Portland Cop’s Defiant Response to Protesters Sparks New Law and Order Showdown

Paul Riverbank, 1/15/2026Protests and policing debates roil Portland, Perth, and Chicago, questioning justice, safety, and accountability.

It began with direct questioning: a bystander asked a Portland police officer where he stood on the death of Renee Nicole Good, who was shot by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. His reply? Blunt, unsparing: "If she drove a car on me, yes," he said, leaving listeners startled. Asked about his motives, the officer—perhaps tired, certainly candid—admitted, "I do like my paycheck." Protesters quickly accused him of racism and coldness, charges he rebuffed with just as much forthrightness: “Sometimes criminals get shot if they threaten the cops… when they are breaking the law, when they endanger a cop.” There was no effort to mince words, which only inflamed the atmosphere.

The fallout was swift. Leadership reassigned the officer and promised a formal review. Chief Robert Day stepped into the breach, urging Portlanders to keep protest peaceful and give the process time. His remarks struck a careful note—acknowledging hurt, but pressing for calm: "The complaint is under review and during that review this officer has been assigned to other duties." He called for “steady, respectful communication that supports safety and lawful protest activity.”

Mayor Keith Wilson joined the conversation, his words steering frustration at federal agencies: "Our community is shocked and grieving. The tragic and preventable death of Renee Nicole Good was a horrific example of the same chaos and violence federal overreach has unleashed on Portland." In hushed city council meetings and loud street corners alike, people wonder, where is the reasonable line between a cop’s caution and too much force, between protest and outright danger?

Meanwhile, some 9,000 miles away in Perth, Western Australia, another scene plays out—very different, but not unrelated. In grainy cellphone footage, local police are seen feeding rows of seized e-bikes and scooters into industrial crushers. For teenagers on these electric rides, it’s a scene out of some dystopian movie: prized bikes, smashed without ceremony. Officials say it’s about safety. Police complaints have mounted—youngsters darting through intersections at midnight, thumping music and dodging traffic, sometimes with tragic results. Since January, more than thirty bikes have ended up in the crusher. Commissioner Col Blanch kept it plain: “They are going to be seized and destroyed every single time, there is no giving them back, they are always heading to the crusher because they are not able to meet the registration requirements of state vehicles.”

Not everyone is cheering the crackdown. Parents and legal advocates cite unclear laws around e-bikes, worrying that punishment is too severe and leaves no room for learning—or for nuance. Yet on the opposite side, stories abound of businesses and elderly folks nearly knocked over by teens on scooters. The memory of Lucas Reid, a boy killed in a high-speed e-bike wreck, hangs over the argument, regularly invoked by those pushing for license requirements and sharper penalties for repeat offenders. “Accountability can’t just be a trip to the hospital emergency room,” argued Natalie Ward, a prominent advocate in the debate.

Back in the States, Chicago faces a somber reckoning of its own. Last spring, Officer Aréanah Preston was driving home. She’d only just finished patrolling city streets, badge still warm from her shift, and by all accounts was days from collecting her master’s degree. In the dark, she was ambushed during a robbery on her own block. Preston, just 24, didn’t survive. The four suspects—most barely old enough to vote, one barely old enough to drive—now face a raft of charges, including first-degree murder.

For the Chicago Police Department, Preston’s death struck a nerve. Officers showed up at her hearing in black uniforms, their faces drawn, the weight of the act settling over them in silence. Community leaders, too, questioned how it had come to this—where officers, trained to protect, could be gunned down in their driveways. There’s a resonance to her story that goes beyond the specifics: the lurking dangers for those sworn to serve, and for the societies they hope to shield.

So, from Portland to Perth to Chicago, the shape of public safety—who is protected, and who pays the price for it—remains unsettled. Each city is wrestling with its own variation on the same unrest: a push for accountability, the demand for fairness, and the unending tug-of-war between safety and freedom.

If there’s a lesson, perhaps it’s that a badge can’t do all the work, nor can policy alone. Dialogue, even when uncomfortable, matters—and maybe, amid anger or grief, it’s what keeps these communities searching for some common ground. The headlines change, but the questions do not.

