One weekend in the winter of 2010, my partner and I were patrolling downtown Salt Lake City. A little before midnight, dispatch called for an available officer, or officers, for a medical assist. Several teenagers had overdosed on drugs at a youth dance held weekly at the Salt Palace Convention Center. This was the third weekend in a row where dispatch had made such a call, but my first time responding.
I turned onto West Temple and parked in front of the Salt Palace, a massive, sprawling structure that ran the length of two city blocks. I associated the SaltPalace with international business conventions, national expos for sports or the arts, and Comic-Con. But a youth dance? An ambulance arrived a moment later and parked behind us.
My partner and I greeted the two paramedics and we headed for the entrance, which was below an odd, cylindrical tower of mostly glass, with metal supports which served no apparent purpose. I supposed the architect intended the tower to give the building some structural flair. We entered the first set of glass doors and the umpa-umpa-umpa of muffled techno music thrummed in my ears. Through the second set of doors, in the spacious lobby, the music leapt to a volume that required us to raise our voices, or lean in close to hear one another speak. Just ahead, skittering, pulsing, colorful light surged out of the ballroom’s open doors.
A dozen or so teenagers, half of them in only their underwear, stood, squatted, or knelt around two girls lying on the carpeted floor and a boy who sat with his back against the wall and his head hanging between his knees. One of the girls lying on the floor kept twitching, then freezing, twitching then freezing. The boy sitting against the wall pitched sideways. A girl, kneeling beside him, caught the boy and kept him upright. I glanced sideways at my partner. He shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes were uneasy. We followed the paramedics to the group of teenagers and their overdosing friends.
“Hey,” I yelled to my partner, “you good for a minute if I check it out?”He nodded. I headed to the nearest open door, took two steps inside, and froze. My eyes widened; my mouth hung open. Thousands of people twitched in chaotic rhythm, flailing arms, jumping in place, pumping fists. Hundreds twirled glow sticks. This was, by far, the largest dance I’d ever seen. Despite the cavernous size of the ballroom, it was packed. On one side, there were a couple of inflatable bounce houses–actual freaking bounce houses.
Movement to my right snagged my attention. In the shadows, a pale, scrawny girl in her bra and panties, age fourteen or fifteen at most, clung to an older boy who shoved his tongue in her mouth while vigorously massaging her butt with both hands. I recoiled and took a step backwards. I tripped, threw my hands out, and caught my balance. I looked down and glared at what I’d nearly fallen over. Snow boots. Then I noticed what was piled along the wall as far as I could see: coats, hats, gloves, boots, pants, and shirts. Well, that explained why all the kids were half naked.
I noticed something else and my stomach dropped and clenched. Teenagers with baby pacifiers; others with medical masks that covered their mouth and nose. People who took ecstasy often clamped and ground their jaw so hard they chipped a tooth. The pacifiers prevented the side-effect by giving them something soft to chew on. Plus, due to the purported, heightened physical senses that ecstasy created, it felt good to have something in one’s mouth. The masks would be lined with vapor rub, used to intensify the drug’s high.
Everywhere, teenagers, and many too old to be teenagers, rubbed up on each other, grinding and making out. I glanced at the bounce houses and could only imagine what happened inside. This isn’t a youth dance, I thought. This is a full-on rave. I struggled to wrap my mind around what was happening. Raves were usually held in abandoned warehouses, not in the largest convention center in Salt Lake City. This was advertised as a weekly youth dance. Mommy and daddy were naively dropping their kids off at a massive rave.
And there, like an island in the middle of a turbulent sea, stood the security detail for the evening: thirteen off-duty Salt Lake City Police Officers. They laughed amongst themselves, pointing now and then at something they found especially hilarious. I thought: We’re supposed to break up raves like this, not chaperone them.
Was I making this into a bigger deal than it was? I mean, there were off-duty cops keeping things under control. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. These kids would do this anyway, so why not make it a safer environment, right? Right? I shook my head. I tried to justify what I was seeing, but each argument in favor of this situation smacked into a wall of truth. This reminded me of those parents you sometimes heard about, the ones who threw parties with alcohol for their kids and their friends so they could supervise. When arrested, they always said the same thing: “Our kids would do it anyway, so I wanted to make sure they did it in a safe environment.”
