In Rio, Punishing the Victim Is Common Sense: Part I — The Robbery
This saga took place in 2003. It is very actual, though. It could be called “The Three Acts of Sadness”.
Back in 2003, two friends brought the families together to share a big apartment. It was fun while it lasted. It did not end well, but that is another story. I used to spend the weekends there.
One of these friends had the dream of owning a car. Over here, it is not as easy or cheap as you might think. He worked hard. He saved money. As soon as he could, he bought a used white Volkswagen Gol.
All he talked about was his car, what he wanted to do with it. Improvements, customizations, you name it. A nice set of wheels was added, windows were darkened. It looked cool. It was a symbol of a personal achievement after years of hard work.
Every Sunday, by the end of the day, this friend would take me home in his car. He enjoyed it and I surely appreciated the ride.
In one of these Sundays, as soon as he pulled over to drop me and stepped on the break, a pistol was pointed at his head. A blue Ford Verona parked beside us. Two guys inside. The passenger had his arm extended, holding the gun. The driver had already left the car and was in front of us, armed as well, yelling for us to leave the car.
I had been robbed already a few times in my life to know what to do: remain calm, comply with the orders, always show the hands and avoid eye contact. It is interesting how living in Rio makes everyone an expert in being robbed.
My friend carried a gun as well. He had a license. He was trained. He was a former military.
What if he tries to be a hero, I asked myself.
What if it goes wrong?
What if they decide to search him and find the gun?
What if they think he is a cop and decide to eliminate us, I considered, as it is known that sometimes the drug lords pay bounties for killed cops.
What should make me feel safe had the exact opposite effect. I was really scared, then. I was not an expert anymore.
We left the car, calm and collected. The robbers were yelling a lot, shouting orders to get away from the car, hand in the wallets and the cell phones. I pushed my luck.
“May I keep the documents?”
Getting new documents is an annoying, complicated and bureaucratic ordeal in Rio. It made sense to me to ask politely. In previous robberies, the criminal was nice enough to say: “Just give me the money, I don’t want to give you trouble.” Even criminals know how annoying it is to obtain documents.
Not this one. My question prompted some aggressive cursing and offense and a gun pointed between my eyes.
I kept looking down at the sidewalk. No eye contact. Please don’t shoot, was the only thought I had.
They got into the car, accelerated and left, screeching tyres. The guy in the passenger seat opened his window and yelled:
“Aqui é o Macaco, porra!”
It was a reference to the Favela where they are from: “Morro dos Macacos” or The Monkeys’ Hill, in a literal translation.
It was a statement. Don’t mess with the Macaco guys. The Macaco guys are dangerous.
Nice of them to say where they are from and where we can find them. They don’t care, they know nobody is coming after them.
Me and my friend, in front of my house. No money, no documents.
“Do you have your gun?”
“No, I left it at home today.”
“Better, then.”
“Yes.”
“You got insurance?”
“No, I was still putting some money together to afford one.”
Then it hit us. Years of saved money were lost in two or three minutes. His dream, taken away. Most people will say he was stupid to move around without insurance. I know. He knows. It does not change the feeling.
IT IS NOT THE VICTIM’S FAULT.
The blue Ford Verona was abandoned in the middle of the street. Engine still running, doors open, inner compartments open.
Ok, what now? We were robbed, so it was time to…work! Let the punishment begin.
Call the cops. Call the banks to report on the stolen card. Call the mobile operator on the stolen phones.
All the action happened close to midnight. Around two in the morning we were finally at the Police Station to go through the formalities. Other friends arrived for support.
The cop who picked us up at the crime scene and took us to the station said that those guys were on the run and what they were doing was a common practice among thieves on the run. They move between cars in sequence. The policemen in the area are called to address a spree of car robberies. Through overload, the bad guys escape when they feel comfortable. We were unlucky to be the 7th and last car in that chain. All the other cars returned to their owners. Some in the original state, some damaged.
Even though the station was empty, we had to wait for 30 minutes until someone said that we would be seen by the “Investigator”. Cool, I thought. Gil Grissom is going to talk to us. We have intel on the case! We know where they are from. The police is going after them. We will have the car back!
Me and my friend were called individually to report the crime. The “Investigator” sat at his desk, typing at his computer using only one finger. His other hand held his sleepy head. He never looked me in the eye during the almost one hour long session, in which he asked questions he read from the form.
“How many guys? Two? Ok, let’s talk about guy number one.”
“What was his height?”
“What was his color?”
“What was he wearing?”
I interrupted. I wanted to tell him that they were from the “Macaco”. I had vital info! They could dispatch someone there right now!
“Ok. Macaco. Continuing…”
“Did he have a beard?”
“Did he have a goatee?”
Many questions followed, in the same monotonic mode. It was as if a computer was asking me questions. Not a person, not an Investigator.
I gave up after a while and just complied. I needed his report so I could request new documents, so I could prove my cards and phone were stolen, so I could prove at work why I arrived late in the following morning.
“So, let’s talk about guy number two.”
“What was his height?”
“What was his color?”
“What was he wearing?”
Thankfully, it wasn’t four guys in that car.
I enumerated to him my stolen objects. He wrote down everything. Printed a form, asked me to sign and I was free to go. The bad guys were free to go at midnight.
We were the victims, and we were being punished until dawn.
My friend went through the same process after I finished. Only one Investigator available, you know.
At around 5 in the morning we were back at our homes to get some sleep, if that was even possible.
In Part II, the Recovery.
Special thanks to fellow writer Marcel Trigueiro.
