Читать книгу Stolen Cars - Группа авторов - Страница 8

Two years later, we met with Aron at the same bar, but at night this time, while a meeting of the residents’ association was going on next door. Aron is white with black eyes and light, short hair, shaved at the sides. He’s short and athletic with a shy smile. He greeted us with his right hand outstretched, while his left held the key of his new Ford Focus, which he had parked seconds ago. After a few minutes of conversation, he told us that he had actually wanted to be a football player. He said that in 2004, while still very young, he had held high hopes for his career and nearly went to live and play in Switzerland. Even though he was a top scorer in several youth amateur championships, it didn’t work out in the end. Without the support he needed, his career hadn’t taken off.

In 2017, at the age of 34, with his playing days behind him, Aron dedicated himself to “entrepreneurship.” A career, he claims, that led him out of the favela where he was born, also in the East Zone of São Paulo. His entrepreneurship had two distinct branches. On the one hand, sports, but now as an agent for promising young talent from small soccer teams; on the other, drug trafficking, which, thus far, has met all of his material needs.

Wearing a blue t-shirt and a green cap, jeans and sports shoes, Aron proudly showed us pictures on the phone of some of his soccer players, boys of 14 or 15 years old. One of them in particular was worth keeping an eye on; he felt sure that the boy would have a promising sports career. He never once made reference to the other boys of the same age, with the same skin color and the same social background as his soccer pupils, who worked in the drug dens that he runs in the East Zone. Individuals stand out in some trades more than others – and not all trades are best talked about in public.

In a reflective moment during the conversation, Aron asked us if it would be possible to get him a job at the university because he wanted to turn his life around. We told him a little about how the career of an academic works, the study it demands, and the average salary. Aron changed the subject immediately. He then told us that he runs 16 marijuana, cocaine, and crack outlets in the East Zone; he has been involved in drug trafficking since the age of 17, and nowadays a turnover equivalent to some 1,500 MW passes through his bank account on a monthly basis. The monthly salary of a Brazilian university professor at the peak of his career is 15 MW per month. A master’s scholarship is worth 1.5 MW. Aron, born in a favela and involved in the life of the community, earned an income worth no less than 1000 times more than a master’s student, and 100 times more than a university professor.

It’s a lot of money, we say. It’s not an easy job, he says. Trafficking sent him to prison a few years ago, but he escaped, handcuffed, through the front door of the police station. The policeman with him had let his guard down for a moment and Aron ran off as fast as his legs would carry him, ignoring the sound of gunshots behind him. He threw himself down a bank and hid in a swamp. Two years after our conversation, in 2019, Aron was arrested again, now as part of a Civil Police investigation. Thanks to the good lawyers he hired, he got out in two weeks. In 2020, Aron was still up to his neck in crime and was still trying to get out of it.

One event in Aron’s rich life story is of special interest to us: a phone call he made on October 1, 2016. It was to a certain Rosildo, an old partner from the same São Paulo favela, now based in Cuiabá, the capital of Mato Grosso state. Rosildo answered after the first ring. The conversation was friendly, but not free of tension thanks to their shared fears of something not being left clear or coming out on the wrong side of the deal – or being tapped by the police. Experienced thieves and dealers change cell phones practically every week in Brazil. With few words – but trying to make sure of all the details of the arrangement – Aron told Rosildo that “everything was alright” and that he could now ask his boys to “take the pickup” to whoever was supposed to receive it in San Estéban, Bolivia. Rosildo thanked him and hung up.

The following day, the main newspaper in Campos Verdes, Mato Grosso state, reported as follows:

Early Tuesday morning, October 2nd, a family from the city of Campos Verdes was taken hostage and their vehicle, a white 2016 Toyota Hilux pickup, was stolen. Four armed men in a Fiat Siena, also white, held up the Silva-Costa family. The crime, according to the victims, took place around 7am, in the Parque dos Príncipes neighborhood of Campos Verdes. The victims say they were approached by four men. The policemen of the Specialized Border Group (GEFROM) were called in and reported that the Hilux pickup had been stolen and that it was being escorted by the criminals in the Fiat Siena. In addition to the pickup, a motorcycle was also stolen from the victims. […] The suspects are B.J.O (age 20), F.R.G (24), D.D.O (21) and E.C.D (20) the last carrying a 765 handgun [Local Newspaper, October 1, 2016].

Campos Verdes is 1,700 km from São Paulo, close to the border with Bolivia. But the urban world of Campos Verdes and that of Vila Cisper, a neighborhood in São Paulo, share a common genesis. Aron has never been to Campos Verdes, to Mato Grosso, or to the Bolivian city of San Estéban. But he knows the going rates for cars, drugs, and weapons in Campos Verdes like the back of his hand. Ten MW/kg worth of base paste bought in Campos Verdes sells for 50 MW/kg in São Paulo. Revenue was split between him (the owner) and his direct employees: managers, lookouts, and scouts, in addition to the guys who transport the drugs from the border to São Paulo (Feltran and Horta 2018; Hirata and Grillo 2017). Selling at a five times markup is good business by any measure.

In recent years, however, Aron has realized that he could do even better. Aron has learned from PCC contacts about swapping stolen cars for drugs, a popular practice at certain locations along the Brazilian border. Profits are much higher, and the math is simple: a stolen car, exchanged for drugs, greatly reduces the investment needed to sell your cocaine on the retail market in São Paulo. Instead of paying 10 MW for 1 kg of base paste, Aron could pay a few boys 9 MW to steal a Hilux for him – he’d pay even less in Mato Grosso (4 MW) – and then they’d deliver the pickup to a drug trafficker on the Bolivian side of the border (usually for an additional 5 MW). Thus, Aron would obtain 5–7 kg of base paste in exchange for the vehicle.

That’s five to seven times more cocaine than he’d get for paying cash, for an even smaller investment than before.

Swapping cars for drugs is big business. It was clear to Aron that was the way to go, and that’s why the Silva-Costa family was taken hostage in Campos Verdes – 1,700 km away, don’t forget. His cocaine came to São Paulo in a truck that transported soy, one of the main export commodities, hidden in a sealed box at the bottom of the load. The truck driver was an impeccable individual with no criminal record.