Why I Started Designing Gear: The Moment I Realized We Needed Better Equipment

Dawson Schmidt
Nov 19
4 min read

Updated: Nov 20

“So There I Was…”

The Transport Calls That Made Me Realize We Needed Better Gear**A dark-humor patrol story for the officers who’ve lived it.

If you’ve ever worked patrol, you already know: Nothing in this job ever goes according to plan. And if it does go according to plan… that’s usually because the universe is saving up something special for you later.

This is the story of how two transport calls—four minutes of chaos in one, five minutes of stupidity in the other—convinced me that we desperately needed better ways to restrain suspects. Not because I’m weak, or because the suspects were “ninjas,” but because sometimes this job hands you situations so absurd you either laugh or cry.

I chose laugh… eventually.

The Sock, the String, and the Suicide Olympics

Picture this: It’s early morning. Birds chirping. Coffee kicking in. A perfect “ease into the shift” kind of day.

We get a call: Male hiding in a shed.

Okay, easy enough. We find him. Verify a low-level felony warrant. Arrest him. Load him into my beautifully caged car with its hard plastic seat—the kind of setup that makes admin sleep well at night.

Thirty seconds into the transport he looks at me and very casually announces:

“I’m gonna kill myself.”

Now, if you’re in this line of work, you already know… that sentence has the same energy as “I’m gonna tell your sergeant.” You’ve heard it a million times, and usually nothing happens.

Usually.

Ten seconds later this man goes full Houdini. Seatbelt off. Hands magically in front. Sock comes off. And he shoves it into his mouth like it’s the world’s saddest homemade pacifier.

He’s gagging. He’s red. He’s realized socks are surprisingly breathable.

So he upgrades.

He rips his hoodie string out, loops it around his neck, and ties the other end to the cage bars.

Boom. Suicide attempt #2.We're not even one minute from the start point.

At this moment I am flying toward the jail because the last thing I’m going to do is pull over, pop the door open, and offer him a scenic escape route.

We get there. I open the door. He flops out like a fish dropped on the dock.

The jailer looks at me like I just delivered Satan himself.

We cut him loose. I cut the other hoodie string. Jail says, “Hospital clearance.”

Great. Fantastic. Nothing says “fun” like transporting a suicidal Houdini to the hospital.