Crime and Punishment: A Tale of Two Thefts

In the recent Los Angeles County elections, the District Attorney was ousted for allegedly being “soft on crime,” a narrative that resonated with many voters amidst rising concerns about “public safety.” Yet, within this very context, one must ask: what is crime, really? The concept seems clear-cut at first glance—wrongdoings punished by law—but the reality is far murkier when one considers the disparity in accountability. A shop assistant who takes $100 from the till is likely to face immediate arrest, criminal charges, and a permanent stain on their record, regardless of the circumstances. Meanwhile, wage theft—where employers systematically deny workers their rightful earnings, often amounting to tens of thousands or even millions of dollars—rarely leads to criminal consequences. Even when admitted to, as in my own case working for the City of Los Angeles, such acts are met with indifference, treated as civil disputes rather than the crimes they truly are.

This disparity reveals a systemic bias: theft by the powerless is criminal, whilst theft by the powerful is legitimised, ignored, or obfuscated. The language of “soft on crime” conveniently excludes crimes committed by institutions and employers, even as they steal on a scale far beyond the petty thefts plastered across nightly news headlines. Over a 15-year period, the City of Los Angeles underpaid me and my colleagues over $16 million collectively through unpaid standby hours, a fact they admitted during the 2014 grievance process but never rectified. No one was paid what they were owed. No one went to prison. No heads rolled. It was merely chalked up to an “oversight.” Contrast this with the individual who pockets a meagre $100 in desperation and faces a life derailed by the full weight of the legal system.

So, what is crime? If the biggest crooks regularly get away with wage theft and other systemic injustices, whilst society disproportionately punishes the most vulnerable for their survival, then “crime” becomes less a matter of justice and more a reflection of power. Those who can define and enforce the rules ensure they apply most harshly to others, protecting themselves from accountability while perpetuating cycles of exploitation.

Case Study: Wage Theft at the City of Los Angeles

In 2014, I filed a grievance against the City of Los Angeles over years of unpaid standby compensation. The issue stemmed from a systemic “oversight” where the City misclassified our role and applied outdated compensation practices. Despite acknowledging the error during the grievance process, the City refused to retroactively or fully comply with the terms of the Memorandum of Understanding (MOU), which explicitly outlined appropriate compensation for standby hours. This refusal persisted even after the grievance was filed, affecting not only my pay but that of seven colleagues. Astonishingly, the wage theft continued unabated until my retirement in 2016, with no indication that the issue was ever resolved.

The financial impact of this wage theft was staggering. Each of the eight affected employees, myself included, was systematically denied overtime pay for standby hours—a violation that, over 15 years (2001–2016), resulted in an estimated collective loss of $16,848,000. To put this in perspective, we were not compensated at all for standby work, which often required us to remain on-call, tied to specific locations, and ready to respond within an hour—a substantial limitation on our personal time. Adjusted for inflation and compounded interest, the total value of this stolen compensation in today’s dollars is approximately $21,342,542. The loss for each individual amounted to thousands of dollars annually, with some employees likely deprived of tens of thousands in total earnings.

For the affected employees, this was not just a financial loss but a betrayal of trust. Many of us worked tirelessly under the assumption that our labour would be fairly compensated, only to discover that institutional negligence—or worse, wilful disregard—left us short-changed. The City’s response during the grievance process epitomised institutional impunity. Whilst admitting to the error, they maintained it was an administrative oversight rather than deliberate misconduct. No individual or department was held accountable. No one was demoted, reprimanded, or fired. Instead, the theft was swept under the rug, treated as a mere bureaucratic hiccup.

The most damning aspect of this case is the complete lack of consequences. Despite a clear paper trail documenting the violations, the City faced no legal repercussions. This systemic theft, which spanned over a decade and deprived employees of millions, was treated as a civil administrative matter rather than the criminal act it truly was. Meanwhile, individuals in other contexts are prosecuted for far lesser amounts, with their actions framed as breaches of morality and law. The message was clear: when theft is perpetrated by institutions against workers, it is merely an error; when committed by individuals against institutions, it is a crime.

This case exposes the fundamental inequity in how wage theft is handled versus other forms of theft. Whilst the legal system swiftly punishes individuals for petty crimes, it allows institutions like the City of Los Angeles to engage in theft of epic proportions with impunity. The injustice of this disparity underscores the urgent need to treat wage theft with the same severity as other criminal acts, holding institutions to account in a manner proportionate to the harm they inflict.

Who Pays When Government is the Thief?

When wage theft is perpetrated by a government entity, the question arises: who truly pays the price for such theft? For workers like me, the answer is painfully clear—we do. Over the years, I attempted to address the City of Los Angeles’ mismanagement of standby pay through every available channel. Each time, my efforts were thwarted by supervisors employing a variety of administrative tricks to keep my grievances from leaving the office. These tactics included verbal reassurances, vague promises of future corrections, and outright dismissals of my concerns. My numerous complaints, spanning more than a decade, were effectively buried in the labyrinth of bureaucracy.