I wondered if our department’s administration knew what was going on here. Someone grabbed my arm. I flinched, whirled, and put a hand to my gun. My partner arched an eyebrow. “Relax, Moutsos,” he shouted. “Come on.”We left the ballroom. I said, “How many people do you think come to these dances?” He shrugged. “I heard anywhere from five to seven thousand.” I nodded towards the paramedics and the overdosed teenagers. “Are they okay?” “They’ll be fine.” He handed me a sheet of notebook paper. “Here.” I frowned at the names and phone numbers.
“Those are the kids and those are their parents’ phone numbers. Will you start calling, while I see if the paramedics need anything else?” I nodded and began the awkward calls to parents. Hi, Mr. or Mrs. So-And-So, your kid overdosed. Come and take them home. Oh, and by the way, that seemingly innocent youth dance you dropped them off at was actually a drug-fueled orgy. Thank you. You have a nice day, too. I sighed, retrieved my cell phone, and dialed the first number.
The next Saturday night, my partner for that shift and I responded to another overdose at the Salt Palace Convention Center. The overdosing girl was mostly incoherent. She’d appear lucid every few minutes, so I’d ask a question, but before she could answer, her eyes would roll up in her head and she’d babble. She vomited twice. Her friends weren’t much help. They claimed that they didn’t know what was wrong with her. Drugs? No, we don’t do drugs. She’s probably just sick, they’d say, and look everywhere but at my face.
The paramedics wheeled the girl out on a gurney and loaded her into the back of their ambulance, where they gave her fluids intravenously. A few minutes after reaching the ambulance, the girl’s mother arrived on scene. Wild-eyed, she cried out, “My baby. Where’s my baby?” My partner waved her over. Mom rushed to the back of the ambulance. She gawked at her daughter, then at me, back and forth several times. Finally, Mom jabbed a finger in her daughter’s direction and said, “Why is my thirteen-year-old daughter in her bra and underwear?”
Her words felt like a punch to my gut. I wanted to shrink inside my coat like a turtle retreating inside its shell. Of course, I knew the reason, but I just shrugged. The girl’s mom turned her frantic attention on the paramedics. “Don’t you have a blanket or something? It’s freezing.” The two paramedics blinked at one another, then one of them retrieved a blanket. My partner gave Mom a hand up and inside the back of the ambulance where she fussed over her worn-out daughter. I faced the Salt Palace and glared, my hands balled so tightly into fists that they shook.
Later that night, at the end of my shift, I strode into my sergeant’s small office, shutting the door behind me. Without preamble, I said, “Do you not see what’s going on?” My sergeant rolled his eyes. “What’s going on with what?” “The Salt Palace,” I said. He frowned and cocked his head to the side. “You’re talking about the overdoses?” “The dance is a freaking rave.” My sergeant cocked an eyebrow, an expression that said, “You’re being a little melodramatic, aren’t you?” “The kids, the drugs, the overdoses,” I said. “The police working the event. Do you not see how this is a problem?”
“Moutsos, you need to relax. What are you the moral police?” He spoke calmly, but I could tell he was bothered. “Sir, I don’t think you understand. These parents are dropping their kids off at what they think is a youth dance. They see the police cars parked there, so they think it’s safe, good, clean fun.”
My sergeant opened his mouth, but I rushed on in a voice made tighter and tighter by anger. “Inside, those kids are getting drugs, overdosing, and probably being sexually assaulted by some pervert in any number of dark corners. The girl who overdosed tonight was thirteen. I saw men inside that dance who had to be in their late twenties, if not thirties. And our guys are there, playing security, with all this happening around them.”
My sergeant sighed. “All right. All right. What do you want me to do?” “It needs to stop. Now. If you don’t do something about it, I will.”“I’ll make a call; see what I can do.” I nodded, thanked my sergeant, and headed home. After a few days off and before I headed out on my next patrol shift, my sergeant called me to his office. I entered and found him sitting behind his desk.“Hey, Moutsos, I wanted to let you know that I talked with the lieutenant about what you told me.” I nodded and waited for him to go on.
“Anyway, everything is good now.” “What do you mean, good?” I said. He shrugged. “Well, there’s nothing wrong with our department working at the dance. We do security for a lot of events. And the lieutenant and I agree, it’s better we’re there to watch over things.” I snarled, yanked my gloves on, and stormed out. My sergeant’s voice chased me. “Moutsos, you’re making this a bigger deal than it is.” I growled, muttered and shook my head. I felt bad for the officer who was assigned to be my partner for this shift. In my mood, I wouldn’t be the most pleasant to work with.
