Editor’s note: This essay is part of “Stories from the Street,” a Police1 series featuring first-person reflections from officers across the country. These essays are about the lived experiences and moments that changed how officers think, lead and serve. If you have a story to share, we’d love to hear from you. Submit your story here.
By Sergeant Tom Lee
I was lying in a hospital bed getting my face stitched up after being shot with a crossbow. My face was bandaged, my head was pounding, and I had no idea whether the man who shot me was going to live or die.
The attack happened while I was responding to a mental health call. When I knocked on the man’s door, he kicked it open and shot me in the face with a crossbow. I fired a shot from the hip immediately after being struck. The man fled, and as I pursued him, he began drawing a machete. I fired again, striking him in the back.
When I was released from the hospital, a supervisor drove me home. He offered me his gun, but I had my off-duty gun at the house and didn’t need his. When I walked inside, the place seemed empty, and the silence was the last thing I wanted.
In the weeks that followed, I gave my statement to investigators. They completed their investigation, and the district attorney’s office declined to prosecute me. I returned to work, and things seemed to be getting back to normal. I thought the worst was behind me.
When the case became personal again
A year and a half later, while I was teaching pursuit driving at the police academy, my phone rang. The caller ID showed it was the district attorney. She told me there was a possibility of a plea deal for the man who had shot me and wanted to know my thoughts about his punishment.
It was the first time I had really considered that question. I figured the district attorney would make an offer, as happens in so many cases, and that would be that. Instead, I found myself doing the math in my head. I had about 10 years until I could retire, and I might work another five after becoming eligible. Mostly, I just didn’t want to have to deal with this man again. That’s what I told her.
She explained that he could become eligible for parole before serving his full sentence and ultimately offered him 30 years for aggravated assault against a public servant.
A couple of months later, I learned the case was going to trial. I was served with a subpoena.
I had testified in court many times, from minor traffic offenses to a murder trial. I knew how court worked. I understood the rules, the procedures and the roles everyone played. But this time was different. I wasn’t the officer presenting evidence in someone else’s case. I was the victim.
The questions nobody answered
The week before trial, I was asked to come to the district attorney’s office. I expected someone to walk me through what would happen and what I should expect. Instead, I was asked a few questions, told, “I just want to hear how you’re going to answer this question,” and then dismissed. I left with more questions than answers.
Was I going to get slammed on the stand for shooting the suspect in the back while he was running away? Why hadn’t he accepted the plea deal? Was the defense going to challenge my actions during the shooting? Those questions raced through my mind all weekend. I barely slept, and I didn’t want to eat. Here I was, a police officer who had been through the criminal justice process countless times, and I had no idea what to expect from my own trial.
On the first day, I met with the victim advocate in the courthouse law library. She was determined to take care of me. She made sure I was kept away from everyone else while remaining available to testify. She did an amazing job. She explained “the rule,” which governs the exclusion of witnesses from the courtroom, and other aspects of the trial. But I already knew those things. What I needed to know was what the defense was likely to ask me. What part of my actions would be challenged? What should I be prepared to explain? Those were the questions keeping me awake at night, and she couldn’t answer them.
I don’t fault her for that. She was doing her job and doing it well. But looking back, I realize how easily we can explain the process to a victim without ever finding out what that person is actually worried about.
Waiting outside the courtroom
When it was finally my turn to testify, I discovered that much of my anxiety had been unnecessary. The defense didn’t come at me nearly as hard as I had expected. Even the district attorney mentioned afterward that she thought the questioning would be more aggressive. That was a relief, but I couldn’t help wishing someone had discussed those possibilities with me beforehand.
After testifying, I asked to be released from “the rule” so I could watch the remaining testimony. The defense attorney objected, so I returned to the law library to wait.
My wife was allowed to remain in the courtroom. I wasn’t.
When I was finally permitted back inside for closing arguments, I felt as though I had missed much of my own case.
The jury had several possible charges to consider, and I was left trying to piece together the defense’s argument from what my wife had told me. My understanding was that the defense was questioning whether the defendant’s mental state had prevented him from recognizing that I was a law enforcement officer.
I had spent years testifying in criminal cases, yet I was sitting through the closing arguments of my own case without fully understanding what had happened while I was outside the courtroom.
The jury deliberated for approximately 10 to 15 minutes before finding the defendant guilty of aggravated assault against a public servant. I was relieved. But the process wasn’t over. Sentencing was scheduled for the following day, and I had another set of questions.
I knew about victim impact statements, but I had never personally given one or watched one being delivered. Would I be speaking? Who would be there to hear it? What would my department think about what I said? Once again, I spent the night awake, wondering what would happen next.
The man who shot me was sentenced to 60 years in prison. When the sentencing proceedings were finished, the jury was dismissed before I delivered my victim impact statement. I still wish those jurors could have heard what I had to say.
The testimony during the trial had been about the facts of the shooting. My victim impact statement was about what those facts had meant to me. It was my opportunity to speak directly to the man who had shot me and wanted to kill me. Very few people remained in the courtroom to hear it.
What I learned from being the victim
Looking back, I don’t believe anyone involved in my case intended to make the experience more difficult.
The investigators had an investigation to complete. The prosecutors had a case to prepare. The victim advocate worked hard to support me. Everyone wanted justice to be served. But at nearly every stage, what caused me the greatest anxiety was what I didn’t know. And that is something we in law enforcement should think about.
When we’re investigating a crime, we know why we’re asking questions. We understand what information we’re trying to establish and what the next steps might be. The person sitting across from us may have no idea. Sometimes simply explaining why a question matters can help a victim understand that we’re trying to establish the facts, not questioning whether they’re telling the truth.
We can also ask victims what they’re most concerned about instead of assuming we know what information they need. The answer might have nothing to do with the procedures we’re accustomed to explaining.
And when we don’t know what will happen next, we can say that, too. We may not be able to eliminate uncertainty, but we can avoid creating more of it through silence.
I spent much of my career on the law enforcement side of the criminal justice system. I understood investigations, courtroom procedures and the responsibilities of the people involved. What I didn’t understand until I became a victim was how different that same system could feel when I was the one waiting for answers.
The people involved in my case were trying to do the right thing. I believe that. But sometimes, in our efforts to complete an investigation or prepare a case, we become so focused on the process that we forget what it feels like to be the person living through it.
We can’t always give victims the answers they want. But we can do a better job of making sure they understand what’s happening, why it’s happening and what comes next.
About the author
Tom Lee is a sergeant with the Hardin County Sheriff’s Office in Texas, where he serves in a regional mental health unit. He has worked in law enforcement since 2002 and has spent approximately 14 years teaching at a regional police academy. After surviving an on-duty crossbow attack in 2019, he began speaking and writing about trauma, resilience and the experiences officers carry beyond the call. He is the author of “Scars of the Badge: Faith, Trauma, and Redemption Behind the Thin Blue Line.”
