Loose Cannon

At the time of the Strnad shooting, Jopek was a three-year veteran. With his blue eyes and buzz cut, he could model for recruiting posters. The 33-year-old had already earned a reputation among fellow officers as "an aggressive guy" and a "ball buster." Through his lawyer, Jopek turned down an interview request, but his employment records reveal a man in search of action.

Fresh out of high school, he joined the Marines. He left after six months for family reasons, but his service made a big impression, as evidenced by his three Marine Corps tattoos; he later joined the reserves. Jopek came home to Fairview Park to work for his dad's tree-care business, but kept an eye on more exciting work, studying law enforcement for four years at Tri-C and graduating from the Cleveland Heights Police Academy.

In 1994, Jopek joined Olmsted Township Police. If he was hoping to make the highlight reel on Cops, he couldn't have picked a worse place. Just 20 miles away from downtown Cleveland, Olmsted Township at times seems closer to Amish country. Violent crime is so rare that when something does happen, it's talked about all year. Police duties include checking in on the homes of vacationing residents.

Yet Jopek policed this sleepy burg as if it were the Bronx. A mother complained when a routine traffic stop somehow escalated into the arrest of her son and two other teenage boys when they questioned him about the traffic ticket. "I am very disappointed in this young officer's unprofessional, hot-headed handling of such an unprovoked situation," she wrote. Another kid accused Jopek of lying in wait near his house and repeatedly pulling him over to search his car for contraband that was never there. And an underage girl alleged that Jopek touched her vagina through her clothes during a pat-down for marijuana. None of the accusations was ever substantiated.

Superiors saw in Jopek that same tendency to go overboard. After Jopek brandished his gun to pacify an unarmed suspect, his commanding officer reminded him that his service weapon was to be used only as a last resort. On another occasion, Jopek was booking a woman for drunk driving and threatened to cite her for disorderly conduct if she didn't shut up. A sergeant told him not to, but he did anyway, which earned Jopek a write-up for disobeying an order.

Even Jopek's commendations suggest a militant officer. He earned kudos after requesting to come in on a Saturday to clean the department's shotguns "while in full uniform and on his own time," Lieutenant John Minek wrote in a glowing report. Minek later told the media that Jopek had been "too aggressive" for a suburban police department.

Being a hardass ultimately cost Jopek his badge. In June 1999, part-time officer Gary Dieckman filed a complaint over an argument with Jopek the previous month. Jopek had been brusque with him over police radio, then pulled him aside when their shift ended to ask if Dieckman had a problem with him. Dieckman said he didn't appreciate Jopek pushing him around over the radio, to which Jopek allegedly replied, "Fuck you, you're part-time."

The day after Dieckman's complaint, the department put Jopek on paid leave. He didn't stick around to see how it would shake out, resigning a month later and living off savings and his wife's income for about a year.

On September 18, 2000, he was hired by the Cleveland Police Department. The city provided the action Jopek craved. In a 10-day stretch in October 2001 alone, Jopek used non-deadly force on three separate occasions, all of which were ruled justified.

But less than two years into his new job, Jopek and his partner, eight-year veteran Martin Rudin, initiated a traffic stop that quickly spiraled out of control. When it was over, Stephon Keith Moore was dead.

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Stephon was known among family members for his gift for quashing beefs.

"He was able to put people together who may not have wanted to be together," says brother Johnny.

"He was a peacekeeper," adds sister Jennifer Tilley.

Stephon was always inviting neighborhood kids into his mom's kitchen near Wade Park. As a child, he was a star in football and basketball, often jousting with a young Charles Oakley, who went on to the NBA.

By the time Stephon graduated from East High, he had settled on football as the sport that would propel him to greatness, so he took a scholarship to play running back at the University of Tennessee.

But in his sophomore year, disaster struck: He was permanently sidelined with injuries to his shoulder and knee. He dropped out of college and came back to a life in Cleveland, far from the fame he envisioned in the NFL.