Getting Robbed

The following piece, a true story, was published in Atencion, the local gringo newspaper. The names have been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty.

It was about 6:00 PM on the day that I got robbed. When I got home the front doors were propped open, a fresh coat of varnish drying. Karen, the owner, was sitting in the courtyard reading a book, effectively guarding the house while the varnish dried. We tested the doors as she departed and agreed that they should probably remain open for another hour or so.

After she left I checked my answering machine and listened to messages from James and Mara. Cell phone in hand I walked from the living room out to the courtyard, my back to the front door, and dialed James. “Hey man, what’s up?” he asked as I turned toward the front of the house. Before I could respond I glimpsed what appeared to be the back of a man leaving my living room and walking out the front door. Did I imagine it? “Hold on,” I said and walked quickly to the living room door. I looked at my desk and my digital camera and its docking station were gone. I stuck my head out the front door just in time to see the perpetrator’s back disappearing around the far corner, clearly running. “YOU BASTARD!” I yelled, my mind spinning. I must have blurted something into the cell phone before hanging up. James in the mean time was wondering why I’d called him a bastard.

I took off running down the street. After about two blocks the streets went in several different directions and I could see no one. It also occurred to me that the front doors were still open and this could provide an opportunity for a second wave to show up and take my laptop and whatever else tickled their fancy. So I ran back to the house.

As far as I could tell, everything else was in place. I called James back, told him what had happened and he immediately handed to phone to his Mexican girlfriend Mara. “I’m calling the police for you. What is your address and which way did he run?” I gave her the information and she told me that she would call me back.

I hung up and paced back in forth just inside the entrance to the house and within a minute a motorcycle cop pulled up. He looked 12 years old and spoke no English. I apologized for my poor Spanish and then in bits and fragments of language I acted out what had happened. He took notes on a worn little pad, spoke something into his radio and got back on his bike.

The phone rang. “This is Mara the police are on their way. Tell me what he looked like and I’ll call them back with the description.”

“I only saw him from the back. He was a big guy, dark shoes, and he was wearing a jacket, a dark jacket, either navy blue or black and it had red stripes on the sleeves. That’s all I can tell you.”

“Do you need me?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I hung up. My heart was racing, my adrenalin pumping. I looked outside and noticed that Mexican neighbors were beginning to stand out in front of their houses. Another motorcycle cop sped bye, then another, then a police truck. It seemed like the neighborhood was swarming with cops. Within five minutes a police truck pulled up to my front door, a half a dozen motorcycle cops surrounding it. In the back were two young Mexican men in handcuffs. Neither was wearing a dark jacket with red stripes. The police were asking me which one but I couldn’t identify either of them. I hadn’t seen the guy’s face. But I noticed a dark jacket stuffed into a tire next to one of the men.

Another car pulled up and James and Mara got out. From the moment the beautiful Mara stepped out of that car, she was a woman in charge. She bid the policemen good afternoon and then ushered them into the house. We pointed out where the camera had been. Then one of the cops pulled something out of his pocket. “Esta?” he asked as I looked at my camera in shock.

“Si.”

“E esta?” as he held up my docking station.

“Si.”

We were then to follow them to the police station. Remembering gringo stories of long ordeals with the police, I felt that I should pack a bag with food and water. Instead I just grabbed my passport.

As I was locking up the house (screw the damp varnish) some of the neighbors approached and began speaking rapidly to Mara. She nodded briefly to one gentleman and spoke with measured calm. When we got in James’ car she turned to me in the back seat. “That was the boy’s uncle. The boy is a neighbor and he and his friend are drunk. I’m concerned about repercussions. You live alone; sometimes you come home late at night. You have to be very careful how you chose to handle this.”

Within a few minutes we were at the police station. We stepped just inside a large sparsely furnished room and everyone stood. A half a dozen policemen surrounded Mara and she recounted my story. Two of the policemen were playing with my camera, turning it on and off and watching the lens go in and out. Mara turned to me.

“They are really pressuring you to prosecute. They say that the young men must be punished for this or they will just do it again. That is the family over there, the father, the mother and the sister. The father is angry. He says that he can’t control his son. That the boy just drinks beer all day and that he’s a bum and you should do whatever you need to do.”

“This is my instinct,” I told Mara, “To tell them that I think they are just boys who were drunk and did something stupid. The ordeal of the arrest is probably punishment enough if this is a first offence.”

Mara relayed my wishes. The cops appeared disappointed and we were ushered, along with the family, out of the building, through another entrance and up some stairs. At the top of the stairs we were directed to a cramped space where an older, clearly senior officer sat behind a desk. Mara immediately took a seat in front of the desk and motioned for me to sit next to her.

The officer went on at some length and the father, a stocky, authoritative looking man, spoke as well. Mara nodded a great deal and listened. Then she turned to me. “I know we’ve already gone over this but I need to give the appearance that I am asking you again. Largely the General here has just reiterated what we went over downstairs so you just need to say to me what you said before so I can repeat it back to them.”

Mara translated and then the General spoke and handed me my camera. “He says then there is nothing more to do. It is between you and the family.”

“Please tell him,” I said, “That I am from the U.S. and I have never in my life seen such impressive police work. The speed at which they apprehended the men was amazing.” I turned around and shook the hands of the officers behind me and said, “Muy impresionante. Mil gracias.” Then I stood and turned to the family. “Please tell them that it is very nice to meet them. It is too bad that it was not under better circumstances.” I shook each of their hands. The mother’s eyes were red and the sister stared at the floor.

At dinner I ordered a martini straight up and as I was cutting my filet mignon I wondered what the young men were eating for dinner. I live in a land of the have and the have not. A family was shamed because their son, brother, nephew wanted what I had and I fought to get it back. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.