Administrative leave. I still couldn’t believe this was real and not some waking nightmare. It certainly felt surreal. Sergeant Jackman left my home. He took my spare badge. He took all the city’s property that I had in my possession. It felt like he took my identity. I didn’t know who I was. Stacey kept asking questions that I couldn’t even process. I didn’t have answers anyway. Stacey was crying. I was crying. “Let’s go to your rooms,” Stacey told the kids. “Why?” Devery said. “What’s happening?” “Why are you and Daddy crying?” Ava asked. Stacey forced a smile. “It’s okay. Now go to your rooms.”
My youngest stared at me with big, wet eyes that pleaded, feared, and floundered. I saw my own emotions in those eyes. Maybe that’s why I felt so empty inside. “Daddy,” Devery said, “do we have to go?” “It’s okay, honey,” Stacey said with a crack in her voice, “just go ahead and go up.” Daddy, I thought. Yes, I am still a dad. I’m just not a police officer at the moment.What would Dad do to feed these children? A good dad feeds his children. A good dad has a job. How can Dad feed his children now?
I turned back to the window and watched my former sergeant drive away with all my dreams. Would he ever bring those dreams back?I thought, Deputy Chief Franz and Lieutenant Ewing will realize they’re wrong.They’ll call me tomorrow and apologize for the misunderstanding. Then I’ll remember who I was. What was pressing against my chest? I glanced down and there was nothing there. Why was it so hard to fill my lungs? My throat burned and my cheeks were wet.
“Stacey,” I said, so quiet I almost couldn’t hear myself. “Oh, Stacey. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” They took my identity, but my heart was still here, in this home, with my family. I squeezed my burning eyes shut. A few hours later, I placed the sleeping pill on my tongue and thought, This isn’t a sleeping pill; it’s a waking pill. I’ll wake up from this nightmare after I take it. Stacey offered our prayers because I couldn’t quite frame a coherent thought. I rolled into bed. Stacey kissed my unresponsive lips. The lights went out. In the darkness, I could feel her concerned gaze against the side of my face.
I stared at the ceiling. The ceiling stared back, never blinking.I jerked awake. I snapped upright. I blinked. Was I dreaming? My heart pounded. Was that a heart attack? No. Not that. But my chest. I couldn’t breathe right. Stacey slept. I snuck out of bed. I went to the office, the computer, and to the internet.I researched how to breathe. Breathing exercises. Calming inhalations. Slow exhalations. They didn’t work. Back to bed. Stared at the ceiling. Fell asleep. Woke up startled. It wasn’t a dream. Breathe. Fail to breathe. Exhausted. Stared at the ceiling. Fell asleep. Woke up startled. Breathe… I just wanted to sleep and not wake up. Morning imposed its will upon my life. Still not dreaming. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat on my couch. The house was silent. Stacey took the kids to buy a few groceries.
I wasn’t a union member, so I couldn’t turn to them for help. The last two union presidents were puppets on Chief Cainam’ strings and the most recent president was terminated for allegedly stealing thousands of dollars from the union. So why join? What would be the point? I also wasn’t a member of theFraternal Order of Police, in part because it cost $30 per month and I never imagined I’d be in a predicament like this. No, not me. I could spend that $30 a hundred other places.
The wheel of time creaked and groaned and trudged around and around. Day. Night. It didn’t matter. I’d sleep at noon and blink at the wall at midnight. I stopped eating. Food revolted me. I couldn’t force a slice of bread down. It was all I could do to even move.
June 6th, my dad and brother yanked me out of bed. “Come on, son, we’re going golfing.” I stared at my father and he glared back. I nodded once. I dressed and we headed outside. It was very bright and very hot. Was this the first time I’d been outside since…when? Had I really never left the house since my badge was taken?
At the golf course, I attempted a few swings before giving up. I just watched my dad and brother play. My brother bought me my favorite drink Dr. Pepper. But it tasted too sweet and the carbonation burned my throat. I tried to force smiling. I burped up foam and dumped the rest of the soda on the grass. I’m breaking apart, I thought. Little bits of me, I leave them behind, everywhere I go.I have to figure out what to do about this.
Several holes later, my phone buzzed. A text message from my brother-in- law: Eric, you have to read this.” I clicked on the attached link.
It took me to the Salt Lake Tribune website. The heading of the article was: “Utah Police Officer on Leave for Refusing Gay Pride Parade Assignment.” From the article, I read: A Salt Lake City police officer has been put on leave due to allegations that he refused to work at this weekend’s Utah Pride Parade. “If you refuse to do an assignment, that’s going to be a problem inside the police department,” police spokeswoman said Friday of the need for officers to follow orders. Internal affairs officers are investigating the officer’s refusal while he is on paid leave, she confirmed.
