The morning and early afternoon of June 4, 2014, felt different from any other day that I’d gone to work in my seven years as an officer for the Salt Lake City Police Department. A sense of dread shrouded my thoughts. My gut warned me, seemed to whisper, “Hey, Eric, pay attention. Something is not right.” My experiences as a cop had taught me time and time again the value of listening to my instincts. So just what was I in for?

I perched on the edge of my bed and tugged on a boot. Relax, I thought. Put a leash on that imagination of yours. My unease stemmed from a text sent three days earlier. Deputy Chief Tom Franz and the lieutenant over the motor squad, Larry Ewing, wanted to see me. “Don’t worry,” the deputy chief had said in a follow-up text. “We just want to talk.”

Just talk? Like I’d walk into the deputy chief ’s office and he’d smile and say, “Hi, Eric, how are the wife and kids? You have four little ones, right? Gosh, they grow fast, don’t they? Okay, have a safe shift and catch some bad guys. Buh-bye.”

I studied my uniform in the bedroom mirror: crisp blue shirt, tan pants with a blue pinstripe down the leg, black boots that gleamed like moonlight on still black water. The uniform had to always be in order. You’d get yourself a dollar fine if you appeared the least bit messy.

I cocked my head to the side and squinted. That person in the uniform, me, thirty-three-year-old Officer Eric Moutsos, looked wrong. I stood too rigid, lips too tight, fists clenched. I slung my black leather utility belt around my hips. The belt felt heavier than usual. Strange. I didn’t add anything to it.

Lost in thought, I wandered to the kitchen. Had anyone else been asked recently to chat with the deputy chief and lieutenant? As I concocted a smoothie for lunch, my four kids jabbered, swirled, and scampered around me, disappearing and reappearing as if by magic. Ava, my eldest at age nine, said something about her reading. Seven-year-old Devery asked a question. I muttered an answer.

Whir-whir-whir went the blender. Whir-whir-whir went my mind. When I spoke, my words seemed to drift out of somebody else’s mouth. I couldn’t quite focus on what my kids said. Why did I feel out of breath?

The reasonable side of me believed the meeting would be about giving me a choice. Perhaps there would be discipline involved, depending on which way I went, or how I came across, but not likely. I envisioned the most probable outcome distilled to: Follow your orders or leave the motorcycle squad and go back to patrol. Administration’s message would be clear: Your conscience is irrelevant; orders trump personal beliefs. Slap on the wrist. Bad Eric.

I’d worked so hard to finally be a part of the motorcycle squad. I loved that BMW. Such a beautiful machine, to be sure, but it was more than that. The motorcycle represented challenge and accomplishment. Motor squad stood a step below SWAT as the elite of our police department in my mind.

Few spots opened up and, when they did, a whole lot of officers applied. Only a few ever passed the rigorous requirements. At least two or three officers per class would break bones during the training school and never make it out in one piece.

I marveled at the times I’d ridden on the freeway, in a chain of nearly thirty officers, an exhilarating pride swelling my chest near to bursting. I adored riding on a pleasant night, often thinking, “They are actually paying me to ride a motorcycle.” I discovered fulfillment in nabbing a drunk driver, getting him or her off the road, feeling like I’d made a difference, maybe saved a life.

Dear Father in Heaven, what should I do? That had been my fervent prayer the last few days. Should I do the assignment despite my misgivings or risk getting booted back to patrol? Motor squad or my morals? What meant more to me? What would the bigger, long-term consequences be? If I refused, would I hurt my chances for future promotions? The repercussions of my decisions not only affected me, but affected my family, too.

My wife, Stacey, stood between me and the front door. She was as beautiful at thirty as she was on the day we wed. She hugged me and whispered, “It’s going to be okay.” We held each other and we said a prayer for peace and comfort. By the front door, I kissed my wife and hugged my kids. “Be safe, Daddy,” Devery said.

