The dealers were using my home as a front for their drug activities while I was away, and they would often pack up and leave as I was coming home. There was trash strewn everywhere, sometimes my porch furniture was moved around, and my neighbors told me that they were even hiding drugs in my mailbox. Yet if I called FWPD about this, they would act as though the problem was solved because it wasn’t occurring at that moment. Forget the fact that the same thing would happen again as I went to work the next morning. These problems could not be solved with a simple call to the anonymous and seemingly ignorant “desk sergeant,” many of the patrol officers here seemed too stressed out to carry on a civil conversation, and I was unable to establish meaningful communication with any higher ranking officers at FWPD.
All I wanted was a little assistance from FWPD. I didn’t expect them to watch my property 24/7, but I wanted the officers who patrol this neighborhood to know that mine was not a drug house. And I wanted them to know that when they see a group of people standing in my yard or setting on my porch, those people are probably drug dealers. I simply wanted the higher ranking officers to pass this information on to the patrol officers.
Monitoring and arguing with the dealers, picking up their trash, being harassed by some of the patrol officers, and being ignored by the bureaucrats was wearing on me. I often felt like this was a battle I was losing. So, as the saying goes, I decided “If you can’t beat them, join them.” And no, I was not considering becoming a drug dealer.
I don’t recall when the notice first appeared in the paper, but I believe it was in October of 1998 that I went to South Side High School to take a written examination. There were several hundred other applicants, all vying to fill a few open positions as a patrol officer with the FWPD. The written exam was a piece of cake. It was long, but it was multiple choice questions, mostly math, reading comprehension, and other rudimentary mental skills. I suppose that if they provide the definition of burglary, theft and robbery to you, then ask you to define these terms (while the definitions are still in front of you) and you fail, then you probably shouldn’t be a cop!
The next step was the physical testing at the Police training station on St. Mary’s Ave. The first section was a four point obstacle course set up in the gymnasium. The first obstacle was a five foot high wall that you had to scale. Then there were a set of low lying bars that you had to slide or crawl under without knocking them off the cones they rested on. I’m thinking they were about 18” off the ground and there was a series of them stretching for 6-8’. I think the third obstacle was a distance jump, and I really can’t recall how far it was. I am really vague on my recollection of the fourth obstacle. It might have been running through tires on the floor, or walking a balance beam. But I’m thinking the balance beam came later when we went upstairs. I believe we had to run this course three or four times in continuous sequence. I don’t recall exactly how they scored on this. I know you got points taken off if you knocked off any of the bars, and I think failure to scale the wall was an automatic disqualifier.
After that, we ran up and down the stairs for a while, then we went upstairs for the remainder of the test. We had to drag a sack filled with weights (I don’t recall how much) back and forth along the hallway. Several times you had to come to a complete stop and start fresh again. That made a big difference. Each new drag would burn the legs (especially the calves) a little more, and by the time we stopped, I was a bit sore. I think we also walked back and forth on a balance beam a few times for the last test. I would say that dragging the weights was the most trying of the tests for me, and running the stairs was probably the second hardest part. Overall, it seemed fairly easy to me, so I guess it wasn’t that difficult.
I don’t remember the exact order of the different trials they put us through, but I think the next step was an interview before a panel of three FWPD officers. This was probably the most intimidating part of the test. You’re setting in a dingy looking room of a building that looked on the verge of being condemned, and facing three uniformed officers. They all look at you in unison, with expressionless faces, and ask “Why should we let you be a police officer.” I swear, at one point I almost blurted out “Okay, I admit it, I’m guilty!” At least they weren’t shining a light in my eyes.
After that was the lie detector test. I had never sat in a police interrogation room or had a lie detector test administered to me before. It was a little uncomfortable, mainly because the circumstances seemed designed to make you feel like you were a criminal. But I suppose that can be good for a couple reasons. First, the intimidation probably makes it more difficult for you to fool the machine, but it’s probably also good for a (future) cop to understand things from the perspective of the criminal (I mean the accused.)
The last test was a psychological examination which took place at IPFW in may of 1999. They gave us no preparation for this, not even a rough idea of how long it would take. I had expected an actual personal interview for this. As there were only about sixty applicants left at this stage, that seemed feasible. Instead, it was another multiple choice test. I would estimate we were there about six hours, although we were allowed a couple breaks.
Many of you have probably seen these tests before. They ask “have you ever stolen anything?” Well, you’re applying to be a cop, so you can’t admit you’re a thief. But almost everybody has probably stolen something, sometime in their life, so if you answer no, they’ll think you’re a liar. Then they ask if you’ve ever smoked pot, kicked a cat, lied to your mother, and a lot of other silly questions. Some are straight forward, and others are very ambiguous. Many people worry so much about how they think they are expected to answer the questions, instead of just answering them, that this itself causes a lot of frustration.
I really don’t think they even look at how you answer the questions. The first thing they probably check is to see if you left too many questions unanswered. This means you were giving it too much thought, which means you were trying to manipulate the test rather than give honest answers. But if you answer too quickly, it perhaps shows you are reckless and lack the ability to think deliberatively. So timing is everything. You can have a few unanswered questions at the end or you can finish a little before the time is up, and you’re okay. But too much of either and you’re out. Of course, the other disqualifier is when someone jumps up and runs from the room screaming.
