(This is part 2. You should start with Part 1 if you haven’t seen it)

I wasn’t robbed… I was actually mugged. No words were exchanged, but they took something off of my person and ran. What’s worse is they mugged me in front of my house. The porch I sit on nearly every morning to drink coffee, browse the internets for signs of life, and (sometimes) smoke. These fucking little goblins hit me at home, and I’m not happy. I wrote most of what follows as it was happening. I held off pushing it to my blog to see if my thoughts would change with a few weeks of perspective. They have not.

What happened in the two days following the mugging:

A detective called me askiung me for an interview. As he put it, they were holding Larry, and Moe, but Curlyhas been released. The ones they were holding are on probation (one juvenile, one adult). They let Curly go because I couldn’t dentify him, but intended to file grand theft and conspiracy on him because the Larry and Moe were willing to squeal on the Curly to make a deal on their probation violation.

He urged me to make a statement. He implied that muggings would continue in my neighborhood if I refused to deal with it now. He told me the Three Stooges were known drug dealers, but not gang affiliated (which seems unlikely—every human interest story from our neighborhood implies you have to be a gang member to survive.) I had to make up my mind in 2 hours, before the Larry and Moe were released and everything dropped.
I thought about it. I called the DA victim’s advocate unit for advice. They put me through to message. I called the nice cop who was leading the investigation yesterday. He wasn’t in the station so couldn’t get back to me. At the advice of a coworker/friend/neighbor who had a great human experience with the captain of the precinct (or just someone higher up), I tried finding this person. The desk seargent wouldn’t put me through, and assured me that my previous message was still being routed appropriately. (No one called me back, btw—ever. The victim’s advocate ignored me, and the policeman handling the case ignored me.)
I called my dad. He agreed it was a messy situation with no right answer. Then he made an interesting comment: It was likely that Curly would go after Larry and Moe before coming after me, because they would be rats. Hmmm. That swayed me a bit.

I called the inspector back, almost ready to make a statement. I asked him “What is going to happen after you interview me?” His response: “I’ll put a note in the Three Stooges’ files. It’s unlikely that the prosecutor will take the case because of the huge holes in your case—You can only identify Larry. But, with that note in their files, if they do another large crime we can whip this out to help that case.”

I declined to press charges or make a statement.

Fuck that. Fuck that in the heart. These goblins need to be put in jail, not given a stern note in their goddamn files. I care a lot less about helping another victim down the line than I do protecting myself and my 6 housemates. The goblins know where I live. They are drug dealers. They are more than likely going to have access to weapons. I don’t want to freak out every time someone drives by my house a little too slowly with tinted windows, or someone at my local convenience store eyes me a little too long.

I am sick to my stomach. I am disheartened. I am enraged. I feel cowardly and weak. I hate that I can’t trust my justice system to do the right thing. I hate that I live blocks away from the most dangerous housing projects in the city. I hate that people that grow up in that horrible system have no end of opportunities to move into a life of crime. I hate that this happened at my home. I hate that they know where I live. I hate that even though I declined to press charges, that they might still come back and do something to me, my family, and my house. I am filled with hate right now, and I hate that too.

I was honest—about only being able to iedntify one of them, and the system punished me for that.