The following Sunday, Stacey and I took our kids to my parents’ house for dinner. My older sister, younger brother, and younger sister were also there. While everyone enjoyed their meal and each other’s company, I hunched over the table and, with my fork, shoved what was left of my roast around my plate, circle after circle, until my food was one big mashed potato-covered mess.
“Eric. Eric!” I lifted my head and blinked at those around me. I’d been so inwardly focused that I wasn’t sure who called my name. My mom said, “Eric, what’s wrong?” I grimaced at my plate of uneaten food. “Nothing.” Silence. I looked back up. Mom arched an eyebrow and waited. Only the kids were still eating. Everyone else waited for me to speak. I rolled my eyes and huffed. “Son,” my dad said, “what’s going on?”
I looked to Stacey, as if she’d have some magical way out for me. She shrugged, her expression saying, Tell them, Eric. They’re your parents.I started out mumbling vaguely about the “youth dances” at the convention center. However, the more I talked, the more irritated I became, and the more forcefully the details poured out. Mom stared at me with wide eyes and a hand over her mouth. Dad sat very still and tight-lipped, which meant that inside, he was truly upset. “I can’t believe someone higher up hasn’t reprimanded those officers,” Mom said.
“I complained to my sergeant,” I said. Dad slapped the tabletop. “And what did he do?” I snorted. “He talked to the lieutenant.” “And the lieutenant…?” Dad gestured for me to continue. “He told my sergeant, and my sergeant told me, that it was all just fine and dandy. Better for officers to be there to watch over the kids. Make sure nothing really, really bad happens. It seems I’m making this into a bigger deal than it actually is.” “Well,” Mom said, “that sergeant and lieutenant must not know how bad it is.”
I shrugged. “They might not have seen what goes on there in person, but they have the reports. They know there are weekly overdoses by kids as young as thirteen.” “If they won’t do something,” Mom said, “then somebody else needs to, before some parents’ little boy or girl dies.” My brother said, “I could call Salt Lake City PD and make an anonymous complaint. Maybe that would do something.” My sisters wanted to do the same, both of them talking over each other, brainstorming aloud. I winced and clenched my teeth. Yeah, I thought. Somebody does need to do something, but anonymous complaints might not be enough.
Next Saturday was the coldest day of the year. Clear night skies had made for ridiculously frigid temperatures. Christmas waited right around the corner. I stood outside our substation across from Pioneer Park, chatting with one of my partners–it was uncomfortably hot inside, so he’d wanted some fresh air.“No way,” my partner said, “it’s going to be the Patriots and Packers in the Super Bowl. Aaron Rodgers is on fire. Did you see the…” Movement on the sidewalk behind my partner grabbed my attention.“Hey,” I said, “that’s a kid.” “What?” my partner said, and turned. He cursed under his breath.
A boy, around fourteen years old, stumbled along the sidewalk, heading our way. He wore only a white t-shirt and what I initially believed to be shorts, but realized were only boxers. Kid in his underpants, I thought, blinking, wondering if this was real or an apparition. About ten yards away, the wobbly teenager dropped to his knees. He made a pitiful noise, like a wounded animal. My partner and I rushed to either side of him.“Hey,” I said, and gave him a shake. “You okay?” my partner said.
The teenager’s head flopped back. He mumbled a few incoherent words.“He’s high on something,” my partner said. “Look at his eyes.” I stood and called dispatch on my radio, requesting immediate medical assistance. “Hey,” my partner said. “He’s an ice cube. Let’s get him inside.” We carried the boy inside, sat him on a chair, found a blanket, and wrapped it around him. The boy shivered and his teeth chattered behind blue lips.“Why were you outside?” I said. “Why are you dressed like this?” “The dance,” the boy said in a slurred, petulant tone. “She was so nice. She shared it with me, shared it all, then it was gone. Poof-poof.” Comprehension slammed into place. My eyes narrowed and my voice came out rougher than I intended. “What dance?”
The boy’s brown, dilated eyes rolled my way. “The salty one.” He giggled.“The Salt Palace,” I said. “You mean that dance?” “Uh-huh,” the boy said. “You took something,” I said. “The girl gave you drugs?” The boy groaned. “Don’t call my dad. I won’t do it again.” “Why’d you walk all the way here on a night like tonight?” my partner said.“Not that far,” the boy said. His shivering subsided. He looked pale and started to perspire.