So, from this final group of about sixty candidates, I think we were told that twenty-three would be selected. We were also told that if we had made it this far, then we all would make good cops. They encouraged those who didn’t make the cut to re-apply in the future. During the application process, I had talked with many of the other candidates. Some were trying out for the second or even third time. Many of them said they’d heard that most people don’t make it on their first try.
Some were attempting to cross over from other police agencies, which I expect gave them a strong advantage in certain areas of the selection process. I understand the need to interview and give some of the tests to everyone, but I was actually surprised when I found out that a current Allen County Officer has to take the full battery of physical and written tests that a civilian does in order to join FWPD. There’s certainly no harm in doing this, I just figured they’d say “Oh, since you’re already a cop, let’s just ask you a couple quick questions before we give you your new badge.”
Although I had encountered several FWPD officers during this lengthy process, it was always in a very formal manner. There really wasn’t any chance to say to one of them “By the way, I’m having this problem in my neighborhood and I wonder if you could tell me what I should do about it.” I kept wondering when somebody would take note of my home address on the application, and I was expecting one of the officers to call me aside and say “You live in crack-town and you want to be a cop? You’ve got to be kidding.”
As I wrote this post, I remembered one other part of the application process. Officer Hay came to my home to conduct a personal interview. I don’t remember how much advance notice I had for this, but it certainly wasn’t enough time to conceal the fact that the outside of my house was dilapidated and the interior was under construction. And of course, there was no way to change the fact that I was living in crack-town. In retrospect, I’m actually quite surprised that Officer Hay was able to maintain his composure during the interview. Here I was, the only white guy around, living in a drug infested neighborhood, and owning a home that probably looked like it could be a crack house itself, and I wanted to be a cop. I would really love to be able to read his report on that interview someday. “Applicant must either be a drug dealer himself, or just a damned idiot for not realizing that a blue uniform down here will probably get him killed. - Recommend no pass.”
The Few, The Proud, the FWPD:
If you can handle the written test, the physical test, and successfully pass before the police review panel they might eventually give you a gun to play with. You should probably have a couple stiff drinks before taking the psychological test to help you relax though. Just don’t admit that you’re drunk, but don’t deny it either - damn, now I need another drink!
Friday, March 14, 2008
Fort Wayne DEA (Don‘t Enforce Anything?): Summer 1998
Here’s another fun game to play. Like the Where’s Waldo? pictures, your job is to look at this photo and find the drug house. I’m not giving out the address, but it’s there, in Aboite. Not exactly where most people would expect to find Fort Wayne’s Drug King living, I suppose.
If you live in or near one of these houses, you should contact the federal Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) and ask what actions (if any) they took when they were told that one of your neighbors was supplying drugs to one of Fort Wayne’s most notorious crack neighborhoods.
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I did several things in response to the drug supplier ordering his man to kill me. First, I applied for a gun permit. Second, I purchased a hand-gun. Third, I purchased a shotgun to carry around while I was waiting on my permit approval. Fourth, I located where the supplier lived. And fifth, I walked in, unannounced, to the Fort Wayne DEA office.
The first two actions would probably seem pretty reasonable to many people. Given that things were getting so serious here, and that the FWPD appeared to not give a damn, I really had no choice. The third might seem a little extreme, but I really had no idea what I was facing at the time. For about two weeks, I carried my shot gun everywhere I went. I had a cover for it, but it still must have been obvious to anyone who was watching. The only person who questioned me was one of Arlen’s grandsons, Eric. When he asked what was in the bag, I just told him it was a pool cue. Arlen had actually seen me with it a couple times and never questioned me, but he spends a lot of time in the woods, so I guess it just seemed normal to him to see aguy walking around with a shotgun.
The opportunity to find the drug supplier just presented itself. It never occurred to me to go to the source of the problem until one day I saw his van while driving around town. I decided to follow him and he ended up at a house in Aboite. During the next few weeks, I drove by the house several times and saw his van often enough to believe this was probably his home. I had a distinct advantage here. I doubt if he would even recognize me, but I had committed his address, his van, and his face to memory. When I got my gun permit, I considered knocking on his door and introducing myself.
I know it might seem that the sensible thing would be to talk to the police. But they had already told me to piss-off numerous times, so there really was no reason to believe this would be any different. I suspect a conversation with them would have gone like this:
If you live in or near one of these houses, you should contact the federal Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA) and ask what actions (if any) they took when they were told that one of your neighbors was supplying drugs to one of Fort Wayne’s most notorious crack neighborhoods.__________________________________________
I did several things in response to the drug supplier ordering his man to kill me. First, I applied for a gun permit. Second, I purchased a hand-gun. Third, I purchased a shotgun to carry around while I was waiting on my permit approval. Fourth, I located where the supplier lived. And fifth, I walked in, unannounced, to the Fort Wayne DEA office.