Exploring legal action seemed a logical next step, but the barriers were insurmountable. Attorneys I approached were quick to note that the City Attorney’s office would spare no expense defending the City from such a lawsuit. The financial stakes were daunting: not only would I need to fund my own case, but under California law, the loser of a civil suit is responsible for covering the prevailing party’s court costs and attorney fees. Without the financial resources to absorb such a loss, pursuing legal recourse was a risk I simply could not afford to take. Whilst the City operated with the virtually unlimited backing of taxpayers, I was left grappling with the stark reality that justice, in this context, favoured the party with deeper pockets.

My autistic sense of justice was deeply rankled throughout this ordeal. The glaring unfairness of the situation—where the government could openly admit to a 15-year history of wage theft yet remain untouchable—was a source of persistent frustration. Compounding this was my struggle with language, which often seemed to conspire against my success. In earlier years, my attempts to articulate the injustice of the situation were hampered by a lack of literacy and confidence in navigating the dense, procedural language required to formally challenge the system.

It wasn’t until my literacy improved that I began to find a way forward. Around this time, I worked with a counselor who, whilst unable to advocate directly on my behalf, advised me from the sidelines. Their guidance helped me craft a strategy to break through the administrative roadblocks that had long stalled my grievance. With a newfound clarity and persistence, I managed to force the issue beyond my lab, pushing it up the chain of command. It was an achievement hard-won, yet bittersweet. Even as the grievance finally moved forward, the institutional barriers remained formidable. No matter how well I presented my case, I was up against a system designed to protect itself at all costs.

Ultimately, when government commits wage theft, it is workers like me who shoulder the burden. We lose our time, our money, and often our faith in the institutions meant to serve us. Meanwhile, the real costs—the wasted resources, the erosion of public trust—are borne by taxpayers. And the greatest cost of all? A justice system that prioritises power over fairness, leaving the most vulnerable without recourse.

The $100 From the Till

Imagine this: a cashier at a local convenience store takes $100 from the till, slipping it into their pocket to cover a desperate expense—perhaps groceries or an overdue utility bill. The act is soon discovered, and the consequences are swift. The store manager contacts the police, leading to the cashier’s arrest. They are charged with petty theft, and a court date is set. The ensuing process includes legal fees, a potential conviction, and a criminal record that follows them for life. Even if the penalty is probation or a fine, the stigma of the crime lingers. Employers view them with suspicion, neighbours whisper, and the barrier to future employment becomes nearly insurmountable.

California’s legal system treats such an act as not merely a breach of law but a moral failing, demanding swift and punitive action. The state’s reliance on penal labour compounds the inequity. Under California’s constitution, prisoners can be compelled to work, often for a pittance, thanks to the “Exception Clause,” which excludes incarcerated individuals from protections against involuntary servitude. A recent ballot initiative seeking to abolish this clause was defeated, affirming the state’s commitment to this exploitative system. Petty theft often serves as a gateway to this cycle: minor offences lead to incarceration, and incarceration leads to forced labour.

This punitive approach contrasts starkly with the handling of wage theft. Whilst the hypothetical cashier faces criminal charges for taking $100, the City of Los Angeles systematically withheld millions in wages from its employees over 15 years with impunity. No one was arrested. No court hearings took place. The City’s actions were treated as a bureaucratic oversight, a civil matter to be resolved through administrative channels. Despite the far greater harm inflicted, wage theft remains a “compliance issue,” shielded from the criminalisation that petty theft routinely incurs.

The imbalance is staggering. One act—the cashier’s—might stem from desperation or necessity. It impacts a single entity and is often a one-time occurrence. The other—the City’s wage theft—involves deliberate negligence over years, affecting multiple employees and their families. Yet it is the individual, not the institution, who faces the full weight of the legal system. Marginalised communities bear the brunt of this disparity. For those already disadvantaged by poverty, race, or disability, the legal system’s relentless pursuit of petty theft criminalises survival itself, whilst systemic theft by employers is effectively sanctioned.

California’s reliance on prison labour underscores this double standard. The state famously uses incarcerated individuals to fight wildfires, paying them as little as $1 per hour—a fraction of what their civilian counterparts earn. Were prison labour abolished, the state’s firefighting system would collapse under the financial strain of paying fair wages to professional firefighters. Similarly, corporations benefit from prison labour contracts that allow them to “save money” whilst exploiting a vulnerable population. The very structures that punish petty theft thus perpetuate a system of exploitation at every level.

The legal system’s selective approach to theft reveals its true priorities. Individual acts of desperation are met with moral outrage and harsh penalties, while institutional theft—often rooted in greed or negligence—is excused, minimised, or ignored. This disparity is not an accident but a feature of a system designed to protect power and capital at the expense of the most vulnerable. Until wage theft is treated with the same severity as petty theft, the cycle of exploitation will remain unbroken, and justice will continue to elude those who need it most.

