I’m neither a psychologist nor a psychiatrist. But when I was in my early 20s I worked a couple of years as a paramedic and member of a rescue squad. The squad provided basic first-responder care, CPR, etc. We were occasionally enlisted to take mental patients who were acting up at the hospital to the psychiatric hospital in Trenton, New Jersey. It’s not really something that we were supposed to do, but every once a while we would get suckered by a local hospital.

So one afternoon we got a call for transport from the local medical center. They met us in the ER and handed over the patient. He looked to be about 30, had long dark hair past his shoulders, and a full beard. Good-looking, but very intense. He was strapped into the gurney with multiple restraints. The nurse introduced us. “I'd like you to meet Jesus, Jesus Christ.”

He looked up at me peacefully. “Bless you my son.”

I was about to laugh but the nurses words cut me off like a punch in the gut. “They're waiting for him in the Vroom Building.”

Oh. My. God.

The Vroom Building Was the infamous locked ward for the criminally insane at Trenton State Psychiatric Hospital. And it was more than an hour away. We were neither trained nor equipped for this kind of transport.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“You don't want to know,” he replied, “just don't let him get a hold of anything sharp.”

I tried to object but the nurse simply patted me on the shoulder. “He's your problem now, sweetie. Just keep him calm.”

We loaded him into the back of the rig, closed the doors and drove off. As much as we wanted to get to Trenton ASAP, we didn't want to agitate our passenger so we ran with lights and no sirens, and stayed in the slow lane. It was a two-man crew — me and the driver. I had no idea what to do. After about 10 or 15 minutes, I tried to make small talk.

“Are you comfortable?” I asked, a stupid question in reflection.

“I'd like to get these restraints off,” he said quietly.

“Sorry guy, doctor's orders,” I responded.

“But I need a smoke,” he said “I really need a smoke.”

Can’t smoke back here,” I said affably. “We’ve got oxygen. No open flames.”

“I'm the son of God,” he said in a monotone that was somehow truly chilling.

And then he tried to sit up. He struggled for a moment as I spoke soothingly.

I had very limited experience with mental patients. The vast majority that I had encountered during my time in the psych ward were easily managed. This guy was a different story.

As he struggled to sit up, there was an odd tearing sound. It was the restraints.

I yelled for my partner. “He’s getting loose.” I could hear him on the radio calling for help from the dispatcher.

I had no idea what the right thing to do was. But the wrong thing was to have this guy running loose in the back of my truck. The cot was locked to the wall. I put a hand on the rail of the cot, and practically vaulted onto it — and him. I pushed down on his chest with all my weight behind both hands. He looked startled. “You'll go to Hell for this,” he said in that same weird monotone. “Blessed are the meek.”

I looked him square in the eyes. “I'm a Buddhist.”

His head dropped back down onto the pillow.

I spent the 45 minutes to Trenton perched on his chest.

He never said another word.