Family claims a top FOP official tried to scam a police officer’s widow out of $20,000

Meagan Diaz was desperate.

It was a cool, dreary day in January, and Diaz was trying to scrape together money to host a baby shower for her 20-year-old son, who was expecting his first child.

Money had been tight since 2016, when Diaz’s husband, Philadelphia police officer Raymond Diaz, died at 47, two years after he suffered career-ending injuries in an on-duty car crash.

Now Diaz was broke. To her friends’ and family’s dismay, Diaz had been lending thousands of dollars to Terry Reid, a top official with the Fraternal Order of Police Lodge No. 5, The Inquirer has learned.

Diaz had felt indebted to Reid, who had testified on Diaz’s behalf when she sought to receive a $100,000 state death benefit for fallen officers.

Last fall — not long after Diaz was awarded the benefit — Reid began asking for large sums of cash, and Diaz agreed to hand over money, according to text messages between the two women, which the Diaz family shared with the newspaper.

Diaz later repeatedly begged Reid to repay the loans, which Diaz estimated had totaled more than $20,000. But Reid — whose total compensation as the union’s trustee and disability coordinator was $189,000 — often didn’t respond to Diaz’s pleas.

“Terry, what is going on?” Diaz texted Reid on Jan. 6. “I need my money and I shouldn’t have to beg you and be sick over it.”

On Feb. 26, Diaz, who had diabetes and other illnesses, died. She was 46.

Reid did not reply to messages left by a reporter.

In March, Diaz’s daughter, Marissa Zito, filed a complaint with police Internal Affairs, accusing Reid of taking financial advantage of her mother, and then attempting to cover up the matter.

On July 11, Reid retired from the police department, where she held the rank of detective. Six days later, the FOP announced, in an email to its members, that Reid had been removed from her position.

FOP president John McNesby told The Inquirer that he was left “speechless” when he learned of Zito’s account, and believed his only recourse was to fire Reid from the union.

“I pride myself on how we take care of these families,” he said. “If someone does something like this, it upsets me. That’s why we did what we did.”

Zito said Reid pressured her to drop her Internal Affairs complaint, in exchange for repaying the money that she had borrowed.

The daughter’s complaint has been referred to the Special Investigations Unit of the District Attorney’s Office for criminal investigation, according to a law enforcement source.

“This whole situation has me very nervous, scared, and disappointed,” said Zito, who lives with her husband and her maternal grandmother in Clearwater, Fla. “It makes me feel like I can’t trust the police department. … I am still mourning the loss of my mother, and reliving this horror story all over again. It’s very overwhelming.”

Reid, a member of the FOP’s leadership team for nearly two decades, occupied a critical role for the union, one that put her in regular contact with members who were struggling through difficult times.

As disability coordinator, Reid was the person with whom police officers consulted when they suffered on-duty injuries; she helped them navigate the state’s Heart and Lung disability benefit system, which police and city officials have long insisted has been abused.

A 2022 Inquirer investigation, “MIA: Crisis in the Ranks,” found that in late 2021, Philadelphia had a much higher percentage of its entire police force — 11% — out of work due to injuries, compared to 0.6% of officers in Phoenix, 1.9% in Portland, Ore., and 3.3% in Chicago. Some Philadelphia officers who had been deemed too hurt to work had managed to work second jobs, in violation of a police directive, while collecting the benefit, which includes tax breaks that amount to a 20% raise.

When police officers were killed in the line of duty, Reid’s job was to meet families on behalf of the FOP at hospitals, and remained a point of contact for relatives afterward.

Raymond Diaz joined the Philadelphia Police Department in 1996, and spent 20 years as a patrol officer in North Philly’s 24th District. He and Meagan married in 2005, and raised three children in Northeast Philadelphia.

“Meagan and Ray were like the best couple ever,” said Michelle Pickup, who grew up with Meagan in Kensington. “You could see the love they had for each other.”

On Nov. 14, 2014, Diaz was responding to a radio call about a burglary in progress when another motorist slammed into his patrol car. Diaz suffered a concussion, and severe neck and back injuries.

Diaz’s injuries left him with poor balance, so doctors sent him home with a cane, a prescription for two pain killers, oxycodone, and a fentanyl patch. He never returned to police work.

In July 2016, Diaz tried to reach the bathroom in his home and fell, injuring his head and shoulder. Two months later, on Sept. 6, surgeons operated to repair a torn left bicep tendon.

Diaz was discharged the following day, and doctors prescribed him hydromorphone, a powerful opioid. A few days later, Diaz’s wife couldn’t wake him. He was pronounced dead at Nazareth Hospital.

The medical examiner ruled Diaz’s death an accidental prescription drug overdose.

“When he died,” Pickup said of Meagan, “it destroyed her.”

Zito, Diaz’s daughter, said Reid met their family at the hospital. Reid consoled the widow, offered help with benefit-related paperwork, and asked if the family needed anything.

Soon, Reid became a regular presence at the Diaz household.

“She was bringing us food every single night for like three months after my dad died,” said Zito, 29, the eldest of the Diaz children. “Terry would bring [her mother] cash from the Survivors’ Fund.”

