Corruption isn’t a moral problem; it’s a system. And if you look closely at what’s happening today in the Monterrey real estate market, that phrase stops being a provocation and starts to sound like a diagnosis.
Because this isn’t just a real estate scandal. It’s a setup where all the elements were right there on the table, but very few wanted to see it.
Remember this name: Proyectos 9. Almost 50 years of history. A surname that circulated with a good reputation throughout the real estate ecosystem. Remember this name: José Aurelio Lobatón.
Everything pointed to the aspirational narrative of Monterrey: investment, vertical development, success, and a bright future.
But then the numbers came in. And in the long run, numbers don’t lie: they’re more honest than a sales pitch.
56 formal complaints. $105 million pesos documented.
However, the root of the problem wasn’t in the public figures, but in what was happening beneath the surface: hundreds, perhaps thousands, of victims.
A human dimension that can no longer be contained in a report or an investigation file, but is very much a part of reality.
Now, there’s something more unsettling than the numbers: the modus operandi.
Apartments sold in pre-sale five years ago. Promises of delivery between 2023 and 2026. Projects with seductive names: Torre LoLa, LaLo, Moca Verde. And today, in many cases, there is silence, stalled construction, or nothingness. Nothingness also wounds, hurts, and reeks.
And here this column formulates its most pointed hypothesis. Some media outlets, like this one, and some analysts, like myself, are talking about a Ponzi scheme.
In plain English: the money from new buyers was used to sustain the illusions of previous ones.
This is no small accusation. In practical terms, this means the model was doomed from the start, but it needed to keep growing to avoid collapse. Until the bubble burst.
The problem isn’t just the theft; the problem is that this bad practice is normalized, trivialized. The normalization of evil.
The question isn’t just legal. It becomes sociological. How were units sold without anyone being held accountable?
How did handing over millions of pesos without solid guarantees become normalized?
How could such a scheme operate for years without anyone, or very few, raising the alarm?
This isn’t just about corporate responsibility. There’s a web of complicity and victims: trusting buyers, reactive authorities, and an industry that, in some cases, thrives on selling the future without a present. Without a foundation.
The worst was predictable: offices in San Pedro relocating. Files being removed amidst the scandal, entire families implicated in complaints, and the public authorities moving forward, but lagging behind the facts.
Approaching court hearings. Possible arrest warrants. All of this sounds like justice in motion, but for those who lost their assets, it sounds more like justice delayed. In the streets, the other power: the victims.
Demonstrations in front of the Prosecutor’s Office. Protests at unfinished construction sites. People who aren’t defending an investment, but their lives, their savings, the material inheritance for their children.
Because that’s what’s often misunderstood: behind every apartment sold, there’s a life project. And when that project collapses, it’s not an asset that’s lost, it’s an expectation. A shattered dream.
This isn’t resolved solely in court.
It isn’t resolved with press releases.
It isn’t resolved with technical explanations. It’s resolved when someone pays the true cost of what they did.
Because, otherwise, what remains is the most dangerous message of all: that among Monterrey residents, you can promise, collect payment, and then fail to deliver.
If you’re going to invest, don’t buy illusions: buy certainty.
Check permits, deeds, and background checks.
Don’t hand over money without real legal guarantees.
And if you’re already a victim, don’t stay silent. Because in these cases, silence isn’t neutral; it’s part of the business for the most unscrupulous.
Source: elhorizonte