The first two actions would probably seem pretty reasonable to many people. Given that things were getting so serious here, and that the FWPD appeared to not give a damn, I really had no choice. The third might seem a little extreme, but I really had no idea what I was facing at the time. For about two weeks, I carried my shot gun everywhere I went. I had a cover for it, but it still must have been obvious to anyone who was watching. The only person who questioned me was one of Arlen’s grandsons, Eric. When he asked what was in the bag, I just told him it was a pool cue. Arlen had actually seen me with it a couple times and never questioned me, but he spends a lot of time in the woods, so I guess it just seemed normal to him to see aguy walking around with a shotgun.
The opportunity to find the drug supplier just presented itself. It never occurred to me to go to the source of the problem until one day I saw his van while driving around town. I decided to follow him and he ended up at a house in Aboite. During the next few weeks, I drove by the house several times and saw his van often enough to believe this was probably his home. I had a distinct advantage here. I doubt if he would even recognize me, but I had committed his address, his van, and his face to memory. When I got my gun permit, I considered knocking on his door and introducing myself.
I know it might seem that the sensible thing would be to talk to the police. But they had already told me to piss-off numerous times, so there really was no reason to believe this would be any different. I suspect a conversation with them would have gone like this:
Me: Some guy is threatening to kill me.
FWPD: Is he threatening you right now?
ME: No, he left already.
FWPD: Well, there’s nothing we can do at this time, but make sure and call us the next time that he threatens to kill you.
As I vexed over what to do, I remembered reading a story in the paper about the two DEA agents who were stationed here in Fort Wayne. I couldn’t find any local listing for the DEA office, so I went to the Federal Building downtown. I just walked up to the guard at the front door, said I needed to speak with somebody from the DEA, and asked for directions. I didn’t even know if they were in that building, it just seemed like a reasonable place to start. The old guy looked me over for a minute, then gave me directions to the DEA office in the basement. That was easy, I guess maybe I looked like a cop - or perhaps a drug informant.
I’m sure my memory has exaggerated things a bit, but I swear I felt like Maxwell Smart as I walked the seemingly long path down the stairs and hallway. Then I came to the door. It had no window, and I’m pretty sure it was steel. I knocked and a small steel plate slid open to reveal nothing more than a pair of eyes. “Yeah?” the eyes asked. I stated my name and my address. I said I had information about the drug activities in my neighborhood and I’d like to speak with someone.
In retrospect, I’m actually surprised that they opened the door and let me in. Here were two men tucked away in a basement, hidden behind a windowless steel door. They were probably curious just who the hell I was and how I found them. I don’t know this for sure, but it’s very likely that their identity is not publicly revealed. Wouldn’t that be a great way for a drug dealer to I.D. them - walk in and act like a concerned citizen. Maybe it was a sign of their trepidation that only one of the agents sat with me at a round table in the middle of the room, while the other paced about behind us.
I told them my story. I talked first about the heavy drug activity and got an acknowledgement from Agent Colby that my neighborhood was at least on their radar. I then told them about the latest development. I gave a description of the supplier and his van, along with the address where I had seen it parked. Agent Colby began quoting some statistics about how heavy the drug activity here in Fort Wayne is. The insinuation seemed to be that this really was no big deal. I reiterated to Agent Colby “This man is threatening to kill people, maybe me. Are you going to do something about this?”
Agent Colby told me that they were currently busy with a lot of projects, and that I should probably take this information to FWPD. I was flabbergasted. Here I was giving the DEA the address of the supplier to one of Fort Wayne’s most notorious drug neighborhoods, and they were telling me to talk to the local cops. I would have thought it would work in the opposite direction. Of course, this brought me back to the other problem, which was FWPD’s apparent lack of concern for the matter. After I explained my problems with FWPD, Agent Colby said he’d look into it, but added that I should contact FWPD if the problems persisted. In other words, he was telling me not to come back.
I never saw this drug supplier or his van in my neighborhood after I spoke with the DEA. I drove past his house occasionally and never again saw his van there. At first, I assumed that my information might have been enough to either get him arrested or caused enough discomfort that he decided to change locations. But although I could have missed it, I never heard a news story about any drug arrests that seemed to match this guy.
There is another possibility. I know that FWPD sometimes sends plain clothed undercover officers over here. I have seen one that I know for sure was a cop, and several others that I strongly suspected. What if this “supplier” was either a cop or a C.I. (confidential informant). He was here on a regular basis before I talked to the DEA, then suddenly disappeared right after that. It seems unlikely this was a coincidence. I can imagine the conversation when the “supplier” got called into his boss’s office. “Hey dumb ass, we’re going to have to find a new gig for you because you’re scaring the shit out of the civilians.”
On the good side, at least I had met both the DEA agents, so I knew the supplier wasn’t one of them. I’m not sure exactly what I would have done if that steel door opened to reveal the guy who ordered a drug dealer to kill me, but I probably would have ended up in jail over it - or worse.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
“F**k Him, Take Him Out!”: Summer 1998
I’m not sure how long my house had been empty before I moved in here, but over the past couple of years I had come to realize that the dealers saw it as their own. I had a few direct confrontations, but spending more time outside and meeting some of my neighbors greatly helped to calm things down. Although there was an abandoned house a few lots from mine where the dealers liked to park, it did not have the convenience of being on the corner. I think a lot of the dealers still saw me as nothing more than a transient anomaly, and some of them were becoming impatient with the way I was disrupting their normal business routine.
