ALEN BLANCO HERNANDEZ 2035
“Every corner of Vigo County deserves protection, day and night. Our residents deserve respect and a personal response. Taxpayer dollars fund this office, and the people of Vigo County deserve nothing less than excellence in return.”
“Every corner of Vigo County deserves protection, day and night. Our residents deserve respect and a personal response. Taxpayer dollars fund this office, and the people of Vigo County deserve nothing less than excellence in return.”
VISION &
PRIORITIES
01
FISCAL
RESPONSIBILITY
We have a brand-new jail that we are spending thousands of dollars in maintenance on. We need to not repeat previous mistakes. I will work to maintain proper upkeep, operate within our budget, and actively pursue grant funding to reduce the burden on local taxpayers.
02
REDISTRIBUTING
RESOURCES
There can be a better use of existing resources to ensure consistent countywide coverage. Every corner of Vigo County deserves protection—day and night. By redistributing resources, we can increase road coverage, protect our residents, and ensure the safety of our officers.
03
ACCOUNTABILITY
We need to focus on restoring accountability and professionalism within the office as the Vigo County Sheriff’s Office is in the customer service business. Our residents deserve respect and a personal response. Taxpayer dollars fund this office, and the people of Vigo County deserve nothing less than excellence in return.
Learn about Brad Newman
“I didn’t choose Vigo County at first — life pushed me toward it. And purpose kept me here.”
Path to the Military: Some kids dream of the military. I just ran out of excuses. My path to the military wasn’t glamorous, strategic, or patriotic poster-worthy — it was the only real choice I had, and deep down I knew it. I graduated from Mt. Carmel High School in Mt. Carmel, a small town in Southern Illinois.
I grew up an only child in a single-parent home. My mom, Michele — saint, warrior, and expert in tough love — held it all together. School and I? We were never on speaking terms. I loved sports, loved my friends, and loved Friday nights under the lights, but classrooms and discipline? Not so much.
Mt. Carmel is the real-life version of Friday Night Lights or Varsity Blues — the kind of place where the entire town shuts down for football, and those stands roar like you’re in the Big Ten. It’s a special place and shaped me in all the right ways — pride, loyalty, toughness — but even as a kid, I knew I wasn’t meant to spend my life there replaying high-school highlights.
Family Tradition Meets Reality
By junior year, reality slapped me in the face. My family tree looked like the Army Times:
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Grandpa: WWII, Korea, Vietnam — enlisted to officer
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Uncle Mike: highly decorated Vietnam vet
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Dad: Captain, Vietnam gunship pilot
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Cousin Tim: Army in Germany
Serving wasn’t a decision — it was inheritance. So I took the ASVAB, scored shockingly well, and mentally packed my bags. I was leaving Mt. Carmel, one way or another.
The Great College Experiment
Then senior year me woke up and thought, Hold up… the Army means discipline. And discipline was not my spiritual gift at 18. I had long curly hair, looked like a budget Sammy Hagar, slept till noon, cranked my boom box, and challenged authority like it was a varsity sport. Classic 80s kid, minus the Camaro. So I did the logical thing — I went to college. Private school. Church-affiliated. Student loans.
And I majored in: Budweiser and chasing girls and failed out of both. I called my mom in defeat. “I hate school. I’m wasting money. I’m failing.”
She didn’t even breathe. “Call your recruiter. You are NOT coming back to Mt. Carmel pumping gas in your letterman jacket telling everyone how great you were in sports.” And then she hung up. That was her version of a motivational speech — and honestly, it worked better than any TED Talk. Good news for both of us: I’d already called the recruiter.
Fort McClellan - Germany - Fort Sam Houston
I shipped to Fort McClellan, Alabama — Military Police school. OSUT: basic and AIT rolled into one. I’d wanted to be a cop since I was a kid, and this was my doorway. They shaved my hair, broke down that cocky kid, and rebuilt him. And here’s the truth most won’t say: The Army didn’t need me — I needed the Army. Structure, pride, discipline, brotherhood — I thrived in it. I loved it.
Then Germany. 92nd MP Company. The world opened up. I didn’t just serve — I lived. I traveled to 24 countries by age 24 — all courtesy of Uncle Sam. Trained with allied forces. Competed for Soldier of the Quarter at the company and brigade level — and won both. Saw cultures, met people, stood in places where history was made. That changes you. You learn fast that life isn’t about borders or accents — it’s about people.
Next stop: Fort Sam Houston, Texas — a little slice of heaven. More training, more responsibility, more doors opening. Small Arms Instructor School. Police bicycle training (yes, surprisingly intense and a lot of fun). Worked with San Antonio PD and Bexar County. Served at the Quadrangle with General Cisneros.
Then came military drawdowns. I was engaged, thinking about a future beyond fatigues. I had mentors who pushed me, believed in me, shaped me. I wasn’t the smartest guy in the room — but I learned early: If you surround yourself with good, smart people and outwork everyone, success finds you.