The FOP has, for years, maintained a charitable fund to help families of fallen officers pay for food and medical bills, home repairs, and other needs.

McNesby said that individual union officials do not have access to the fund. Requests for aid have to be reviewed and approved by a committee, generating a paper trail for each request.

After reading an email from Zito that outlined her allegations against Reid, he said, the union examined records for any survivors’ fund disbursements made to the Diaz family, to see if money had been misappropriated.

“We reviewed everything,” McNebsy said, “and they all reconciled with each other.”

(McNesby said the union is not aware of other families of fallen police officers having made similar claims about Reid. He also shared with The Inquirer a copy of a recent audit of the survivors’ fund.)

Even with assistance from the FOP, Meagan Diaz struggled to reorient her life after her husband’s death.

“She hardly came out of her bedroom for almost a year,” recalled Doris Murray, Meagan’s mother. “She could never come back from it.”

In the years that followed, Diaz’s family and friends wondered about Reid, who was still in close contact with Diaz. “I thought it was very odd how much she was attaching herself to Meagan,” said Pickup, who once had lunch with the two women.

» READ MORE: MIA: Crisis in the Ranks — cops who have claimed to be too injured to work started new businesses, toiled at strenuous jobs

In 2017, the city filed an application on Diaz’s behalf to the Pennsylvania Department of General Services, for a $100,000 benefit that’s available through the Emergency and Law Enforcement Personnel Death Benefits Act.

The state denied the claim, arguing that Raymond Diaz hadn’t died in the line of duty.

Meagan Diaz appealed to the Commonwealth Court of Pennsylvania — and Reid testified on her behalf, arguing that Marilyn Howarth, the city’s medical director, concluded that Diaz’s death was service-related because the oxycodone and fentanyl found in his bloodstream had been prescribed for pain caused by the injuries he sustained in the 2014 car accident.

In August 2022, President Judge Emerita Mary Hannah Leavitt sided with Diaz and ruled that she was entitled to the benefit.

Then Reid started to ask Diaz to lend her money. Lots of it.

And Diaz, who felt beholden to Reid, agreed, her family said. “[Meagan] said, ‘She does a lot for me,’” Murray recalled her daughter once explaining. “‘[Reid] helped with all this paperwork. She helped me get money.’”

“Terry knew that Meagan was weak,” Murray said. “She clung to Meagan because she knew Meagan was a kindhearted person.”

On Oct. 18, 2022, according to messages viewed by The Inquirer, Reid texted Diaz: “I would need to borrow 12k until I get my bonus.”

Reid claimed that she would receive bonuses in November and January, and would be able to repay all of the borrowed money.

“I really hate asking,” Reid added, “but I’m really in a [jam].”

The following month, Reid texted Diaz a photo of two yellow cones that were in front of steps that led to a rowhouse. “this is what I came home to,” Reid wrote.

Reid claimed that the previous owners of the property had a water lien that she was now obligated to pay, leaving her, for the meantime, with no running water.

“I know you’ve help so much [sic] I can pay this back in about two weeks or more,” Reid wrote. “I get my bonus first week in December.”

The photo that Reid sent Diaz was taken outside a Northeast Philadelphia property where the former FOP officer is currently registered to vote, but city property records show that Reid has never owned that home.

New Jersey court filings, meanwhile, show that while Reid was soliciting cash infusions from Diaz, she was also being taken to court over $2,500 in unpaid condo fees for a unit she co-owns with her sister in Delanco, N.J.

The condominium group had similarly taken the Reids to court over unpaid debts on four other occasions over the past decade.

In May, lawyers for the condominium sought a court order compelling the Reids to respond to the suit, under penalty of arrest, after they ignored several subpoenas. A judge granted the order.

Relatives claim that Diaz gave Reid cash in person at various locations: a Target, a Miller’s Ale House on Roosevelt Boulevard, even the FOP’s headquarters on Caroline Road in Northeast Philly.

Murray, Diaz’s mother, said she went to an American Heritage Credit Union three times with her daughter, and saw her withdraw cash that she stuffed in envelopes.

“I asked her what it was for,” Murray said. “She wouldn’t tell me.”

In December, Diaz was planning a baby shower for her youngest child, “RJ” — Raymond Jr. — who was expecting a girl. She had deposits to pay, decorations, gifts, and desserts to buy.

Reid had led Diaz to believe that she would receive a monthly income supplement through Act 51, another state benefit for first responders who are killed in the line of duty, her family said. But the state told Diaz that she was ineligible.

She texted Reid that, if she had known she wouldn’t receive the additional benefit, “I wouldn’t have lent any money out. I did lend a lot to you.”

Diaz recounted her loans to Reid: $12,000 during one exchange, $3,000 at a lunch meeting, $2,000 at a Target, $3,500 for the water bill.

“That is over $20,000,” Diaz wrote.

Increasingly, Diaz had trouble reaching Reid. On Dec. 30, Diaz asked Reid for the $1,000 she promised to repay. Reid was returning from vacation. “...just getting off the plane,” she texted.