OK, by this point you have probably come to realize that my actions can sometimes be described as crazy, stupid, unpredictable, or a combination of all three. So what do you think I did in response to this guy threatening to kill me?
Like the Crater of Diamonds State Park guests can mine the yard for drug paraphernalia or abandoned clothing and keep anything that they find. Items found to date include three crack-pipes, two bags of pot, a brown leather jacket, a very large pair of sweat pants, a knit cap, and numerous beer/alcohol containers with a little swill left in them.
And similar to the Conner Prairie Settlement guests will encounter people who actually appear to be high on crack. These people are very knowledgeable and able to converse about topics such as how many misdemeanors it takes to constitute a felony and how many grams a person can possess before being classified as a dealer, thus making their visit to crack-town a true educational experience. If attendance is “high” enough, interactive classes on rolling weed and cooking meth will also be offered.
This is a B.Y.O.G. event, and the owner of “MY HUD HOUSE” makes no promise of guests safety and assumes no liability for any damages.
There was a man who used to come through here frequently during the spring and summer of 1998. He was distinctive in both his personal appearance as well as the vehicle he drove. He was tall, skinny and white. He had long hair tied back, and looked like a burnout from the sixties. His van was solid black, with huge orange flames painted on both sides. Whenever he would pull up, several of the dealers would flock to his van for a few minutes then leave. I never heard any bells, so I don’t think he was selling ice cream. I can only assume that he was the one supplying the dealers.
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One day, I looked out my window to see one of the local drug dealers arguing with the supplier. They were about a half block away, so I could not hear their conversation, but from the body language it was clear that the dealer was getting an ass chewing from the supplier. The supplier was standing, his arms flailing about and sometimes he would stop and point his bony finger at the dealer. The dealer was setting down, and the only body movement he exhibited was to shrug his shoulders. Suddenly, the dealer pointed towards my house and shouted “Fuck him. Take him out.” I figured they were either talking about me or Arlen, who often chased the dealers away from his home.
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A CONTEST - WIN A PRIZE!
OK, by this point you have probably come to realize that my actions can sometimes be described as crazy, stupid, unpredictable, or a combination of all three. So what do you think I did in response to this guy threatening to kill me?
A. Ran home to my mother, screaming like a little baby.
B. Walked up and told him I’d kill him if he didn’t stay away from my house.
C. Walked up and asked if he had any weed, then sat down and smoked a J with him.
D. All of the above.
E. None of the above. (If you guess E, you have to say what you think I actually did.)
.
All persons who answer correctly will win a trip to crack-town.
Tell them about the prize, Johnny!
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That’s right, Phil. The winner(s) get to spend an afternoon setting with you on the front porch of your home only a few feet away from one of Fort Wayne’s most interesting corners. They can experience life in the ‘hood first hand and, if it’s a good day, there might even be some second hand fumes going around.
Like the Crater of Diamonds State Park guests can mine the yard for drug paraphernalia or abandoned clothing and keep anything that they find. Items found to date include three crack-pipes, two bags of pot, a brown leather jacket, a very large pair of sweat pants, a knit cap, and numerous beer/alcohol containers with a little swill left in them.
And similar to the Conner Prairie Settlement guests will encounter people who actually appear to be high on crack. These people are very knowledgeable and able to converse about topics such as how many misdemeanors it takes to constitute a felony and how many grams a person can possess before being classified as a dealer, thus making their visit to crack-town a true educational experience. If attendance is “high” enough, interactive classes on rolling weed and cooking meth will also be offered.
.
Legal Disclaimers:
This is a B.Y.O.G. event, and the owner of “MY HUD HOUSE” makes no promise of guests safety and assumes no liability for any damages.
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All arrangements for transportation to and from “MY HUD HOUSE” must be provided by guests. However, if they are unconscious at time of scheduled departure (see above), a “bus” will be called for them.
.
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Possession, consumption, buying and selling of illegal narcotics is strictly prohibited while at “MY HUD HOUSE.” However, the public sidewalk is only a few feet away, and a different set of rules often seems to apply there.
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Alcoholic integrity of “swill” can not be guaranteed, as the bottom of the bottle is mostly spit.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
FWPD - More Crazy Cops: Spring 1998
One evening I returned home very late. I had just parked and was about to get out when I noticed a car approaching me from behind very slowly. I felt nervous, so I placed the key back in the ignition. As the car stopped behind me, I could see there were two uniformed officers inside. I was relieved, but as I got out of my car the car pulled up beside me and the driver asked sternly “What are you doing down here?” As he did this, the other officer jumped out of the car and lunged at me as though he was about to tackle me to the ground.
