Working as a police officer in Mexico

Chapter 33: 33: We Are the Police, Can We Be Afraid of Prisoners?

"There has been progress in the major shooting case that occurred in the Tepito District the other day, the leader, Zuvich Delagan, nicknamed 'Desert Ant,' has been killed by the police! He was a member of the 'Barbaric Samurai' gang, and the police are now issuing warrants for the rest of the gang members."

From the television, the female reporter's voice came through.

In the dining hall, quite a few jail guards looked up and whispered to each other.

Casare paused when he heard the broadcast, but continued to pick at his sausage and pig's trotters rice.

Victor propped his elbows on the table, lit a cigarette, took a drag, then passed it to Casare, who puffed out his cheeks and said, "Take a hit."

The other man didn't take it, so Victor stood up and stuffed the cigarette into his mouth.

"I know you're in a bad mood, but he was asking for it. You can't blame anyone else.

"When you're out, first, you have to keep a low profile. He was asking for death, brandishing a few AK47s and killing people at will."

You should at least spend some money and get some heavy weapons from me.

Buy an armored vehicle, and you wouldn't be gunned down like this.

Victor held up two fingers, glanced at Best sitting next to them, listening, "Second, either don't do it, or don't regret it once you've done it. How about I give you an extra 2000 US dollars this month? Does your conscience still hurt?"

Casare muttered, "That was my cousin..."

"3000 US dollars."

Casare took a deep breath and finished off his pig's trotters rice, "Feeling much better now."

How much can a conscience be worth?

Add a little money, and that's it.

Moreover, this is destroying kinship for justice!

Isn't it natural for the police to catch criminals?

"Boss Victor, the Warden wants to see you," a jail guard whispered as he approached.

Victor looked up to see, at the far end of the dining hall in a place that resembled a VIP area, Webster was sitting next to a floor-to-ceiling window, not looking very pleased, his eyes met Victor's as they looked at each other.

"Looks like his mother just died from his expression," Victor cursed, but still raised his hand and waved at him, threw the napkin he was using to wipe his mouth on the table, and walked toward the VIP area.

Casare hurriedly followed.

Best took out 5 US dollars from his pocket and stuffed it into the pocket of the jail guard, smiled, and patted him on the shoulder, lighting up the latter's eyes.

Who would have thought you could get money just for delivering a message.

If the prison had a democracy, he'd definitely vote for Victor as the boss.

"Sir, what instructions do you have?" Victor said with a fake smile, impolitely pulling out a chair and sitting down, giving no face to the man at all.

Before Webster could get angry, his confidant, the Warden of the First Prison Zone, Sebastiao, got furious and pointed at Victor, "Victor, who let you sit down? You have no respect."

Victor, legs crossed, lifted his head to look at him, suddenly grabbed the ashtray from the table and smashed it toward Sebastiao's head. The man was caught off guard and stumbled, nearly losing his footing, but Victor grabbed him by the neck and pushed his head onto the table, pounding it in fury, "Fuck you!"

The commotion immediately alerted all the jail guards outside, who looked in unison.

Webster was dazed by the scene but quickly grabbed Victor, "Enough, Victor, are you trying to kill him?"

Victor flipped his bangs and dropped the ashtray on the floor.

Sebastiao, bloodied, had already passed out and lay convulsing on the floor.

"Write him a sick leave note, work injury, get the Warden to stamp it."

The first part was directed at Casare, and the second at Webster, who was completely subdued by Victor's presence and, despite his face turning awful, had to keep his anger to himself since he was at a disadvantage.

"I'm a very reasonable person. If he's not polite to me, I'm not polite to him. People should respect each other!"

Webster called in two jail guards from outside to take Sebastiao to the infirmary and threw a file in front of Victor, "It seems you're even more resourceful than I thought, becoming an 'Oficial' outright. You've got skills."

"Thanks for the compliment, sir!"

Upon seeing the official promotion document and appointment letter, Victor flipped through them and passed them to Casare, "From now on, you're three stripes, 'Senior Police Sergeant'."

Casare's face lit up with joy.

It diluted the sorrow for his cousin.

