My First Summer of Hell: August 2003

As I said previously, this season started early and was going strong. The dealers would still conduct their heaviest activities while I was away from the house. I was informed by neighbors that large groups would be setting in my yard and on my porch when I was gone. Sometimes, they would take the chairs off my porch and set on them at the corner. I guess I should appreciate that they put the chairs back at the end of their “shift.” The amount of trash they’d leave on the ground was getting ridiculous.

I tried to be assertive. When I saw someone in my yard, I’d talk with them. But as I said, most of the activity occurred when I was unable to witness it. I began calling FWPD again that spring. I don’t recall exactly how many times I called or who I spoke with early on, but one of them had referred me to Officer Marshall. Marshall was apparently a high ranking officer who had a lot of say over how this area was administered. I had left a phone message with Officer Marshall briefly explaining my situation and asking for advice.

During 2003, my home was broken into, a juvenile drug dealer was caught hiding his gun in my front yard, and I had an encounter one night that really should have left me dead. Of course, that’s just the top three. I began that summer feeling that FWPD was not really very concerned about the problem here. And although there were some hopeful signs to the contrary along the way, the season ended on the same note.

This is the first of several posts that will cover 2003, and by the time you finish reading about what all occurred here during that period you’ll probably understand why I affectionately referred to it as the summer of hell. Little did I know that only three years later, I would have to begin referring back to 2003 as my first summer of hell.

Sunday, August 3, 2003: Officer Marshall called my home around six o’clock in the evening. From the beginning of our conversation, Marshall sounded sympathetic to my plight. Instead of asking accusingly “What do you want me to do?” he came across more like “Let’s see how I can help you.” After talking for a while, Officer Marshall suggested I sign a consent form giving the FWPD rights to monitor and be present on my property. Marshall said he would call back when he had this “no-trespass” form ready for me to sign.

Tuesday, August 5: I was setting with Arlen on his front porch around seven in the evening when we saw a car driving erratically down the street. The plate had a 95 prefix, so he likely wasn’t from around here. The car came back and stopped in front of my house for a minute. He started backing out onto the side street but stopped suddenly. I assumed that he had almost backed into a passing car.

As he pulled forward, a police car was tailing him. Arlen and I started laughing at the irony. He parked about a half block down the street as the officer slowly passed by. The patrol car came back a second time, but did not stop. After that, the driver got out of the car and Harry approached him on foot. Harry said “Man, you need to watch how you’re acting down here.” The driver shouted back “I don’t care about no fucking police.” They talked for a few minutes and conducted their business, then the driver left.

Wednesday, August 6: Around ten in the morning, the same car from yesterday parked down the street as he and his three passengers went inside Carl’s drug house. As soon as this car pulled up, Harry and a few other dealers positioned themselves on the corners that surrounded Carl’s house. It appeared that they were providing look-out, so whatever was going on inside the drug house must have been something important. I watched for a minute, wondering what was going on, and contemplated whether to call FWPD.

I had no trepidation about asking the dealers to clear off of my property, but I had to consider exactly how deeply I wanted to involve myself in their business. After all, whatever was happening was taking place inside their home, not on the street. And if they were coordinated enough to have people watching all the streets for any police that might come through, then I had to consider what type of retribution my actions might possibly draw from them. I decided to take the easy way out. I drove to a phone booth so the number couldn’t be traced and called anonymously.

I didn’t want to sound alarmist with my call. The truth is, I had no idea what was going on inside there. But it looked suspicious, so I just stated what I had observed. I said “Last night around seven, one of your officers was following a guy around here (gave description of car) because he was acting suspicious. After that officer left, it looked like he was doing some business with one of the regular dealers here. That same car just showed up again with four guys in it, and they all went into the drug house (gave location). As soon as they arrived, several of the other dealers positioned themselves on both corners that surround this house. It looks like they are there scoping the area as lookouts. From what I’m seeing, I assume there must be something fairly important going on there.”

That’s all I said. I did not scream “help!” I did not even say that I knew for certain anything illegal was taking place. I just told them what I saw, as they had requested of me numerous times, and left it to their judgment. I was actually surprised that when I returned to the area about five to ten minutes later it was swarming with police. They had one intersection completely blocked and they were driving all the streets and alleys. The car that had been at the drug house was nowhere in sight, and all the corners were cleared off. I was not here to witness the drug dealers evacuation, so I don’t know how soon after my call they fled. It’s very likely that something was said over the scanner to tip them off.