When it came time to take the uniform off, I didn’t leave lost. I left ready. The Army didn’t “save” my life — it shaped it.
Path to Vigo County
I wasn’t sitting in some polished office dreaming about Terre Haute. I was working in Alexandria, Virginia when the call came — “Hey, are you still interested in being a police officer?”
And just like that, life tested whether I still meant what I said when I walked out of uniform and hung up my Army boots. I’d already been through the Indiana Law Enforcement Academy back in 2002. I had tried policing in a small Southern Indiana town — and to be completely honest, I hated it.
I didn’t fit the good-ol’-boy mold. I had grown up. I had seen the world. I had served in the Military Police Corps, where standards mattered, professionalism mattered, integrity mattered. Then I walked into an agency where the shift schedule wasn’t built around policing — it was built around raccoon hunting.
Let that sink in. 0400–1200, 1200–2000, 2000–0400.
That department wasn’t professional, and it sure as hell didn’t want someone like me — a guy who demanded standards, who believed in discipline, who didn’t think nepotism and hometown buddies should run law enforcement. I wasn’t a local, and they made sure I never forgot it.
Fine — I didn’t plan on staying anyway. Truth is, I had only come back to Indiana to help my mother through a bad divorce. She had always been there for me. She sacrificed everything to raise me on her own. Helping her wasn’t optional — it was duty. And duty is something I don't run from.
Why I wanted the badge and choosing Terre Haute
If you want to know why I chose law enforcement, you need to go back to a little boy in the 1970s and 80s, sleeping on the floor of a police department dispatch room on a Batman sleeping bag while his mom worked the night shift to keep the lights on. We weren’t just poor — we were hanging-on-by-a-thread poor. My mom worked full-time in mental health and still took on dispatch shifts at Mt. Carmel PD to make ends meet. She never complained. Never played the victim. She had no safety net, no help, and no time for self-pity. She put on a headset, sat in that little room, and handled emergencies alone while her son slept next to her.
And the officers? They treated me like I belonged. Shiny uniforms, polished boots, command presence — men who earned respect by how they carried themselves. They woke me up, helped me get ready, and dropped me off at school in a police cruiser so my mom could go home and sleep. I wasn’t just watching law enforcement — I was feeling it. I knew right then: that’s who I want to be. I didn’t dream of medals or rank or fame. I dreamed of being somebody who showed up when life got hard. Just like those men did for my mom — and for me.
So fast-forward — I get that call. Terre Haute is hiring. I wasn’t sure at first. I had a life going elsewhere. But the more I thought about it, the more it lined up: It was a bigger department, there was real crime, real work. Terre Haute was a community with grit that was also close to mom — but not too close. And the cost of living made sense. It was a place where I could serve and still build a life. It just felt right. So I packed up and came back to the Midwest. And when my boots hit the ground here, I felt something I hadn’t felt since the Army: Purpose.
This city wasn’t perfect — it was real. It had problems. It had people who needed help. It had a police department with opportunity and challenge. It had edges. And I’ve always been comfortable around edges. I wasn’t here for glory or a paycheck. Hell — I left big-city money to come here. I did it because chasing dollars never beat serving people in a moment of crisis. And because deep down, I wanted to be somewhere my effort mattered.
The early battles
I didn’t walk into THPD and get a welcome parade. I caught heat early. I was aggressive, hungry, motivated — and that rubs comfort-seekers the wrong way. I wasn’t here to coast. I wasn’t here to make friends. I was here to work.
And yeah, I got hit with a suspension over an “excessive force” allegation. Funny thing — I didn’t do anything different than anyone else there. But I was in the crosshairs. Politics, small-town connections, relatives in the department — it was a lesson in how things worked. Some officers changed statements. Some protected their own. It wasn’t right — and I knew that even then.
So I lawyered up. And everything changed the second I did — because this city wasn’t used to officers who pushed back when they were right. They expected me to bow my head and take it. I didn’t. I stood tall. I faced every critic, every whisper, every sideways look. And I spoke my truth. I didn’t whine. I didn’t fold. I didn’t quit. I showed them exactly who I am: A fighter with a badge, not a badge looking for a fight.
I didn't hold grudges — life’s too short. But I didn’t forget either. Pressure doesn’t break solid steel; it forges it. That fire made me better, sharper, more committed. I am not perfect. I don’t pretend to be. Any cop who worked hard, pushed hard, and stood toe-to-toe with danger has made mistakes. Mine weren’t about violating rights — they were about being young, hungry, stubborn, and a little ornery.
I’ll wear the lessons — not the mistakes.
Why I stayed
I stayed in Vigo County because this place gave me purpose. It challenged me. It tested me. It forced me to look inward, dig deep, and earn my place. And more than anything: Terre Haute is worth fighting for. The people here are worth fighting for. This city made me better — and I made damn sure to return the favor. I didn’t just find a department here, I found a mission.
