Opinion: Officers shouldn’t get away with frightening innocent people, as was the case with former Arizona Cardinals player Wesley Leasy and his daughter.

In a society that claims to value justice, the line between law enforcement and abuse of power should be clear and unwavering. Yet, incidents like what happened to former Arizona Cardinals player Wesley Leasy and his daughter demonstrate that this line is all too often blurred—and worse, erased. While no charges were filed and no physical harm was done, the emotional trauma and fear inflicted upon an innocent father and his child cannot be brushed aside as a mere misunderstanding. Officers who terrorize innocent people, intentionally or through gross negligence, must face consequences—not excuses.

Leasy, a Black former NFL player turned entrepreneur and family man, found himself and his daughter at the center of a harrowing police encounter that never should have happened. In a world where Black men are too often viewed through the lens of suspicion rather than humanity, the experience underscored an alarming trend: the normalization of overreach by those sworn to protect.

This was not about mistaken identity. It wasn’t about a traffic infraction. It was about officers treating a peaceful man and his young daughter like potential criminals, allegedly brandishing weapons and issuing loud, threatening commands. All while Leasy and his daughter were simply enjoying a moment together. The trauma this left on the child—who reportedly asked her father afterward if they were going to die—exposes the deep psychological scars that can come from a few minutes of police aggression.

Sadly, stories like this aren’t rare. The names of Black men and women who’ve had life-altering or life-ending encounters with police continue to multiply. From George Floyd and Breonna Taylor to lesser-known but equally devastating cases, a pattern persists: law enforcement using fear as a tactic, often disproportionately targeting communities of color. The Wesley Leasy case reminds us that it doesn’t always take bullets for an encounter to be violent—sometimes, psychological violence is just as damaging.

This wasn’t just a “bad day” for an officer. This was the culmination of systemic failures—improper training, implicit bias, and a culture that prioritizes control over compassion. Let’s be clear: a child being screamed at by officers with their hands on weapons is a failure at every level.

For Wesley Leasy’s daughter, this wasn’t simply an incident—it was a foundational trauma. Children are especially vulnerable to fear, especially when it comes from figures of authority like police officers. The effects can last a lifetime, ranging from anxiety and panic disorders to a deep mistrust of law enforcement that future community outreach will struggle to undo.

Imagine the message sent to that little girl: that no matter how safe her father tried to make her feel, they were always one misunderstanding away from death. Imagine what that tells her about her place in society, about who is valued and protected—and who is not.

Leasy himself, a man who made it to the NFL and has lived a life of discipline and leadership, was reduced in the eyes of those officers to a mere suspect. Not a father. Not a citizen. Not a human being.

The most disturbing part of incidents like these is that they rarely result in meaningful accountability. Officers claim they followed protocol, departments release statements about ongoing investigations, and eventually, the story fades from public view. But for the victims, the damage doesn’t fade—it lingers.

We must change the narrative that says it’s okay for officers to make these “mistakes” without consequences. Mistakes that traumatize children and escalate needlessly cannot be waved away with a suspension or sensitivity training. If an ordinary citizen brandished a weapon and terrified a child, they’d be arrested. Why do officers get to operate under a separate code of conduct?

Police officers have immense authority. With that authority should come even greater accountability. But instead, we see a system where misconduct is shielded by unions, where body cam footage is withheld or edited, and where victims are often the ones placed under scrutiny.

In Wesley Leasy’s case, he did everything right. He didn’t resist. He didn’t shout. He cooperated, even as his daughter wept beside him. And yet, it was the officers who escalated the situation with force and intimidation. Where’s the accountability for that?

We must demand an independent review system that does not rely on internal investigations. Police departments should not be in charge of policing themselves—it is a fundamental conflict of interest. Civilian oversight boards with real disciplinary power are necessary to ensure justice is served.

One of the most commonly used justifications in cases like this is, “We didn’t know who we were dealing with.” Officers claim they were on high alert, responding to a call or a report, and acted out of caution. But this logic is flawed. “We didn’t know” shouldn’t be a license for intimidation. If anything, not knowing should make de-escalation the priority—not aggression.

Officers are trained to assess threats. If their first instinct is to treat everyone as a deadly threat, then the training is fundamentally broken. Police interactions should be rooted in communication, empathy, and situational awareness. If those core principles are absent, then officers are ill-equipped to serve the public.

We’ve heard endless calls for police reform—better training, body cameras, community engagement. But reform means nothing without enforcement. What good are policies that prohibit racial profiling if those policies aren’t enforced? What value do body cameras have if footage isn’t reviewed or made public?

The Leasy incident is a painful reminder that reform must be paired with real consequences. If officers violate their duty to protect without cause, they must face administrative penalties, legal consequences, and—if necessary—termination. Anything less perpetuates a system where innocence is no shield against fear.

If the public doesn’t speak up, these stories disappear. The only reason incidents like Wesley Leasy’s come to light is because victims share their trauma—and because the public amplifies their voices. We must continue to hold media, lawmakers, and law enforcement accountable by demanding transparency and justice.

Silence allows this pattern to persist. Speaking up—even when it’s uncomfortable—is the only way to push for change. Whether through social media, community forums, or direct political action, every voice counts in the fight against unchecked police power.

At its core, the issue here is about the role police should play in society. If their job is truly to “serve and protect,” then encounters like the one Leasy and his daughter endured must be condemned—not excused. Policing should not be rooted in fear or domination. It should be about protection, trust, and public service.

When fear becomes the tool officers rely on, we no longer have policing—we have authoritarian control. And in a democracy, that is unacceptable.

What happened to Wesley Leasy should not be a footnote in the broader conversation about police reform. It should be a rallying cry. We need legislative change that mandates body cam use and public access to footage. We need national standards for police conduct and a federal registry of officers with histories of misconduct. And most importantly, we need cultural change—one that recognizes the humanity of every person, regardless of race or status.

Law enforcement should be a source of safety, not fear. Children should not have to ask their parents if they’re going to die when they see flashing lights. Fathers should not have to comfort their crying daughters because officers chose intimidation over inquiry.

Justice is not just about courts and convictions. It’s about creating a world where dignity is not a privilege, but a guarantee. And that starts with holding officers accountable when they violate the very oath they swore to uphold.

Wesley Leasy and his daughter are safe—but they are not untouched. Their story is a cautionary tale of what happens when power goes unchecked. The fact that they were unharmed doesn’t make the experience less severe—it makes it a quiet tragedy, one that exposes a broken system we’ve grown far too comfortable with.

Officers should not get away with frightening innocent people. And until they don’t—until every action is accountable, every life is valued, and every abuse is punished—justice will remain just out of reach for too many Americans.