As I sat on my motorcycle and strapped my helmet on, I noticed my family watching from the front porch. They granted me courage and so much more. I managed a smile. Then, that beautiful sound: my motorcycle engine ripped the warm afternoon air. I noticed three-year-old Chris staring at my bike. I flashed my lights and then I was cruising.

The distance to work was twenty-three miles but I didn’t mind, especially not on a picturesque day like today. No jacket needed. The perfect way to start a shift. This is the last time you’ll be on a motorcycle. The intruding thought melted my smile. I squeezed my handlebars and thought, No, I’ve earned this. I’ve worked hard. I’ve sacrificed. I’ve risked my life. I—

Memories sped over my mind the way my bike sped over the highway. They were fond recollections, but now, somehow, they were corroded, tainted by something I couldn’t name, something dark, something capable of turning fondness into a taunt. I saw myself new in the Police Academy. The rewarding demands of Field Training. My first arrest. My time on the Bicycle Squad. The day I—

“Eric!” I shouted silently at myself. “Stop it. Quit worrying. You’re going to either do the assignment or go back to patrol; it’s not the end of the world.” Still, the dark thoughts nipped at the edges of my consciousness like a chilly fall breeze.

I approached the new Salt Lake City Public Safety Building, a sprawling, curving structure of mostly glass that Salt Lake City PD shared with the Fire Department.  I forcibly swallowed the lump in my throat. Was this what the criminals I’d arrested felt as they shuffled into the courtroom for sentencing?

I coasted down the ramp to police underground parking. My engine reverberated, louder and prouder, until I found my stall and killed the engine. I swung off my seat and immediately noticed two other motor cops staring at me. They began to whisper. I frowned, shook my head and told myself to ignore them; get to the meeting. My stupid imagination wanted me to believe they were talking about me. That’s all.

I rode the elevator to the 4th floor and when I got off, I saw Sergeant Tim Porter, currently over Internal Affairs, and someone I considered a friend, striding my way, heading for the elevator. “How ya doing sergeant?” I said. He said nothing as he walked by. His expression, however, said a lot. It said, “I know something you don’t and I can’t bring myself to tell you what.” The inside of my mouth turned to cotton; my stomach lurched and twisted. I turned down the next hall and had a straight shot view of my destination.

The door hung open. The Deputy Chief occupied a corner office, the largest on the floor, with an incredible view of downtown Salt Lake City. Deputy Chief Franz wasn’t at his desk. Instead, he and Lieutenant Ewing sat side-by-side on cushy chairs, facing the door. They were laughing. “Oh,” I thought, and straightened. “This is good. If I was in deep trouble, why would they be laughing?” “Moutsos,” the deputy chief said, “Come in. Close the door. Have a seat.” He gestured to a chair that faced them.

I closed the door, but hesitated before sitting. I started to raise my right hand, but realized neither of them had moved from their chairs to greet me, which felt odd. Shouldn’t we begin a meeting by shaking hands? I wiped my palm on my pants and sat.

The deputy chief straightened, somehow looming while still sitting. He was in his late forties and very physically fit, the kind of guy who liked to check out his muscular arms in mirrors as he passed. Lieutenant Ewing was in his sixties, a balding, gray scarecrow. He should have retired fifteen years ago.

There was no more laughter; no more smiles. Sudden, stifling silence surrounded us. My stomach reached down and strangled my intestines. My pulse skyrocketed. The deputy chief looked me in the eye and said, “What do you want to do about people making fun of you for your religion?”

My mind screeched to a halt. I blinked and tried to reorient myself. This wasn’t the topic that I’d anticipated. This was not about the annual Utah Gay Pride Parade. This was about the recent verbal complaint I’d made to my supervisor.

What did I want to do? The question hovered between my ears. I didn’t want to punish those who’d harassed me. They probably mocked my religion out of ignorance more than spite. Didn’t they? I just wanted us all to be friends, or at least be respectful of one another. Nobody had to agree with my beliefs. You could get along with someone without agreeing with everything they believed. I didn’t mind the occasional joke. But the teasing had become tedious, too much, too aggressive. Take it down a notch, that’s all. We were on the same team.

