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n the most important day of her career, Beth “It’s great,” exclaims Edwards of the promotion,
Richards was having a rough morning. She adding that it gives other women in the department
burned her dress pants while ironing. In despera- something to strive for.
tion, she tried coloring the large spot with a marker On Richards’ desk sits the trophy Edwards and fellow
and even considered spray paint. Instead, she pulled colleagues in the Professional Standards division, which
an old pair covered in hair (from one of her eight cats) Richards headed up until her promotion, gave her. It
from her closet and went at them with a lint brush. reads, ‘You broke the glass.’
Beth Richards is nothing, if not resourceful. Nationally, law enforcement is comprised of approxi-
When I meet her, however, she never lets on how di- mately 15 percent women, and it’s estimated that only
sastrous her morning had started. Instead, she acknowl- about 10 percent of females earn a rank of lieutenant
edges the crowd of family, friends and fellow depu- or higher.
ties who’ve gathered to watch Sheriff Kevin Rambosk “When I started, there was one female lieutenant,”
promote her to Captain — the first woman in the Richards, a 23-year-veteran, tells me after the ceremony.
department to hold the third-
highest rank in the department. Unlikely Officer
Even the sheriff alludes to “Hopefully, I won’t let Working for the Sheriff’s Office is
Richard’s history-making mo- practically the only job Richards
ment, calling her aqualified and the women down.” has ever had — except for a brief
motivated policewoman. stint on-air at Cat Country Radio
“But beyond everything else, you’re a law enforcement and working in her dad’s Immokalee pharmacy. In fact,
officer,” Rambosk states. she never had any aspirations of a law enforcement career.
After her husband, Kevin, a fellow deputy, pins a new She just needed a job. Her grandfather had been a jailer,
badge onto her uniform, the newly promoted Captain her dad — a pharmacist — was an auxiliary officer, and
Richards finally smiles. his best friend was a deputy who worked at the Immokalee
“Hopefully, I won’t let the women down,” she says. Substation. That friend came to Richards one day and told
The people who know her best say there’s no chance her he had a job for her as a corrections officer. That was
of that happening. in 1987. With the $13,000-a-year salary she’d be making,