I imagine that after getting robbed, most people fantasize about what they would do or say if they ever caught up with the guy that did it. I know I did. But reality and fantasy rarely align. And if they do, then you might be a porn star--in which case you have other problems. One thing is certain, the very last emotion starring in my vigilante vengeance fantasy was compassion.
The thief (we’ll call him Juan) robbed us on September 25th in the middle of the day; terrifying my wife who was home on maternity leave at the time. The entire episode was caught on my home security cameras which I edited into this humorous little YouTube gem: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4V2VwkVqdAU
The video was an attempt to make my wife feel better. And, I suppose, also a form of apology. It is possible, although not certain, that I may have been the one to suggest that we store our bikes in the garage rather than the basement (where they resided for 5 years after her last bike was stolen from the garage).
Anyway, I filed the requisite police report and notified the local neighborhood media. I even attended my first ever Chicago Alternative Policing Strategy (“CAPS”) meeting. And much to my surprise, CBS channel 2 news thought it was interesting enough to run a small story on the 10 o’clock news (slow news day?).
Another thing I did was to post the entire incident on a website called nextdoor.com. It's like Facebook but for neighborhoods. About three days after the break-in, I got a message from a neighbor that I've never met before. He said he was sure he'd seen the guy about four blocks away from my house. And a few days after that, he sent me another message saying he was sure he'd seen him again going into a liquor store up on Hollywood and Clark.
I have no idea why, but on the night of October 17th, I decided to take the scenic route while driving my daughter home from school. Instead of turning onto my street, I went north an extra four blocks and turned the corner onto Hollywood--I was sitting just across from this infamous liquor store--listening to my daughter sing the theme song to Bubble Guppies (she has fantastic pitch).
Now, I don't believe in fate or cosmically informed coincidence... And yet, as I turned my head and looked across the street, I saw a man who looked awfully familiar. In fact, he had on a dark cap, tan pants, and white sneakers with a black and silver backpack--I was almost immediately certain that I was staring at the man who stole my bike. What are the odds?
What to do? What to do? With my daughter in the car, there was no parking and confronting him. And should I even consider confronting him? Seems like a bad idea, right? And yet??? What would my wife say? “No Idiot! Call the cops, bring your daughter home, help me with your newborn son, and come take out the garbage. You should have never put the bikes in the garage in the first place! Now rub my feet!”, I heard in my head.
I definitely could've called 911 right then. But I just wasn't certain enough. I wanted to be sure. With this recognition, I raced home, parked the car and shuffled my daughter into the house. I then raced past the garbage bags, wife, and offspring; grabbed a different jacket, and sprinted back out the front door and up Clark Street toward where I’d last seen him.
Damn. Nowhere, I thought after traversing the 3 blocks to where I guessed he would be. I looked around and resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to find him.
"Hey man, you have any spare change to help me out with?" Said a man approaching me from behind a parked car.
You have to be effing kidding me, I thought. It was him.
"No man, sorry I don't have anything on me." Now what? Let him go? Follow him and call 911?
"So what's up? Why are you asking for money?"
What am I doing???
"I'm homeless, man. I'm trying to find a job but it's hard right now."
This went on for a little bit longer: Him explaining why life is hard and me nodding my head and appearing to be sympathetic. We reached the point of conversation where it was time to either part ways or take things in a different direction.
"Hey, can I show you something? "I said.
WHAT AM I DOING???
He came closer to me as I pulled my phone out and flicked through a few pictures pausing on the ones of him in my backyard.
"That's you man. You're in these pictures. You stole my bike."