Finally, I shook my head and cleared my throat. “Nothing,” I said. “I don’t want to do anything about it. I just want them to stop and move on. Just realize there’s a line where enough is enough.”

“Okay,” the chief said quickly, chipperly, and patted his thighs twice in rapid succession. His obvious relief left me bewildered. I wondered if I’d saved him some serious paperwork, or maybe he’d been worried about a harassment lawsuit. “Second item of business,” the deputy chief said. He leaned forward, expression souring. “I’m afraid you’re being placed on administrative leave. For discrimination.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I was about to say, “No, sir, I just want you to talk to them, not seriously discipline them,” but then his words sank in. No, not them. Me. On administrative leave? I felt like I was in a parallel dimension. This looked like our world, but everything proceeded upside down and inside out. I tried to start to explain myself. I couldn’t articulate anything. I was paralyzed.

This meeting was about the parade after all. But why administrative leave? For asking to trade assignments with someone? I suspected a stern-faced lecture with a lot of finger shaking in my direction. Maybe a written reprimand. Not this. Never this. Had I fooled myself so completely? Had I been so naive? “It’s above our heads,” the deputy chief said. He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “I wish the lieutenant and I could tell you how we really feel about this.”

I glanced at the lieutenant, who was swatting at a fly that kept landing on his head. I wanted to yell at him. This was my job. My life. The least he could do was pay attention. The world around me slowed; my thoughts accelerated, so fast they tripped over each other and accomplished nothing.

The deputy chief held up a paper and began to read. I couldn’t follow everything he said, but I understood the gist of it: I couldn’t act or perform any type of police duty. The deputy chief said, “As of right now, you are not a police officer. Do you understand?”

I wanted to demand something, but I only felt my head bob. They were slapping me with the severest discipline possible, one step short of being outright fired. For what? For following the dictates of my conscience? They were punishing me for trying to live my faith.

I seemed to skip forward in time. My immediate supervisor, Sergeant Jackman, was suddenly in the office. The forty-five-year old veteran of the force looked worn and creased, brown eyes red and watery. What they were doing to me wounded him. I felt a little less alone, and, despite my turmoil, my hand twitched with a desire to give his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

I found myself removing my gun and handing it to Deputy Chief Franz. Why was I giving him my gun? Oh, right. He asked for it. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the lieutenant held his right hand on his sidearm, as if he didn’t know me, as if I was a criminal being arrested and I might pull a weapon and attack.

I looked down to remove the badge pinned to my shirt directly over my heart. Tears splashed off the metal shield. More tears darkened my shirt. I was crying. When had I started to cry? I squeezed my eyes shut, then blinked rapidly to clear my vision. I swayed to my feet, removed my duty belt, and surrendered that, too.

Then I was outside of the office with my sergeant. He swallowed hard, nodded, then escorted me along a familiar route, a path I’d taken so many times, to the motorcycle shed. I had a bizarre, gut-gnawing sensation, like I was heading to a viewing to say goodbye to a dead loved one.

A mini intake room lurked beside the motor office. It was used to temporarily secure a prisoner. I pictured my sergeant shoving me inside and locking the door. A primal part of my mind wanted me to bolt, just run and run and run. But no, my sergeant led me inside the office, a spartan room with only two long desks, a few computers, a copier, and filing cabinets for paperwork.

To my immediate discomfort, six motor cops were inside—or were there seven? Why was I having trouble counting them? Maybe because I couldn’t make eye contact, like our gazes were the repelling ends of magnets. Or was it because my vision blurred with tears? Why did they have to be here right now?

I managed a glance at Officer Giles’ face and I knew that they knew. Did everyone know? Word of who was placed on administrative leave traveled almost as fast as a dispatched call on the radio for shots fired or an officer down. Who was on leave this week? Gossip, gossip, gossip. Officer Moutsos on administrative leave. Shame. What did he do? Well, I’ll tell you what I heard.

