In an intriguing twist of events that sounds almost scripted for a TV drama, Christopher Pazan, once a quarterback celebrated for his sporting glory days at the University of Illinois, and later a trusted Chicago law enforcer, finds himself in a sticky situation over purloined packs of—believe it or not—baseball cards. Once revered on the field and later dubbed protector of the peace, Pazan allegedly attempted to abscond with roughly $300 worth of baseball cards, all while ditching payment, at the Meijer store nestled on South Western Avenue in Evergreen Park.
On a seemingly uneventful Wednesday afternoon, Pazan’s alleged cunning heist skills, or rather lack thereof, were outshone by the vigilant eye of a security guard. Captured on the store’s surveillance, Pazan was seen tucking the cards away into a yard waste bag—an unconventional choice for treasure storage. He nonchalantly paid for the unassuming bag but evidently forgot to cough up the cash for his prized card payload. An oversight, surely, one might muse, if it weren’t for the glaring accusations now staining his once pristine police record.
In light of his recent detention, the Chicago Police Department has stripped Pazan of his station star and badge, suspending his powers pending an internal probe into this eyebrow-raising escapade. Prior to taking this less-than-illustrious route, Pazan was fulfilling his duty at the Morgan Park District while also contributing his investigative prowess to cases concerning arson, financial trickery, catastrophic accidents, and swindles involving stolen roadsters.
On further inquiry, Christopher Pazan’s past unravels, presenting not only as a law enforcement officer but a prodigious sports figure in his yesteryears. Hailing from Brother Rice High School, a jewel in Mount Greenwood, he was hailed nationwide as an All-American quarterback only to pass on to play a key role for the University of Illinois’ football battalion. Following an interlude with coaching at both Illinois and St. Joseph’s College, Pazan laid aside his playbook for the weighty badge of police service—a decision justified to the Chicago Tribune back in 2015 as a desire to serve in a more significant capacity, embracing the call to law and order.
But the apple of opportunity had its worms. Financial calamities seem to be Pazan’s looming specters. Despite drawing an annual salary that rings the cash register at $111,804 (minus overtime goodies), Pazan is currently navigating the tumultuous waters of divorce and legalities. Significantly, a missed court summons coincided with his infamous shoplifting attempt. His erstwhile legal counsel, Tania K. Harvey, petitions for recoverable legal fees beyond $5,800 left unpaid, sharpening the spotlight on his fiscal fracas.
His present legal squad reveals he is banking—literally—on refinancing his Beverly abode to accommodate his legal tabs and deliver on settlements. Peeking into his fiscal closet reveals this isn’t a burgeoning phenomenon. Last year conjured an endeavor by Fifth Third Bank to recover a $4,000 tip from a loan, dismissed, alas, as Pazan vanished like some ghostly apparition. Rewinding to 2022, JPMorgan Chase unwound a legal skein demanding over $15,000, yet Pazan emerged solvent and settled by mid-2024, a breath of relief amidst billowing fiscal folly.
The city, newest cautious eyes darting over badges, mandates potential recruits parade pristine financial records; lest the entranced lure of corruption consumes those drowning in debt. Alas, finding Pazan struggling against the tide of or their financial burdens prompts questions on his suitability for the police diadem.
Now facing an ordeal as perplexing as life threw at him on the football playground, Pazan is hit with a retail theft misdemeanor. With the courtroom as his new arena, the opposing counsel set to be a different kind of adversary. Bridgeview Court shall be the venue of this unusual chapter come June 23. The world watches keenly, eager to unravel if this remarkable sportsman-turned-cop can script one more comeback story as riveting as his past.