Diaz told Reid that she couldn’t pay her phone, cable, or utility bills: “I don’t even have a dime in my freaking bank account.”

“Terry I don’t understand why when I text you, that you can’t even answer me back,” Diaz wrote in another message, on Jan. 9. “Every time that you called or texted asking to borrow money, I jumped and answered you right away.”

“I will call u later,” Reid responded.

On Feb. 13, she texted Reid to tell her she was in the hospital for a week. Diaz was battling uncontrolled diabetes, an infection, and was in a back brace for a fractured spine, her family said. She asked Reid if she could repay her $300.

“Hello sorry to hear,” Reid replied, “but I’m broke.”

(Below: Terry Reid is at left.)

“My phone is gonna be shut off by the end of the day,” Diaz texted Reid two days later, “and I have nothing right now.”

“I will call you I’m in meeting,” Reid wrote.

Eleven days later, on Feb. 26, 2023, Meagan Diaz died at home.

The next day, Murray, Diaz’s other daughter, Lexi Negron, and her best friend, Karen Laude, were gathered on a sectional sofa in her house. A family friend, who happened to be a former Philadelphia police officer, was also there. The friend’s cell phone rang. It was Terry Reid.

“I’m on my way,” Reid said, according to the friend, who asked to remain anonymous. “I have to get Meagan’s phone.”

“Why?” the friend asked.

“Meg talked to undesirable people and I want to make sure the kids don’t see that,” Reid said.

Soon, Reid arrived at Diaz’s home and began discussing some of Diaz’s outstanding bills. Then she asked for Diaz’s phone.

Diaz’s relatives and friends watched Reid closely. Each knew that Reid had owed Diaz a significant amount of money.

Reid sat nervously on the couch, tightly gripping Diaz’s phone.

“Terry’s hands were shaking,” said Diaz’s friend, the former police officer. “They were shaking so badly, I literally thought she was going to drop the phone. And then I look over and see her swiping delete.”

“A couple times I went to grab the phone,” Murray said, “and she wouldn’t give it back.” When one of them finally snatched the phone from Reid, the text history between Diaz and Reid — stretching back to October, when Diaz had purchased the phone — was gone.

Murray and the others were stunned.

Two days later, Zito said, Reid called her phone repeatedly. Zito didn’t answer. Then she heard a pounding on her mother’s front door. She opened it, and found Reid.

Reid insisted on speaking with Zito and Murray privately. They retreated to Meagan Diaz’s bedroom. Reid locked the door, Zito said.

According to both Zito and Murray, Reid was trembling, and told them that she had owed Diaz “a lot of money.”

Zito said that Reid vowed to repay the money she had borrowed from Diaz by the end of May.

“She kept saying, ‘Can we do this? Can we do this?’” Zito said.

There was a condition, however.

Zito claims that Reid said the Diaz family couldn’t tell McNesby, the head of the FOP, about the situation.

“We cannot tell anyone about this,” Reid said, according to Zito. “Can you promise me that you’re not going to tell anybody?”

With Reid still standing in front of the locked door, Zito felt trapped. “So of course, I’m like, ‘Yes,” Zito said. “She almost fell to her knees.”

Zito and her siblings were determined to make Reid pay back what she owed their mother.

By then, Diaz’s family had managed to restore all the text messages that Reid had deleted, which showed the cash amounts Diaz had given Reid, and Diaz’s growing despair over not being repaid.

In March, Zito filed a complaint against Reid with the Police Department’s Internal Affairs Bureau. An investigator later asked each of Diaz’s relatives the same question: Were Diaz and Reid friends?

“My mom said to everyone,” Zito said, “‘She’s not my friend.’”

Zito sifted through her mother’s records, text messages, and bank statements, and calculated that Reid still owed $17,768.

Beginning in April, Zito texted Reid three times over eight days to ask when she was going to pay back the money before Reid replied.

In June, Zito called Internal Affairs for an update. An investigator told her that Reid wouldn’t face any charges because she didn’t commit a crime, Zito said.

“At that point, I’m sick to my stomach,” Zito recalled.

She decided to email McNesby, and explain the bizarre sequence of events.

McNesby recalled feeling stunned as he read the allegations. “It was like somebody gave me a hand grenade and pulled the pin,” he said.

The next day, Reid called Zito, telling her she would pay back the money in three installments. “Then she says, ‘I just want to confirm, because John wants me to ask you, if we pay this money back, can we make this all go away?’” Zito said.

McNesby said he made no such comment.

Reid did not respond to multiple requests for comment.

Reid repaid the Diaz family, with a final installment made just a few days after she retired from the police department.

A sense of betrayal still nags at the Diaz children, though. They thought they belonged to a larger family, a fraternity of police officers who were supposed to look out for one another, especially in the wake of tragedy.

“I think [Reid] tried to get into my mom’s head because of how broken she was,” Zito said.

“I think that she succeeded because she got so much money from my mom. She took advantage of a widow who had nowhere else to turn.”

Staff writer William Bender and researcher Ryan W. Briggs contributed to this article.