Structural Analysis: Why This Happens

At its core, the disparity between how society treats petty theft and wage theft reflects the priorities of a capitalist system that values capital over labour. In societies like the United States, laws are structured to protect property and institutions rather than the individuals who sell their labour to survive. Petty theft—a direct challenge to property rights—triggers immediate legal repercussions because it disrupts the sanctity of ownership. Wage theft, by contrast, exists within the employer-employee relationship, a framework shielded by layers of institutional legitimacy. When employers deny workers their rightful pay, it is labelled a compliance issue or an administrative oversight, effectively sanitising an act that, in any other context, would be considered outright theft.

The legal system plays a critical role in upholding this dynamic. By relegating wage theft to civil or administrative law, it denies workers the protections afforded to victims of other crimes. This not only diminishes the severity of wage theft but also creates significant barriers for those seeking justice. Workers must navigate a maze of procedures, filing grievances or lawsuits that require time, money, and specialised knowledge—resources most workers lack. Meanwhile, employers, backed by their own legal teams and often the resources of taxpayer-funded city attorneys, are well-positioned to stonewall these efforts. The result is a system where power dynamics heavily favour employers, leaving workers with little recourse even when the theft is admitted, as in my case.

The power imbalance extends beyond the courtroom. Employers wield influence over the livelihoods of their employees, creating an environment where workers may fear retaliation for speaking out. The choice to challenge wage theft often comes with the risk of termination, ostracisation, or being blacklisted in the industry. For undocumented workers or those in precarious employment, these risks are even greater, effectively silencing those most vulnerable to exploitation. Employers, meanwhile, face few real consequences for their actions. Even in cases of egregious violations, penalties are often limited to fines or backpay, a small cost of doing business compared to the millions saved through wage theft.

Beyond the structural advantages afforded to employers, the way society frames theft further entrenches this disparity. When an individual commits theft—taking money from a till or shoplifting food—the act is viewed as a moral failing, a sign of personal greed or dishonesty. This narrative strips away context, ignoring the desperation or systemic inequities that often drive such actions. The thief becomes the sole focus of blame, with little attention paid to the social conditions that contributed to the act.

Conversely, institutional theft is rarely moralised. When a government or corporation underpays its workers or denies them benefits, the act is depersonalised, treated as a bureaucratic error rather than a conscious decision to exploit. This framing absolves powerful entities of responsibility, shifting attention away from the harm caused to workers and onto technicalities or procedural issues. Wage theft becomes a problem of compliance, not ethics, despite its far-reaching consequences for individuals and families.

The moral framing of theft also reflects deeper societal biases. Petty theft is disproportionately associated with marginalised groups—those in poverty, people of colour, and immigrants—reinforcing stereotypes and justifying punitive measures. Wage theft, on the other hand, is committed by employers, often seen as respectable figures or institutions. The contrast is stark: while one act is demonised, the other is normalised, perpetuating a system where power dictates the perception of morality.

This structural inequality is no accident. It is the result of deliberate choices embedded within laws, policies, and cultural narratives that prioritise the protection of capital. Until these frameworks are dismantled, the cycle will continue: workers bearing the brunt of exploitation while institutions operate with impunity. To challenge this system, society must not only criminalise wage theft but also confront the underlying values that place property above people. True justice requires more than reform—it demands a fundamental shift in whose interests the system is designed to serve.

Final thoughts …

The disparity between how society treats petty theft and wage theft reveals a profound injustice in our legal and cultural systems. To address this, we must shift our perspective: wage theft should be treated with the same severity as any other form of theft. Accountability must extend to the individuals and institutions that orchestrate and perpetuate these systemic violations. The billions stolen annually through unpaid wages, misclassification, and overtime violations harm workers and their families in ways no less destructive than personal theft. Yet, the legal system remains complicit, offering protection to employers whilst punishing workers who dare to resist exploitation.

Reform must begin with criminalising wage theft on par with other theft. Laws should hold employers, executives, and public officials accountable for systemic violations, with penalties that reflect the scale of harm caused. This means not only requiring restitution but imposing criminal consequences for deliberate or sustained acts of theft. Institutions should not be able to hide behind bureaucratic inertia or legal loopholes to evade responsibility. Only by closing these gaps can we create a system where workers are truly protected.

The results of the recent Los Angeles elections, however, point to a troubling return to the status quo. With the end of the so-called “reform era” ushered in by the Black Lives Matter movement, the city appears to be reverting to the old model of “tough on crime” policing and prosecuting. But this rhetoric, steeped in reactionary politics, is selective in its application. It targets the poor, the marginalised, and the vulnerable, whilst shielding corporations, institutions, and individuals in positions of power. The focus remains on criminalising survival, not addressing the structural issues that create inequality and drive crime.

True justice, however, is not simply about punishing individuals. It is about ensuring systems cannot exploit those with less power. This requires dismantling structures that prioritise property over people and shifting toward accountability frameworks that value fairness and equity. Until wage theft is treated as a crime, the system will continue to privilege employers and institutions at the expense of workers. Justice must mean more than retribution—it must mean protection for the most vulnerable, fairness for all, and a society where exploitation is no longer the status quo.