My partner Bronson and I get a call for a diabetic emergency at the 74th Police Precinct in Brooklyn.

Such emergencies usually involve low blood sugar, or hypoglycemia, caused by a person taking his regular dose of insulin and either not eating enough or exercising too much. Despite the modern miracle of insulin, which saves lives, diabetics still must monitor their blood sugar carefully. Too much insulin can kill a person in minutes. And it’s hard to find a glucometer in lockup, but diabetics who commit crimes don’t think to bring their test kits.

We arrive and receive the basic information from the desk sergeant. The prisoner was caught at 3 a.m. trying to steal a car. When the police tried to apprehend him, he kicked in the window of their car.

“So he overexerted himself,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.

The desk sergeant finishes typing up the damage report form. “I’d say about $800 worth.”

It’s a shame the precinct has to lose money that way. The building’s interior looks like it hasn’t been renovated since 1962. The wooden banister in front of the sergeant’s desk, the creaky wooden floors, the odd smell of mothballs. It’s all straight out of Barney Miller.

We’re escorted to the prisoners’ cells. Each is about 6 feet by 5 feet, with a wooden bench and a stainless steel combination toilet and sink. Each cell contains two prisoners sitting at opposite ends of their bench. It’s morning, and they were all picked up the night before for various crimes, such as robbery, larceny, and attempted rape.

In one cell, a young man of about 25 stands by the bars in shorts and a tank top. He’s sweaty and his eyes look glazed. This could be from drug use – he did kick out a car window, after all. But it could be low blood sugar.

“They say you’re diabetic,” I say. “When did you last take your insulin?”

He looks at me like I’m an alien.

“When did you last eat?”

He grabs the iron bars and shakes them. A police officer leads him out of the cell and seats him on a bench. Two more cops attach his cuffs to an iron bar bolted to the brick wall. Remembering everything I’ve learned from cop novels, I make sure not to turn my back on the perp. I feel very small, very female, and very vulnerable.

I check my patient out and determine he’s in mild insulin shock. He has the classic symptoms: cold clammy sweat and the typical altered mental status caused from lack of sugar to the brain. He suddenly turns combative, another classic hypoglycemic symptom, and it takes three officers to hold down his legs. People in insulin shock are remarkably strong, and I commend the police for restraining him without harm. This is a very difficult feat to accomplish. I quickly administer a tube of oral glucose and tell my patient to swallow. He does, and in about 30 seconds begins to come to his senses. That’s how fast sugar gets to the brain. He stops pulling at the cuffs and blinks, confused. “Hey there,” I say. “Welcome to Earth.” He says nothing. “How are you feeling?” The cops all stand around, concerned. He blinks again. “Mm. Dizzy.” “I heard you kicked in a car window last night.” Fully to his senses, he now grins. “I didn’t do nothin’.” I turn to the officer beside me. “He’s going to need some food in him. Some orange juice and maybe a piece of bread.” The juice will supply him with quick sugar, and the carbohydrates in the bread will slowly turn to sugar over the course of the day. “A buttered roll would be good.”

The cop immediately runs out to the corner deli. I’m impressed with the NYPD. Where else do the police run out to get their prisoners juice and a buttered roll?

“Hey,” the prisoner says to me, confidentially, leaning to the side so I can get a view of his left upper arm. “Look what they did to me.” There’s a purple bruise about half an inch long. I feel for a bump. It’s flat. “Does this hurt?” I say, pressing. He shakes his head. Then rethinks it. “Umm…maybe a little. Yeah, it hurts. Can I get a report?” He knows that I know he wants a report for a lawsuit claiming police brutality. This is common from prisoners. They want something, anything, against the police who arrested them, so that their case will be thrown out of court. “No,” I say, angry now. The cops have shown him every courtesy. He was caught stealing a car. “There’s nothing to bandage, the skin isn’t even broken.” I add, “You shouldn’t have kicked in their car window.” He’s busy looking at his bruise. “Can’t you take a picture of it? I want a picture.” “No,” I say. “It’s like a hickey. It’ll go away by itself.” “A hickey?” he looks up. “Hey man, the cops don’t love me.” I think of the $800 for that car window, not to mention the tax dollars to pay for the police to arrest a man who should have been home with his glucometer instead of trying to steal cars. “Gee, I wonder why,” I say. He lunges for me. Thankfully, he’s cuffed to the bar.

Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY. This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.