I am horrified that President Trump has pardoned 1,600 insurrectionists, including many who were put in jail for violent crimes they committed after I testified in court how they’d assaulted me and my fellow Capitol Police officers for five hours on Jan. 6, 2001. After losing my job due to the injuries I suffered that day, I am now in fear for my life. The last thing I ever wanted to be was a­ troublemaker. Growing up in the Dominican Republic, my grandparents taught me to keep quiet. With no dad around, I listened when Abuelo Bienvenido, Mom’s father, told me “Speak only when you’re spoken to.” He had 13 kids and eight grandkids. I wasn’t his favorite. To win him over, I said “Si, Señor,” and fed all the animals on his fruit and vegetable farm where we lived. I carried wood to the firepit and babysat my little brother and sister. All I ever hoped to be was useful and someone who made my family proud. Although my folks separated weeks after my birth and Dad wasn’t around for my childhood, he resurfaced when I was 12. He wanted us to be a family again and paid for Mom, my brother Tony, and me to join him in Brooklyn. I was excited to live with both parents and move to the States, but it wasn’t as easy as I expected. AP Photo/Julio Cortez, FileFILE – Insurrectionists loyal to President Donald Trump try to break through a police barrier, Wednesday, Jan. 6, 2021, at the Capitol in Washington. (AP Photo/Julio Cortez, File) Dad was a cabdriver, busy working all the time. I helped out as a stock boy at a bodega and sold Mom’s food door to door. I gave my parents most of the cash I made, though not all. One morning, seeing my flashy new Nikes, Dad asked, “Why spend so much on that crap? What was wrong with the shoes I got you?” I felt ashamed. First rule from my father: be modest and blend in. That was hard without speaking the language. My accent was heavy. I struggled, pronouncing “v” as “b,” saying “berry” instead of “very.” My teacher wasn’t sympathetic. Once, when I asked her to repeat a word I missed, she gave me detention for being disruptive. I didn’t want to disrupt anyone, so I stopped raising my hand. As a minority student and an immigrant, I couldn’t risk calling attention to myself. I lived with the constant fear that something I did would get us deported. Staying seen but not heard proved to be a good strategy. I became the first in my family to graduate high school. To afford college, I enlisted in the Army. A team player, I saluted and obeyed the chain of command, waiting for permission to speak. I followed orders, replying “Yes, sir” when told to serve food at chow hall and clean barracks. My efforts kept paying off. I was honored to become a U.S. citizen and continue my service. The military was perfect training for joining the Capitol Police. For 16 years, ordered to check ID, I checked. Sent to guard a dignitary’s arrival, I guarded. I was cautious and careful as I moved up the ranks, rarely challenging higher-ups. In 2016, as police unions nationwide endorsed Donald Trump, I was stunned to hear him call Black nations “sh­-­-­hole countries” and Mexican migrants “criminals, drug dealers and rapists.” “Trump doesn’t mean what he says,” a white supervisor said. “He’s just joking.” Trump didn’t have my vote, but I kept my views to myself, reminding my squad we protected everyone equally. When he won the presidency, I worried. Traveling with my young son, whose English was better than mine, I noticed condescending stares, as if strangers found me less American for speaking Spanish. Or the wrong kind of foreigner (unlike Melania Trump’s white Slovenian parents, who were naturalized through the kind of “chain migration” her husband vehemently denounced). President Donald Trump signs executive orders in the Oval Office of the White House, Monday, Jan. 20, 2025, in Washington. (AP Photo/Evan Vucci) Still, I stayed subdued. If someone confronted me, I’d say I was a veteran and show my police sergeant badge to avoid a fight. Silence — the blueprint I’d relied on — became impossible on Jan. 6, 2021. On that day, I was attacked while defending the Capitol against invasion by thousands in a barbaric mob of rioters incited by Trump. Swarms of assailants beat me — and my colleagues — with poles, sticks, broken pipes, and pieces of furniture. It was worse than combat I’d seen in Iraq. Holding the police line through hours of torture, bloody from fending