Michael Leppert: ‘I can’t breathe’ are words not easily forgotten

George Floyd’s killing by police in Minneapolis on Memorial Day set America off, and rightfully so. The reasons for a nation’s pain and ire rose to the surface quickly this time. No one should have been surprised by the reaction.

Even before the cultural unrest had fully materialized later that week, I had watched and listened to the video. The sound is what shook me. I could hear Mr. Floyd’s voice as he pleaded, “Please. I can’t breathe.”

I had heard those exact words before.

Almost 30 years ago, I was about a year into my career at the Indiana Boys’ School in Plainfield. I eventually became a counselor and program manager at the Department of Corrections facility, but I started there as a 22-year-old who looked more like someone who should be serving time there, not someone with any authority. So, I had to pay my dues as a correctional officer first. From a bird’s eye view, the school looked like the campus of an old, rundown college. The moniker “reform school” didn’t quite capture the atmosphere either.

The juvenile delinquents there were criminals. Many of them were hardened criminals. Gangs and crack cocaine were notorious problems then. There were also plenty of old-fashioned auto thieves and burglars, mixed in with armed robbers and a troubling number of sex offenders. I even handled a few murderers.

These were bad guys. And they were kids. An ominous combination.

On a late summer night in 1990, the call for “backup” came. In the Intensive Treatment Unit where I worked, that was a call that meant all available staff run like hell to whatever the disturbance was right now.

The smallest problem could lead to that because total control was expected of us, and every backup call was treated as the most important one ever. On this night, though, it really was.

A student came out of his cell for his shower, approached the officer in charge and started punching him. He banged the officer’s head against the bars. It was unprovoked and premeditated. “Backup” was called. I had students showering on the other side of the building, so by the time I made it to the scene, the student was on the bottom of a pile of staff. His victim was apparently on the floor several feet away. I didn’t even notice him.

Unlike me, the first responders knew what had happened and they were madder than hell at this kid. When the last device of the restraints was applied, the student started yelling and gasping: “I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” The staff in charge were so charged up and angry, that it was clear they were not listening.

About the fifth time I heard those muffled words come out of his mouth, I started pulling on my coworkers’ shoulders. I wasn’t alone.

We saved his life. And while they didn’t appreciate it at the time, we also saved the lives of our teammates who weren’t prepared to let that kid breathe ever again.

I had not thought a lot about him in recent years. He went to adult jail shortly afterward for what he had done to my coworker, and then was convicted of murder, a crime he had committed before we got him. I found out this week that he died in prison nine years later. He was 26.

Like it or not, it was our job to keep him safe.

So, I can empathize with the cops in Minneapolis—specifically the ones who didn’t have their knee on Mr. Floyd’s neck. And they absolutely belong in jail for what they did—as would I have deserved had I let that awful murderer die in front of me at the hands of my enraged teammates.

The last words George Floyd gasped should have been more than enough to save him. And I know I don’t want to hear them spoken ever again.•

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Leppert is an author and governmental affairs consultant in Indianapolis. He writes at MichaelLeppert.com. Send comments to ibjedit@ibj.com.

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