Worried that the boy might vomit, I snatched a nearby garbage can, but he just slouched on his chair and looked sleepy. “That stupid dance.” I stood, fists trembling at my sides. At no time in my career to this point had I felt more indignation than I did at that moment. We, the cops, were sanctioning this. I ground my teeth so hard I thought they’d crack. I wanted to punch something, take that garbage can and hurl it against a wall.
I heard the ambulance and stormed up the walkway to greet the paramedics. The next morning, just after I woke up, I found the phone number to our chief of police. May as well go right to the top. Besides, he claimed to have an open-door policy. I texted him: “This is Officer Moutsos and it’s really important that I speak with you. Very sorry to bother you on a Sunday.”
I ate breakfast with my family, showered, then helped Stacey get the kids ready for church. The chapel was so close that, despite the cold, we walked. Halfway there, my cell phone rang and vibrated. I flinched and my heart jumped then pounded. I checked the number. The chief, calling me back.
My two oldest children decided, at that moment, to start arguing. To Stacey, I said, “I gotta take this.” I whirled and ran back the other way, leaving my poor wife to break up a fight and get the kids to church. I took a deep breath and answered the call. “Good afternoon, Officer Moutsos,” the chief said. “I got your text. How may I help you?” “There’s, um, a problem, sir. I’ve tried my chain of command and it went nowhere. Somebody has to know–somebody has to let you know.”
Chief Cainam was silent a moment then said, “Go on.” The whole story gushed out of me. When I finished, I sagged against the wall just inside my house, the phone seeming to weigh fifty pounds. “That’s about it, sir,” I said. Silence. I had just begun to suspect a dropped call when the chief finally spoke.“Unbelievable. Thank you, Officer Moutsos. I will look into this personally and do what needs to be done.” I took a few minutes to compose myself and collect my thoughts, then headed back to church.
Soon I learned what happened to the youth dance at the Salt Palace. I was sitting at my dining room table, munching on a sandwich and grapes and checking the local news on my phone. The headline “Weekend Rave Lands Several in Jail.” I clicked on the link and read the article, my lunch forgotten. I dropped my phone on the table and shoved my chair back. I shook my head. Seriously? The article was all about how the police swooped in and saved the children. All positive. Nothing about cops being paid to do security by the people putting on the corrupt dance. Nothing about how security watched it all happen, week after week and never did anything. No one held accountable. Cainam played it perfectly. Another article came out, “Party Organizer Defends So-Called Rave.”
One of the articles read: “Salt Palace General Manager Allison Jackson says they don’t discriminate against any event, even during the Christmas season when families are walking around downtown. “All types of people have the right to celebrate how they want to celebrate,” she said. Jackson apologized if some families saw some scantily dressed people as they were passing through the Salt Palace. But she said, “I can’t control how people dress. Jackson said Salt Lake police like it when dances like the “Naughty and Nice Rave” is held at the Salt Palace because it is a controlled environment. “They would much rather have it with us than in a warehouse or underground where they are not sure what is happening.” She said she was not aware of the drug arrests during the party.”
Well, I thought, at least the raves were stopped. A few days later, I sat in my patrol car and my phone rang. “Hello. This is Officer Moutsos.” “Moutsos,” a man said, his voice turning my last name into something repulsive. “Who the hell do you think you are?” “Excuse me,” I said, sitting taller and scowling. “Who is this?”“Lieutenant Black.”
I flinched. Why in the world was he calling me? He wasn’t my lieutenant.“You the moral police now? Huh?” I gave my head a shake and tried to make sense of this bizarre call. “We all had a hell of a gig going until you ruined it. Five thousand for each night, that’s what you cost us.” “Cost you for what?” “You are stupid, aren’t you?” Something clicked inside my head. I blinked, incredulous. “Is this about the raves at the Salt Palace?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You got a lot of people pissed. You cost us $5,000 per night,” he said again. “You…” I waited, my mouth hanging open. The lieutenant cleared his throat, then said, “Who do you think you are, Moutsos? Have a nice day, friend.” I started to reply, but he hung up. I grimaced at my phone. Did that really just happen?
I stared out my windshield at the darkening sky. Whatever, I thought. It’s over and done.But it wasn’t. Not really. Gossip and the rumor mill were as unforgiving as a lieutenant who believed himself cheated out of a lucrative security deal. I was now a tattletale. I was now the “moral police.” And some police don’t like being policed. Especially, and ironically, the very lieutenant who stopped the complaint I made weeks earlier.
