And somehow, impossibly, it worked.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Thursday afternoon. One overturned tractor-trailer. Two improvising medics. And Legal on the phone.
It was one of those suspiciously quiet Thursdays—the kind that makes you glance over your shoulder, wondering what the universe is scheming. I was neck-deep in emergency run reports, hidden away in my windowless interior office at EMS Headquarters, when the phone shattered the silence.
"Santa Clara EMS, Jennifer speaking."
"This is the Legal Department," came a voice so dry it could chafe. "Do you have a protocol for a… medical arrest?"
"A what?"
"Medical arrest," Counsel repeated, as if I were the slow one. "Two of your paramedics reportedly placed someone under one. Transported him—in restraints."
I stared at the wall. Blinked.
Was this a prank?
Was I being filmed?
"There's no such thing as a medical arrest," I said cautiously.
"Well, it happened," snapped the county's lawyer. "And we have the documentation."
Perfect. Nothing says Thursday like inventing new liabilities.
I called Roy Shackel, the Medevac Supervisor and unofficial wrangler of loose-cannon medics.
"Roy, tell me it wasn't Gallo and Walters."
"I wish I could," he sighed.
"Fantastic. Bring those two geniuses to my office tomorrow. 0800 sharp."
Frank Gallo and Randy Walters strolled in the next morning like they were headed to brunch, not a disciplinary meeting. Frank wore his trademark troublemaker grin. Randy, all calm and camouflage—a former Green Beret—had the look of a man who'd seen worse.
Roy trailed in behind them, looking like he hadn't slept anywhere but an ambulance bench.
"Gentlemen," I said, folding my arms. "Did you—or did you NOT—place someone under a 'medical arrest'?"
Randy raised his hand without hesitation. "Guilty! The guy's alive because of it."
"Explain. Now."
"Semi flipped on the 101," Frank jumped in. "Driver missing. Chaos everywhere."
"We fan out," Randy said. "There he is—wandering like a reject from a zombie shoot. Belligerent, blown pupils, slurring every word, blood in his hair."
"Time was ticking," Frank said. "So Randy yells, 'Put your hands up! You're under medical arrest!'"
"And the guy… listened?" I asked, incredulous.
"Like a stunned raccoon," Frank grinned. "Hands shot up. Eyes wide. No clue what hit him."
Randy added, grinning, "Then I said, ''Put your hands behind your back,'' secured him, and escorted him to the ambulance. I even read him his rights—'' You have the right to remain conscious.''
For a beat, the room went quiet.
"He was circling the drain," Frank said, serious now. "Seconds mattered."
They'd acted on instinct. Not by the book, but not wrong either.
"You cuffed him?"
"Soft restraints," Frank clarified. "We stabilized, started fluids, and rolled out Code 3. ER took him straight to surgery—subdural hematoma."
Roy dropped the incident report on my desk.
"They didn't lie," he said. "They even wrote 'medical arrest'—in bold. Underlined."
Of course they did.
I stood slowly, letting silence settle like judgment. "No more made-up arrests. Ever."
Randy gave a crisp salute. "Yes, ma'am."
"And if Legal ever calls again—" I started.
Frank cut in, deadpan: "Tell them it was a Section 3-1-2-0. Code 3. One patient. Two rogue medics. Zero protocol compliance."
"Get out," I said—…but my glare was already cracking at the edges.
Roy and I shared the look of exhausted parents whose kids just rewired the house and called it art.
Their footsteps faded down the hall—high-fives echoing like victory bells.
I closed the door, collapsed in my chair, shook my head... and once I was sure no one could hear—
I laughed until I cried.
