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The Dead of Night
By Gregory Gilderman
This is the result of most domestic calls in the 22nd: nothing. By the time police arrive, the argument has cooled down, or the participant who has a pending warrant or is on probation fled the moment 911 was called. Stephens fills out an incident report. Then we drive to Doris's.
Doris's is a candy-and-soda store on the first floor of a corner rowhouse. Stephens waves Doris out of the store, which is still doing a brisk business at one in the morning. She walks to the car.
"This is going to be a problem at two or three in the morning," Stephens says. He points to a group of teenagers sitting on the steps to the building's side entrance. "That one in the red shirt? He's out here all night hustling."
The group begins to saunter away. The kid in the red shirt and a male friend stop half a block down the street, chatting and laughing casually, as if the squad car's headlights aren't on them like spotlights at the Ice Capades.
"I know your niece lives up there, and I've talked to her about it," Stephens says to Doris. "She can have people on her step if she wants to, but that one, he's dirty. You know what he's doing."
"I'll have a nice long talk with her," Doris says.
This is precisely the sort of thing we all dream a police officer will do. He knows the neighborhood. He knows the players. He sees that there's a problem brewing — drug sales plus a crowd — but rather than wait till there's a dead body or a shot fired, he intercedes, calmly but with authority, dispersing a group of loiterers before any trouble goes down.
The problem, from the standpoint of crime prevention, is that a) Stephens must continue to respond to 911 calls and therefore may not return, a fact of which the gentleman in the red shirt is doubtless aware; and b) even if Stephens and all of North Philadelphia knows this guy is selling drugs, Stephens cannot arrest him unless he sees the drugs, which is unlikely unless he's in plainclothes conducting surveillance, ideally with a video camera, so as to provide 12 citizens from a jury pool that finds even DNA matches worthy of reasonable doubt with evidence they'll find sufficient for a conviction. And what if someone in the neighborhood is getting compensated in cocaine or cash for permitting Mr. Red Shirt to sell his wares along the busy corridor in front of Doris's? You see the limits of this impromptu moment of "broken windows" policing.
"But let me ask you this," says Doris. "What about my Dumpster? I got cited for that. Why do y'all want to go and spend time on something like that?"
We look at the small, shabby waste container, probably not an actual Dumpster, sitting on the sidewalk.
"That's not us. That's Neighborhood Services. We don't deal with that."
Doris gives a vacant stare.
"You should call Neighborhood Services."
Still the vacant stare.
"I'll be by here later," Stephens says.
"I'll talk to my niece."
We move on. It's nearly 2 a.m. This is when the 911 calls start pouring in, and the patrol officers will be getting to crime scenes in minutes. Not that it means much to the murderers of this city. There's a dirty secret about 911 that law enforcement has known for decades, and it's pretty easy to sum up: 911 may be an easy phone number for the public to remember, it may centralize all calls and enable them to be tracked, it may even get an ambulance someplace in time to save a life, but it sure doesn't do much for catching criminals.
Doris's is a candy-and-soda store on the first floor of a corner rowhouse. Stephens waves Doris out of the store, which is still doing a brisk business at one in the morning. She walks to the car.
"This is going to be a problem at two or three in the morning," Stephens says. He points to a group of teenagers sitting on the steps to the building's side entrance. "That one in the red shirt? He's out here all night hustling."
The group begins to saunter away. The kid in the red shirt and a male friend stop half a block down the street, chatting and laughing casually, as if the squad car's headlights aren't on them like spotlights at the Ice Capades.
"I know your niece lives up there, and I've talked to her about it," Stephens says to Doris. "She can have people on her step if she wants to, but that one, he's dirty. You know what he's doing."
"I'll have a nice long talk with her," Doris says.
This is precisely the sort of thing we all dream a police officer will do. He knows the neighborhood. He knows the players. He sees that there's a problem brewing — drug sales plus a crowd — but rather than wait till there's a dead body or a shot fired, he intercedes, calmly but with authority, dispersing a group of loiterers before any trouble goes down.
The problem, from the standpoint of crime prevention, is that a) Stephens must continue to respond to 911 calls and therefore may not return, a fact of which the gentleman in the red shirt is doubtless aware; and b) even if Stephens and all of North Philadelphia knows this guy is selling drugs, Stephens cannot arrest him unless he sees the drugs, which is unlikely unless he's in plainclothes conducting surveillance, ideally with a video camera, so as to provide 12 citizens from a jury pool that finds even DNA matches worthy of reasonable doubt with evidence they'll find sufficient for a conviction. And what if someone in the neighborhood is getting compensated in cocaine or cash for permitting Mr. Red Shirt to sell his wares along the busy corridor in front of Doris's? You see the limits of this impromptu moment of "broken windows" policing.
"But let me ask you this," says Doris. "What about my Dumpster? I got cited for that. Why do y'all want to go and spend time on something like that?"
We look at the small, shabby waste container, probably not an actual Dumpster, sitting on the sidewalk.
"That's not us. That's Neighborhood Services. We don't deal with that."
Doris gives a vacant stare.
"You should call Neighborhood Services."
Still the vacant stare.
"I'll be by here later," Stephens says.
"I'll talk to my niece."
We move on. It's nearly 2 a.m. This is when the 911 calls start pouring in, and the patrol officers will be getting to crime scenes in minutes. Not that it means much to the murderers of this city. There's a dirty secret about 911 that law enforcement has known for decades, and it's pretty easy to sum up: 911 may be an easy phone number for the public to remember, it may centralize all calls and enable them to be tracked, it may even get an ambulance someplace in time to save a life, but it sure doesn't do much for catching criminals.
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