Cop Slapped Tony’s Daughter at a Traffic Stop… Resigned by Morning

Officer Brian  Foster had been having a terrible night. It was August 14th, 1976, Saturday. Hot, humid, Chicago, and summer. Everyone was irritable. Foster had been on duty since 400 p.m. Traffic Patrol. Lakeshore Drive. 7 hours of pulling over speeders, drunk drivers, people with broken tail lights.

 Most nights, traffic patrol was routine. Write tickets, send people on their way. Simple. But tonight, everyone wanted to argue. At 7:30 p.m., he pulled over a businessman doing 65 and a 45. The guy threatened to call his lawyer, spent 15 minutes yelling about harassment. At 9:15 p.m, a drunk driver tried to bribe him, pulled out $200 cash. Can we make this go away, officer? Foster arrested him. More paperwork, more hassle. At 10:30 p.m., a teenager in a sports car ran a red light. When Foster pulled him over, the kid’s father showed up, started screaming about his son’s rights, threatened to sue the departme

By 11:30 p.m., Foster was exhausted, frustrated, done with people’s attitudes. That’s when he saw the white sedan going too fast. Weaving slightly, he hit his lights, pulled the car over near Belmont Avenue. As he approached, he was already on edge. Already expecting another argument. Already tired of excuses. The driver was a young woman, early 20s.

 Nice car, expensive dress. Probably coming from some party. Probably think she’s special. Probably going to give me attitude. Foster was already making assumptions before he even spoke to her. License and registration. Maria Cardo handed them over. Was I speeding, officer? There it is. Foster thought. The attitude. Acting innocent.

 52 and a 45. You know what the speed limit is? Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was going that fast. You didn’t realize. Foster’s voice was sharp, condescending. That’s what everyone says. Let me guess. You’re late. You’re tired. You have some excuse. Marie kept her voice calm. I wasn’t making excuses, officer. I apologized.

Don’t get smart with me. I’m not. I was just step out of the car. Marie was confused. 7 miles over the speed limit didn’t warrant getting pulled out of the car, but she knew better than to argue with a cop for going seven over. I said, “Step out of the car now.” Marie got out. Foster was standing too close, invading her space, using his physical presence to intimidate.

 You think you’re special? Rich car. Fancy dress. Think you can talk back to a cop? Officer, I wasn’t talking back. I was just asking. That’s when Foster snapped. All the frustration from the night. All the arguments, all the disrespect he’d felt from entitled people who thought they were above the law.

 It all came out in one moment. He slapped her open palm across the face hard. Marie stumbled backward, hit the side of her car. Her hand went to her cheek, already red, already swelling. For 3 seconds, neither of them moved. Foster realized what he’d just done. Oh god. Oh god, what did I just do? Marie stared at him, shocked, hurt, scared.

 Get back in your car, Foster said quietly. His voice was different now. Not angry, panicked. Just go. Forget this happened. You hit me. I know. I’m sorry. Just Just go, please. Marie got in her car, hands shaking, started the engine. Foster stood there, watched her drive away, watched the tail lightss disappear. Then he got in his patrol car, sat there for 10 minutes, staring at his hands.

 I just hit a citizen during a traffic stop. For no reason, he knew what this meant. If she reported it, his career was over. He’d be fired, arrested, charged with assault. But maybe she won’t report it. Maybe she’s too scared. Maybe she’ll just let it go. Marie drove home. Touched her cheek at every red light. It was swelling, painful.

 She could feel the outline of his fingers. She thought about not telling anyone. Thought about just letting it go. Cops protected each other. Nothing would happen to him anyway. But when she got home at 12:30 a.m., she looked in the mirror, saw her face, saw the red mark turning purple, and she called her father. “Dad, it’s Marie.

 I need to talk to you.” Tony Aardo had been asleep. He sat up when he heard his daughter’s voice. Something was wrong. What happened? I got pulled over for speeding. The cop, he hit me. Tony’s voice stayed calm. He hit you. Slapped me across the face. I wasn’t even arguing with him. He just He just did it.

 Are you hurt? My face is swelling, but I’m okay. Where are you? Home. I just got here. Stay there. I’m coming over. Tony arrived at Marie’s apartment at 1:00 a.m. Saw her face. Saw the bruise forming. He didn’t get angry. Didn’t yell. just asked questions. Tell me exactly what happened. Marie told him everything. The traffic stop, the aggressive attitude, the slap.

 Did you get his name? No, but I got his badge number. She showed him the ticket he’d started to write before things escalated. Officer B. Foster, badge 2847. Tony took the ticket. Okay, I’ll handle this. Dad, please don’t hurt him. He’s a cop. If something happens to him, I’m not going to hurt him.

 I’m going to make sure he never wears a badge again. At 1:30 a.m., Tony called Joey Aupa. Joey, I need everything on a Chicago cop. Brian Foster, badge 2847. Full background, where he works, who his supervisors are, everything. By 2 a.m., Tony had the file. Officer Brian Foster, 28 years old, Chicago PD for 4 years, assigned to traffic patrol.

 No prior complaints, clean record until tonight. At 3:00 a.m., Tony called police Superintendent James O’Brien. O’Brien’s phone rang. He looked at the clock. 3:00 a.m. This better be important. O’Brien. Superintendent. This is Tony Aardo. I’m sorry to wake you. O’Brien sat up. Tony Aardo calling him 

at 3:00 a.m. was never good. Mr. Aardo, what can I do for you? One of your officers assaulted my daughter tonight during a traffic stop. Slapped her across the face. O’Brien’s stomach dropped. I What? Officer Brian Foster badge. 2,847. He pulled over my daughter for speeding, got aggressive, then hit her. She has a bruise on her face to prove it. Mr.

