Isat in my patrol car watching traffic. My cell phone rang. “Hello,” I said. “Who do you think you are, telling me what you’re going to do?” I flinched. I frowned at my phone, then put it back to my ear and said, “I’m sorry. Who–?” “Who do you think, Moutsos?” “Sarge?” I said. I had recently been assigned to this new sergeant, an egomaniac with a badge. Bad combination. Definitely not Sgt Winn. “That’s right. Your sergeant. The guy who tells you what to do, not the other way around.” “Sir, I don’t understand. What–?”

“Your quarterly training voicemail,” he barked. “You don’t tell me you have a physical fitness exam, and that you’re coming onto your shift late. You ask me first, and I okay it, or I don’t. Understood?” “Yes, sir. I didn’t mean to disrespect. It won’t happen again.” Silence. He’d disconnected.

I shook my head, thinking how I’d been cordial, even friendly, with this guy for years before he became my supervisor. Why was he acting like this? Three other officers from his shift were with me at the training and they hadn’t even called to let him know, just put themselves on the schedule and assumed all was good. At least I’d given him the courtesy of a heads-up, which wasn’t really necessary. Sergeants always checked the schedule. He should already know what I was doing.

I sunk back against my seat and closed my eyes. Why was he treating me this way? And it wasn’t just this phone call. More than any other supervisor, he’d nitpicked my reports, always sending them back to fix something absurdly insignificant. I’d even caught him parked around a corner, watching me–spying on me. I’d see on the computer, on many occasions, his car parked nearby on the GPS while I was responding to a call. I’d talked to several officers on the squad who I trusted and they’d never heard of him doing anything like that before. Was I a suspect or a cop?

Bike squad was the only thing I could think of. His attitude must stem from the rumors about me being insubordinate, not wanting to play the quota game. My sergeant must’ve bought into the worst of those rumors, which I’d tried to ignore. I figured they’d go away if I worked hard enough. Didn’t my numbers prove I worked hard? I was always at or near the top while on bike squad despite my misgivings about quotas as a means to pressure officers to perform.

I sighed, rubbed my face, and took a deep breath. I exhaled slowly. I reached over to my laptop and checked my emails. My eyes widened. Motorcycle Squad was accepting new applicants. Four spots open. I’d always fantasized about the motorcycle squad, though to be honest, they did terrify me a bit. But my current sergeant terrified me more.

I clicked on the link and started filling out my application. My finger hovered over the keyboard. I hesitated. Did I really want motors? Motor school was notorious for injuries. Broken bones, usually legs. Was it worth the risk of medical bills to get away from my current sergeant? I sent the resume.

Weeks later I stood with the other finalists, watching in awe as the veteran motor cops weaved through a series of complicated maneuvers. Amazing. So fluid. They made it appear easy. After a week of motorcycle school, I felt like I could hardly get out of first gear without killing the engine. What had I expected? I’d never ridden a street bike before. And yet, somehow, I managed to pass each obstacle and move on to the next. I didn’t know which was the greater miracle: that I passed to the next round, or that I was still alive. The week-long school had sent three officers to the hospital. Thirteen had applied. There were four slots open. All we had to do was pass the next day of testing and the job was ours.

I offered a silent prayer. I knew God was there. I’d experienced His help throughout my career too often to deny the existence of a higher power. I had faith that if this was the right direction for my life, then my plea for help would be answered. The veteran motor cops sped away, leaving just the motor school’s trainers behind with the rest of us.

The motorcycle training sergeant yelled to be heard over the departing roar of engines. “All right, get on your bikes and start driving the intersection. You know the drill.”

We donned our helmets; the engines thrummed and growled. We headed, single file, to the “intersection,” a training course that, if seen from above, looked like a giant plus sign, simulating a typical intersection of a city street. We began the maneuvers, making a sharp turn, left or right, around orange cones placed at the end of each section. We came around, back into position, and went again. I’d driven this course enough to feel competent and at ease.

Then I noticed the trainers and the sergeant approaching. One trainer held two two-by-fours in one hand and a hammer in the other. A second trainer wielded a thick chain and a six-foot iron rod. A third trainer carried a large water gun. The sergeant carried…a used diaper? I grimaced. My hands tightened on the handlebars.

Trainers tossed their items onto the intersection in random places. The course just got a lot more challenging. “Don’t you dare stop!” yelled the sergeant. “Run them over!” I clenched my jaw; my body tensed. Thud-thunk, thud-thunk. I bounced over the two-by-fours and hammer. I remained upright. Sweat beaded along my forehead just below the edge of my helmet.