This officer stood about 6” from me, saying nothing the entire time, as I conversed with the driver. I told him that I live here, and pointed to my home. He quickly demanded to know the address, and I answered. He then demanded that I show my I.D. which was snatched from my hands by the officer standing beside me. After a minute the officer nodded to the driver, then he returned my I.D. and got back in the car. I asked the driver if I had done anything wrong. He simply replied “I didn’t know there were any white guys living down here,” then left.
OK, for anyone who does not live in this neighborhood, I can almost guarantee that this would have left you a little bit upset. My only “crime” was, driving while white (meaning they thought I was here to buy drugs.) But you really have to spend some time here to appreciate the situation. By this point, I had come to realize that my home was in the middle of crack-central station. Given what I had seen and experienced so far from the dealers, I still felt that this amount of heavy-handedness from the police was appropriate if that’s what it took to keep the neighborhood under control. Also, I figured the more encounters that I had with the cops, the better chance that I might be able to eventually communicate with them on a functional level. So I played the good little citizen, confident that very soon they would recognize my cooperation and begin to help me keep the drug dealers away from my house.
It would take a while before I came to realize that while the police continued to harass me for simply driving to my home or walking to my truck, they would also continue to ignore the armed drug dealers who were selling on the sidewalk, in the middle of the street, and sometimes in my front yard.
This officer stood about 6” from me, saying nothing the entire time, as I conversed with the driver. I told him that I live here, and pointed to my home. He quickly demanded to know the address, and I answered. He then demanded that I show my I.D. which was snatched from my hands by the officer standing beside me. After a minute the officer nodded to the driver, then he returned my I.D. and got back in the car. I asked the driver if I had done anything wrong. He simply replied “I didn’t know there were any white guys living down here,” then left.
OK, for anyone who does not live in this neighborhood, I can almost guarantee that this would have left you a little bit upset. My only “crime” was, driving while white (meaning they thought I was here to buy drugs.) But you really have to spend some time here to appreciate the situation. By this point, I had come to realize that my home was in the middle of crack-central station. Given what I had seen and experienced so far from the dealers, I still felt that this amount of heavy-handedness from the police was appropriate if that’s what it took to keep the neighborhood under control. Also, I figured the more encounters that I had with the cops, the better chance that I might be able to eventually communicate with them on a functional level. So I played the good little citizen, confident that very soon they would recognize my cooperation and begin to help me keep the drug dealers away from my house.
It would take a while before I came to realize that while the police continued to harass me for simply driving to my home or walking to my truck, they would also continue to ignore the armed drug dealers who were selling on the sidewalk, in the middle of the street, and sometimes in my front yard.
Friday, March 7, 2008
“I Own This Corner” Winter 1997/1998
By now, I had become more observant of the activities in my neighborhood. I spent more time outside, talking with neighbors, setting on my porch, and asking people to give me a little respect, by not conducting their activities on my property. The results were mixed. Some of my neighbors told me that people would stand in my yard and even set on my front porch steps while I was away from the house. The amount of trash sometimes left on the ground supported their claims.
Naturally, the cold weather always puts a slight damper on the activities here. But I am still constantly surprised at the occasional person willing to stand in the rain, snow or cold to make the sale. If not for the fact that what they’re doing is illegal, and for the trash they leave behind, this kind of strong commitment to their business would actually be quite admirable. Anyway, I’ve come to realize that the spring activities are usually a pretty good indicator of how the rest of the year will be go. Noticing how early in the season they start up again, how many of them come out early, and if there are a lot of new faces in the crowd, all helps me to brace for what will follow.
This spring (my third here) did not begin well. One night, I heard shouting outside. I looked out the window to see Gordon standing on the sidewalk and shouting “This is my block. I built it, and nobody’s gonna take it from me. All you mother fuckers need to stay inside tonight.” He was pacing back and forth and appeared to be very high. I think his message was intended mainly for the other dealers who were encroaching on “his” territory, but he also said “I don’t wanna see no white people, I don’t wanna see no cops. This is my corner.”
I thought about calling the police. I also thought about going out to talk with him and see what would happen. But to be honest, at that moment my fascination was stronger than either my fear or anger. It was surreal, like watching something from a movie come to life. I just watched for about ten to fifteen minutes while he continued shouting almost non-stop. Then, suddenly, he walked away. A couple minutes later, several police cars arrived. They had one street shut down, blocked at both ends, and were searching through some empty lots with their flashlights.
The area they were searching was a half-block from the corner where Gordon was standing, but he was walking around a lot. Because no one was in sight when the police started their search, I have to assume they were acting on a call. But I have no idea if it was because of Gordon’s antics or something else. In the middle of all this, Gordon suddenly walked back into the area. He walked right up to the patrol car that was blocking one of the intersections and started talking with the cop inside. There was only one officer in the car, and the others were a half-block away. At one point, Gordon had his head inside of the open window of the police car.
