Working as a police officer in Mexico

"What do you hope I will answer?"

"Or rather, what answer do you want to hear?"

Victor neither denied nor admitted anything, just stared straight at Casare.

There was no need to ask; it was clear enough that the explosion yesterday was his doing, and it was indeed aimed at Haggis.

Casare was half-open-mouthed, "But you're a cop."

Victor, on the other hand, was completely relaxed, pinching something sticky between his fingers and sniffing it under his nose, "Of course, I've always been a cop, and I've often been proud of that fact."

He pushed himself up from the table with both hands and stood up with a sinister look on his face, "But if Haggis wants me dead, then I'll tell him, offending Jesus might not get you into heaven, but offending me, I'll make him die today, fuck it. In Mexico, if he plays with my life, I'll take him down first."

Casare was frightened by Victor's almost insane remarks.

"Are you really a..."

"Mad dog?" Victor finished the sentence for him, leaned back, laughing happily, and pointed around, "How many do you think here are cops? They are all undercover agents sent by drug traffickers from the outside, coming here for the money. The national flag they hang outside feels too rough even for wiping their asses.

For people like you and me, with no background, no education, no culture, what else can we compete with except our lives?"

"Now even selling sperm requires an educational background check! What's your education?"

"I know you have three siblings still in school, and your mother sews clothes for others. After you send your salary home, how many times a month can you afford women? The ones you're with are of low quality, really low-class. Your ex-girlfriend, didn't she run off with some rich guy? If you had money, would she have left?

You could have any woman you wanted, and if tonight you say you want to have children with a female lawmaker, throw the money down, and by the afternoon she'd have her IUD removed. Money, it can do a lot of things."

"Want to join me?"

Victor had gone through Casare's resume. To put it flatly, the guy was as innocent as a white lotus flower, or in other words, always the good boy who did whatever mom said – study, drop out, take exams, become a cop.

It all looks smooth-sailing, but the accomplishments of your lifetime can just be brushed aside with a bribe from a drug trafficker.

"I promise you, you'll earn at least 1000 Pesos more a month."

Casare's breathing quickened at that, but he didn't speak up.

Victor wasn't in a rush, stood up, and patted his shoulder, "If you're interested, you can come to my room after work tonight. You know what to do about Haggis, right?"

Victor didn't wait for his answer and left.

Stunned, Casare's mind raced as he sat there. He'd always thought Victor was as honest as himself, but now it seemed that was all a damn disguise.

"Hey, Casare, you done eating? Time to clean up." The cafeteria's on-duty jail guard came over, saw him still sitting there, and called out a bit impatiently.

He hurried up, apologetically waved at the guard, and watched as the unfinished mashed potatoes were dumped into the bucket, swallowing hard.

A thought suddenly flashed through his mind.

If I had money, probably no one would rush me at mealtime, right?

…

Third District.

In Plateau Prison, it's like a lonely city unto itself, isolated, constantly buzzing with high-voltage electricity, equipped with its own cafeteria, rest area, and work zones. It looks very strict.

But it's actually just a load of crap.

Later, when Guzman was caught in February 2014, his son paid a jail guard to smuggle in a GPS-tagged watch, then spent a whole year from the outside digging a 1.5 km long, over 10 meters deep, 1.7 meters high, and 75 cm wide tunnel, complete with lighting and ventilation.

On July 12, 2015, under surveillance, Guzman escaped from prison again!

So, Mexican Prisons are just a freaking joke.

If you haven't broken out of jail a few times, do you even dare call yourself a Big Drug Trafficker?

But on the surface, Third District was still very "strict". On entering, I passed through four checkpoints, including name and photo comparison, and full-body contraband check.

Once all the checks were done, I was led to Kona Belask, the person in charge of Third District, a stocky Senior Police Sergeant.

"Welcome, Sergeant Victor," he said, seeming very friendly and even reaching out to shake my hand.

Victor blinked his right eye. Now, whenever he meets a "strange" superior, he has to figure them out first for a sense of security.

Kona Belask.

Male.

Born in 1952 in Monterrey, Nuevo Leon.

…

Has been the in-charge of Third District of Plateau Prison since he was 31.

Criminal points: 1500.

These points were about five times Haggis, one and a half times Mil Baird.

Not that he was meaner than the other two, but because he had more influence and a father-in-law who was the Director from Sinaloa State behind him.

Tsk tsk tsk...

As long as you actively cooperate with the rule of the Sinaloa Cartel, you're basically the Emperor around here.

"Heard you were injured before? How are you now? All better?" Kona Belask asked like an old friend.

"Much better, thank you for your concern, sir," Victor replied.

