PHILLY
EVENTSThe Dead of Night
DON'T OPEN EVEN IF SOMEONE KNOCKS DON'T OPEN! DON'T LOOK OUT. IF SOMEONE SAY THEIR THE COPS DON'T OPEN. CALL ME RIGHT AWAY OR CALL DE, TERREL
"What do you think the story is?" I ask a female officer.
"Drama with a baby's father, usually," she says. There's boredom in her voice, and why not? In an affluent neighborhood, the events that led to a rock through a door and a note to children telling them to beware of everyone, including police impersonators, would trigger a community meeting and possibly the appearance of the Action News van. On North 20th Street, it's just another call.
"Or maybe she called the police about the drug dealers and they're paying her back," the officer continues. "You see all the curtains are closed."
I look up. Every window is completely covered.
"Also, maybe people are mad because she got this house for free."
"What do you mean?"
"It's Habitat for Humanity. People get jealous. Maybe there was a fight. Could be a lot of things."
Inside the house, officers are calling every phone number they can find. They call what seems to be the owner's work number, and reach her supervisor. She says the owner is on vacation. Other officers reach family members, but they all refuse to come and watch over the house.
A white male officer, the only one I've seen on patrol all night, agrees to wait inside the house. If no one shows up after a few hours, when his supervisor gives the word, he'll have to leave. The door will be wide open to every addict and thief lucky enough to pass by.
Stephens and I get back into the car. It's 3:44 a.m. If anything we've done tonight has had an effect on whether the young men of Philadelphia shoot each other, I sure haven't seen it. That may be about to change.
"Shot black male," the dispatcher says.
The lights and sirens are back on. Stephens is tense as we pull up to the scene. "Don't get out of the car," he says.
We arrive to find a street filled with squad cars and their flashing blue and white lights. A crowd mills up and down. People crane their necks to see the star of the show. He has short dreadlocks and massive deltoids, and is wearing a white tank top. He's maybe 25. Two weary paramedics are trying to lead him into the ambulance.
"I'm STILL walking!" he shouts. "What? I was shot. BUT I'M STILL WALKING. ... "
Stephens looks around. Something moves him toward an elderly woman.
"That's my nephew they shot," she whispers.
"You don't know nothing!" a little boy screams at her from down the street. He runs toward her. "You don't know nothing!"
"Who was it?" Stephens asks quietly. I can't hear the response. But within a few moments, we're back in the car, telling the dispatcher that the shooter fled in a white Plymouth van. We're driving fast. So fast you feel an adrenaline rush that goes beyond anything you may have felt catching that touchdown pass in high school or just before you gave that big speech. It comes not only from the speed, but from knowing that you're looking for a wanted man who probably has a loaded weapon and not much to lose.
"You got your seatbelt on? We're about to go real fast."
We fly up Lehigh Avenue. It's only a minute or so before the dispatcher radios in some good news: The van has been stopped. "They have the minivan and the gun," he says. In another city, this might give us a moment to talk about the weather, football, or what we think about the problem of urban violence. But this is Philadelphia, which means we're on our way to the next emergency.
"What do you think the story is?" I ask a female officer.
"Drama with a baby's father, usually," she says. There's boredom in her voice, and why not? In an affluent neighborhood, the events that led to a rock through a door and a note to children telling them to beware of everyone, including police impersonators, would trigger a community meeting and possibly the appearance of the Action News van. On North 20th Street, it's just another call.
"Or maybe she called the police about the drug dealers and they're paying her back," the officer continues. "You see all the curtains are closed."
I look up. Every window is completely covered.
"Also, maybe people are mad because she got this house for free."
"What do you mean?"
"It's Habitat for Humanity. People get jealous. Maybe there was a fight. Could be a lot of things."
Inside the house, officers are calling every phone number they can find. They call what seems to be the owner's work number, and reach her supervisor. She says the owner is on vacation. Other officers reach family members, but they all refuse to come and watch over the house.
A white male officer, the only one I've seen on patrol all night, agrees to wait inside the house. If no one shows up after a few hours, when his supervisor gives the word, he'll have to leave. The door will be wide open to every addict and thief lucky enough to pass by.
Stephens and I get back into the car. It's 3:44 a.m. If anything we've done tonight has had an effect on whether the young men of Philadelphia shoot each other, I sure haven't seen it. That may be about to change.
"Shot black male," the dispatcher says.
The lights and sirens are back on. Stephens is tense as we pull up to the scene. "Don't get out of the car," he says.
We arrive to find a street filled with squad cars and their flashing blue and white lights. A crowd mills up and down. People crane their necks to see the star of the show. He has short dreadlocks and massive deltoids, and is wearing a white tank top. He's maybe 25. Two weary paramedics are trying to lead him into the ambulance.
"I'm STILL walking!" he shouts. "What? I was shot. BUT I'M STILL WALKING. ... "
Stephens looks around. Something moves him toward an elderly woman.
"That's my nephew they shot," she whispers.
"You don't know nothing!" a little boy screams at her from down the street. He runs toward her. "You don't know nothing!"
"Who was it?" Stephens asks quietly. I can't hear the response. But within a few moments, we're back in the car, telling the dispatcher that the shooter fled in a white Plymouth van. We're driving fast. So fast you feel an adrenaline rush that goes beyond anything you may have felt catching that touchdown pass in high school or just before you gave that big speech. It comes not only from the speed, but from knowing that you're looking for a wanted man who probably has a loaded weapon and not much to lose.
"You got your seatbelt on? We're about to go real fast."
We fly up Lehigh Avenue. It's only a minute or so before the dispatcher radios in some good news: The van has been stopped. "They have the minivan and the gun," he says. In another city, this might give us a moment to talk about the weather, football, or what we think about the problem of urban violence. But this is Philadelphia, which means we're on our way to the next emergency.
