Mesa County’s public information officer, Megan Terlecky, would not disclose the reasons for Hemphill’s termination, but she said they were unrelated to the accusations and involved “nothing criminal in nature.” Hemphill worked for the Dolores County Sheriff’s Office from December 2016 to July, initially training as a patrol deputy, The Daily Sentinel reported.He had only been working as a patrol deputy for about four months, Dolores County Sheriff Jerry Martin said, when the Colorado Bureau of Investigation notified the office on July 16 that Hemphill was under investigation.His bail was maintained at 0,000 at a hearing Thursday, court officials said.
On Henry’s ninth birthday, his dad had taken him to the sporting goods store and told him to pick out whatever he liked.
There had never been any doubt about the choice—there was only one glove in the store with the name of Aparicio Rodriguez inscribed in the pocket—but Henry took his time, trying on every glove, amazed by the sheer fact of being able to The glove seemed huge back then; now it fit him snugly, barely bigger than his left hand. When he came home from Little League games, his mother would ask how many errors he’d made. ” he’d crow, popping the pocket of his beloved glove with a balled‑up fist.
Finally someone would hit him a grounder, and he would show what he could do. He’d spent his life studying the way the ball came off the bat, the angles and the spin, so that he knew in advance whether he should break right or left, whether the ball that came at him would bound up high or skid low to the dirt. “Small Quad.”Henry slipped through a cool aperture between two buildings and emerged on a bright, bustling scene.
He caught the ball cleanly, always, and made, always, a perfect throw. After that, he continued to talk to Schwartz on the phone every night, making plans, working out details—but now he did so openly, in the family room, and his dad hovered nearby, the TV on mute, cigarette going, eavesdropping and shouting out comments. Henry would hand his dad the phone, and his dad would sit down at his desk and go over the Skrimshanders’ tax returns.“Thanks,” Henry said into the phone, feeling sentimental, on the day he bought his bus ticket. This wasn’t Lankton CC: this was college in a movie.
Bold nowhere else in his life, Henry was bold in this: no matter what the coach said, or what his eyebrows expressed, he would jog out to shortstop, pop his fist into Zero’s pocket, and wait.
If the coach shouted at him to go to second base, or right field, or home to his mommy, he would keep standing there, blinking and dumb, popping his fist. She thrust a key and a paper map into his hand, pointed to the left.
Every Little League coach Henry had ever had took one look at him and pointed toward right field or second base.
Or else the coach didn’t point anywhere, just shrugged at the fate that had assigned him this pitiable shrimp, this born benchwarmer.
More ground balls were hit to the shortstop than to anyone else, and then he had to make the longest throw to first.
He also had to turn double plays, cover second on steals, keep runners on second from taking long leads, make relay throws from the outfield.
It was a town of forty-three thousand people, surrounded by seas of corn. His mom worked part-time as an X‑ray technician at All Saints.