Arsen Avakov
Ten astonishing stories about bribery in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Published on the TEMA website.
Preface.
Today, we'll set aside the hardened law enforcement "carve-ups," those crafty Byzantines from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, those Midas-like figures in general's uniforms who can turn any tender document into gold with a touch of their hand. We'll give their due to the humble foot soldiers of corruption, the regular fighters of the acquisitive front. Not the scale? Not the intrigue? Don't be indignant, my dear reader, and be fair. After all, it's they who offer us assistance, albeit paid. It's they who, risking their freedom, cautiously take envelopes of banknotes from our hands. It's they who trustingly look us in the eye, "Will you turn me in?" And it's their ranks that the SBU's punitive forces mercilessly thin. It's they who smirk and spit in the faces of the executioners from the Internal Security Service and don't break down in the dungeons of the prosecutor's office. They're assigned to platoons and companies, but each one knows the unit won't even notice the loss of a fighter. Another one will replace him, and rest assured, they'll never surrender, even though every bribe feels like their last stand.
So let's remember the best of them—they deserve it. Besides, behind the dry reports on law enforcement websites, there are astonishing, and sometimes even instructive, stories.
Ten amazing stories about bribes in the Ministry of Internal Affairs (2016 page).
1. Mama's boy.
A mother's care knows no bounds. And even though her son is already an adult and has risen to the rank of police lieutenant colonel, his loving mother, as usual, shouldered the most difficult task – personally accepting the $1,5 bribe her disgraced child demanded from a businessman to keep his business quiet. As a result, the policeman was taken into custody, and his mother was placed under house arrest. So, for now, the lieutenant colonel in the Vinnytsia pretrial detention center is guaranteed his mother's varenyky (dumplings), and then, who knows, he might even get time for it. [1]
2. Gender balance.
On the path to Europe, we all need to rid ourselves of gender prejudices so uncharacteristic of the West. This was understood better than anyone by an employee of the Kyiv territorial service center of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. "If we're going to integrate into Europe, then integrate into Europe," he decided, and first of all, he stopped giving up his seat to women on public transport. Then, he demanded a bribe of 10,000 hryvnia from a woman who was nine months pregnant for a license plate. Simply on principle. How is she any different from a truck driver? Unfortunately, the SBU officers hadn't yet completed the "Tolerance Skills in Gender Equality" seminar, and so they "welcomed" the proponent of gender equality, cash in hand, right in his office.[2]
3. The madness of the brave.
"These people should be made into nails; there wouldn't be any stronger nails in the world." A mediocre detective from the Sumy region demonstrated nerves of steel, an iron will, and unbreakable courage, proving his commitment to the corrupt idea with his actions. The policeman knew that the businessman from whom he was extorting a bribe had already snitched on the matter to the local prosecutor's office, but he didn't back down. Ignoring an arranged meeting during the day, he unexpectedly showed up at the businessman's home in the evening and, pardon the pun, swindled 40,000 hryvnias out of cowardice. Shocked by his brazenness, the prosecutor called the brave detective and, no longer hiding (and why bother – the fact that he'd received the money had been overlooked anyway), warned him bluntly: "If you do this again, we'll hand over the marked bills and hold you accountable." But our hero was in no hurry to light a candle for salvation from the prison or hide his fat body in the cliffs. Surrender is the fate of cowards, so he went to the next businessman with a perfectly reasonable offer: four thousand dollars a month for friendship and a complete absence of problems. And even if the policeman was caught in a car with marked bills, local capitalists will long frighten their children with terrifying tales of the fearless "black operative."[3]
4. The Hound of the Baskervilles.
No, he's not a detective, not an investigator, not even a district police officer. He's a simple head of the migration service sector in the Khmelnytskyi region, who, for a fee, decided to expedite the processing of a foreign passport. But he's a true stoic, demonstrating composure and fortitude in a difficult life situation. During his arrest, he didn't try to jump out of his office window or chew on his collar, but in front of the stunned SBU officers, he began eating evidence. All 1600 hryvnias. Let the enemies not celebrate their victory, but rather make a good mess of him, arranging for a gastric lavage and a gastroscopy to verify the numbers of the chewed bills with those listed in the report.
