowledging a problem. Colin obliged. However, the conversations with Nate weren’t reflected by Colin to the media. So instead of a national discussion about a nuanced issue, we got “The Kneeling Controversy.”
Nate used grace, empathy, and humility to counter what was nothing less than a slap in the face to many of us. All this was done in the name of protesting police officers and the notion that somehow police officers are inherently racist in their duties. So having befriended Nate some time earlier, and inspired by his courage and action, I reached out to him and told him I would be willing to talk to Colin as well. I did care about genuine grievances, but also knew I might be able to help get folks back on their feet and respecting our country. We had a call with Nate, myself, and Colin. After the call, I felt good, like I was helping push this issue in a positive direction. But then almost immediately afterward, Colin showed up to practice with socks depicting cops as pigs, he wore a T-shirt glamorizing communist terrorists and used my and Nate’s names to justify his position rather than reach out to opposing views. He suckered us. That’s my experience with the “defund the police” folks. They were attention-seeking crybabies with no plan of action other than to prey upon the guilty conscience of woke corporations and the bad nature of spineless politicians. They were never trying to connect with people; they were trying to sabotage policing in departments across the country and enrich themselves.
For a few years at least, they did just that. Our communities grew less safe; our police officers were indicted on oftentimes racially motivated and bogus charges. By 2020, riots and local insurrections were both common and justified in liberal, Democrat-run cities across the country. That’s what “defund the police” got us. Pain and injustice.
Acutely felt among the pain came instances like the 2016 ambush and killing of five Dallas police officers at what was supposed to be a nonviolent social justice march. A string of execution-style murders of police officers followed across the country. And, more recently, the 2024 murder of NYPD Officer Jonathan Diller, who was shot and killed conducting a traffic stop. All of these exacerbated the tensions and real pain felt by those on the other side of this issue. It seems for every hate-filled protester there was also a family mourning their slain hero. Perhaps not all directly connected, but heartbroken just the same.
So one side countered the hateful narrative of the other; they put stickers on their trucks depicting American flags with a thin blue line across the center. They coined “Back the Blue” and proudly exclaimed their support for the men and women who protect and serve us all every day. That’s certainly the side I’m on. I do back the blue, and red, and green, and all domestic heroes whose occupation is to put their own lives in danger each day to keep us safe. Although I must admit, I still get angry when a state trooper impedes my hurry on the interstate with a speeding ticket.
So, where do these battle lines leave us as a society? More recent events, including the 2024 presidential election, have shown that our politicians just might be hearing the cries of their constituents who feel unsafe: voters who overwhelmingly decided more policing is needed. But the racial tensions fueling the antipolice narrative are still alive and well. Some even on the right side of the political spectrum see local police officers as nothing less than tyrannical government agents who only exist to infringe upon their rights. Even a trend of self-proclaimed “sovereign citizens” attempting to catch police officers mishandling justice has taken hold on social media. So then we must ask: How can we reconcile the relationship between those who serve us and the fear we have for the authority they hold in doing so? Something I’ve realized in hearing from the first responders in this book is that the work they do is more complicated, unusual, and dangerous than I could have ever imagined. Much like how movies incorrectly portray urban teens in a highly negative light, they also gloss over the true nature of being a police officer or fireman. First responders contribute to our peace in ways I’d never imagined, but in doing so sacrifice their own. They bear a constant drip-drip-drip of trauma that leaves me amazed at their grit and perseverance. What sacrifices do they make to do their job? How does it affect their lives, relationships, mind, and body? Perhaps the first real step to getting beyond these opposing mottoes is simply understanding who these people are behind the badge they wear.
And not just those with blue lights and a gun. But those that save our burning homes, those that find our loved ones when they’ve gone missing, and those that protect our borders and even save those who try to cross them illegally.
I have two amazing friends I get to call brothers . . . in law, Keith Dempsey and Terry Mills. They both are currently serving as chief officers within their respective departments. They serve in neighboring departments; one where I live and the other in the town next door, where I grew up. They have spent their entire careers trying to save lives in our community. When they take their families to dinner, they drive through their battlefields: intersections where they have responded to a terrible car wreck, or apartment buildings where domestic violence and drug use has them there weekly applying first aid and resuscitation. They see the absolute worst that we can do to each other as human beings, yet they still show up to work every day. They are ever engulfed, not just in flames, but also in the pain and sorrow that plagues any community.