The other man nodded, flipping through Victor's brought-in resume folder, and casually mentioned, "Those bastards are utterly lawless. I heard that Hoyle is a small-time leader of the Gulf Group; take care of yourself. And if you need anything, you can come to me."

Victor got the hint at once.

Sinaloa and Gulf Group were rivals, often at each other's throats over market shares – today you kill my mother, tomorrow I kill your lover, just like what "Godfather" Gallardo said when he got caught.

"Without me, the beasts will have no restraint!"

Victor was no fool, he certainly wouldn't turn away such freely offered amiability. Pushing everyone to the opposition was what real idiots did.

"I'll be counting on you in the future."

He picked up the lighter from the table and lit Cona Belask's cigarette, who was holding one in his mouth.

Appropriate flattery was all about making life easier.

Dignity?

Worthless.

Before Guzman became famous, he even resorted to stealing cars.

Any boss that made a name for himself, which one had it easy?

Some things, if you weren't born with them, you probably won't get them in this lifetime, but some people refuse to accept their fate, which means you have to give up a lot.

For instance: dignity.

Do you think it's a joke for the poor in Mexico to talk about dignity?

Cona Belask was clearly very satisfied with Victor's attitude, holding the cigarette in his hand, "The Third District used to have a deputy, but he got involved in a shootout while on vacation and was killed."

"From now on, you'll take over his duties, arranging patrols for the jail guards, roll calls for prisoners, armory weapons inventory..."

That was more power than he ever had in the Second District.

"Anywhere can be chaotic, but as long as those drug lords stay within the Third District, let them do whatever they want. Even if they ask you for condoms, you satisfy them."

Victor wasn't rash, he lowered his stance considerably, putting on a "I'm new here, I don't understand, you're the boss" look.

"I'll have someone take you to get familiar with the office," Cona Belask pressed the desk phone, "Anna, come in."

Someone responded from the other side.

You could tell by the voice that she was well-endowed.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. The sound of high heels tapping rhythmically on the floor came through, and as Victor turned his head, he saw a tall figure wearing a police uniform, with her breasts almost bursting out.

It was particularly eye-catching.

What else would a man look at first if not the chest? The heart?

"Anna, this is the new deputy warden of the Third District, Victor Carlos Vieri."

"Hello, officer," Anna saluted, seemingly shaking her arm intentionally or unintentionally, causing her chest to bounce along automatically.

This was a woman who knew how to use her assets well.

"I'm the head of the Third District's psychological counseling intervention team, and if you have any physical or psychological needs, I can arrange for them."

The Third District has this kind of service?

Why did it sound like she was soliciting?

Mr. Gao blinked.

The message about her was clear at a glance.

Reading the "resume," Victor had an aha moment, his eyes filled with confusion.

He wasn't wrong, Anna was indeed for sale, part of a "night owl" prostitution organization, which belonged to Juarez's operation, doing business even within the prison, mainly providing sex services to the big shots inside.

Charging hundreds and even thousands of US dollars per time.

Just with this, Tijuana could make millions of US dollars a year.

Damn!

This was absurdity opening the door for absurdity—it reached the pinnacle of absurdity.

No wonder many drug traffickers were even willing to go to prison, where they could ensure their safety and control their organizations remotely. In prison, they could live more comfortably than outside, assuming of course they didn't encounter an underling growing too powerful, like the Los Zetas under the Gulf Group later on.

"Take Sergeant Victor to look at the office," Cona Belask said. "I have a meeting to go to in a bit."

Anna nodded with a smile.

Exiting the office, Anna walked in front, her hips swaying more provocatively than a swinging fan. She led the way to the adjacent room, twisted open the door, "Sergeant Victor, this was the former deputy warden's office. Take a look, if there's anything you don't like, I'll have someone throw it all out."

Victor glanced inside, where everything was tidily decorated, with a bookshelf that held world-famous titles, and he even spotted two works from China.

He casually pulled open a drawer, and there lay an envelope, raising an eyebrow.

"I heard there was a new head of the Third District yesterday, this is a welcome gift from the gentlemen..."

The gentlemen must be a veiled reference to the drug traffickers.

Victor peeked through an opening he made and saw colorful money inside.

"It's fifty thousand Pesos in total," Anna said, observing the young officer's clearly surprised expression.

A sense of conquest rose from the depths of her heart.

"Anna," Victor glanced at her shoulder patch, "Corporal, could you do me a favor?"

"Of course."

Anna smiled invitingly, already prepared to take off her clothes.

"Could you help me break down this fifty thousand Pesos? Who among the gentlemen gave, and who did not?"