Social workers do their jobs on the front lines and, too often, they find themselves in harm’s way as a result. Those of us in the profession were painfully reminded of this on 7 August, when Child Protection Social Worker Lara Sobel was allegedly shot twice by a client, Jody Herring, who had lost custody of her 9-year-old daughter.



Many of us who look after the country’s most vulnerable are threatened with physical violence on a daily basis, whether from domestic abusers or drug-addicted parents. Teri Zenner, was killed with a chainsaw during a home visit to a schizophrenic man in Kansas. Tanja Brown-O’Neal was stabbed while helping a man apply for food stamps in Baltimore. Ladonna Wolford was beaten to death with a baseball bat by two teenagers at a shelter for runaways in West Virginia. Those are just a few names of social workers slain in the line of duty. Social service workers are some of the main victims of workplace violence, according to the American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees.



But the risks of our profession aren’t just physical. Sometimes, we are haunted by what we see for years. I am by a girl I once met on the job. Let’s call her Emma. I was in my mid 20s and making just a little over $15 an hour as a children’s mental health case manager when I met her. Emma was diagnosed with PTSD after a family friend sexually molested her at the public pool. She still lived with flashbacks, and engaged in sexually aggressive behavior.

I went for a home visit, though you could hardly call it a home. There were twelve people crammed into less than 1,000 square feet. Emma’s mother told me that she had too many mouths to feed, and Emma had gone to live with her boyfriend. Emma was 13-years-old. Emma’s “boyfriend” was 35. As a mandated reporter, I had to report this to child protection services and to the police.

Hours later, I stood in the hallway of a third floor apartment in the inner city, just a block away from the freeway. I could hear cars whizzing by. The flashing lights of the squad car in the alley reflected off of the dingy beige walls. Next to me a police officer beat on the door of the apartment. Emma had told me that this is where her boyfriend lived. She has also told me that her boyfriend was involved in Sur 13, a notorious gang. I didn’t know if that was true. I only knew that she deserved a better life. No one answered the door.

Emma’s mother refused to file a missing person report. She was rid of her. As her social worker I could have filed one myself, but my supervisor advised me to find a family member instead, so that when Emma was found she would have someone to go home to. I tracked down Emma’s grandmother, and walked her through the paperwork. I called the police weekly to see if they had any leads on Emma. I talked to Emma’s friends at school and passed on any information they gave me to the police. I used all the weapons in my arsenal.

Several weeks later I received a threatening voice mail on my work phone. A deep man’s voice said: “Leave Emma the fuck alone. If you come looking for her any more, I’ll fucking kill you. She’s mine now, bitch.” My supervisor told me to drop the case. I never saw Emma again.

When we lost Lara Sobel, I couldn’t help but remember Emma. While Sobel likely had countless successful cases – families where she intervened and both the family and the community-at-large were better for it – I imagine she also had her own Emmas, cases so intense that they both thrilled and scared her. But, she still returned to work every day for 14 years, believing that she could make a difference in the lives of children. We owe it to her to make sure that social workers who dedicate themselves to improving the lives of others do not end up losing their own a result.