I tensed up a little bit, expecting him to either run or attack me--or at least angrily deny it. But instead, he raised his hand to his head and started wiping the sweat that had suddenly appeared there. “I’m real sorry, man. Please don’t call the cops man. I’ll do anything. I can pay you back. $100 bucks a week. Cool? Just don’t call the cops. PLEASE!.” I told him first things first. I wanted him to confess to what he did on video. Much to my amazement, he did: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdPkcsYa-aY
I assume he confessed because he actually did believe I was going to let him go--give him “another chance”. And I have to admit, the begging and pleading wrapped in his never-ending story of personal woes was starting to get to me. But at the same time, I knew I was being worked. In fact, among other things, he admitted that he had priors and was currently on parole. There really was no option but to get him arrested. There was no question he would keep stealing. But how was I going to calm him down long enough to call 911 while he was standing right next to me?
I said "let's walk". And we walked. He told me more about his life; that he was Cuban and that he had come here when he was seven. He had no family and steals to support his drug habit. Every other sentence a new plea not to call the police.
I asked, "Have you ever heard of the CAPS officer? " He hadn't. I explained that it was a community-based Beat Cop. Someone who could resolve issues like this “offline”. Which, of course, is not exactly true.
I told him I got to know our local CAPS officer (thanks to him) and I would give him a call. I would stay with him while we talked it out. This made him very agitated. I said, "Look, even if I let you go, the cops know what you look like--they have the video. We need to clear this up with them. I'll stay with you, we’ll do it together "
I called 911.
For obvious reasons it was very confusing to the 911 operator that I was standing next to the guy who had robbed me.
"Are you in distress?"
"Nope"
"Are you restraining him?"
"Nope"
"Soooooo you're basically hanging out?"
The next 4 minutes were filled with awkward chit chat… "So what's your favorite street in Andersonville?" "Catch the bulls game last night?... Oh right. Homeless. Never mind." And then a rush of bright blue swirling lights; squad cars arrived simultaneously from three different directions.
"Where is the guy?" The closest officer asked from his car. I pointed left across my chest.
"Oh. Him?"
"Juan!", another officer said. "I thought we were turning our life around??? What happened?"
Apparently my new friend was an old friend of the neighborhood boys in blue.
At the request of the officers, I headed home to burn more copies of the original surveillance footage. I caught Erica up and admitted, for reasons I can't fully explain, I felt guilty. Guilty about arresting a guy who robbed us. Why?
"You probably don't feel guilty for him, " Erica suggested, "you feel sad that there's people like him in these type of hopeless positions." Maybe that was it, it was definitely an unexpected emotion. However, once I arrived at the police station, the officers quickly muted my guilt. “I’ve arrested this guy twice personally.” one officer said. “He’s a really nice guy, but he just keeps stealing. This has got to be like number forty!” Forty? I even heard some of the cops behind the front desk saying “Is that Juan in the back? Again?”
At over fifty years old, he’d been living in or around Andersonville for forty years. And for a decent chunk of that time, stealing was his primary profession. And yet, this guy was as far from a hardened criminal as I could imagine. He was afraid. So afraid he couldn't even run away from me. I didn’t really feel guilty anymore. There was no option but to have him arrested. He would have just stolen from others to pay me back assuming he didn’t bolt altogether. And yet, what is this lingering feeling? Empathy? Compassion? I’m honestly not sure yet.
The city is fascinating. So many different lives bottled up so closely together. And still, we can build bubbles around what we like and ignore what we don’t.
Until someone steals your bike.
UPDATE:
Roughly 4 months after writing this post, I got a call from the State's Attorney regarding my friend the garage burglar. He plead guilty and got 8 years. In all likelihood, he will serve 4 for good behavior. This will represent his 10th felony conviction for burglary. Interestingly, the Police district commander contacted the State's Attorney in an effort to push for more jail time. Apparently the number of calls on garage thefts has plummeted since Juan has been in custody. This remains a somewhat bittersweet victory though. It's always cool to nab someone that robbed you... and very rare. But this guy's life is just plain depressing. His entire adult life will consist of jail, stealing, and drugs--a deeply related and seemingly irreversible cycle.
And with that, I will put my glasses back on and fold and pack my cape.
No comments:
Post a Comment