So he began holding regular public meetings in different parts of the county.
Not only at headquarters.
Not only in neighborhoods where people already trusted the police.
But in rural communities.
Apartment complexes.
Church halls.
And small town gathering spaces where residents had sometimes felt ignored.
He listened.
Some meetings were uncomfortable.
People described difficult encounters.
Complained about slow response times.
And questioned why certain officers remained employed after repeated allegations.
Others thanked the department for helping during storms or responding quickly to emergencies.
The commissioner didn't treat criticism as hostility.
He didn't treat praise as proof that no problems remained.
He listened to both.
Then he asked his team to examine what could be verified and improved.
His mother attended one meeting.
She sat near the back wearing a simple blue dress and a light cardigan.
The commissioner noticed her after entering.
He smiled.
She waved.
For a moment, he remembered his swearing-in ceremony.
The pride in her eyes.
The photograph of his father.
And the promise he made about consistent treatment under the law.
Now, a year later, the work was more difficult than it had looked from behind the microphone.
There were budget limitations.
Staffing shortages.
Disagreements with employee representatives.
And residents who had good reasons to distrust the department.
Change required negotiation.
Training.
Documentation.
And the willingness to examine whether policies were producing the intended results.
But he believed the work mattered.
At the end of the meeting, a young student approached him.
The boy was sixteen, Black American, wearing a school jacket and carrying a notebook.
He looked nervous.
"Commissioner?"
The man smiled.
"Yes?"
The teenager hesitated.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
The boy looked toward his notebook.
"I saw the video from last year."
The commissioner's smile faded slightly.
He nodded.
The teenager continued.
"My friends said you only got help because you're the commissioner."
The man considered.
"Your friends are talking about something important."
The boy looked surprised.
The commissioner continued.
"My position made that officer recognize the seriousness of what he'd done."
The teenager nodded.
Then asked, "What if you hadn't been commissioner?"
The room seemed quieter.
For a moment, the man thought of the old pickup.
His father.
The roadside stop when he was fourteen.
And his own face pressed against the mud decades later.
He looked toward the student.