By Jodi Jones
A few weeks ago, I cast the first vote I have come to regret. The story of that vote is a portent of risk and opportunity hidden in the humble microcosm that is local government. I wrote this story for those who feel American democracy is eroding, for those who yearn for greater bipartisanship, and for those who want connection in their communities.
In local government, committees are where the sausage is made. The Public Safety committee here in Washington County, Tennessee, usually meets around dinner time. On this particular October night, a feeling of weary resolve filled the room along with volunteer firemen from rural outposts, emergency management leadership, deputies, and constables. We hammered out agreements on mutual aid, considered the purchase of life-saving equipment, and resolved to auction off well used Ford F150s. The Sheriff asked for permission to destroy 50 firearms that could not be resold, which gave much heartburn to one of my fellow commissioners, a rural farmer. “Don’t worry, my friend,” I said to him, winking, “they will make more.”
In a room full of fellas, I hope these quips are endearing. I’m the only female in the larger 15-member body and the only elected Democrat in the seven-county region of Northeast Tennessee. I am finishing my second term, and I have been well armored for a tough political and decision-making environment. But underneath that armor I’m still a sensitive person who registers love and pain. I might make quips, but I seek connection. Getting to know people from all over my county, especially in the rural surroundings of my town (“outside my bubble”), is a big part of what is satisfying about the job.
After our first round of business was completed, the sheriff asked commissioners to approve an agreement between the county jail and ICE known as “287(g).” The sheriff explained: This agreement does not include deputies picking up undocumented individuals “off the streets.” Put simply, he said, this memorandum of understanding (MOU) doesn’t change anything except an administrative aspect of the transfer of undocumented individuals to ICE — individuals in the jail who have been charged with a crime, received due process, and already have an ICE detainer.
I really like our sheriff. Of course, as with most folks I encounter in our county, our politics couldn’t be further apart. I once made the naive mistake of asking him about red-flag laws and the conversation turned in a way I couldn’t salvage. Still, he has truly “leveled up” our county jail. He has championed mental-health and substance-abuse services for inmates, which previously did not exist. He has worked to establish deflection and specialty court programs that get folks the care they need without jail time.
The ICE agreement passed through committee and was heard again by the full board of commissioners at the end of the month. Those weeks between committee and board flew by, as they often do. The commission packet — an inch-thick slab — is published and ready on Wednesday afternoon for the meeting the following Monday, but with a full-time job, a teenager at home and everything else, I don’t often get to read it until I get to my Sunday morning cup of coffee. The agenda had a number of items of concern for me, including a janky bid process and a contentious zoning request. I spent a bunch of time on those two items, making phone calls and learning what I could.
I reviewed the ICE agreement again: What exactly could I object to here? If these folks have a detainer, then ICE is already coming for them, right? Does it really matter if our jail administers that? What arguments could I reasonably raise against this? I was drawing a blank. This MOU had garnered no news stories, and no phone call or email objections from citizens.
And so I voted yes, and the measure passed unanimously.
