Rudy’s Rule of Law November 15
Rule of Law in Mexico? No, not quite. My friend Rudy, is a transplant from Mexico City. He’s about my age, so he’s no longer a young man, and he gets by waiting tables at the Chinese restaurant in town. It’s a bit of a hand-to-mouth existence, and he occasionally borrows money from me to tie him over. Since he never saves money, of course, he can never seem to pay me back the most recent 16 USD he owes me. This is why one should never lend more money than one is willing to lose. For this friend, I am willing to be a loser.
Rudy is a good English speaker, an educated man, an avid baseball fan, and generally a nice guy. As of this morning, he still has 36 hours remaining to serve in the municipal jail. The sentence, as far as I can tell, is completely arbitrary. So too is the fine of 100 USD, which would immediately win his freedom, but, alas, there are no winners to be found today. Rudy has no money, nor do his friends. I would spring him if I could, but I have been short of cash for days since Trump’s election. ATM’s have run out of money, as the peso is crashing, causing gringos like me to boost cash withdrawals while money is cheap.
Instead, I deliver juice, coca cola, and pastries, but not before I fetch my passport for admittance to the casually secure facility next to the plaza. What Rudy really wants is a cigarette, so I first sneak behind the jail and pass a smoke through the barred window without the guards’ noticing. Then I present my identification and enter the Juzgado Municipio. I give the head guard a cold 2-Liter bottle of coca cola. They appreciate gifts. Always make friends with the police, I keep telling myself. Always be respectful, even servile. Always be nice.
I bite my tongue when I see Rudy behind bars. His greying hair, normally sharply combed and parted, is disheveled, his urbane wardrobe ruffled and soiled. His forearms are covered with abrasions and bruises, indicative of his rough treatment last night. His left eye is swollen. I swallow hard as I hand the drinks and food through the bars of his cell. There is a young man sharing the room for some other unlucky incident, and Rudy naturally shares his new supplies with him.
“Are you OK?“
He sees the alarm in my eyes and reassures me that he is OK, that he does not need to see a doctor, that all will be well, if not exactly now than at least 36 hours from now. According to Rudy’s account, a police truck forcibly picked him up late last night in front of his own little house, where he was (perhaps drunk) struggling with a recalcitrant lock on his front door. The municipal cops challenged him, contending, “If the key does not fit, then the house does not belong to you.“
Attempted breaking and entering would be the charge. They roughed him up and manhandled him onto the truck bed. Eventually, he would be given 2 options: 2 days of incarceration or 100 USD. There would be no paperwork, no scheduled arraignment, no judicial or attorney involvement whatsoever, no single phone call, no meals, no recourse.
But what if I were to just enter Rudy’s little house and obtain some proof of his ownership? No matter. At this point in the morning, almost 12 hours into his 48-hour sentence, 100 USD becomes merely the standard service and processing fee. Appealing the impromptu charge and verdict is immaterial and certainly futile now. The police, like everyone else in the civil service, relies on tips to augment their meager wages. Corruption is made simple and convenient. Cash only.
His cell is spartan, dark but mercifully cool, containing nothing more than a toilet, a bench, and a window for viewing the heavens. If Rudy’s spirits are uncharacteristically low today, he accepts his Mal Suerte with a resigned shrug and sly grin.
“What are you gonna do?“ he asks rhetorically. He is more familiar with Mexican justice than I am.
I resist the urge to seethe with discontent but shiver from the chill of it all. The guard enters with his new coke classic, choosing to ignore the obvious tobacco smoke of my contraband. Rudy rubs his aching wrists, and he eyes the guard with weary exasperation. He clearly hasn’t slept in a while. He will almost surely miss work today. He may very well find himself unemployed tomorrow. And he still does not know how he will get into his little house after his sorry release.
“What the fuck?“ reads his expression. The guard meanwhile is noncommittal. This was not his call, we all realize. At least he has his coke. At least he is capable of acts of kindness. We all should be poised for such actions.
Darkness is descending. I grab my passport and head out to find more coca cola and some good Mexican takeout. Tonight I plan to dine in prison.