Working as a police officer in Mexico.

Chapter 678 Empathy Crime?

The headquarters of the Global Times.

Editor Juan clutched the anonymous letter in his hand. It had been slipped in through the mail slot at the back door of the newspaper office in the early hours of the morning. There was no signature, only a few lines typed on a typewriter: "The president has ordered that if the command post is not secured, the army will launch a full-scale assault on Rossinia, regardless of the lives of the hostages!!"

Juan didn't dare delay and delivered the letter directly to the editor-in-chief's office.

The next day, when the first newspaper with the bold headline was delivered to a newsstand on the street, the Brazilian public, unaware of what was going on, was in an uproar.

At the newsstand by the beach on the coast of Bahia, the salty sea breeze, carrying the heat of the sand, hits you in the face.

"My God! Look at this headline! The president is actually disregarding the lives of hostages? Those are living, breathing people!"

The old man selling coconuts next to him was slowly peeling coconut shells with a curved knife when he heard the noise. He looked up abruptly, his wrinkles instantly filled with astonishment.

He hurriedly pushed his reading glasses up his nose, shakily leaned towards the newspaper, his cloudy eyes scanning the bold headlines repeatedly. A string of Portuguese profanities burst from his mouth, thick with a Bahia accent: "These bastards! Have they lost their conscience? There are children in Rocinha! There are old people! A full-scale assault? This is murder! Only an executioner would do this!"

He became more and more agitated as he cursed, and with a loud clang, the curved knife in his hand slashed at the coconut!

"Son of a bitch!"

Not far away, several tourists who had just come from the beach were wiping the water droplets from their faces. Hearing the commotion, they came over and gathered around. A woman in a floral dress leaned over, read the headline, gasped, and suddenly covered her mouth with her hands. Her exclamation escaped through her fingers: "My God! I just bought some handmade jewelry at the market in Rocinia. The people there are so kind! How can they be so inconsiderate of their lives?"

"kind?"

A friend next to me scoffed, “Brazil is just like Mexico, full of bastards. All they do is traffic drugs and smuggle. Oh, and they play football really well.”

The woman gave him a disapproving look. "You're being racist, John."

The other person curled their lip.

Even God is racist. If He didn't discriminate, why would there be so many races?
The newspaper sold out in less than an hour.

Immediately afterward, another newspaper leaning towards the opposition, the Brazilian Daily, also jumped on the bandwagon. They somehow dug up even more sensational material, exaggerating the president's statement in the meeting room the previous night, "If all else fails, we'll resort to force," into "The president threatened to 'sacrifice a few hostages to save the country's face.'" They also included a blurry photo of a body outside the Copacabana Hotel, with the caption, "Next, it could be your family."

In 90s Brazil, there was no internet, and news was delivered entirely through newspapers, radio, and street flyers.

In the "Morning Livelihood" program on São Paulo Radio, host Louis's voice trembled with a deliberate attempt to evoke emotion: "Listeners, we have just received reliable information that the Presidential Palace has rejected the Red Command's request for negotiations and instead ordered the army to set up mortars. Think of the children still in the hotels, think of the elderly in the hospitals. Will they have to pay the price for the president's uncompromising stance?"

At noon, more than two hundred people gathered by the breakwater at Copacabana Beach. The leader was a college student named Ricardo, wearing a plaid shirt, who was holding a piece of cardboard with the words "No bloodshed, we want negotiations" written crookedly in red paint.

The people behind him shouted, their voices gradually rising from scattered to unified, eventually drowning out the sound of the waves.

Some people held up photos of hostages clipped from newspapers; in the photos, French tourists had wide-open eyes and tears streaming down their faces. Others held banners that read, "Why can't there be peace!"

The crowd grew larger and larger, moving from the breakwater to Atlantic Avenue and then towards the Presidential Palace. Passing the Copacabana Palace Hotel, someone picked up a stone from the roadside and threw it at the hotel entrance. Although the door was welded shut, the stone struck the glass with a loud clang, only to elicit a more enthusiastic response. Several drug dealers carrying AK-47s peered out from the hotel's second-floor terrace and actually waved at the protesters. Some even threw down several bottles of water, eliciting a chaotic cheer from below.

"Look! They're not demons!" someone shouted, seizing the opportunity. "They're willing to give us water, but the president wants to blow this place up!"

"They are kind!"

By 1 p.m., downtown São Paulo was in chaos.

Thousands of workers, carrying tools, blocked the front of the state government building, chanting slogans such as "Stop the assault." Someone set fire to a newspaper, and the flames drifted with the wind to a car parked on the side of the road. With a "bang," the car windows shattered all over the ground.