"From now on, I'm in charge of the Second District, the Emergency Squad, and the Third District. Any objections?"

Victor tossed the appointment letter on the table, crossed his arms and looked at Webster.

That almost made Webster laugh with anger.

Who is the Warden, you or me?

But before he could finish, Victor already stood up, "Give the Warden some money, eat well, live long."

Casare obediently left behind 1000 US dollars.

Standing between the "VIP area" and the general area, Victor raised his hand and gave a pat, naturally drawing everyone's attention to him.

He stood on top of a table.

"Starting from today, I serve as the Deputy Warden of Plateau Prison, with Second District, Third District, and the emergency response teams all under my command. From now on, in addition to your salary, each person in the prison zones will receive an extra 200 Pesos per month, and the emergency response teams will get an additional 400!"

There was a moment of silence in the crowd.

Casare gave a jail guard a meaningful glance, and the latter immediately cheered, "Long live Chief Victor!"

This instantly ignited the enthusiasm of everyone present.

The jail guards raised their hands and shouted wildly.

Handing out... handing out money!

Starting with this kind of move?

Webster looked at him as if he were looking at a madman. Are you using your own money to subsidize your colleagues?

Has your head been smashed by a door?

"Chief, why don't we in the First Prison Zone get this!" a jail guard shouted loudly, as it was a matter related to his own interests.

Mexicans are usually quite proactive in voicing their needs.

See, when Los Zetas felt they were not earning enough, they just rebelled outright, letting you know in no uncertain terms that they think your pay is too low!

Direct enough?

"Because the First Prison Zone is not my responsibility. You can go talk to the Warden," Victor replied, turning and pointing at the person. Webster's face turned green.

You expect me to shell out money for my colleagues?

Do you think I run a printing press?

I'm struggling to support a mistress with my own embezzlements.

The colleagues from the First Prison Zone looked at him with red eyes.

Now he's got a real headache.

As the crowd cheered, Victor left, and the jail guards automatically lined up on both sides.

See...

When you come out to work, no matter what you do, whether you are an official, a thief, a murderer, or upholding justice, you damn well need money!

Mexican police really earn just a few dozen US dollars a month. Toiling away, truly risking their lives, and then suddenly someone gives you a raise, wouldn't you be happy?

Here, you can't live on integrity. Only when you're well-fed can you talk about ideals.

Now, to speak frankly, if someone dared to mess with them, this bunch would rush in faster than anyone else.

Victor's face showed a smile; he seemed to be enjoying the adoration.

"Boss, didn't you say we should keep a low profile?"

"That's just on occasion. Normally, if you got the goods and don't show it, you're asking for trouble!"

The news about handing out money spread like wildfire through the entire prison. Among the more than a thousand jail guards, some were happy, some discontent, and some even ran to ask Webster, causing him a whole mess of trouble.

Deputy Warden's office.

This was much better.

There was a bookshelf, air conditioning, a refrigerator, and even a separate compartment with a bed inside.

"Boss Victor..." Casare frowned, "We're going to incur over 150,000 US dollars in expenses every month for no reason. We can't afford to keep this many people."

The Grand Steward had started to play the poor mouth.

Victor, holding a nail clipper, was filing his nails. "Do you still remember what I told you last time?"

"You mean collecting sanitation fees from the inmates? I'm afraid they won't be willing to pay."

"Won't pay?"

Victor smiled and put the file back in the pen holder basket. "Then we'll flip them. This is police territory. They all have a minimum sentence of 25 years. By the time they get out, they won't even be able to walk, so why should we fear them? Let the jail guards put on hoods, so they won't be recognized."

"Either don't commit a crime, or if you do and end up in our hands, I don't care what gang it is, I'm the boss here, then comes the Mexican Government!"

"Don't be like Webster, who can't even manage a prison properly. Tonight, lead a raid on the Second District to search for contraband. From now on, they can only die if I allow it. If they mess around, beat the hell out of them for me."

"How much money do we have left?"

"110,000 US dollars..." Casare quickly replied.

"First, hand out the money to the emergency response teams, then to the Second District. For the rest, if it's not enough, tell them they'll get it within ten days."

A horse needs to be fed if you want it to run!