My name is ruined. I live for free at my ex-mother-in-law's house.
Bank records show ex-secretary returned R$6-15k monthly from her R$10-21k salary via PIX transfers to chief of staff and family members between Feb 2023-Mar 2024. Employee took five consigned loans totaling R$174,886, claiming four were used for deputy's campaign debts that remain unpaid, leaving her with damaged credit.
- Parliamentary secretary Gardênia Morais returned R$6,000-R$15,000 monthly from her R$10,000-R$21,000 salary via PIX transfers between Feb 2023-Mar 2024
- Five consigned loans totaling R$174,886 taken in Morais's name; four allegedly for deputy's campaign debts, none repaid
- Bank records show transfers to chief of staff Raphael Azevedo, his ex-wife, and deputy's family members including R$4,832 credit card payment for deputy's wife
- Morais claims Deputy Mario Frias authorized the arrangement; current chief of staff denies Frias had knowledge
Ex-employee of Deputy Mario Frias allegedly returned portions of her parliamentary salary to the deputy's chief of staff and paid bills for his family members, with bank records showing over R$35,000 in transfers. The employee claims the deputy authorized the arrangement to cover campaign debts through fraudulent loans.
Gardênia Morais worked as a parliamentary secretary in Deputy Mario Frias's office for just over a year, from February 2023 to May 2024. During that time, she received monthly paychecks from the Chamber of Deputies ranging from R$10,000 to R$21,000. But according to bank records obtained by G1, most of that money never stayed in her hands.
The documents tell a precise story of systematic transfers. Morais would deposit her salary into a Banco do Brasil account, then move it to an Itaú account she controlled, and from there send portions out via PIX to Raphael Azevedo, who served as Frias's chief of staff, or to members of Azevedo's family. Between February 2023 and March 2024, the transfers G1 identified totaled R$35,116. Morais confirmed there were additional transfers beyond those the reporting uncovered. She kept, on average, between R$6,000 and R$7,000 monthly for herself.
When asked about the arrangement, Morais explained it plainly: she had agreed with Azevedo, with the deputy's knowledge and approval, to return a portion of her salary each month. "The deputy knew, the deputy was aware of all the returns," she said. "It was an initial agreement. The deputy always participates. The day-to-day arrangements happened with Azevedo, who was the chief of staff, the deputy's right hand." She described how her salary increased in steps over the year, and she adjusted her monthly returns accordingly.
But the financial arrangement extended beyond simple salary returns. Bank records show Morais paid a R$4,832.32 credit card bill for Juliana Frias, the deputy's wife, in December 2023. She also transferred R$1,000 to Maria Lucia Frias, the deputy's mother, in January 2024. And in March 2024, she withdrew R$49,999.99 in cash—a sum structured just below the R$50,000 threshold that would trigger reporting requirements. She said the money was handed over but refused to say to whom.
The financial pressure on Morais intensified through a series of consigned loans—five in total, adding up to R$174,886. She claimed that four of these loans were taken at the request of Frias and Azevedo to pay off campaign debts from 2022. None of them were repaid. "The loans were made and they were not settled. They're all open at Serasa," she said, referring to Brazil's credit bureau. "My name is ruined. To give you an idea of how my situation is now, I live for free at my ex-mother-in-law's house."
The practice Morais describes—returning a portion of one's salary to a politician or an intermediary in exchange for a government job—is known in Brazil as rachadinha. While there is no specific crime called rachadinha, prosecutors typically charge those involved with peculato, the crime of diverting public resources for personal gain or the gain of others. Frias was contacted through his current chief of staff, Diego Ramos, but has not publicly responded to the allegations. Ramos said he entered the office after this period and expressed confidence that Frias had no knowledge of the arrangement—a claim that directly contradicts Morais's account.
The deputy has recently drawn attention for his role as executive producer on "Dark Horse," a film about former president Jair Bolsonaro financed by banker Vorcaro with approximately R$61 million. But the questions now circling his office concern not recent projects but the mechanics of how his parliamentary staff was managed, and at what cost to those who worked there.
Notable Quotes
The deputy knew, the deputy was aware of all the returns. It was an initial agreement. The deputy always participates.— Gardênia Morais, ex-parliamentary secretary
The loans were made and they were not settled. They're all open at Serasa. My name is ruined.— Gardênia Morais
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
Why would someone agree to return most of their salary? That seems like it defeats the purpose of having a job.
The job itself was the point. Morais was a parliamentary secretary—a position that carries prestige and connections. If you need work and someone offers you a government post with the understanding that you'll return most of it, you might take it anyway, especially if you're told the deputy himself approved it.
But she says four of the five loans were taken at their request. How does that work?
She took out consigned loans—loans secured against her salary. The money would come in, and she'd pass it along. The loans were never repaid. So she's left holding the debt in her own name while the money went elsewhere, allegedly to cover campaign expenses.
And she's living in her ex-mother-in-law's house now?
Yes. The unpaid loans destroyed her credit. She has no assets, no savings, nowhere else to go. The arrangement that seemed like an opportunity became a financial trap.
Did the deputy ever deny this?
He hasn't said anything publicly. His current chief of staff claims he knew nothing about it, but Morais says the deputy was fully aware from the beginning. It's her word against silence.
Is this common in Brazilian politics?
Common enough that there's a name for it—rachadinha. It's been prosecuted before, usually as embezzlement. But it persists because it's hard to prove and because people like Morais often feel they have no choice but to go along.