She would not discuss the officer’s reason for refusing the assignment, but said: “The vast majority of officers, when they come to work, they understand that they leave their personal beliefs at home and serve the community.”
The article didn’t name the officer. I thought to myself, Oh, someone else on the squad said something, too. After too many moments, my eyes widened. I mouthed the word, “No.” They were talking about me. But how could they be? I didn’t refuse to work the parade. I just didn’t want to be in the parade. My knees struck the grass. I wobbled to my feet and crawled onto the back of the golf cart. The world blurred. My throat burned. My abdominals convulsed.
My father and brother noticed my sobs. I couldn’t see them, but I felt their hands and heard their voices. “What?” my dad kept saying. “What?” After a struggle to compose myself, I showed them the article. We left the golf course. Within only a few hours, the story went national. It eventually reached other countries. With every retelling of my story, I thought, That isn’t true. I didn’t refuse. I tried to trade spots with another officer, something within policy, something that happened in almost every event that we provided security. They’re lying on purpose.
Later, at home, slumped on my living room couch, I watched our Public Information Officer, Linda Stone, on the evening news giving a statement. She said the officer refused a post. Lie. She had to know what was really happening. She had to know the officer simply asked for a trade out of being part of the celebration.
She said “When officers come to work they need to keep their personal beliefs at home and provide service to the community…. We do not tolerate bias, bigotry, within the organization.” Other people interviewed. Assumptions made based on inaccurate information. “Clearly, the officer chose to act in a bigoted way,” Greg Nguyen of the Utah Pride Center said.
Personal beliefs, I thought. If I have to leave my personal beliefs at home why is an entire police department celebrating someone’s sexual beliefs? We protect everyone. We don’t pick sides. But the chief chose sides, didn’t he? I just wasn’t on his side. Do I have to accept someone’s sexual beliefs to love them or protect them as people? If I’m threatened to accept something I don’t believe, then who is the target of prejudice?
The next report that hit world news was from our Salt Lake County District Attorney. He was wearing the rainbow colors over his neck as he spoke on public TV. He said that I should, “be in a different profession.” Who had the DA talked to? For sure not me. Why was he commenting on my case? Tipping the scales of justice? All of these thoughts raced through my mind.
“It’s over,” I said aloud. That night, I didn’t sleep. My mind couldn’t shut down. It’s hard to sleep when you are the target of negative national and world news. So I spent the dark hours of night devouring the even darker comments people posted after the articles. Anonymity and no fear of confrontation or reprisal made men and women bold. People called me names, called for public beatings, wished me suffering and grotesque modes of death. Some were positive, even thought-provoking, but such posts were outnumbered.
As I read comment after filthy comment, I started to feel something again. Not anger at the angry, but determination. I had to make a decision about all this and about my life. But what? Black thoughts assaulted my mind, a sinister voice, almost a presence, that screamed that I should give up. It was as if I heard an audible voice, “Where is your God now?”
The next morning, I tried to get out of bed, but physically couldn’t. The lack of food was taking a serious toll. At thirty-three years old, I had been in the best shape of my life. I’d gone to the gym for years, building strength, building size, building my body. It would take only weeks to undo what I’d spent years building. I’d gone from 180 pounds to 158 pounds. I was starting to look like I’d never lifted a weight in my life.
Stacey struggled not to weep as she rubbed my legs. She helped me sit up and massaged my back. My wife, my best friend. Stacey left our bedroom to make me some toast. I lay on my side and pulled into a fetal position. I stared at the knob of a dresser drawer. I wanted to melt away. Pray.The word rested gently inside my head. Pray.I gritted my teeth. Pray.I heaved my body, twisted and wriggled, then slid off the side of the bed.I knelt, leaning against the side of the bed for support. “God,” I said in a raspy voice that I barely recognized. “God, please, I need help. Please help me.”
I sat on the floor, leaning against the bed. Moments later, my phone rang. The sound terrified me. I trembled. It could be one of the people who hated me, one of the people from the posted comments lurking beneath news articles. Answer it. I blinked. Yes, I had to answer it. I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. I didn’t recognize the number. What if it was…? Answer it. I answered, but said nothing, just listened, tense and uncertain. “Hello?” a male voice said. I swallowed, trying to work up enough moisture in my mouth to speak. “Who is this?” I said. “My name is Rhett Branson. I am an attorney here in Utah. I heard what happened. We are going to help you.”
I didn’t know who this person was, but I felt a flicker of light inside me during our brief conversation. I knew that God had sent him to me. Stacey and my parents accompanied me to the law office in Sandy, Utah, to meet with Branson. It was a Saturday. Branson arranged to meet with us privately in his conference room over the weekend. We sat on large chairs at a large table. I started telling Branson my story, not just my cop story, but everything, my whole life just tumbling out of my mouth. My youth. My family. My music. Evander Holyfield and his record label. My beliefs about God. All of it.