off multiple rioters, I was called “un-American” and a traitor who broke his oath and deserved to be executed. Trampled from both sides, I thought: This is how I’m going to die. Nine people did end up dead. I was so badly wounded that even after two surgeries I wasn’t sure if I could do my job or take the lieutenant promotion I’d strived for. Instead of denouncing the siege and upholding the law, many of the Republican lawmakers I risked my life to shield did the unthinkable: they defended the former president and the insurrectionists, claiming the violent uprising by armed militia was “legitimate public discourse” and a “peaceful protest” conducted by “patriots.” As a public servant for two decades, I was horrified to hear the invaders painted as victims and felt compelled to tell my story. But my wife and I were petrified that Trump’s influence could harm our family. So I kept my mouth shut. Then Harry Dunn, a Black colleague of 13 years who was also traumatized by the attempted coup, spoke out. He exposed the violence and racist epithets hurled at him by the pro-Trump white nationalists who stormed the Capitol. In TV interviews, he revealed how he was berated and racially profiled by fellow U.S. citizens whose crimes were rationalized and concealed. I identified with Dunn, a fellow policeman of color, vilified for doing his job. I waited for the Republican leaders Lindsey Graham, Kevin McCarthy, Steve Scalise, Ted Cruz, Josh Hawley, and Marco Rubio — people I’d met and protected — to condemn the revolt. Yet they refused to blame our lawless ex-president for causing this historic tragedy. Hawley actually raised his fist in support of the rioters and printed the image on a cup for sale on his website. Meanwhile, doctors and physical therapists kept trying to fix my chronic pain, recurring nightmares, and PTSD. One day, recovering from shoulder and foot surgery for injuries sustained in the attack, my leg elevated to keep the swelling down, I turned on the news to learn that the GOP had blocked a bipartisan probe of the Jan. 6 insurrection. Then I saw Dunn and his coworker Michael Fanone with two women, the mother and fiancé of Brian Sicknick, the 42-year-old officer who died from a stroke a day after fighting the rioters. The foursome went door to door in the Senate to get support for an investigation into the dangerous ambush. It could have been my wife, son, mom, and dad begging our lawmakers to investigate the same mob who almost killed me. After keeping quiet for decades, I lost it. I couldn’t believe what cowards these politicians were. Shocked, I told my wife, “They pretend to support law enforcement while covering up what happened for their own political gain!” My faith in the U.S. justice system capsized. I’d put everything on the line as a soldier and policeman to defend our democracy. I recalled the saying John F. Kennedy quoted: “All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing” and the advice from activist and Congressman John Lewis to get into “good trouble.” I could no longer stay silent. An American proud of the sacrifices I made for our nation, I deserved a voice. To hell with not being disruptive. I was going public. I asked Dunn to connect me with CNN. On June 3, 2021, I gave an interview. It was draining to relive the terrifying trauma that haunted me, but afterwards an immense weight lifted. I was risking my job and the security of my family, but the truth was more important. At 41, I left my comfort zone and spoke out — to my bosses, the U.S. attorney, the FBI, before Congress, in court and to the press. I blew every whistle, testified to each horror I saw, and called out all the injustices I witnessed, regardless of whether the liars taunted, outnumbered, or outranked me. The obedient, scared little boy from el campo was gone. I stood up to any authority who abused their power. But I was betrayed by my leader, the president of the United States — twice. Once when he lied and didn’t protect us on Jan. 6 and now a second time, by erasing the sentences of dangerous rioters who came to the Capitol armed and ready to stop the peaceful transfer of power. It’s another gross miscarriage of justice and a mockery of the laws of America. Gonell is a former sergeant in the Capitol Police and the author, with Susan Shapiro, of “American Shield: The Immigrant Sergeant Who Defended Democracy” out in paperback from Counterpoint Press.