In the scheme of things, a police badge is meant to stand for order and protection, but in cities like Portland, it's also come to bear the weight of public skepticism. The city, never far from piercing debate, finds itself back in the national gaze courtesy of one unfiltered exchange—just a few seconds on TikTok, but more than enough to get tempers flaring.It began with direct questioning: a bystander asked a Portland police officer where he stood on the death of Renee Nicole Good, who was shot by an ICE agent in Minneapolis. His reply? Blunt, unsparing: "If she drove a car on me, yes," he said, leaving listeners startled. Asked about his motives, the officer—perhaps tired, certainly candid—admitted, "I do like my paycheck." Protesters quickly accused him of racism and coldness, charges he rebuffed with just as much forthrightness: “Sometimes criminals get shot if they threaten the cops… when they are breaking the law, when they endanger a cop.” There was no effort to mince words, which only inflamed the atmosphere.The fallout was swift. Leadership reassigned the officer and promised a formal review. Chief Robert Day stepped into the breach, urging Portlanders to keep protest peaceful and give the process time. His remarks struck a careful note—acknowledging hurt, but pressing for calm: "The complaint is under review and during that review this officer has been assigned to other duties." He called for “steady, respectful communication that supports safety and lawful protest activity.”Mayor Keith Wilson joined the conversation, his words steering frustration at federal agencies: "Our community is shocked and grieving. The tragic and preventable death of Renee Nicole Good was a horrific example of the same chaos and violence federal overreach has unleashed on Portland." In hushed city council meetings and loud street corners alike, people wonder, where is the reasonable line between a cop’s caution and too much force, between protest and outright danger?Meanwhile, some 9,000 miles away in Perth, Western Australia, another scene plays out—very different, but not unrelated. In grainy cellphone footage, local police are seen feeding rows of seized e-bikes and scooters into industrial crushers. For teenagers on these electric rides, it’s a scene out of some dystopian movie: prized bikes, smashed without ceremony. Officials say it’s about safety. Police complaints have mounted—youngsters darting through intersections at midnight, thumping music and dodging traffic, sometimes with tragic results. Since January, more than thirty bikes have ended up in the crusher. Commissioner Col Blanch kept it plain: “They are going to be seized and destroyed every single time, there is no giving them back, they are always heading to the crusher because they are not able to meet the registration requirements of state vehicles.”Not everyone is cheering the crackdown. Parents and legal advocates cite unclear laws around e-bikes, worrying that punishment is too severe and leaves no room for learning—or for nuance. Yet on the opposite side, stories abound of businesses and elderly folks nearly knocked over by teens on scooters. The memory of Lucas Reid, a boy killed in a high-speed e-bike wreck, hangs over the argument, regularly invoked by those pushing for license requirements and sharper penalties for repeat offenders. “Accountability can’t just be a trip to the hospital emergency room,” argued Natalie Ward, a prominent advocate in the debate.Back in the States, Chicago faces a somber reckoning of its own. Last spring, Officer Aréanah Preston was driving home. She’d only just finished patrolling city streets, badge still warm from her shift, and by all accounts was days from collecting her master’s degree. In the dark, she was ambushed during a robbery on her own block. Preston, just 24, didn’t survive. The four suspects—most barely old enough to vote, one barely old enough to drive—now face a raft of charges, including first-degree murder.For the Chicago Police Department, Preston’s death struck a nerve. Officers showed up at her hearing in black uniforms, their faces drawn, the weight of the act settling over them in silence. Community leaders, too, questioned how it had come to this—where officers, trained to protect, could be gunned down in their driveways. There’s a resonance to her story that goes beyond the specifics: the lurking dangers for those sworn to serve, and for the societies they hope to shield.So, from Portland to Perth to Chicago, the shape of public safety—who is protected, and who pays the price for it—remains unsettled. Each city is wrestling with its own variation on the same unrest: a push for accountability, the demand for fairness, and the unending tug-of-war between safety and freedom.If there’s a lesson, perhaps it’s that a badge can’t do all the work, nor can policy alone. Dialogue, even when uncomfortable, matters—and maybe, amid anger or grief, it’s what keeps these communities searching for some common ground. The headlines change, but the questions do not.