“Mr. Lucas,” the prosecutor began, “can you describe your experience with Officers Matos and Ferreira?”
Lucas took a deep breath. “It was eight months ago. I was coming back from university. I study engineering at USP. It was around 10 at night. I was walking along the sidewalk in my neighborhood.”
“And what happened?”
“A patrol car stopped next to me. It was them.” He pointed at Matos and Ferreira. “They ordered me to stop.”
“And did you stop?”
“Of course. I always stop when the police tell me to. My parents taught me that.” His voice trembled. “I thought it was a normal check.”
“Go on.”
“Sergeant Matos got out and asked what I was doing there. I said my name—Lucas Enrique Silva. I told him I was coming back from class. He laughed. Said I didn’t look like a university student. He asked for my documents.”
“Did you have them?”
“I had everything. ID, tax number, university card. I showed him everything—but he said it could be fake. That people like me don’t study at USP.”
Matos shifted uncomfortably. Ferreira looked down.
“‘People like me?’” the prosecutor asked.
“He didn’t say it directly—but the tone, the way he looked at me… it was clear.”
Lucas wiped sweat from his forehead.
“Then Corporal Ferreira ordered me to empty my backpack.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. I had books, notebooks, a laptop I got through a scholarship. Ferreira grabbed the laptop and said, ‘This is too expensive for you to have bought.’ I said it was from the scholarship.”
“He said it was stolen.”
