By the
Honorable Gary J. Bruce, Chief Judge, Berrien County Trial Court
For those of
us that spend our days in the justice system, the work we do, while notable to
the layperson, can seem mundane at times. Likewise, while the activity in the courthouse
may appear chaotic, it’s actually a well-orchestrated process in which each
employee plays a part, many behind the scenes, getting cases ready for the
decision-making process. When litigants
and attorneys at last enter the courtroom it may appear that the judge is at
the helm guiding participants through the maze of statutes, rules, and
procedures. In fact, the director of
this production, the one who prepares the set, gathers the actors, and calls
out, “Action!” is the bailiff.
In the
Berrien County Trial Court, bailiffs have a lengthy job description that
requires them to simultaneously serve as the judge’s personal assistant, file
clerk, and data entry coordinator; a missing persons investigator searching for
attorneys and witnesses; a social worker who comforts the distraught and calms
the angry; an EMT who provides assistance to the ill; and even a water boy,
filling pitchers for the judge and parties. Bailiffs stand outside in frigid weather with
smoking jurors. They are occasional chauffeurs,
ferrying a judge to another court building or to the mental hospital for hearings.
They are always present in court and
become so much a part of the landscape that you scarcely notice that they wear
a badge and carry a firearm at their side. And bailiffs must sometimes, with less than a
second’s notice, call upon their training, experience, and raw instinct and
become a cop.
On July 11,
2016, in the afternoon hours of one of those ordinary days, we found that out
under the worst of circumstances. Our
security supervisor, Joe Zangaro, a former Michigan State Police Post Commander,
while making his afternoon rounds, stepped into my courtroom, acknowledged me,
spoke to my bailiff, and left. That was
the last time I would see him alive.
Fifteen minutes later, my bailiff told me and a few other staff members
to go into my bathroom, lock the door, and not come out; and that he was
locking my office door behind him. I
knew from his tone and the look on his face that something was seriously wrong.
Minutes later, we heard gunshots from
the third floor. When my bailiff
returned, it was with the horrible news that Joe and retired police officer and
longtime bailiff, Ron Kienzle, had been shot and killed by a jail inmate who
had wrestled a gun from a sheriff’s deputy in an attempt to escape. We soon learned that the deputy and a citizen had
also been shot, and that hostages had been taken, but, thankfully, escaped serious
harm.
Shock,
disbelief, sadness, and grief overcame me as the building was overrun by
officers in combat gear and sirens wailed outside. Like our bailiffs, with no time to prepare and
no guidebook or experience, I was called upon to act, beginning with informing
our fourth-floor employees who had gathered in the courtroom about what had
transpired. We prayed as a group. There were tears and hugs and an overwhelming
silence throughout our courthouse family as the television cameras gathered
outside. The overwhelming feeling that
we experienced was that we were alone. No
one except those of us who worked with Joe and Ron could understand what we
were feeling those first days following the tragedy.
 |
| Niles
Police Chief Jim Millin gives a salute to a fallen officer Thursday during a memorial ceremony in St. Joseph (Leader photo/KELSEY HAMMON) |
My first call, after assuring family
members that I was unharmed, was to our court administrator, who I instructed
to obtain permission from SCAO for us to close the building the following day. We were unable to think past that decision,
but fortunately our maintenance staff, together with outside help, was able to
feverishly put the building back into order. The following day, after attending
a law enforcement debriefing, I was able to speak to grief counselors associated
with the Michigan State Police and other agencies, and quickly arranged for
several counselors to provide services to our staff. That afternoon, a walk was organized from the
courthouse to the Law Enforcement Memorial in the St. Joseph Bluff Park. Along with clergy, our sheriff, and the prosecuting
attorney, I was asked to speak. As I
drove there from the debriefing, I expected perhaps a couple hundred people
consisting primarily of court staff. But
as I rounded the corner into the parking lot, I encountered a crowd of around 4,000.
I had nothing prepared, so I spoke from
the heart and I finished with what would be our local newspaper headline the
following day: “Nothing will ever be the same.”
I knew when
I said this, however, that we would have to reopen the building and go to back
to work because we are in the business of public service. As alone as we felt, we would be called upon
to bottle our feelings and restart the wheels of justice. After consulting with our court administrators
and fellow judges, the decision was made to reopen the following day to
employees only. We would begin the day
as a group, where I would attempt to rally all of us together and ready us for
our “new normal.” We would have grief
counselors and service dogs on hand to speak to us together and individually.
That morning
I helped several employees, some of whom were visibly shaking, to enter the
building and later helped some to return to the third floor. I visited every department and every office to
inquire how our staff was doing. As I
spoke, again unprepared, which is not my habit, I thanked everyone for their
resiliency and reminded them that Joe and Ron spent their entire adult lives as
police officers dedicated to serving the public, and that we would honor them
by returning to work ourselves. I told
them that I had never been more proud to work with them as I was at that very
moment.
Somehow, we
got up, buoyed by each other’s presence, and went back to our jobs. We attended two funerals together and, with
judicial help from neighboring counties, we kept the dockets moving while we
mourned our fallen heroes. That day, I
began to realize that we were not alone, as we had believed. Cards and letters arrived by the dozen from
every corner of the United States. Others knew of our tragedy and shared our
grief. Receiving those condolences from
people we had never met has been one of the most gratifying experiences of my
life.
Day by day, we
carried on, and though we don’t always talk about July 11, the aftermath is our
constant companion and our shared sadness is held in the silence of our hearts.
Ultimately, we fell back into our daily
routine, bent but not broken, serving the public just as Joe and Ron had done
for decades. All of us who worked here
during this tragedy will forever be bound by this shared experience. We will never be the same, but we will serve.
Judge Bruce became a member of the Bar is 1980
after graduating from Cooley Law School and Michigan State University. He practiced as an assistant prosecutor and
then in private practice, specializing in litigation. Now in his fourth term, Judge Bruce currently
serves as chief judge. He is a St.
Joseph-area native and has two daughters: Hailey, a 2016 graduate of Denison
University in Granville, Ohio, and Erin, a junior at the University of
Missouri
[Editor's Note: The Michigan Supreme Court and SCAO stand with the judges, court employees, and officers who work in the Berrien County Courthouse as they mark the first anniversary of this tragedy.]