I removed my jacket, gloves, and glasses from my locker. Sergeant Jackman led me to my police car and I retrieved my phone charger. “Is that it, Eric?” my sergeant said, almost a whisper. I nodded. He led me to his car. I stared at the badge painted on the side of the door and the words: Salt Lake City Police.

My cell phone buzzed. I flinched then fumbled for the phone in my pocket. My wife. I clenched my teeth. I didn’t want her to know; I wanted to spare her the pain. I drew a long, deliberate breath and tried to sound calm. “I’m on my way home.” “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean. I…I can’t talk now.”

My sergeant and I got into his car. After a moment of staring straight ahead, he glanced at me. “You’ll get through this.” I blinked at his forced smile. He tried again. “You’ll be back in no time.” “You don’t understand,” I said. “It’s over.” His features hardened. I knew that hard gleam in his eyes: hatred for injustice and a determination to avenge. “Please,” I said, “don’t try to fight for me. You only have a year until retirement. If you try to do anything, they’ll come after you, too.”

And they would. I understood something with sudden clarity. It was as if I’d been standing an inch from a painting and suddenly stepped back, seeing it for the first time, seeing the whole picture.

What I’d done, I’d done tactfully and quietly, and it should have gone hardly noticed. Not a big deal. Officers traded shifts all the time. But upper administration must’ve been waiting for this kind of opportunity. How could I have been so blind, so naive to the pressure of outside politics?

Someone high up in administration wanted me gone. I’d voiced my opinion regarding certain police practices one time too many. It seemed one couldn’t disagree with the department without the department heads taking it as a personal attack. The rumors I’d heard about me, that I’d simply shrugged off as small gossip spread by small people that no one would actually believe, because the truth was so obviously the opposite, suddenly slammed together, forming not isolated, unrelated parts, but a whole and ugly monster.

A recent event blazed in my mind like a flare at night. I was pulling up into my motorcycle stall in the underground parking lot of the police station and stopped, but the heavy bike started to spill to the right. I couldn’t hold the motorcycle and it fell, causing a domino effect into three bikes. It was embarrassing, for sure. However, I’d received a letter in my file for a traffic accident in the parking lot. From what I learned later, it was the first time in the department’s history that such a letter had been filed for a tip over, despite hundreds of cops having done the same type of thing on their motorcycles. That should’ve set off alarms that something was going on.

We exited the underground parking and sunshine pounded my achy eyes. I laid my head back against the passenger seat and stared at the inner roof of the car, realizing that on some deeper level, I had known this would happen. My gut had tried to warn me. I should’ve expected that the sergeant overseeing the Utah Pride Parade would turn this into a witch hunt that upper management would salivate over. It was his personality. The things he’d said, the vibe he sent out…Don’t disrespect my authority. Rock my boat and I’ll drown your sorry butt. I know who you are and I don’t like you.

I considered a letter I’d recently written to Human Resources. If the chief or mayor heard about an employee challenging the fairness of their hiring and promoting practices, they probably wouldn’t like it. We merged onto the interstate and I shook my head at the scenery speeding past. All this because I offered to do security for the parade, but didn’t want to participate in the actual parade itself.

I grimaced, thinking, is this the country I live in now? Where’s my freedom of speech? Of religion? Of conscience? Eventually, we pulled up to my house. Sergeant Jackman asked for several items, including my additional work guns and extra badge. He followed me inside.

My wife and all four of our kids were in the kitchen. When my gaze met Stacey’s, she convulsed with a sob and her eyes, those beautiful eyes, gushed tears. I wished I could’ve spared her this. I went upstairs to get all of the equipment. My throat was burning and I started crying again in my room.

My wife stood in the kitchen confused, while Sergeant Jackman repeated, “I’m so sorry for this,” over and over. Tears spilled down his cheeks, too. My poor kids didn’t know what to think as they watched me hand my extra badge over to him. All the adults crying. Their mighty dad reduced to this. A thought that would prove horribly prophetic swept through my mind: This is just the beginning. Brace yourself, Eric. It ain’t over. Not by a long shot. It’s going to be a fight. A long, hard fight.