Ricardo, if this is true, I’ll investigate immediately. There’s nothing to investigate. It happened. She was pulled over at 11:47 p.m. on Lakeshore Drive. Officer Foster was having a bad night, took it out on her, hit her, then told her to forget it happened. O’Brien was quiet, thinking, “If this was true, if one of his officers had assaulted Tony Aardo’s daughter, what do you want me to do? I want him gone off the force today.

 No pension, no benefits. No recommendation letters, just gone. Mr. Aardo, I can’t just fire an officer without due process. Yes, you can. You’re the superintendent. You have discretion, and if you don’t use it, I will. The threat was clear. O’Brien could handle this administratively, or Tony would handle it his way. Give me until morning.

 You have until 9:00 a.m. If Officer Foster still has a badge at 9:01, you’ll have a much bigger problem than one bad cop. Tony hung up. O’Brien sat in his kitchen for 20 minutes thinking about his options. He could investigate, do it properly, internal affairs, hearing, due process, but that would take weeks. Antonio Cardo wasn’t known for patience.

Or he could make this go away quietly. One bad cop. A mistake. Better to cut him loose than risk. Whatever Tony would do if O’Brien didn’t act. At 3:30 a.m., O’Brien called his deputy. Wake up. We have a situation. I need Officer Brian Foster brought to headquarters now. Don’t tell him why.

 just get him there by 6:00 a.m. At 5:47 a.m., Officer Brian Foster was woken by a knock on his door. Two senior officers stood there. Foster, you need to come to headquarters. Now, what’s this about? Just get dressed. Let’s go. At 6:15 a.m., Foster arrived at headquarters, was taken to Superintendent O’Brien’s office.

 O’Brien looked at him, looked tired, looked disappointed. Officer Foster, I’ll make this simple. Last night, you assaulted a citizen during a traffic stop. You slapped a woman across the face. Her name is Maria Cardo. Foster’s blood went cold. A cardo? Oh, God. Oh, no. Sir, I can explain. There’s nothing to explain.

You hit her. She has a bruise. It happened. Now you have two choices. O’Brien pulled out a resignation letter already typed. Just needed a signature. Choice one. You sign this. You resign. Effective. Immediately. You walk out of here. We don’t press charges. You don’t get arrested. You just go away. Find another career.

 In choice two, I file charges. Assault, abuse of authority. You get arrested, you go to trial, you probably go to prison. And even if you don’t, your career is over anyway. Plus, you’ll have a criminal record. That’s not fair. I should get a hearing. I have rights. You gave up your rights when you hit that woman. Now you get a choice.

 Sign or don’t. But if you don’t sign, things get much worse for you. Foster understood. This wasn’t about fairness. This was about power. Tony Iardo’s daughter. Of course. Of course. She was someone important. If I sign, this goes away. You resign. No charges. You leave Chicago. Find somewhere else to be. And you never work in law enforcement again.

Foster picked up the pen. Hands shaking. Signed the resignation letter. Turn in your badge, your gun, your credentials. Leave the building. At 9:00 a.m., Officer Brian Foster walked out of Chicago PD headquarters. No longer a cop, no longer anything. Just a 28-year-old with no job, no career, no future in the only profession he’d ever wanted. All because of one slap.

 3 seconds of anger, one terrible decision. Tony called Marie at 9:30 a.m. It’s done. He resigned. He’s no longer a cop. What did you do? I made a phone call, explained the situation. The superintendent handled it. Dad, I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of me. Nobody got hurt. He lost his job. That’s all. He assaulted you.

 He deserves to lose his badge. What if he tells people? What if he makes trouble? He won’t. He knows better. He’ll leave Chicago, find something else to do, and he’ll spend the rest of his life grateful I only took his job. Brian Foster left Chicago two weeks later. Moved to Indianapolis, tried to get a job in private security.

Couldn’t. Too many questions about why he left Chicago PD. Eventually got a job as a night shift warehouse supervisor. Minimum wage, no benefits, a long way from being a police officer. In 1989, 13 years after that night, a journalist writing about police misconduct tracked down Foster. Mr.

 Foster, you were a Chicago police officer. Left in 1976. Can you tell me why Foster was quiet for a long time? I made a mistake. Lost my temper. Hit someone during a traffic stop. What happened after? I was asked to resign. I did. I left Chicago. Started over. Do you regret it? Every day I was a good cop for four years. One bad decision, 3 seconds, destroyed everything.

What would you tell young officers today? Fosters’s voice was heavy. I’d tell them that your badge doesn’t make you powerful, it makes you responsible. And the moment you abuse that responsibility, it’s over. Doesn’t matter if you’ve been good for 4 years, one mistake, one moment of anger, and everything you built is gone.

 Do you think your punishment was fair? I hit a woman during a traffic stop for no reason except I was having a bad day. Fair would have been prison. I got off easy. I lost my job. But I kept my freedom, kept my life. Someone powerful decided I’d learned my lesson. They were right. Maria Cardo never filed charges. Never spoke publicly about the incident.

Just let it go. She got married in 1979, had two children, lived quietly, but she never forgot the night a cop slapped her. And she never forgot that her father made one phone call and ended the man’s career. It taught her something about power, about protection, about consequences. And it reminded every cop in Chicago, some people have protection, and if you cross that line, your badge won’t save you. One slap, 3 seconds.