Feature Article |
The Dead of Night
By Gregory Gilderman
The 22nd is in the heart of North Philadelphia. The neighborhood is 97 percent African-American, the median house value is $20,390, less than three percent of the population has a bachelor's degree, and whatever economic forces justified home construction here in the early 1900s vanished a long time ago. The problems this district must contend with are almost too numerous to count, but as in the rest of Philadelphia, the preoccupation is with young men and handguns.
"You have to realize, the victims and the shooters are getting younger and younger," Taylor says. "You're talking 13, 14, 15. There's a lack of respect for life. And so much of it is just neighborhood stuff. What happened in school that day. Maybe some guys showed up from another school and started something. Some things are related to drug territory. When you don't get cooperation, it's hard to tell. You have to drop the charges because you don't have anyone to stand them up. It makes our job harder, because the same people are selling drugs, doing robberies, all of it."
This is one of the more demoralizing aspects of policing this city: The culture of the street hates the cops. Never mind that most of the officers are African-American, and that more than a few of them grew up in this neighborhood. Perfectly law-abiding teenagers wear STOP SNITCHIN' t-shirts, cops are taunted for being sellouts or "trying to be white," and witnesses and victims won't talk at crime scenes, let alone show up at court. Because of this, a vast swath of the criminal element — muggers, rapists, even murderers — sees charges dropped or reduced to the one crime for which a police officer's testimony alone just might provide leverage for plea-bargained prison time: possession of a firearm. This is especially frustrating for veteran officers like Taylor. A dangerous police district is like a small town: Very few new faces show up, and the same career criminals are arrested over and over. They are then returned to the street over and over.
Taylor hands me a bulletproof vest. I sign a waiver of liability, then walk to the parking lot with Dennis Stephens. Stephens is 43, but he looks younger. He grew up in this neighborhood. When he tells how he joined the police and chose this neighborhood to patrol because he wants to make a difference, you believe him. Like almost every officer I've seen tonight, from supervisors to clerks, he is African-American. Two seconds next to him, and you realize this is a serious man who understands what it means to patrol the 22nd on a summer night. We will be spending the midnight to 8 a.m. shift together. "You know the first rule," he says as we enter the squad car. "If I ask you to do something, you do it. We talk about it later."
Our first call takes us to a Rite Aid. The manager has reported someone trying to pass counterfeit bills. That's technically theft, and at the time of the call it was technically in progress, which means Stephens must respond. When we arrive, a bored security guard and the manager explain it was a mistake; the call is "unfounded." This is a big part of police work: the utterly pointless call. Stephens pulls away.
"You have to realize, the victims and the shooters are getting younger and younger," Taylor says. "You're talking 13, 14, 15. There's a lack of respect for life. And so much of it is just neighborhood stuff. What happened in school that day. Maybe some guys showed up from another school and started something. Some things are related to drug territory. When you don't get cooperation, it's hard to tell. You have to drop the charges because you don't have anyone to stand them up. It makes our job harder, because the same people are selling drugs, doing robberies, all of it."
This is one of the more demoralizing aspects of policing this city: The culture of the street hates the cops. Never mind that most of the officers are African-American, and that more than a few of them grew up in this neighborhood. Perfectly law-abiding teenagers wear STOP SNITCHIN' t-shirts, cops are taunted for being sellouts or "trying to be white," and witnesses and victims won't talk at crime scenes, let alone show up at court. Because of this, a vast swath of the criminal element — muggers, rapists, even murderers — sees charges dropped or reduced to the one crime for which a police officer's testimony alone just might provide leverage for plea-bargained prison time: possession of a firearm. This is especially frustrating for veteran officers like Taylor. A dangerous police district is like a small town: Very few new faces show up, and the same career criminals are arrested over and over. They are then returned to the street over and over.
Taylor hands me a bulletproof vest. I sign a waiver of liability, then walk to the parking lot with Dennis Stephens. Stephens is 43, but he looks younger. He grew up in this neighborhood. When he tells how he joined the police and chose this neighborhood to patrol because he wants to make a difference, you believe him. Like almost every officer I've seen tonight, from supervisors to clerks, he is African-American. Two seconds next to him, and you realize this is a serious man who understands what it means to patrol the 22nd on a summer night. We will be spending the midnight to 8 a.m. shift together. "You know the first rule," he says as we enter the squad car. "If I ask you to do something, you do it. We talk about it later."
Our first call takes us to a Rite Aid. The manager has reported someone trying to pass counterfeit bills. That's technically theft, and at the time of the call it was technically in progress, which means Stephens must respond. When we arrive, a bored security guard and the manager explain it was a mistake; the call is "unfounded." This is a big part of police work: the utterly pointless call. Stephens pulls away.
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