Seeing this strong and immediate response from FWPD led me to decide that I should give up my anonymity. If they were going to do their part, then I’d certainly step up and do mine. I approached one of the patrol cars and notified the officer that I was the person who had just called them. The first thing he asked was “Where’s the car? We don’t see the car over there.” I only answered that it had been parked across the street from Carl’s house and that’s where all of them had been inside.

The officer asked what the address of the drug house was, and I did not know it. The best I could do was give a very precise description of it’s appearance and location. This seemed to frustrate the officer. Then the officer asked for the plate number of the car. All I had was a description of the car and the 95 prefix. I also mentioned the previous night’s incident, thinking that officer had probably called in the plate number when the guy almost backed into him. I also assumed, since I had mentioned this fact with my call, that the dispatcher would have done a quick check and passed it on to the officers.

But the officers on the scene didn’t have the plate number. And they appeared to not know which house I was talking about, even though it was the only 24/7 drug house on the block. Overall, the cop seemed pretty pissed at me because the guys were gone and that I could not give them all the information they wanted.

Later that day I called Officer Forsyth. I had been given his name by another officer and was told that he had a lot to do with police actions against the drug houses. I told him briefly about what had happened that morning. He verified that the two main houses I was suspicious of were indeed known drug houses to the FWPD. One of them was Carl’s house, where all the commotion had taken place earlier.

I told Officer Forsythe that I wanted to help FWPD with the problem here, but I didn’t want to cause confusion as I had apparently done that morning. He gave no reply to this, so I then added that I expect FWPD to address this problem. To this he replied “We’re trying, but every time we raid one of the houses a bunch of blacks scream harassment. We’ve been arresting people on the street that buy there, and that’s about all we can do.” I told him I didn’t want to be a pain in the ass by calling too frequently, but that I need to know how I can be useful to them (police).

Officer Forsythe then told me “We get over 40 calls a day on the drug-tip line.” I replied “I'm being told to call whenever whenever I see suspicious activity. It sounds to me like that might just make things more confusing for you. I need to know what will be useful to you, so that I don’t end up slowing you down. What can I do on my end to help with this problem?.” His only response to this was to tell me because they (dealers) sell on the street, rather than inside of their house, the police can not get a warrant to enter. He said an undercover narcotics officer has to make a purchase three times while inside of a drug house before they can kick the door in.

Friday, August 22: It had been nearly three weeks since I spoke with Officer Marshall. I was trying to be patient, but these people were taking over my yard. I called and left a message checking to see if the no-trespass order was ready for me to sign.

Friday, August 29: Called Officer Marshall again and left another message.

My initial telephone conversation with Officer Marshall had definitely left me feeling hopeful about the situation. Every officer I’d met prior to this had either accosted or ignored me. Marshall was the first to actually engage me in polite dialogue about the matter. The no-trespass order seemed like a simple yet powerful tool to allow the police and me to work together on this problem. But the summer was heating up each day, and how long could it take to simply pull some form out of a file and have me come and sign it? I don’t think my two calls were excessive, given the circumstances. And neither of them were returned.

The police had repeatedly told me “When you see something happening, call it in.” So I did. I didn’t have the address of Carl’s house because every time I drove past, there was a large group of people staring at passing cars, especially mine. Slowing down to look at that house just did not seem like a wise thing to do. As for the plate number, what was I supposed to do, walk a little closer and pull out a memo pad to jot down a few notes? I guess maybe I should have asked the guys on the corners for their names and blocked the wheels of the car as well. I certainly can’t expect the police to do everything. I could understand the responding officer’s frustration, but I think his anger being directed at me was inappropriate.

And then there’s Officer Forsyth, another high ranking officer. He seemed overly intent on telling me how badly their hands were tied. I understood everything he was saying, and I was not expecting him to perform magic. But I asked him directly for guidance on what my role should be. To this he simply offered more excuses.

Then, there was his ridiculous response about the blacks screaming harassment. Even if that is true, it seemed an odd thing to say. He had no idea who I was, or how offensive that might have sounded. He could have just as easily said “Every time we do something, a bunch of people there scream about harassment.” Like I said, my comments here have nothing to do with whether his claims were true or not. It just seem unnecessary and unwise to state it that way. I really think the poor guy was just overloaded and was stressing out.

All the other officers I’d spoken with in the past said that if I see something suspicious that I should just phone it in. Now, I met the poor guy who received all those calls, and had no idea what to do with them. Seems like maybe these folks should sit down and talk among themselves a little more often.