When the police arrived, they only had high-pressure water cannons and tear gas—Brazilian police equipment in the 90s was far less sophisticated than it is today, and they had no choice but to charge through the out-of-control crowd.

Amidst the smoke of tear gas, some people were knocked down by water cannons, others threw bricks at the police, and a bespectacled teacher, coughing while covering his nose, was still shouting: "Violence won't solve anything! Talk to the drug dealers!"

The crystal chandelier in the Presidential Office’s oval office cast a somber glow.

The Brazilian president's shadow stretched long; the cigar between his fingers had burned to the end, his brows were furrowed, and his hands were still trembling slightly.

"It's not out of control, it's a conspiracy."

He stubbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray, his voice laced with suppressed anger, his gaze sweeping over National Security Advisor Fernando standing at the table. "Look at these signs—negotiations, not bloodshed—exactly the same rhetoric as the Brazilian newspaper this morning! And those people throwing stones at the hotel, who gave them the guts?"

Fernando had beads of sweat on his forehead.

He had followed the president for many years and knew his temperament well. The president was able to defeat opposition leader Neymar by a landslide in the election by his "iron-fisted anti-drug" slogan, but now the situation was sliding in the worst possible direction.

The people are easily swayed, or rather, the people of Latin America are easily manipulated.

"Sir, the protesters have exceeded five thousand people. The governor of Rio de Janeiro just called to say that the riot police are about to be overwhelmed. Should we... temporarily postpone the assault plan and issue a statement to appease the public first?"

"Shelved?" The president stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the scattered protesters gathered in the square outside the presidential palace.

"To put things on hold is to admit defeat! Neymar is waiting to see me compromise, the drug dealers are waiting for me to back down, and the incited masses are waiting for me to apologize... But who remembers how many drugs were hidden in Rocinha? Who remembers the three policemen shot dead by the Red Command last month?"

He suddenly turned around and slammed his finger heavily on the hostage list on the table. "If I compromise, drug traffickers all over Brazil will learn to kidnap hostages tomorrow, and this country will be finished!"

Fernando opened his mouth, but didn't dare to try to persuade him further.

He knew the other party's concerns. In 1994, Brazil had just experienced hyperinflation, and the public's trust in the government was already fragile. If he showed weakness in front of drug dealers, not only would his ruling foundation be shaken, but the opposition party would also seize the opportunity to launch an impeachment.

But the current situation is even more complicated: the radio is playing the protesters' shouts on a loop, the newspapers are full of headlines like "President Disregards Lives," and even the military is quietly sending messages that soldiers have reservations about the order to "storm regardless of hostages."

"Have the intelligence department keep an eye on Neymar,"

The president took a deep breath, his tone softening slightly but becoming even more sinister, "He was unwilling to accept defeat back then, and now he definitely wants to use this incident to bring me down. Also, have the army move the mortars to places where the public can't see them, so as not to hand the opposition a weapon."

Fernando had just nodded in agreement when the office phone suddenly rang urgently.

He listened for a couple of sentences, his face instantly turning grim. He turned to his boss and said, "Sir, the opposition has held an emergency press conference, which is being broadcast live."

The president grabbed the television remote from the table and pressed the switch.

Neymar immediately appeared on the screen. The opposition leader, dressed in a well-fitting dark suit and with his hair neatly combed, stood on the steps, surrounded by dozens of reporters holding microphones.

The lamplight in the night illuminated his face, making him appear exceptionally sincere.

“I know all of Brazil is anxious right now,” Neymar’s voice came through the television speakers, his tone full of sorrow. “Rocinha has children, the elderly, ordinary citizens, and people… driven to the brink by life. The president says he wants to preserve the country’s dignity, but I want to ask, when our compatriots fall in the gunfire, where is the country’s dignity?”

Upon seeing this sentence, the president's breath caught in his throat, his eyes narrowed, and his expression turned ugly!

Such a show!

nausea!

Nemar paused, gestured to the quiet group of reporters, and continued: "Brazil is big enough to accommodate different voices, big enough to accommodate people who need to be understood, including those who take up arms. Why can't we sit down and talk? Why use artillery shells instead of dialogue? The lives of hostages are not a minority; they are the bottom line in the hearts of every Brazilian. Likewise, the lives of drug traffickers are the lives of our compatriots."

Off-screen, the president slammed his fist hard on the table.

"Madman...bastard! He just wants to compromise with the drug dealers!"

Fernando watched the scene on TV where Neymar was surrounded by reporters, then looked at the president's ashen face.