Now it is altogether possible that this officer had no idea that Gordon was the one who had been shouting earlier. And I can say from later experience that Gordon can shake off his high and look very sober when he needs to, so it's possible that he appeared normal to the officer. But Gordon is (and was at that time) known as a very serious drug trafficker to the police. It just seemed a little strange that this officer would appear so relaxed around him. After that, I began to wonder if the police (individuals or department) were possibly complicit in the activities here. That could help explain why the drug dealing is so prevalent here and why the police didn’t want to talk with me. Notice, at this point I was not making such an accusation, simply speculating.
Naturally, the cold weather always puts a slight damper on the activities here. But I am still constantly surprised at the occasional person willing to stand in the rain, snow or cold to make the sale. If not for the fact that what they’re doing is illegal, and for the trash they leave behind, this kind of strong commitment to their business would actually be quite admirable. Anyway, I’ve come to realize that the spring activities are usually a pretty good indicator of how the rest of the year will be go. Noticing how early in the season they start up again, how many of them come out early, and if there are a lot of new faces in the crowd, all helps me to brace for what will follow.
This spring (my third here) did not begin well. One night, I heard shouting outside. I looked out the window to see Gordon standing on the sidewalk and shouting “This is my block. I built it, and nobody’s gonna take it from me. All you mother fuckers need to stay inside tonight.” He was pacing back and forth and appeared to be very high. I think his message was intended mainly for the other dealers who were encroaching on “his” territory, but he also said “I don’t wanna see no white people, I don’t wanna see no cops. This is my corner.”
I thought about calling the police. I also thought about going out to talk with him and see what would happen. But to be honest, at that moment my fascination was stronger than either my fear or anger. It was surreal, like watching something from a movie come to life. I just watched for about ten to fifteen minutes while he continued shouting almost non-stop. Then, suddenly, he walked away. A couple minutes later, several police cars arrived. They had one street shut down, blocked at both ends, and were searching through some empty lots with their flashlights.
The area they were searching was a half-block from the corner where Gordon was standing, but he was walking around a lot. Because no one was in sight when the police started their search, I have to assume they were acting on a call. But I have no idea if it was because of Gordon’s antics or something else. In the middle of all this, Gordon suddenly walked back into the area. He walked right up to the patrol car that was blocking one of the intersections and started talking with the cop inside. There was only one officer in the car, and the others were a half-block away. At one point, Gordon had his head inside of the open window of the police car.
Now it is altogether possible that this officer had no idea that Gordon was the one who had been shouting earlier. And I can say from later experience that Gordon can shake off his high and look very sober when he needs to, so it's possible that he appeared normal to the officer. But Gordon is (and was at that time) known as a very serious drug trafficker to the police. It just seemed a little strange that this officer would appear so relaxed around him. After that, I began to wonder if the police (individuals or department) were possibly complicit in the activities here. That could help explain why the drug dealing is so prevalent here and why the police didn’t want to talk with me. Notice, at this point I was not making such an accusation, simply speculating.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Thank You for Calling FWPD - Please Hold….. Autumn 1997
After that confrontation with the guy dealing drugs on the side of my house, I decided to call FWPD to talk about the situation. Of course, when you call the “Desk Sergeant” at 427-1222, the person who usually answers is not really a sergeant. In fact, it’s probably not even a police officer you’re speaking with, which might explain some of the confusion at times. So when I called FWPD that first time, our conversation went like this:
OK, maybe he thought I was over reacting to the situation. I’m sure they get calls all the time claiming that drug dealers are taking over a neighborhood when really it was just the wind blowing. Maybe he was just playing dumb to try and give me time to realize how inappropriate my request to speak with an actual police officer was. Or maybe he really was the idiot that he seemed to be. Either way, I knew it was time to hang up before my frustration caused me to say something inappropriate.
I called FWPD several more times during the next few months. Each time, I started with the same request. “There is a very serious amount of drug trafficking going on in my neighborhood and I would like to meet with a police officer to discuss this problem.” Often, I would be referred to another person. Sometimes that person would then direct me to someone else, and I even got referred back to the desk sergeant (a.k.a. - “I know nothing!”) a few times. Sometimes I ended up getting someone’s voicemail, but my messages were never returned. I even took to calling specific departments from the listing in the phone book.
I called Vice and Narcotics once, thinking they would certainly like to hear from a resident here that wanted to help with the drug problem. I talked with a man that identified himself as either Detective or Lieutenant Allan. He said he’d get back to me, but never did. Years later, when I talked to other officers, none had ever heard of “Allan.” OK, here’s a tip. If you’re a public servant who doesn’t want to identify yourself because you work in a sensitive area, I can understand that - just tell me. Don’t be a jack-ass and give me a false name!
On my last call that year, an elderly sounding lady answered the phone. I’m sure I was quite frustrated by this time, after having been rebuffed for so long, so when she tried to dismiss my request I got a little upset. I said “Look, if I have to come into the station and scream and shout, and even get arrested for being a nuisance, if that’s what it takes to get to talk to a cop, then that’s what I’m about ready to do. All I want is to be able to talk with an actual police officer about the problems in my neighborhood.” She responded in an almost trembling voice “Sir, please don’t threaten me.”
