One of a Kind

I'm going to miss Gene Sydnor.
The Richmond County sheriff is retiring at the end of May.
That's not what he told me, though.
That's what the letter to his staff says.
You can read it if you stop by the sheriff's office.
But don't call and ask the sheriff to answer your questions.
A week after he filled out his retirement paperwork and thumb-tacked his letter of retirement to the office bulletin board, I called him to talk to him about his retirement.
"So, you're in the news again," I said.
That was my mistake, not his.
And I should have known better.
You see, I like Sydnor.
Some folks don't.
That's okay with him.
Screw 'em.
But that's not what Sydnor would say.
That's not his language.
"Well, I'm not out to please everybody," he'd say.
Clearly, he's not out to do that.

He didn't please the Lancaster County high school band director in 1997 when he arrested him for marching too slowly.
You probably remember that from CNN.
And he didn't please Tony Volo when he shut down Volo's pizza restaurant for disturbing the peace.
And he didn't please disc jockey Chad Rock when he arrested him for playing music at Volo's restaurant.
And he didn't please Cheryl Sweet in June of last year when he forcibly escorted the victim's advocate out of the sheriff's office.
They didn't think Sydnor was doing the right thing.
Sydnor is convinced he was.
The 1997 WarsawFest parade took place through the main road in Warsaw.
They had cut off traffic for a couple of lanes and had hurried the acts through.
But, as everybody would soon learn, you can't hurry a marching band.
Gaps were forming the parade.
As Sydnor would later say in a letter to the community, he was worried what this would do to traffic running along side the parade.
Some idiot comes breezing through little old Warsaw, sees what he thinks is the end of the parade, then he's running through baton-twirlers and flutists, dropping a dozen teenagers.
That's what Sydnor was trained to prevent.
He told the band director to speed up.
Uh, we're a marching band, the director said. We've got one speed. Marching.
Step it up or step out of the parade, Sydnor told him.
We can't go any faster, the band director said.
Rule number one: When Sheriff Gene Sydnor tells you to do something, you do it.
You can argue about it later. You can complain to your mom next week. But just, for the love of all that's holy, do what he says.
The band director didn't.
So he ended up in handcuffs, sitting on the curb.
"You just sit there and let everyone get a look at you," Sydnor reportedly said.
The band director was eventually uncuffed, but the community learned a lesson that day.
But that was 1997.

Flash forward to last year.
There's dancing and loud music coming from Anna's Restaurant late one night.
Sydnor gets out of bed and heads into town.
By the time he gets to the scene, a deputy is talking to some folks there.
Sydnor starts questioning some of the participants.
He talks to the disc jockey.
Things don't go well.
Rule number one: When Sheriff Gene Sydnor tells you to do something, you do it.
The disc jockey gets arrested.
Charges are dropped.
Early this year, the disc jockey filed suit against Sydnor.
In June of last year, Cheryl Sweet, an employee with the Richmond County Commonwealth's Attorney's office heads over to the sheriff's office to deliver some paperwork.
She and Sydnor get into a heated discussion about some computer system.
Not long ago, Sweet and Sydnor had been simpatico.
During the parade problem, Sweet had written a letter to the Northern Neck News defending Sydney's actions.
Many folks had.
But now, Sweet and Sydnor don't get along terribly well.
That day last June, Sydnor told Sweet to get out of his office.
Then he escorted her out.
Whether he pushed her or accidentally bumped into her depends on whose story you believe.
A judge in district court believed Sweet's story.
Sydnor was found guilty of misdemeanor assault.
He appealed.
A jury in circuit court believed his story.
He was acquitted of the charges.
When Gene Sydnor tells you to do something, whether it's march faster or shut down the music, you do it.
If he says get out of his office, you jump out the nearest window.
Sydnor has a tough code of ethics.
You obey the law.
And the sheriff is the law.
Sydnor's job is to protect the people.
He told judge and jury that it was his duty to get Cheryl Sweet out of his office.
She was causing a disturbance, he said.
His argument was that, if someone came to your office and caused a disturbance, you'd want the sheriff to get that person out by whatever means necessary.
He's right.

If someone walks into my office and starts yelling (a not-uncommon occurrence), I want to be able to call Sheriff Gene Sydnor.
I would, too.
And he'd come.
You could sit in some fast food parking lot and cuss him and say awful things about him, but when you needed the sheriff, he'd be there.
He has a tough code of ethics.
But if he finds out that you've lifted funds from the orphans or didn't open a door for a lady, you're in some trouble.
His official duty is to protect you.
And he will.
But he won't like you.
And he won't care whether you like him.
To say he lives life on his own terms sounds too hokey.
But that's the deal.
Nobody thought he'd retire or step down during any of his troubles.
"He's not going out like that," they said.
"He'll leave when he wants."
Apparently, he wants to leave this summer, six months before his term is up.
At least, that's what the letter hanging up in his office says.
But that's his letter.
Those are his words.
He tells you what you need to know.
You don't ask him questions.

So when I called up and asked him about his pending retirement, well, I should have known better.
"I hear you're retiring," I said.
"Nope."
Huh?
I was told by no fewer than three people who ought to know that Sydnor was retiring and had put a letter up in his office.
"I heard you were retiring?"
"No," he said.
Maybe he'd changed his mind. Maybe I'd heard wrong.
Maybe I was asking the question wrong.
"What about the retirement letter hanging in your office?" I asked.
Pause.
"How about I just don't want to talk about it right now?" he said.
"When might you want to talk about it?"
Next month, he said.
So maybe I'll find out next month whether he's retiring.
Since talking to the sheriff, I've gone down and taken a picture of the letter on the wall.
But it wasn't addressed to me.
It was addressed to the sheriff's department, state troopers and town police.
To Sydnor, I guess, it isn't my business until he tells me it is.
You have to respect that.
At some level, it is a very personal matter.
He's not in any mood to answer my questions.
When it's my business, he'll tell me.
And, following rule number one, when he tells me to listen, you can bet the ranch I will.