You might ask, "What does the Hound of the Baskervilles have to do with this?" Bribe money is liberally coated with fluorescent paint that remains on the skin and glows under ultraviolet light. This means that our detainee's mouth glowed like the Hound of the Baskervilles during the search.[4]
5. Neatness and hygiene.
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Who do you think that man is at the next table in the cafe, leisurely putting on gloves? No, that's not right. This isn't a newly converted follower of the great Olga Freimut's sect. He's an investigator from one of the district police departments in the Vinnytsia region, taking a bribe. Of course, ill-wishers might suspect that the cunning detective was doing this to avoid physical contact with the marked banknotes. Unlikely. It's just that the new cop is meticulous in everything, especially when it comes to handling the vile gold. True, the evil wizards of the SBU instantly transformed his gloves into handcuffs. And we can only guess how many gloves a neat investigator would need in a pretrial detention center, where the conditions, frankly, don't meet international standards.[5]
6. School of life.
They say the best way to teach someone to swim is to throw them out of a boat in the deep end. If they survive, they'll be useful, but if not, so be it—they wouldn't have survived the stormy seas of life anyway. That's exactly what two officers from the Kamensk patrol police in Dnipropetrovsk Oblast decided, plunging their young subordinates headlong into the corrupt reality of everyday life. Every patrolman (almost 30 of them, by the way) was required to hand over 1500 hryvnias to management. Monthly and by a strictly specified deadline—between the 25th and 30th. For what? For non-interference in official matters. And also for life lessons, so they wouldn't slack off and understand where the cops get their money. But after three months of practical training in corruption, the teachers were arrested, and a class register with notes on who, when, and how much had been handed in was found in the safe. Apparently, one of the new recruits in my new police force didn't get the idea and, like Judas, betrayed his teacher. However, this is merely the author's conjecture.[6]
7. Belopolsky butcher.
Calm down, calm down. This isn't about a bloody or even a sexual maniac. This is a story about an ordinary district police chief who, along with an operative, simply wanted their due—a 7,000 hryvnia bribe to cover up a crime. Everything was going according to plan, and every sheep was hanging by its own legs. The operative intimidated the "sucker," demanded money, and reported every twist and turn of the bargaining process to his superior by phone. The superior offered sound advice, agreed on amounts, set deadlines, and performed other routine but necessary management tasks. The SBU was monitoring both of them, dutifully recording the most interesting details for its corruption annals. And there was plenty to write about—the superior, with a sensitive soul, suspected something was wrong and would use coded language in conversations with his subordinate: "If you say you need seven kilos of meat," or "Okay, let him give you five kilos for now." Indeed, they handed over five thousand hryvnias in marked bills. Our conspirators were detained on a park lawn during a banquet celebrating a professional holiday, and were graciously given a shot after the traditional toast to the honor of the uniform. One thing alarmed the SBU operatives: when and how the chief managed to spend part of the money, since only 4,400 hryvnias were confiscated from him. And our friends, again, received exactly five years in prison. Well, plenty of time to study the system of measures and weights in light of the hryvnia-to-kilogram conversion.[7]
8. Development of small business.
"Misunderstood, humiliated, detained," the deputy chief of the Kherson regional police department thought bitterly as he walked down the corridor of his department for the last time, his hands cuffed behind his back. The SBU officers had convinced him of the truth of the saying, "The road to hell is paved with good intentions," when they caught him in his office accepting a bribe. The policeman was accused of simply running a protection racket for 20 retail outlets, when in fact he was simply helping entrepreneurs drained by the government's economic policies and thrown onto the streets—pardon the pun—of the regional resort center's waterfront. Yes, it was our policeman, not Comrade Groysman, who facilitated small businesses, allowing the merchants' families to trade illegally and effectively exist. As for the money, the policeman took a reasonable fee—from 1 to 4 hryvnias, depending on the proceeds. And no outright robbery akin to the tax on "dormant sole proprietors." He is a decent man after all.[8]
