I CAUGHT HIM STEALING MY T.V.

March 16, 2007

This one stuck with me.

We rolled up on a chaotic call—guy in his twenties, drunk, high, whipped and bloodied in a muddy yard. The story unfolded fast. He'd wandered off from a day of partying, broke into his uncle’s house, and tried to steal the TV. His uncle—and half the neighborhood—caught him in the act.

They didn’t just stop him. They beat him. Bad. Fists, boots, and then an extension cord used like a whip. His back and chest were a mess—welted, bleeding, hypersensitive. He looked like someone dragged straight from a biblical flogging scene.

I remember unstrapping him in the ER. He cried out hopping to the gurney, drunk and wrecked, eyes wild but oddly lucid. His uncle, exhausted and shaking, simply said, “I caught him stealing my TV.”

No words for the violence. No apology. Just that.

I’ve seen a lot of pain on both ends of a bad decision. But this one? It blurred the line between justice and vengeance—and left me wondering if either one walked away clean.