Feature Article |
The Dead of Night
By Gregory Gilderman
SO AGAIN WE MOVE on, still having made no headway in the youth homicide crisis. And again the dispatch crackles. It's another domestic disturbance. We drive to 16th and Huntingdon.
On the way, I ask about the Korean delis. When I was in college at Temple, I used to pass by one or two while riding the bus; I would look into their shabby waiting rooms and wonder what sort of a life they offered. The neighborhood doesn't exactly love you. Political groups accuse you of poisoning and exploiting the ghetto. You risk your life for your income, and it's hard to imagine that when people ask you what you do for a living, you're proud of saying you supply the underclass with fried wings and off-brand malt liquor. The names are still a blend of bad grammar and Orientalism — New Superstar Restaurant, Sunny Chinese American, King Kong Deli, or, more directly, COLD BEER SEAFOOD — though now the exteriors all have massive six-foot windows, where years ago you could see into them only when the doors were open.
"The windows are from an agreement between the Korean business owners and the police department," Stephens says. "It used to be there'd be a robbery going on, and we'd be out here and wouldn't even know it." Later, I'll ask another officer how the owners of these businesses avoid getting ambushed when they head home for the night. She'll tell me this: "They don't go home. They live above them. They buy the building, but then they have to buy the building next door, because what the crackheads figured out was that these buildings are so cheap, you could chip away the wall with a piece of metal and crawl through the sheetrock and rob them. Now the deli owners also have a house in the suburbs, but you never know when they're going back to it."
"Somebody called the police?" Stephens asks two women sitting on a stoop.
One, looking to be in her early 40s, leans into Stephens's window. "My kids' father is threatening MY LIFE. He was coming around the premises threatening ME."
"Have you got a restraining order?" Stephens asks.
"That's what I want," she says.
Stephens explains how to obtain the restraining order. How the office is at 1301 Filbert Street. That it's open all night. You have to speak to a judge, but don't be nervous about it. Then once you get that order, be smart, you know? When he comes to visit the kids, that's when you call 911. And if you have that order, we can arrest him. But remember, when you go to get the order, bring his address, because he has to be served.
"I don't know his address," she says.
"You don't know your son's father's address?"
"No."
"What about his mom?" Stephens says. "Will his mom give you his address?"
"His mom WON'T protect ME." She pulls away from the window and looks up and down the street. "See, he's lurking around. That's invading somebody's space, is what that is. He said he's going to KILL me. Threatened to kill the kids. He's just lurking around."
Stephens urges her to file a private criminal complaint, the form that's necessary for her son's father to be charged with a crime. But the conversation is all theater. No one's filing a report; no one's heading right down to Filbert Street.
"Write that down," she says to Stephens. "Private criminal complaint. That's like, he's threatening my life. There go my son right there."
A shirtless boy, no older than 10, is jogging up the street. It's nearly 3 a.m. He runs up to his mother. He looks at Stephens, but his expression is different from that of the older boys. Around here, it seems like every person between 12 and 50 gives the police a stare of cold, undisguised hatred. They get it in their squad cars, they get it while walking into a crime scene, they get it while helping an old lady cross the street. But from this child, still young, leaning through the car window, there's only the look any little boy gives a fireman or a cop. A little curiosity. A little awe.
"Burglary in progress," the dispatcher says. He gives an address two blocks from the police station. Stephens says goodbye to the woman and her son, and we drive off. Less than a minute later, we stop at a corner rowhouse. The front door of the house is bashed in. The burglar alarm is squealing. The robbers might still be inside. Stephens draws his gun. He points his flashlight into the dark house and walks in.
More squad cars arrive. "Get behind the car!" a female officer screams at me. She pulls out her gun and runs inside. A few minutes pass. "It's clear!" the female officer shouts. She walks out with Stephens.
I step through the broken glass into the house. It's modest but tidy. There's a giant blue IT'S A BOY! banner draped across the living room. Upstairs, there are children's names written on stars on the bedroom doors. Denise. Troy. Photos of family members are on every surface.
