Master Deputy Mark Darst

It was the summer of 1991, I was a twenty-something, civilian ride-along with the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office ― I remember, like it was just yesterday. I was assigned to ride with Robert Whitaker; I would later learn to call him “Wink”. I wasn’t sure what to expect on the first day of a new experience, but I suppose I was looking for some excitement. I learned excitement on the street comes in the form of disorder and mayhem and it’s only exciting when you get to stand back and watch while others get to clean up the mess.

The excitement I was looking for never really happened that day as Wink warned me it’s not what you see on TV. But, something else did happen that day — something unexpected and unpredictable however subtle its significance may have been to me at the time. For it was on this day I met a man named Mark Darst.

I recall on this day, Wink pulling up next to Mark’s car where they began to plan the arrest of a felon on the run ― I’m certain my heart was racing at the time just listening as to how these two peace officers planned to carry out their capture.
But what I remember most — just a thin slice of a memory in a chance meeting — was in what Mark would say next, his contribution to the master plan. In sort of a self-styled John Wayne swagger, Mark affirmed while thumping his clinched fist on his chest as if the bad guy was standing there within arm’s reach.

“I’ve got two-hundred-twenty-five pounds of purebred Kentucky bluegrass waiting for ya!”

I was truly enamored by such a showy display of camaraderie and young buck bravado. I’m certain it was this interaction that, in some small part, inspired me later to become a member of the Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office.

Little did I know that this was just the first day of a twenty year journey. And as hair began to gray and gun belts began to tightened, little did I know that I would be standing here almost twenty years to the month looking back and reminiscing over this same journey.
Today I hope to honor the legacy of Master Deputy Mark Anthony Darst. I hope today I am prepared to thoughtfully and eloquently capture Mark’s many silent contributions that have not only touched those that knew him but also have touched the many that never knew his name.

If I could best describe Mark’s finest character attribute — I think you may all agree with me if I should say that it was his quiet and silent benevolence personified in his own personal brand of humility that often rose to the occasion.

To me, Mark always exemplified a formidable structure of a man; at six-foot-six with a full shock of hair and steely blue eyes he had a statesman-like persona, not only in his physical stature but in his personal character. A quintessential component of the thin blue line I was proud to stand in his shadow and be tainted by his wake.
Sharing the experiences of the street with your fellow brethren is one of the most unique of relationships that often defies description for those outside the law enforcement arena. There is a barrier between anarchy and a civilized society, between order and chaos, between respect for decency and lawlessness and this is the line that cops protect. And the thin blue line symbolically represents the officers and the courage they find deep inside when faced with insurmountable odds and the camaraderie law enforcement officers all share— it is a brotherhood like no other.

And this is the same brotherhood that I dutifully shared with Master Deputy Mark Anthony Darst.

Over the years I’ve been the first hand witness to many of Mark’s repeated acts of kindness and personal contributions, some of which I’ll finally get to share with you today― since, for many of these years I’ve also been sworn to a vow of silence. Although Mark never explained, I’ve always understood the method behind his madness. I knew that any desire or perception of personal gain would diminish the value of what was a genuine and authentic personal desire to help another.

On Sunday mornings we often had breakfast together at one of our favorite greasy spoons, it was our time to enjoy a quiet morning that usually foreshadowed another busy day on the street. It was a way to reflect and catch up — it was our therapy. Mark knew every server by name and they knew his name too. Eggs and bacon often gave way to advice and consultation to those that saw a friend in a uniform. Someone they could count on to deliver sound guidance that would send them in the right direction. Sometimes this advice came with a firm hand other times with a comforting pat on the back; his knack would be in looking beyond the emotional façade and delivering just the right dose of medicine to just the right person.

