TEDxMileHigh 2023

Read The Script:

When I say “prosecutor,” what phrases immediately come to mind? Tough on crime? Aggressive? Overbearing and rigid in appearance? Ask my wife, and she might jump right to arrogant! I’ll admit that these stereotypes aren’t too far off base, but I’ll let you in on a little secret. That’s exactly what we were taught: to confidently stride into a courtroom and have that tough, hardened exterior because that is what our community expects.

We as prosecutors, are honored to stand before judges and juries every day, advocating for those who have been injured or killed.  I accepted this persona, being the voice for the voiceless, and its accompanying expectations, entering courtrooms carrying the weight of someone else’s trauma more times than I can count: the murder victim’s family, the sexual assault survivor, the small child victimized in ways we cannot understand. But not once in law school nor the early days of my career did anyone tell me that this job might have an impact on ME, too.

I remember, as a young lawyer, the very first time I was asked to attend an autopsy. The victim was an eleven-year-old boy who had been strangled to death, placed in a duffle bag, thrown into a construction dumpster in the middle of January, and he was frozen solid. NO ONE should be victimized in that way.  <<PAUSE>> And no one should ever have to experience what I saw & heard that day. I could only take a few minutes before I had to excuse myself from the room for my own sanity. And instead of being met with sympathy, I was teased, handed a stick of gum, and told to get back in there. The best way to deal with it was to simply get back to work. So, I did… for another 25 years, on crimes against children, homicides, domestic violence, and sexual assaults. I rose through the ranks, from that brand new Deputy District Attorney to District Attorney. I watched passionate legal professionals burn out, quit, self-medicate with alcohol – and I didn’t think much about it.

But then, in 2018, my wife and a close friend of hers invited a well-known television reporter onto their podcast as a guest. She talked about her coverage of the Aurora Theater shooting, and how it impacted her and her cameraperson. It made absolute sense to me as she spoke of how they, too, were there, hearing the sounds, smelling the smells, seeing the faces of the first responders. She called it “vicarious trauma,” the emotional residue of exposure to traumatic stories and witnessing the fear, pain, and terror others have experienced. Some people call it “the cost of caring.” I’d heard of that term before, regarding our military and first responders: law enforcement, fire, and emergency medical professionals. Yet still, I had no recognition that vicarious trauma could impact me. It was part of our job, right?

August 2018. Frederick, Colorado. A man whose name will not come out of my mouth stood in front of the television cameras, feigned concern, and lied to the public, claiming he needed information about the whereabouts of his pregnant wife and two young daughters. But something was off, and within just a few days, we learned that it was all a calculated charade by a monster who had annihilated his family. Murdered his wife, his four-year-old daughter, and his three-year-old daughter. He buried his wife and their unborn son in a shallow grave near an oil tank battery.  He smothered his daughters with his own hands and shoved them in oil tanks, each through an 8-inch diameter hatch at the top of those tanks. Not the same tank. Different tanks, thereby ensuring that they would be alone in death.

Once again, my partners and I readied ourselves to step into that courtroom and speak for the innocent. To be the voices for that young pregnant mother and her two daughters. We were going to get justice for her killer. As the District Attorney, I had a team of lawyers and investigators working for me. I let them take the lead early in the investigation, and for my own sanity, I refused to look at the crime scene evidence. But Colorado still had the death penalty at the time, and I knew that if we were going to consider seeking the ultimate punishment, I had to see for myself what he had done.

So one night that fall, sitting on the couch across from my wife, I opened my laptop to examine the photos documenting the recovery of those little girls’ bodies from those oil tanks by hazardous materials crews. What I saw were two little blonde girls’ lifeless bodies, covered in oil. I mention their hair color for this simple reason: I, too, had a 3 ½-year-old daughter with long blonde hair. As I looked at those photos, I looked up at my daughter, singing and dancing around my living room. And something happened. I was lightheaded, I got tunnel vision, I felt like I was gonna black out. And I felt like I was going to throw up. My wife watched as a very dark shadow was cast over my face. It had finally happened. All the evil, all of the trauma, all of the pain I had seen finally spilled over.

THAT was the moment I realized that this job had changed me forever. Where I live in Weld County we have a robust oil and gas industry. You can’t hardly drive down a rural county road without seeing a cluster of oil tanks. To this day, every time I drive by one of those tanks, I see those little girls, and I see my own daughter. My mind goes back to that very dark place I found myself during the fall of 2018, and I’m filled with rage for what those victims endured.

Vicarious trauma is real. Not just for prosecutors. It is a daily reality for legal secretaries, victim advocates, investigators, attorneys, and supervisors. That case changed all of us. And it made me realize that asking for help is not a sign of weakness.

Instead, WE, as criminal justice professionals, must proactively take care of ourselves and each other. The old narrative of the tough, aggressive prosecutor who ignores his or her own mental health for the sake of the job is being crumpled up and thrown out like the trash that it is.

Because the Frederick case is not some outlier or anomaly. Criminal justice professionals see the worst that humans can do to one another on a daily basis. And when I think back to what I wish I had as a young prosecutor, it was for a culture that gave me permission, when I was having a bad day, to walk over to someone I trusted in the office, shut the door, and tell them everything that was going through my mind. So, we decided to do just that. Create a peer support system for our deputy district attorneys, investigators, victim advocates, and administrative professionals in Weld County. Under the guidance of a former law enforcement officer & trained counselor, we recruited volunteers for a rigorous training program to become a peer support team member. This team, made up of some of our own employees, are not trained to provide professional mental health counseling, but to be that immediate resource. They simply lend an ear to a colleague who needs to talk about their own thoughts and feelings. No appointment is necessary, and no time off work. It is as simple as a phone call or email to say, “Can I talk to you in your role as peer support?” Then we set up an office in a quiet corner of our building, complete with comfortable chairs, resource handouts, and a welcoming atmosphere.

But it’s not just our office. We’re part of a nationwide movement of prosecutors challenging vicarious trauma head-on. In 2019, The National District Attorney’s Association recognized this need, and I was fortunate enough to be invited as a founding member of the Wellbeing Task Force. And yes, for those of you paying attention… that’s the WTF. We, as leaders in the prosecution community came together and said enough is enough. We are tired of losing passionate criminal justice professionals to burnout, addiction, and suicide. We had to shift the narrative away from “it’s just part of the job” to “we can do better for each other.” Already we’ve published hundreds of articles & blogs for lawyers to teach them what vicarious trauma is, how it affects you, and your coworkers, and how to get support. We launched a wellbeing app, and this year the task force hosted its first annual wellbeing retreat. And no, it wasn’t just yoga and meditation!

Ten years ago, the sexual assault investigation community started a program called “Start by Believing” because we know that if a victim feels supported and believed during their initial outcry, it can make a profound difference in their life.  I now get to teach the next generation of prosecutors as the District Attorney, and I have found that this same philosophy applies to criminal justice professionals struggling with trauma. We now teach them that saying “I need help” is welcomed, and that the response they should expect is not “get back to work,” it’s “I believe you, what can I do to support you.”

This is not simply change for change’s sake, but an institutional reckoning, a generational shift that says we…must…be…better. We must embrace these truths, that vicarious trauma is real and that we must help one another. Caring for you, our communities, starts with caring for ourselves.  To stand up and be the voices of the voiceless, we must be the best versions of ourselves. Even this aggressive, rigid, arrogant career prosecutor finally asked for help. You can too. And it will make all the difference.

Thank you.

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