The radio was just reporting that protesters in Rio have begun storming arms depots, while workers in São Paulo have even reached a "temporary ceasefire" with the police, marching together towards the state legislature with signs saying "Let's talk."

……

The rain in Paris always comes unexpectedly.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, in front of the newsstand next to the Champs-Élysées, rainwater flowed down the dark green tin roof and splashed on the ground.

Jacques, the newsstand owner, was wiping the cover of *Le Monde* with a rag. The front page photo of a Rossina favela was blurred at the edges by rainwater. In the photo, a Brazilian child was peering through barbed wire, clutching half a piece of dry bread. Army armored vehicles could be vaguely seen in the background. "Sir, would you like a copy of *Le Monde*?"

Jacques looked up and saw a man in a camel-colored trench coat standing under the awning, holding a soaked subway ticket in his hand. The man took the newspaper, and his brows furrowed as soon as his fingertips touched the headline "Brazil: Hostages and Public Opinion Under Fire."

"They're actually going to storm the slums?"

The man spoke French with a Belgian accent. Pointing to the armored vehicle in the photo, he said, “I just went to Rio last month to do business. In the markets of Rocinha, women were handing out handmade bracelets to tourists, and children were chasing after ice cream trucks… This isn’t a crackdown on drug dealers, it’s a massacre!”

Jacques smiled; he didn't care who died.

He only cares about whether there are big news stories; as long as there are, he can do a lot of business!

A sudden commotion broke out in the rain.

A group of students carrying placards walked from the direction of the Arc de Triomphe. The girl leading the group had a red headband and held a cardboard sign that read in Portuguese and French, "Brazilian children are bleeding! The EU cannot turn a blind eye! We want Brazilians to know that Europe supports peace!"

Half of the thirty-odd students following behind her were holding up photos of the hostages copied from Brazilian newspapers.

In less than two hours, the topic of "Brazil ceasefire" climbed to the top of the trending searches on social media platforms across Europe.

Europeans and Americans love to do this kind of thing.

Outside La Scala in Milan, Italy, soprano Elisabeth, accompanied by more than twenty opera singers, stood on the steps and sang "Ave Maria".

She wore a long black dress and held up a sign that read "Life is above all else." Her singing pierced through the noise of the square, and many passersby stopped in their tracks. Some hummed along, while others took out paper and pens from their bags, wrote their names, and stuffed them into the "Support Brazil" cardboard box.

"I have been to Rocinha."

During a break in her performance, Elizabeth addressed the gathered reporters, her voice trembling with emotion, "The elderly people there cook black bean rice for me and give me scarves knitted by their granddaughters. They are not appendages of drug dealers; they are ordinary people! The Brazilian president wants to bomb their homes, but the EU remains silent. This is not how civilization should be!"

Trafalgar Square in London is even more lively.

Thousands of people gathered at the Nelson Monument.

"Why can't Brazil learn from Norway and resolve issues through negotiation?"

A bespectacled student stood on the steps, waving a Brazilian flag, and shouted, "Victor, that tyrant, killed drug dealers in Mexico, and now the Brazilian president wants to follow his example. Is violence the only answer?"

Cheers erupted from the crowd, and someone lit a banner that read "Refuse to become the second Mexico." The flames leaped high in the London wind, illuminating the lion statue in the square.

These voices quickly found their way into European studios.

During the recording of the BBC's "Evening Talk Show," the spotlight shone on host Tom and guest, Italian actor Riccardo.

The conversation initially revolved around the protests in Brazil. Ricardo, holding his coffee cup, said in a somber tone, "When I see the photos of Brazilian children, I'm reminded of my nephew in Naples. They should be playing football in the park, not hiding in the favela afraid of bombs..."

Before he could finish speaking, an audience member suddenly shouted, "Victor is the culprit!"

Ricardo slammed down his coffee cup, his eyes lighting up as if a fuse had been lit: "You're right! Everyone's saying the Brazilian president is wrong, but nobody mentions Victor of Mexico! That hypocrite!"

He stood up, faced the camera, and his voice suddenly rose, “He said he was ‘iron-fisted in fighting drugs,’ but how many of the drug dealers he killed were ordinary vendors? How many children became orphans because of his cleanup efforts? He wasn’t upholding justice at all; he was enjoying the thrill of killing!”

The scene erupted in uproar; some in the audience applauded while others gasped in shock.

Tom hurriedly reached out to stop him, but Ricardo shook him off: "Why can't I say it? He's a dictator and tyrant! If Brazil gets too close to him, the next place to be bombarded will be the beaches of Rio! Those European politicians don't dare to say it, but I will. Victor's hands are covered in blood!"

