“Hey, you can’t park here. I’m talking to you. Are you deaf or are you stupid?” The shout echoed through the courthouse parking lot. Jordana Santos, 37 years old, stepped out of her Honda Civic. Navy blue suit, leather briefcase. She had parked in spot seven—her assigned space. Sergeant Matos was walking toward her. Heavy कदमs, aggressive expression. He didn’t know who she was, but he was about to find out.
“I’m talking to you,” he shouted louder. “Are you deaf or are you stupid?” Jordana took a deep breath. She knew the type. She had seen hundreds like him. “Good morning, officer,” she said calmly. “I parked in my space. Number seven.” “Your space?” Matos let out a mocking laugh. “And who do you think you are to have an assigned space here?” He stopped three meters from her, hands on his hips, uniform impeccable but posture intimidating. Around 45 years old, strong, tall, used to intimidating others. Behind him, Corporal Ferreira was approaching.
Younger, around 30, a crooked smile—the kind who enjoyed watching others be humiliated. “I work here,” Jordana replied politely. “This space was assigned to me.” “You work here?” Matos burst into laughter. “Doing what? Cleaning? Coffee? Are you the new janitor?” Ferreira laughed too. “Or maybe some lawyer’s secretary—but a lawyer? No way. Look at how she’s dressed.” A third officer leaned against a patrol car about 20 meters away. Officer Cardoso, 50 years old, gray hair, a different posture from the other two—more professional.
He watched, frowning. “Gentlemen,” Jordana glanced at her watch. “I need to go in. I have a commitment at nine.” “A commitment?” Matos mocked. “Janitors’ meeting? Cleaning staff breakfast?” “I am not a janitor. I ask that you let me pass.” She picked up her briefcase and tried to go around Matos. “I didn’t give you permission to leave,” he barked, physically blocking her path, invading her personal space. “You stay here until I decide you can go.” Jordana stepped back. “Officer, please, I’m trying to get to work.”
“First prove you work here. Documents. Now.” “My ID is in my bag.” “I don’t want fake ID.” Matos waved his hand aggressively near her. “I want official authorization. Someone to confirm you work here.” “I can call administration.” “No—you’re leaving.” Matos pointed at the car. “Move that miserable car out of here and get out before I arrest you for trespassing on public property.” “Trespassing?” Jordana kept her voice calm, though genuine disbelief showed. “How is it trespassing if I’m in my assigned space?”
“Your space?” Ferreira stepped in from the other side, surrounding her. “That space is for authority—it says so right there.” He pointed to a sign Jordana hadn’t been able to see from where she stood. “Reserved for important people, not for…” He paused, searching for an offensive word that wouldn’t be too explicit. “…for people who clearly don’t belong here.” “I do belong here,” Jordana said firmly. “I’ve worked in this building every day for seven years.” “Seven years?” Matos laughed. “Then you must be very good at cleaning.”
“Seven years scrubbing floors and bathrooms for important people.” “I am not a janitor,” Jordana repeated more firmly. “I have a university degree, postgraduate studies, passed a public exam.” “Oh really?” Ferreira stepped closer. “In what? Specialized cleaning? Gourmet coffee?” Both laughed loudly. The sound echoed across the nearly empty parking lot. Cardoso stepped away from the patrol car and began walking toward them. Slow but determined steps. “Matos, what exactly is going on?”
“Nothing that concerns you, Cardoso,” Matos replied without looking at him. “Go back to the patrol car and stay there.” “You’re surrounding her. That’s not standard protocol.” “I said go back to the patrol car!” Matos roared. “Or do you want to be suspended? Want to lose your salary? Then obey.” Cardoso hesitated, looking at Jordana with concern. She gave him a slight nod, signaling him not to risk it. “Gentlemen,” Jordana tried again, now with tension in her voice. “I’m just going inside. There’s no need for confrontation.”
“Confrontation?” Matos stepped even closer. “Who’s confronting anyone? I’m doing my job—maintaining order, preventing intruders from entering where they don’t belong.” “I am not an intruder.” “Then what are you?” Ferreira asked with malicious curiosity. “Go on. What do you think you are?” Jordana hesitated. She could say it. She could reveal her position—but something stopped her. Maybe principle. She shouldn’t need to prove status to receive basic respect. “I am a public official,” she said finally. “I work in the legal department.”
Leave a Comment