On one such morning we stood up to pay our bill and walked by eight servicemen in uniform having breakfast at a round table centered in the dining room. Mark made up some excuse to delay himself at the register and suggested I meet him outside in the parking lot — I was none the wiser and obliged his request. Moments later without explanation Mark got into his patrol car and briskly left the area, I didn’t have time to connect the dots before all eight servicemen spotted me lingering in my patrol car when they made a dash closing in on my rear view mirror. I wasn’t sure if I should have rolled the window down or put it in gear to be honest.

One of the servicemen acting as spokesperson for the group said: where did your partner go ― you know, the tall guy?

Oh, you mean Deputy Darst?

It became clear to me what had just happened and why Mark had left in such a hurry. Mark is gone already, I said.
The serviceman explained:

“Well, will you thank him for us; he just paid for everyone’s breakfast?”

Before he finished his statement I had already begun to figure out what was going on and why Mark left so quickly. I told the servicemen that I would pass on their thanks and that Mark is a little bashful when it comes to public acknowledgment.

I called Mark on his cell phone knowing that he thought that he was at a safe distance and when he answered; my first utterance was direct and pointed not giving him any room for escape or deflection.

Mark I said, “What did you just do?”

He quipped by saying: “OK, I got caught.” The words that he would follow with became a Mark-ism to me over the years and they were my simple instructions, if and when, I became the witness to his quiet and repeated benevolence.

My instruction was always simple and concise:

“Not a word to anyone!”

There were many teachable moments and cautionary tales over the years but I didn’t realize that I had become the unwitting student ― the benefactor of lessons learned from his own hard knocks. Strangely enough, you never really know that you are being mentored or who is mentoring you until their work is done. It’s only until after the dust has settled do you have the wherewithal to look back and ask: what just happened?

Mark was a teacher as much as he was a mentor. But, his students didn’t learn from his chalk board or from the pounding fist of a bully pulpit. He never spoke from a higher plane, down upon those who were naive with wayward minds. His teachings were absorbed through many mysterious acts of assimilation by his many examples. There are always detractors that might say I could have done that, I would have done that, but the plain and simple truth of the matter is — Mark did do it.

A little over a year ago I assisted Mark on a call for service involving a disturbed young man and his girlfriend who were having a domestic dispute. After working are way into their apartment we soon realized the situation wasn’t stable ― the young man was a tinder box and the right spark at the wrong time would have set the whole place on fire. I knew things were heading south when he began to size me up, he kicked- off his shoes lowered his center of gravity and bladed his body. He was a black belt in something-or-other, as he made clear, and at one-hundred and forty pounds he had the bad attitude to match. It’s always the smallest of guys that want to fight the police. I had drawn the line in the sand and when he crossed it, the cards would just have to fall where they may― I was ready to respond in kind. That’s until Mark walked back into the room. Mark saw that there was a standoff, of sorts, and he noticed things were escalating. What Mark did next took me by surprise but wherever Mark would lead I learned to follow.

Most people particularly at 140lbs are intimidated by Mark’s natural size but Mark knew in this case his size was working against him. I watched as Mark walked into the room, casually pulled up a bar stool next to me, took a seat, folded his arms and lowered his tone an octave or two just like he was talking to an old friend. Almost everything I was taught not to do, and another potent example of how textbook ideology will never trump the reality of tenured street experience.

When Mark took over he told the young man barricaded on one side of the room: Hey, I can see you thinking, I know what you’re thinking ― and the answer is simple― just stop thinking. Mark continued, you know, I’m getting to old to fight. Yeah, if you want to fight ―we’ll fight, but for now I just need you to stop thinking. Soon enough the young man calmed, the situation stabilized, and quietly we left to put out the next fire. No head-grabbing news story of yet another ill-fated young man who tried to challenge the police and lost. Sometimes you’ve known you did your job right when there is no sign of you ever having been there. This was one of those cases.

A few days later this same young man stumbled upon me in a parking lot and he stopped to thank me and he asked that I thank Mark as well for what we had done and how he had handled his problem. What Mark had taught me on that day is more than just high brow theory, he taught from his own personal field manual. I now understood that you can’t rely exclusively on just your badge and your brawn to avert certain disaster but it is also your wit and wisdom that will quell, persuade and calm.