On the floor, near the rock that crashed through the door, is a note. It was presumably written by the mother to her children.
On the way, I ask about the Korean delis. When I was in college at Temple, I used to pass by one or two while riding the bus; I would look into their shabby waiting rooms and wonder what sort of a life they offered. The neighborhood doesn't exactly love you. Political groups accuse you of poisoning and exploiting the ghetto. You risk your life for your income, and it's hard to imagine that when people ask you what you do for a living, you're proud of saying you supply the underclass with fried wings and off-brand malt liquor. The names are still a blend of bad grammar and Orientalism — New Superstar Restaurant, Sunny Chinese American, King Kong Deli, or, more directly, COLD BEER SEAFOOD — though now the exteriors all have massive six-foot windows, where years ago you could see into them only when the doors were open.
"The windows are from an agreement between the Korean business owners and the police department," Stephens says. "It used to be there'd be a robbery going on, and we'd be out here and wouldn't even know it." Later, I'll ask another officer how the owners of these businesses avoid getting ambushed when they head home for the night. She'll tell me this: "They don't go home. They live above them. They buy the building, but then they have to buy the building next door, because what the crackheads figured out was that these buildings are so cheap, you could chip away the wall with a piece of metal and crawl through the sheetrock and rob them. Now the deli owners also have a house in the suburbs, but you never know when they're going back to it."
"Somebody called the police?" Stephens asks two women sitting on a stoop.
One, looking to be in her early 40s, leans into Stephens's window. "My kids' father is threatening MY LIFE. He was coming around the premises threatening ME."
"Have you got a restraining order?" Stephens asks.
"That's what I want," she says.
Stephens explains how to obtain the restraining order. How the office is at 1301 Filbert Street. That it's open all night. You have to speak to a judge, but don't be nervous about it. Then once you get that order, be smart, you know? When he comes to visit the kids, that's when you call 911. And if you have that order, we can arrest him. But remember, when you go to get the order, bring his address, because he has to be served.
"I don't know his address," she says.
"You don't know your son's father's address?"
"No."
"What about his mom?" Stephens says. "Will his mom give you his address?"
"His mom WON'T protect ME." She pulls away from the window and looks up and down the street. "See, he's lurking around. That's invading somebody's space, is what that is. He said he's going to KILL me. Threatened to kill the kids. He's just lurking around."
Stephens urges her to file a private criminal complaint, the form that's necessary for her son's father to be charged with a crime. But the conversation is all theater. No one's filing a report; no one's heading right down to Filbert Street.
"Write that down," she says to Stephens. "Private criminal complaint. That's like, he's threatening my life. There go my son right there."
A shirtless boy, no older than 10, is jogging up the street. It's nearly 3 a.m. He runs up to his mother. He looks at Stephens, but his expression is different from that of the older boys. Around here, it seems like every person between 12 and 50 gives the police a stare of cold, undisguised hatred. They get it in their squad cars, they get it while walking into a crime scene, they get it while helping an old lady cross the street. But from this child, still young, leaning through the car window, there's only the look any little boy gives a fireman or a cop. A little curiosity. A little awe.
"Burglary in progress," the dispatcher says. He gives an address two blocks from the police station. Stephens says goodbye to the woman and her son, and we drive off. Less than a minute later, we stop at a corner rowhouse. The front door of the house is bashed in. The burglar alarm is squealing. The robbers might still be inside. Stephens draws his gun. He points his flashlight into the dark house and walks in.
More squad cars arrive. "Get behind the car!" a female officer screams at me. She pulls out her gun and runs inside. A few minutes pass. "It's clear!" the female officer shouts. She walks out with Stephens.
I step through the broken glass into the house. It's modest but tidy. There's a giant blue IT'S A BOY! banner draped across the living room. Upstairs, there are children's names written on stars on the bedroom doors. Denise. Troy. Photos of family members are on every surface.
On the floor, near the rock that crashed through the door, is a note. It was presumably written by the mother to her children.
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