Now I felt bad, wondering if I had brought this poor old lady to tears. All I wanted to do was talk with a cop. I guess I could have just stood outside and flagged down a passing officer, but so many of them here seem to have a war-zone mentality that I figured that would be unwise. So I thought if I could talk to one of them when they were setting at a nice comfy desk instead of out on the crazy streets, the conversation might go a lot better. But they have insulated themselves too well with a wall of civilians and anonymous officers who either pretend to be or actually are idiots!
At first, I thought that this disregard of my pleas for help was intentional . A departmental policy of subterfuge intended to allow them to pretend like the problem really didn’t exist. Over time though, I began to think that it is more likely a sign of their bureaucratic ineptness. I think some of those people really didn’t know who I should talk to. But rather than admit that, they just pushed me off on someone else or tried to end the call. Regardless of whether their unresponsiveness was intentional or not, the effect was to convince me that I should just quit asking the police for help and take care of the problems here myself. In an upcoming post, you’ll see that this frame of mind almost led me to do something very unwise.
Maybe FWPD should watch this video to understand the problem
At least I don’t live in France
ME: Hi, I’m having some problems in my neighborhood, with illegal activities going on there. I wonder if I could speak with someone, because the situation seems to be getting out of control.
FWPD: What exactly is the problem, sir?
ME: People are selling drugs on the side of my house, actually throughout the entire area, but I really need help keeping them away from my house.
FWPD: How many people are there, sir?
ME: No, I’m sorry, they’re not selling drugs right now. But this is a constant problem that seems to be getting worse. I’ve confronted some of them myself, to let them now that I don’t want them here, but they always come back after a while.
FWPD: Sir, it’s probably not a good idea to do that. You should call us if this happens again.
ME: Yes, I will definitely do that. But this really is a big problem here, and I wonder if it might be possible to speak with one of the officers who patrols the area.
FWPD: Why do you need to speak with an officer, sir?
ME: I haven’t lived here very long yet, and the officers in this area might think this is still an abandoned property. I just want to make sure they know someone lives here, and that the guys selling drugs on the side of my house are not invited guests.
FWPD: Sir, what exactly is it you want me to do?
ME: I would like to speak with one of the officers who patrols my neighborhood.
FWPD: Sir, if you are not calling to report a crime that is currently in progress, then this is probably not the number you should be calling.
ME: Then who should I call?
FWPD: Sir, I don’t understand what the problem is, if the people have already left the area.
ME: Thanks!
OK, maybe he thought I was over reacting to the situation. I’m sure they get calls all the time claiming that drug dealers are taking over a neighborhood when really it was just the wind blowing. Maybe he was just playing dumb to try and give me time to realize how inappropriate my request to speak with an actual police officer was. Or maybe he really was the idiot that he seemed to be. Either way, I knew it was time to hang up before my frustration caused me to say something inappropriate.
I called FWPD several more times during the next few months. Each time, I started with the same request. “There is a very serious amount of drug trafficking going on in my neighborhood and I would like to meet with a police officer to discuss this problem.” Often, I would be referred to another person. Sometimes that person would then direct me to someone else, and I even got referred back to the desk sergeant (a.k.a. - “I know nothing!”) a few times. Sometimes I ended up getting someone’s voicemail, but my messages were never returned. I even took to calling specific departments from the listing in the phone book.
I called Vice and Narcotics once, thinking they would certainly like to hear from a resident here that wanted to help with the drug problem. I talked with a man that identified himself as either Detective or Lieutenant Allan. He said he’d get back to me, but never did. Years later, when I talked to other officers, none had ever heard of “Allan.” OK, here’s a tip. If you’re a public servant who doesn’t want to identify yourself because you work in a sensitive area, I can understand that - just tell me. Don’t be a jack-ass and give me a false name!
On my last call that year, an elderly sounding lady answered the phone. I’m sure I was quite frustrated by this time, after having been rebuffed for so long, so when she tried to dismiss my request I got a little upset. I said “Look, if I have to come into the station and scream and shout, and even get arrested for being a nuisance, if that’s what it takes to get to talk to a cop, then that’s what I’m about ready to do. All I want is to be able to talk with an actual police officer about the problems in my neighborhood.” She responded in an almost trembling voice “Sir, please don’t threaten me.”
Now I felt bad, wondering if I had brought this poor old lady to tears. All I wanted to do was talk with a cop. I guess I could have just stood outside and flagged down a passing officer, but so many of them here seem to have a war-zone mentality that I figured that would be unwise. So I thought if I could talk to one of them when they were setting at a nice comfy desk instead of out on the crazy streets, the conversation might go a lot better. But they have insulated themselves too well with a wall of civilians and anonymous officers who either pretend to be or actually are idiots!
At first, I thought that this disregard of my pleas for help was intentional . A departmental policy of subterfuge intended to allow them to pretend like the problem really didn’t exist. Over time though, I began to think that it is more likely a sign of their bureaucratic ineptness. I think some of those people really didn’t know who I should talk to. But rather than admit that, they just pushed me off on someone else or tried to end the call. Regardless of whether their unresponsiveness was intentional or not, the effect was to convince me that I should just quit asking the police for help and take care of the problems here myself. In an upcoming post, you’ll see that this frame of mind almost led me to do something very unwise.