Job well done — Mark… job well done.

Lately, as bad as the economy has been we’ve been finding more and more cars disabled on the road side simply because people don’t have enough money to put gas in their tanks. Mark found one such vehicle stalled in the center lane of Hillsborough Ave and wherever Mark was I wasn’t too far behind. Soon enough I showed-up to help Mark with getting the car out of the road. We decided Mark was going to get behind the wheel of the disabled car — the young teenager too nervous to drive — and I was the push car. But first came the parting instructions, Mark explained:

Come up behind me and apply the push bumper, pop the air horn twice giving the all clear, accelerate rapidly keeping it at a constant 20mph clip for a hundred yards. Stop short approximately 20 ft from the gas station entrance. I’m going to hook a sharp right then flip a “U-ey” right into lane two― pump side out, gas port side in.
Are you ready?

And just like any one of Mark’s carefully laid out plans the vehicle soon came to a squealing halt, but this is where the story actually begins. As I’m waiting to take Mark back to his car the teenage motorist stepped out of the passenger side of her vehicle and began to cry― I wasn’t sure why. Waiting to see what would happen next I watched as Mark reached into his back pocket, removed his wallet, and swiped his debit card so the young lady could get home to her parents.

And yes of course, he pumped the gas too!

When Mark was done he jumped into my passenger seat to return to his car and he had only a few words to say―the same words that I’ve heard before.

“Not a word to anyone… Not a word to anyone.”

Over that last few years I’ve lost count as to how many motorists just like this we’ve pushed out of the road; without so much as two nickels to rub together — crying, stalled on roadside. Mark wasn’t the type to keep score as to his number of good deeds let alone seek acknowledgment from those he has helped. But as Mark’s student I learned by his examples, this mysterious marvel of assimilation and soon we were taking turns swiping are cards at the gas pumps.

Job well done — Mark… job well done.

In Marks final days I arrived at his home to visit him. I was still on-duty and in uniform and had been cautioned that he might not recognize me. I walked up to his bed side and hovered over him while putting my hand on his shoulder. I was prepared for the worst but was hoping for the best. I tried to rouse him:

“Hey Mark, it’s Steve… Hey Mark it’s your buddy.”

After a few seconds he raised and turned his head and suddenly opened his eyes. He locked onto me trying to focus — then he began to cry— and when he was done crying, he cried some more. I looked back at Deborah as if to ask… why he is crying? And she explained: because he recognizes you… he remembers you… he knows who you are.
I felt relieved, there was some contentment there; he was able to break through this cloud that had trapped his mind long enough to recognize an old friend and zone partner. But, when Mark was done crying he got mad, and I understood why he got mad because I’m certain he just wanted to tell an old friend goodbye… and he couldn’t.
But, I want Mark to know that I did hear him, I heard every word that he said.

I know Mark is looking down upon us now— and I know Mark, you’re listening.

And I want you to know Mark, that I heard you say goodbye.

I heard you say… I love you brother.

I heard you tell me when this is all over go back out there and serve your community well, to respect the uniform, to fight the good fight, I heard you say all of this.

But most important, I heard you say that you were proud of me, I heard you say you were proud of me for becoming the person… that you have allowed me to become.

I heard you tell me all of this.

And Mark, I want you to know that your job is done now — you have been a faithful and humble warrior.


Mark — Thank you for being my teacher.
Mark — Thank you for being my mentor.

Thank you for clipping me by the ear when I was acting out-of-line.
Thank you for pulling me back by the collar when I didn’t recognize danger.

I will be forever indebted to you.

It’s time for you to pass the torch, I’ll take over from here, and you have served your community well.

Rest your head easy my good friend. Rest your head easy.
You will be sorely missed.

Your Student, Friend and Fellow Comrade;

Steve

June 6th, 2011