I’ve seen firsthand just how much weight a first responder carries even weeks after a tough call, and it has given me a whole new appreciation for and curiosity about the work they do.
The Tuesday before Thanksgiving in 2019 my maternal grandmother passed away. The funeral was the Friday after, so we waited a week to celebrate the holiday. The following Friday my sister, who was single at the time, met my parents at my house, a few hours south, and stayed the weekend with my family to give thanks and enjoy one another. My dad, who had been in poor health for a few years, seemed even worse. My parents arrived late that Friday; they are renowned for their lack of time awareness, so an evening of lovingly ribbing them ensued. It was fun; my dad and mom took jabs at one another laughing and poking. It was a good night.
The next day we invited our neighbors, who had become like family, over for a Thanksgiving meal. I was outside shooting guns most of the day and my dad took my son on a “walking adventure” in the woods behind my house, where they found a big snake in the cab of an old, abandoned truck. That night we all stayed up playing card games around the dining table, but my dad went to bed early. Once we all got ready to call it a night, I rolled my wheelchair back to the guest room, cracked the door, and told my dad good night. At around 5 a.m. the next morning I awoke to a bloodcurdling crying scream, my mom’s voice. I jumped in my wheelchair and rushed back to their room. In there I found my dad sprawled out on his back on the floor; he was lifeless. My sister was already performing CPR. Knowing that once you start you don’t stop, I jumped out of my wheelchair and relieved my sister doing chest compressions and she started breathing in his mouth. Meg, my wife, called 911 and in what seemed like just a couple minutes firemen showed up with their medical bags and took over working on him. The memory of that night is forever burned in my head.
I rolled into a laundry room that had a window facing the front of my house. I sat there sobbing, praying, hoping to hear good news as they took him out to the ambulance. My mom and sister rode to the hospital with him and I arrived an hour later with my family. Eventually they’d kept his body alive, but his brain was gone, and we made the tough decision to remove the machines and let him rest in peace. I was in there alone with him holding his hand as he took his last breath. It was traumatic and sad and terrible. But I also had the opportunity to tell him goodbye. To say things I needed to say to a dad I’d too often butted heads with, but also greatly admired. A dad who was better at protecting and providing than consoling or listening.
A few weeks later, I was approached by a man in a uniform outside a local business as I got in my truck. The look on his face told me all I needed to know before he even spoke. He identified himself as a commander or captain or something of that nature with the fire department, and said he was there that night as the officer in charge. His face showed both remorse and hope as he asked, “How did it turn out with your dad?”
When I told him he passed away the next day the man hung his head and simply said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t save him.” I smiled and thanked him for giving me a chance to say goodbye. We shook hands and parted ways. What we shared that night in my house was one of the most difficult moments of my entire life, but it was just another shift for him. As far as I know, he had other similar calls that same night. But he remembered, he cared, he wore the burden on his face and the sorrow in his eyes.
How much of that kind of trauma can one man or woman carry, and for how long? Perhaps that’s the question we should consider as civilians in a country so free of danger because we are so blessed with first responders who sign up for the job and responsibility of trying to save us from it. Perhaps rather than fighting over whether to support or attack first responders, we should be reflecting on having gratitude for the job they do. Starting there will give us a whole new appreciation for what goes into the work of first responders. That’s the question I sought out to answer. And I didn’t have to look much further than some family and dear friends to get the answers. In the following chapters of this book, I interview nine first responders who’ve all had an impact on my life. Most of them lifelong friends, some family, and all of them heroes to me. In this raw, unfiltered look into the duty they fulfill and the burden they carry, I get to the heart of what it means and what it costs to bear the burden of selfless service in your own community.
About the author
Johnny Joey Jones joined FOX News Media as a contributor in 2019. In this capacity, he provides military analysis across all FOX News Media (FNM) platforms. Prior to his role at FNM, Jones endured two combat deployments and eight years of active service in the Marine Corps. While deployed in Afghanistan, he suffered a life-changing injury that resulted in the loss of both of his legs above the knee. Since his recovery, he has dedicated himself to work with veterans’ issues through Veteran’s Service Organizations. Notably, Jones went on to create a fellowship on Capitol Hill with the House Committee on Veterans’ Affairs, where his contributions resulted in direct policy changes within the Veterans Administration and Department of Defense.
