Crime wave threatens a lifeline in pandemic
NEW YORK » It was shortly after 6 o’clock one night in late October when Hardik Parekh, the manager of a corner store in Queens, saw a man he recognized as a chronic shoplifter walk in. Not again, he thought.
Parekh shared a glance with a co- worker, Mohmediyan Tarwala, 26, who quickly moved to escort the man out the door. The mundane moment then took a terrifying turn. The man pulled out a firearm and fatally shot Tarwala, Parekh said.
“Lately, after the pandemic, I don’t know why, but we had people come in and threatening us,” Parekh said, standing near the spot where his friend collapsed. “I never thought it would end up in murder.”
In the spring, as New York went into lockdown and essential items flew off supermarket shelves, the bodegas — part pantries, part community centers — became a lifeline for New Yorkers searching for hardtofind staples.
They also became havens during the shutdown, scrappy 24- hour stores where people could find a loaf of bread, some hand sanitizer, a cup of coffee, a lottery ticket or, in some cases, just a sense of community.
But as the pandemic has worn on and increasing numbers of people have lost their jobs or fallen on hard times, the bodegas that a few months ago were seen as islands of normal life have become prime targets in a growing crime wave, endangering operators such as Parekh.
During the first eight months of the pandemic, there was a 63% increase in shootings inside or in front of bodegas and corner stores, a 222% rise in burglaries and a 10% spike in robberies, according to police department data obtained by The New York Times. Six people have been killed in or just outside the stores, according to the data.
The surge comes as a second wave of the virus hits the city and a steep rise in gun violence that plagued New Yorkers during the summer shows no signs of slowing down. Shootings have doubled this year over last, and murders are up nearly 40%.
Fernando Mateo, one of the founders of the United Bodegas of America, an organization that represents about 20,000 bodegas in New York, said the pandemic had provided cover for a small number of criminals to target neighborhood stores, most of which are owned by immigrants.
“Some are taking advantage that everyone is wearing masks to commit crimes,” Mateo said. He said the bodegas are struggling to stay afloat by selling inexpensive items such as chips, beer and milk, with tiny profit margins sometimes measured in pennies. “When they are robbed, they are robbed of real dollars,” he said.
Because of their long hours, bodegas always have been targets of crime, but they also are seen as safe havens from street violence. That role was brought into sharp relief in summer 2018, when a 15year- old boy, Lesandro Guzman- Feliz, ran into a Bronx bodega in a desperate attempt to escape the Trinitarios gang.
The gang members dragged Guzman- Feliz out on the sidewalk as he pleaded for his life. Security cameras captured the gruesome scene as the gang members stabbed him to death.
Since then, a handful of bodega owners have added safety measures, such as panic buttons, brighter lights and special locks. But Mateo said the majority of bodega operators cannot afford the added security, which can cost thousands of dollars.
Until recently, Parekh was one of them. He said he finally invested in a panic button and is adding bright lights at his store, Crossbay Express.
For months he said he looked the other way when he noticed people sneaking out of his shop without paying for items such as ice cream, beer or canned goods, because he “knew they were hurting.”
“We didn’t mind,” he said. “Why would we bother the cops for that?”
By late October, however, Parekh said he and his store clerks knew they could not sustain the losses.
One of the repeat shoplifters was a man who had been living in a van near the store, Parekh said. The man shoplifted a pint of ice cream Oct. 26 then returned later that night.
Tarwala, who was known as Iyan, immediately led the man, identified by the police as Steven Cohen, 63, out of the store, and held the door shut to prevent him from reentering, Parekh recalled.
“We didn’t know he had a gun,” he said.
The move only infuriated Cohen, Parekh remembered. He shoved his way in, pulled a pistol and shot Tarwala in the stomach, police said.
As Tarwala collapsed, Cohen fired two more rounds. One bullet pierced a plexiglass divider set up to prevent the spread of COVID- 19, Parekh said.
An off- duty police officer, Jason Maharaj, happened to be standing by the cash register when Cohen burst in, police said. The officer pounced on the gunman
and quickly disarmed him. Cohen was charged with murder.
Parekh said the bullet hole “reminds me every day of what happened.”
“The guy opened the door, and boom,” he said. “If that off- duty cop wasn’t here, I would be dead right now.”
Parekh and Tarwala were immigrants from Gujarat, India, and had become close in the past two years, Parekh said. After their shifts, they would sit at the back of the store and talk about the families they left behind and their plans for the future. Tarwala was planning to move to Canada after the pandemic subsided and marry a longtime girlfriend, Parekh said.
Police officers such as Ni
cole Spinelli and Corey Simpson, two neighborhood community officers in the South Bronx, have been warning store operators that confronting shoplifters can be dangerous.
“We tell them it is not worth getting hurt or even killed over a $ 3 gallon of milk,” Spinelli said. “It can quickly escalate. Our advice is to call 911 instead.”
On a chilly day in midNovember, the officers made their rounds in the 44th Precinct, where bodegas, some adorned with colorful street murals, could be seen on almost every street block. Their first stop was at a Pioneer Supermarket, a larger- than- average corner store, where the owner, Dee Morel, 55, welcomed them with a smile.
Morel told the officers a man he recognized as a regular customer had walked out of the store a recent day without paying for sausages.
A store manager had not stopped the man, but instead gave a surveillance video to the police, he said.
“I don’t let nothing slide,” Morel said. “You steal at my store, I want you arrested.”
Rita Clark, a longtime customer, said she relied on the store for necessities throughout the pandemic. “This young lady is here 24/ 7,” Morel said, gesturing at Clark with a giggle. “My customers are like my family.”
Clark said the officers’ presence was needed to deter crime at local stores such as Morel’s. “You want to feel safe,” she said.
Parekh said the death of his co- worker has changed his perspective forever. He now closes at midnight instead of staying open 24 hours.
“I don’t feel he said.
Tarwala was an only child and sent most of his salary to his parents, who depended on him financially, Parekh said.
Unable to ship Tarwala’s remains to his native India because of the pandemic, Parekh said he streamed Tarwala’s funeral service over FaceTime so that his family in India could pay their last respects.
“He was the nicest guy,” Parekh said. “Everybody liked him here, and now he’s gone, over some random robbery.”
Tarwala’s mother collapsed in grief and stopped watching as soon as the video went live, he said. Only his father remained online until the last shovelful of dirt covered his pale wooden coffin. safe anymore,”