I turned and ran over a pair of shoes. I turned again. Water sprayed the side of my helmet. I flinched. The front wheel jerked and I almost lost it. Around and around we went. From the corner of my eye, I saw the diaper hurtling through the air.“Keep going,” the training sergeant yelled. “Don’t you dare stop!” On and on the test went. I didn’t know how long we’d been at it, but it seemed nearly an hour. I was getting tired, but I was also getting better, fine- tuning the clutch and throttle. I managed a grim smile. I started to enjoy the obstacles. Their added adversity forced me to improve. “Stop!” the sergeant shouted. I halted.

“Your next test is timed.” The sergeant pointed at a strip of blacktop dotted with orange cones. “You weave through the cone patterns. Go too slow and you’re finished. Got it?” “Yes, sir!” we shouted, nearly in unison, and lined up as ordered. My turn came. I filled my lungs and exhaled a gust of air. I charged. I weaved. I snaked, juked, and jived. My bike now felt a part of me. I felt good, better than I had ever felt on the bike, despite the challenging course.

I can do this, I thought. I can– The world jerked sideways. I skidded. A thousand pounds of motorcycle pinned my left foot to the ground, under the foot guard. Someone was screaming. I was screaming. Two training officers rushed to me. They heaved the bike upright.“Moutsos?” the sergeant yelled. “How bad?” The two training officers exchanged a worried look. One of the trainers muttered for my ears alone, “If you’re too injured to go on, you won’t make the squad.” I gritted my teeth and nodded. My left foot throbbed, but I could wiggle my toes.

One of the trainers tried to help me up, but I waved him off. “I got this,” I said, and pulled myself to my feet. “Moutsos?” the sergeant said, striding towards me. “Fine,” I said. “Fine.” “Then get going,” the sergeant said. “This is a timed test. Remember?” I refused to limp, despite the searing pain. I mounted my bike. The engine roared to life and I felt that roar deep in my chest. Go, go, go, I thought. And go I did. I burst forward and continued the course.

An hour later, foot still aching, I got my time. I’d made it. Four of us finally passed. We celebrated and congratulated one another on overcoming what for me, at least, was the hardest week of my career, mentally and physically. I went home and had to cut my boot up the side to get my swollen foot out. It was black and blue. But I’d made it. I’d made it. I was going to be a motor cop.

I awaited the official word of my transfer to the motorcycle squad, but my phone never rang. No email came. No text. Nothing. I’d heard the other three spots were instantly filled with the other three officers who’d passed. The final spot remained open.

I was at home on my day off. I paced my living room, limping slightly because of my aching left foot. Just make the call, I told myself. I had to know. I called one of the three sergeants over the motor squad. She answered on the fourth ring. I asked why I hadn’t been called yet. The female sergeant hesitated. I waited.

Finally, she said, “I guess there was some kind of issue with you disobeying an order or something.” “Really?” I said, anger leaking into my voice. “Is there anything in my file about that?” “That’s the thing,” she said, “you don’t have anything in your file. You’ve never been disciplined in your six years.” She paused, then resumed. “This isn’t good.” “No,” I said, “It isn’t. The truth is, sergeant, I’m betting I wasn’t written up by the sergeant who’s slandering me because he can’t back up his claims.You know you can’t just write someone up because you don’t like them as an individual.”

“Yes,” she said. “Well, Eric, I’ll make a few calls and get back to you.”
I thanked her and we ended our conversation. I squeezed my phone in both hands and pressed the cool plastic to my forehead, thinking this through and hoping she could do something for me. It turned out that she could and did. She called back to inform me that I had a meeting tomorrow with the chief over that department, Chief Franz.

The papers rustled in my trembling hand. My heart thumped a fretful tune inside my chest. I straightened my uniform; I made sure my boots had a quick spit shine. “Come in,” Chief Franz said. I lifted my chin and strode into the office. Chief Franz watched me with a placid expression. He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. I sat. “Thank you for seeing me, sir.” He nodded. I placed the papers on his desk, right-side-up from his perspective. Chief Franz arched an eyebrow. I nodded to the papers. “I pulled my stats from when I was on bike squad. Out of nineteen bicycle officers, East and West side of the city, I was consistently ranked one or two in every category for producers.”

