Cops and RobbersFiveo1

Is a cop better than a criminal? Is a rotten tomato better than a rotten potato? They both feed the worms.

In Envigado, Colombia — in the holding cells where I spent twenty-four months — there is no justice. There is only transaction. A prison transfer costs money. Not in taxes. Not in fees paid to the court. A penalty paid directly to the badge. Twenty-five thousand dollars. Check their bank account. The deposits don't come from payroll.

The corruption is everywhere. But here's the thing about corruption — it only works if everyone agrees to look the other way. A blind eye is not a defect. It is a choice. A muscle you learn to flex.

I sat in cell three, then cell two. Thirty men in a space meant for ten. One toilet. One shower. No partitions. And through the walls, through the whispers, through the quiet conversations that happen after lights out, I learned how the system really works. The guards don't hate you. That would require emotion. They don't even dislike you. They simply see a number. And that number has a price.

Want a transfer to a better prison? That costs. Want medicine? That costs. Want a message delivered to your family? That costs. Want to see a judge before your twelfth month? That costs more than you have. Once. Twice. More than twice. The transfer swaps hope for cash. Extortion wears a uniform. And the con — the prisoner — learns a hard lesson: the cop who smiles at you today will sell you out tomorrow. Not because he's evil. Because you are inventory.

The words are never spoken out loud. They don't need to be. An echo doesn't need words to hurt. A glance. A nod. A pause at your cell door a little longer than usual. That's the language. That's the negotiation. And the truth? The truth doesn't matter. Not your truth. Not the facts of your case. Not whether you threw a concrete block through a dealership window or stole a loaf of bread or did nothing at all. The truth is irrelevant. What matters is what you can pay.

The prisoner is held for ransom. Not once. Not twice. Every single day. His time stretches on like a rope being pulled through your hands — you can feel it slipping, but you cannot stop it.

Is a cop better than a criminal? I met criminals in those cells. Murderers. Thieves. Traffickers. Men who had done terrible things. And I met cops who took their last pesos and laughed about it over coffee. The criminal will stab you in the front. You see it coming. The cop will shake your hand, promise to help, and cash your money order before the door closes behind him.

A rotten tomato and a rotten potato both feed the worms. They end up in the same dirt. The same darkness. The same digestion. The only difference is the tomato was once red. The potato was once brown. And neither one will save you when you're sitting on a concrete floor in Envigado, counting the days until someone — anyone — decides your time has value again.

This is not an indictment of all police. I have met good cops. Honest cops. Cops who would give you their last cigarette and mean it. But in the holding cells of Envigado, the badge is not a symbol of justice. It is a menu. And everything on the menu has a price.

The truth ignored does not disappear. It waits. It festers. It becomes the mold on the rotten tomato and the sprout on the rotten potato. And when the worms come — and they always come — they do not ask which one was better. They just eat.