He became increasingly agitated as he spoke, grabbing the script on the table and throwing it to the ground: "What do you think he was talking to Brazil about oil for? He wanted to turn Latin America into his own backyard! The bigwigs in the EU are afraid, so they tolerate us criticizing the Brazilian president but dare not mention Victor. Is this what you call 'civilization'?"

The recording of the program was forced to stop.

It's worth noting that "The Late Show" has over a million viewers and supporters in many places.

The phone at the Mexican embassy in the EU was ringing off the hook, reporters blocked the door demanding answers, and some people protested by holding up photos and chanting slogans like "Get out of Latin America."

Meanwhile, at the headquarters of the Brazilian opposition party, Neymar was watching a rerun of a talk show clip on television, a smile playing on his lips.

"Sir, an EU NGO just called, saying they're willing to provide us with human rights aid funds." The assistant handed over a document, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "And a right-wing party in France would like to invite you to give a speech in Paris next month."

Neymar took the document, looked up at the window, picked up his phone, dialed Elizabeth's number, and said in a gentle tone: "Thank you for speaking up for Brazil. Your singing has made Europe hear our demands... Yes, we need more people to know that violence cannot solve problems, including Victor's violence."

After hanging up the phone, Neymar leaned back on the sofa, looking at the map of Brazil on the wall. Rocinha's location was circled in red, with the word "breakthrough point" written next to it.

The afternoon sun in Mexico City always carries a touch of the intense heat unique to the highlands.

Casare practically stepped over his own shadow as he rushed in, not even bothering to wipe the sweat from his temples.

Instead of the usual long table in the center of the office, there was a beige carpet with several boxes of wooden building blocks scattered around.

Brutus is almost two years old. Wearing a bright yellow onesie, he is lying on the carpet, stacking a blue block on top of his "castle".

Victor knelt down beside him, patiently waiting for his son to adjust the angle: "Slow down, Brutus, this piece needs to be positioned between the two blue pieces, otherwise it will collapse."

Belsaria sat on the single sofa next to him. Hearing footsteps, she looked up at Casare and nodded gently.

It seems she wasn't affected by the infidelity.

Casare abruptly stopped in his tracks.

“Boss…” Casare’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and he couldn’t help but speak, his voice eight octaves lower than usual, “Do you know about the situation in Brazil, and what’s going on in Europe?”

Brutus heard the sound, raised his head curiously, stared at Casare with his round eyes, and held up a green building block, making babbling noises.

Victor reached out and touched his son's head, his fingertips brushing against Brutus's soft hair, before slowly standing up.

He pointed to the armchair next to him: "Sit down. Speak slowly."

Casare then dared to sit down, placed the folder on the coffee table, and began to speak rapidly again: "The Brazilian Neymar has made a huge fuss! He's pulled in EU NGOs and contacted right-wing parties in France. Now the whole of Europe is talking about 'Brazil is going to massacre the city,' and you've been dragged into it too. Did you see the BBC talk show? That Italian actor Riccardo called you a dictator and tyrant in front of a million viewers, saying your hands are covered in blood, and that Brazil is learning your violent methods!"

"That's utter nonsense! I'd beat him to a pulp if I saw him!"

Victor didn't say anything, but simply took a cigar out of his pocket.

"Neymar has a very shrewd plan."

Half a minute later, Victor spoke, his voice calm, “He knows that the Brazilian president’s weakness is the public’s trust, and he also knows that my weakness is the ‘Latin American landscape.’ By dragging me into this, he can divert the Brazilian people’s attention, use the pressure from the EU to force the Brazilian president to compromise, and also damage my influence in Latin America—a triple win.”

"Then what should we do?"

Casare urged, "Should we issue a statement immediately? Or contact the Brazilian president and offer him some support? Or, should we have the intelligence agencies investigate Neymar's connections with the EU and find dirt on him?"

"No hurries."

Victor shook his head. "I've already spoken to him on the phone. The Brazilian president doesn't want to compromise. What he fears is public protests and the military's wavering. The more Neymar uses the EU to pressure him, the more resentful he will become. Nobody wants to be a president controlled by Europe."

"The clash of two opinions and two attitudes has reignited the ideological war in Brazil."

"Then throw money!"

"If they can bribe the media, can't I? I'll get TV stations to broadcast the crimes of drug traffickers on a loop, and Mexico has enacted 'empathy crime,' meaning any act of sympathizing with drug traffickers is against the law!"

……

(End of this chapter)