Chief Franz didn’t take the papers or even look at them. I suspected he already knew. “Tell me about the conflict you had with your bicycle squad sergeant.” I nodded and explained in detail how we were forced to make a specific number of misdemeanor arrests without any officer discretion. I told about my misgivings and how I’d expressed them to my sergeant at the time and how he’d reacted and forced me to stay after work without pay to meet my quota.

I said, “I can’t help but be uncomfortable with such a strict quota system.Every arrest is different. Sometimes there are better solutions than doling out the maximum punishment, or forcing what someone has done into as many different crimes as possible, just to up the numbers. I seriously worry how this would look to the public, the people we’re trying to serve–not upset. We want the public to see us as their friends and protectors, not as bullies just looking to squeeze out an extra buck from every confrontation.”

Chief Franz looked down, his eyes searching his desk for…what? A response? I waited and, as my mouth grew drier, I wished for a glass of water. The chief returned his attention to me. “Well,” he said, “you know we write traffic tickets on motors, right?” “Absolutely, sir. But I also know that a traffic ticket is different than slapping a criminal case on someone’s record just because your shift is about to end and you’re under pressure to get one more number before the day ends.” Chief Franz nodded. He didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. He said, “Anything else you’d like to say?”

I leaned forward a bit and said, “I did my job, sir. I did a great job. My numbers prove that an officer can get numbers and be motivated without the threat of unfulfilled quotas hanging over his neck like a guillotine.” The chief cocked his head to the side and said, “You know, the motors training sergeant, Sergeant Weiner, told the lieutenant, who told me, that you didn’t have what it takes to be good on a motorcycle. He said you were too scared on the bike.” I grimaced and scrambled for an answer. Well, why not the truth. “He’s right,” I said. The chief blinked in surprise.

“But,” I said, “each day I got better. My scores and times through the obstacle courses don’t lie. Honestly, sir, Sergeant Weiner seems like a mostly negative guy, who doesn’t come across as very, uh, affable. I don’t think I heard him say much of anything positive about anyone who went through the course.” Chief Franz leaned back. “Well, Officer Moutsos, I’ll think about your situation and call you soon. Thank you.” I stood, shook his hand, and left.

A couple of days later, I received a call from Chief Franz. Motors had picked me to fill their final vacancy. I was shocked. I was excited. I also had a deep fear that I had somehow just dug my own grave. But I did get my wings.

At the start of my first day on duty as a motor cop, my new sergeant sat me down in her office and outlined how things operated. “Twenty tickets,” she said. My eyebrows shot up. I knew the chief said we had to write traffic tickets, just not this many per day. My old sergeant on the bicycle squad had mentioned motors had 20 tickets per day, but I thought he was exaggerating. But wow. It was real.

“I know, I know, it’s quadruple what they expected on the bicycle squad, but it’s completely doable. You can also get two DUI’s per shift. It’s a points system and you can earn X-time.” I gave my head a quick shake. “X-time? I’ve never heard of that.”

“We keep it a secret on motors, mostly,” my sergeant said, and chuckled. “Anyway, one ticket equals one point. One DUI is ten points. Look, Eric, I know you’ve had some reservations about statistics in the past, but it’s  what administration wants. It’s like this everywhere you’ll go. Stats is how it operates. Just do what’s expected of you, keep your head down, and make a good career here on motors.” “Okay,” I said, “so what’s X-time?”

“It’s personal time you’ll need, especially working the afternoon shift. Busier. More DUI’s are expected at night, as opposed to the day shift–but you’ll need a lot more time in to get days.” She snorted happily, then resumed. “You see, you’ll need to get a minimum number of DUI’s and you’ll need time to go to court and still get those DUI’s. Therefore, you need time off or you’ll be forever working, either on the streets or in the courtroom. It’s a perk we have as motors”

My sergeant asked a few more questions, more of a personal nature. Married or not? Kids or not? What were my hobbies, etc.? I left her office in a bit of a daze. I tried to do the math. Twenty-five motor cops writing twenty tickets per day. If the average motor cop worked two hundred days in the year…I shook my head. That was a lot of tickets. And a lot of money for the city.

I tried to reason everything in my mind. I remember thinking and somehow coming to a justification that traffic tickets weren’t the same as criminal citations for misdemeanors or felonies. I had to make it right in my mind. And I really did want to get any and all drunk drivers off the streets. If there were a dozen drunk drivers on the streets in a night, I’d want to catch a dozen drunk drivers.I also never wanted to get into trouble again for not hitting numbers. There was no way out.

Well, I’d work hard. I’d do my job and keep my head down, like my sergeant advised, but I would try to not sell my soul in the process. At least not all of my soul.