Branson sat there, watching me, never interrupting. I stopped talking. I felt exhausted, like the end of a marathon. Branson exhaled. He pursed his lips, then said, “Dude, why are you a cop?” He shook his head. “You don’t seem like a cop.” I glanced uncertainly at Stacey, then back to Branson. The attorney said, “What do you want to do with the Salt Lake City Police Department?”
I shook my head and stared at the bottle of water on the table before me. Deep down, in my gut, I knew my career with the city was over. If I fought them for one reason, then they’d attack me from another angle. If I fought that angle, they’d find another, then another. That’s the way it worked. Especially in Government. Once you were on their radar, it was over. Even if I got my job back, it would be a hostile working environment. I’d never advance within the department – like a motor cop looking for a traffic violation…they’d eventually find it. They’d even broken their own policy about not commenting on an ongoing internal investigation. That showed their commitment. I knew that I had only one course of action.
“I have to resign,” I said. Branson looked at me. “No, you don’t. I can think of a dozen ways to come at these guys, and they deserve it for this one.” I nodded. Branson said, “You can go after them under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. The city is in blatant violation. They should have accommodated your trade.” “I want to resign,” I said. “But I also want people to know the truth.” Branson sighed, then nodded. “Okay. But you can do both. You don’t have to decide today, but you have a case without question.” I hesitated. I thought about the men and women I served with. I thought about the police academy and about the role and mission of policing. I thought about the people I served.
“I don’t want to take anything from these people.” Branson folded his arms and sat back in the leather chair. “They are probably insured. You’re not necessarily taking anything from them.” “I don’t know,” I said. “It feels dark to me.” “We send in your resignation. We draw up a letter, a press release. We send that to the media, how you never refused any assignment, and you have the emails to prove it, and that the department violated its own policies by not doing a proper investigation before commenting on your case.” “Yes,” I said, “that sounds right. That feels right.” Branson paused, studied me a moment, then said, “Eric, you want to know something interesting?” I shrugged.
Branson continued, “About ten months ago, there was a certain deputy chief over internal affairs placed on administrative leave. Why? Well, for allegedly sexually harassing three women at work. The deputy chief was accused of sharing private, sexually suggestive images of a female officer, and another image of two other female officers in bikinis. The women complained.” “Okay,” I said, frowning. “I know the case. What does that have to do with me?”
Branson looked sternly at me. “Isn’t it interesting that the investigation took ten months? Ten…long…months. Interesting that the investigation concluded just after the deputy chief hit his twenty years with the city so he could retire with his pension. City administration gives this guy, who should be fired, ten months, when they run others out of the department in a matter of weeks, and for less. Well, you should know that this story came out in the media the same day that your story came out. Thirty minutes before your story came out, to be exact. You see where I’m going with this?”
I stared at Branson, while the implications started to form in my mind.“Eric,” Branson said, “how do you get rid of a scandal in the news?” My eyes widened. Branson grinned. “That’s right. You bring out a bigger scandal. Everyone forgets about the shady actions of a police department dragging out a sexual harassment investigation for ten months to protect their buddy by using you to run interference. Besides, from what you’ve told me, it seems they were dying for a reason to get rid of you.” “Is that true?” Stacey said.
Branson raised his hands, shrugged, and said, “Well, who can say? The sexual harassment scandal was spreading quickly in the news then…Bam! Bigot officer hates gay people. Newsflash! It was the perfect storm for them – get rid of you and cover up the rest of it at the same time.”
Zoom in to the date and times…..
We sat in silence, digesting Branson’s theory. Finally, he said, “You sure you don’t want to go after the city in a lawsuit?” I pondered that for several minutes. I pictured the drawn out legal battle. The cost. The toll on me and on my family. I didn’t want revenge. I just wanted this to end and move on. I did, however, want the truth out there. People had to know the truth. I had to clear my name.
“Okay,” Branson said. “We send in a letter and the press release – whether you resign or not, you’re being constructively terminated. They may clear you for this, but they’ll never let up on you. In my opinion, your days in the Salt Lake City Police Department are numbered whether you try to stay on or not.What you have to decide is whether you want to use the tool of litigation to make them pay for it.”
I did not revel in the thought of a litigation, but I wanted to find a way to tell my story. I wanted people to know what is happening. I shook Rhett Branson’s hand and thanked him. I felt like he’d given mean other chance at life. Relief washed over me as I left the office. I felt lighter. I felt a little hope. Finally, I thought, it’s going to be over. I can move on. But it wasn’t that simple. Life is rarely that simple.