9. Secretly to the whole world.
Our authorities, akin to nomadic missionaries, are inveterate cynics and liars. From every platform, you hear nothing but "We are building an open society," "Everything must be transparent and in plain sight," but woe betide anyone who believes these Pharisees. What can I say—our righteous ones managed to fool not just any fool in the electorate with their tales, but a criminal investigation officer from the Kyiv regional police department. Having heard enough of the exhortations about openness, sincerely believing and singing "Hallelujah!", the policeman began distributing information about the criminal records and gun permits of Ukrainian citizens to all those in need, fortunately having access to a life-giving source of knowledge—the automated information system of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. An employee was snatched from the clutches of the "Everything Is Seen" sect by SBU inquisitors, who detained him at a public transport stop while accepting yet another donation of 3 hryvnias for information he had provided. "Much knowledge, much sorrow," the SBU agents explained lucidly to the detective, returning him to the bosom of the true faith.[9]
10. Having lied once.
"Lying is bad, but lying on the record—that's, excuse me, downright vile! You shouldn't be prosecuted under the procedural code; you should smash someone's face in with a watermelon," a young, 23-year-old investigator from the capital's district police department slammed his fist on the table.
But wait, dear reader. This is the climax of our story. It began boringly, even trivially. A middle-aged man contacted the Kyiv police and reported being robbed of his valuables and phone. It's a common occurrence—they filed a report, opened a criminal investigation, and began a pre-trial investigation. And then they'd forget about it in the humdrum of heroic everyday life. Only after returning home and calming down did the victim discover the phone in his pocket. He had to return to the police and explain that, well, it turns out the phone hadn't been taken; it was right there, it had fallen into the lining.
It was here that the climactic phrase began our story. But, having calmed down somewhat, the investigator decided to punish the liar not with a watermelon, but humanely – with money (no, reforms are coming, after all – they would have punched him in the face before). Threatening to prosecute him for knowingly falsely reporting a crime, the police officer demanded 5 hryvnias in compensation for his disappointment in people. As you've already guessed (otherwise this story wouldn't have happened), the investigator was detained, searched, and gave a truthful testimony. Of course, how could he have done otherwise – once you've lied, who's going to believe you?
Afterword.
The author was reckless in limiting himself to just 10 stories about bribery in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. There are many, many more. And each story, dramatic and astonishing in its own way, could embellish the great Ukrainian epic "A Thousand and One Bribes," which our contemporaries are diligently writing. There's the action fantasy "I Won't Surrender Without a Fight," about patrol officers chased across Odessa with screeching tires and gunfire, trying to extort an 8 hryvnia bribe. There's the twisty detective story "Who Should Go to Jail?" with its intrigue—what happens when an SBU colonel and a police major decide to extort money from a Chernivtsi smuggler. And there's the philosophical parable "A Gift Horse," about how a police chief in Sumy gave the head of an expert center a tablet for conducting an expert analysis, and how their fates unfolded. And the hilarious humorous piece "The Most Important of the Arts," in which an Odessa investigator so wanted a home theater that he forced the suspect to take out a consumer loan for it, for which he himself acted as guarantor. And the war essay "Strengthen the Armor," with a moralizing story about how a policeman from Bakhmut punished a soldier for going AWOL, demanding 3 hryvnias in ransom, and where the soldier now serves, and where the policeman. And the touching Christmas tale "For Christ's Sake" about starving Transcarpathian patrolmen begging for food from drivers. And... Well, no. This is "Ten Amazing Stories about Bribes in the Ministry of Internal Affairs." Just ten.
On the topic: Dolce vita by ARSEN AVAKOVA: ITALIAN BUSINESS AND OFFSHORE (documents)
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