Maybe FWPD should watch this video to understand the problem
At least I don’t live in France
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Confronting the Drug Dealer: Summer 1997
I had lived here for a year and a half now. The dealers were beginning to act more openly, but still with some reserve. A group of people would frequently park beside my house while I was at work (as reported to me by neighbors). They would usually leave before or shortly after I arrived home, so I couldn’t say for sure if they were dealing. But I do know they left a lot of trash behind, so I approached them one day with a simple request. I placed a trash can by the tree where the city picks up the garbage, and asked that they throw their trash in it instead of on the ground where I have to pick it up. They stared at me for a moment, then one said “That’s cool,” so I actually thought I solved the problem.
Shortly after this, Arlen knocked on my door one day and informed me that these people were selling drugs on the side of my house. He demanded to know what I was going to do about it. The way he saw it, by not running them off, I was inviting them. He was particularly sensitive about this because at the time he had a young teen-age son who was at the ripe age for being influenced by their activities. I told Arlen I’d look into it.
I had not actually seen any drug dealing myself, but I began watching them closely until one day I observed a man using my trash can to hide his drugs in while he waited for passing cars to stop. I knew then that my accommodating gesture was seen as weakness and an invitation to sell drugs. I didn’t call the police because I didn’t want it to look like I was hiding behind them. I decided that I’d simply go out and tell the guy to leave, and see what would happen.
The first thing I did was to put a knife in my back pocket. Although he was standing alone, I wanted to be prepared in case he reacted violently. The next thing I did was to knock on Arlen’s door. I simply told Arlen “I’m going to go take care of the problem on the side of the house, but if you hear gunshots, you better be there to back my ass up.”
So I walked past the drug dealer, picked up the trash can (that still had his drugs inside it) and started walking towards my front yard. He began stammering “Hey, what are you doing?” his tone was more of a shocked one than an aggressive one. He followed me as I walked towards the house, so I put the trash can down in my front yard. I said “Look, you’re out here selling drugs, and your using my property as cover for it. That is not going to happen.”
I had no idea how much stuff he had stashed in the trash can, or the value of it. Realizing that losing money would probably piss him off much worse than just being told to leave, I offered him a way out. I said “I’m going inside to get a trash bag. When I come back, everything in this can is going in that bag. Take your stuff and get off my property.” I told him I‘d call the police if he came back. To my surprise, when I came back out a minute later, the man was gone, and the trash can was still setting upright.
The next day, when I arrived home from work, there were three cars parked beside my house, and about eight guys standing on the grass median. They were drinking beer and eating food, and most of the trash strewn about was obviously from them. They all stared at me in unison as I got out of my truck, and it appeared they were looking for a fight.
I had enough sense to not directly challenge such a large group, so I just grabbed my trash can from the side of the house and went over to where they were. I started weaving in between them and picking up trash. Most of them just stared at me, but Cliff looked at me and said “What’s up?” with a friendly demeanor. I replied “You know, I wish people wouldn’t throw their trash on the ground here, it really makes this whole neighborhood look bad.” Cliff actually started helping me pick up some of the trash then, and the others began walking or driving away shortly after that.
I think back on events in my life like this one, and I really am amazed that I haven’t gotten my head kicked in somewhere along the way. I still did not own a gun at this time, and the only “weapon” I had on me was a screwdriver in my back pocket. Who knows what they were thinking about my actions. Perhaps it was the fact that I protested in a positive manner, by picking up the trash, rather than shouting at them. Perhaps it was the fact that Arlen was out there also, so they didn’t want to attack me with a witness around. Or perhaps they just thought I was crazy enough that I should be left alone.
A few days after this event, I called FWPD for the first time. I wasn't asking for anything specific. I just wanted to alert them to the problems here, and ask that they help keep an eye on the area. I thought it might also be useful to speak with one of the officers who patrols this neighborhood to see how we could work together to alleviate the problem. The response from the civilian employee that answered the phone was one that I would begin to hear quite frequently, but I'll cover that in my next post.
As the summer progressed, the provocative stares and the amount of trash on the ground began dissipating. I would often notice that my trash can by the side of the house had a lot of stray trash in it. I decided that I didn’t mind someone stepping a few feet into my yard for a moment if it would lessen the amount of liter on the ground. I would eventually come to realize that this concession was also a mistake.
A novel way to sell your drugs
Shortly after this, Arlen knocked on my door one day and informed me that these people were selling drugs on the side of my house. He demanded to know what I was going to do about it. The way he saw it, by not running them off, I was inviting them. He was particularly sensitive about this because at the time he had a young teen-age son who was at the ripe age for being influenced by their activities. I told Arlen I’d look into it.
I had not actually seen any drug dealing myself, but I began watching them closely until one day I observed a man using my trash can to hide his drugs in while he waited for passing cars to stop. I knew then that my accommodating gesture was seen as weakness and an invitation to sell drugs. I didn’t call the police because I didn’t want it to look like I was hiding behind them. I decided that I’d simply go out and tell the guy to leave, and see what would happen.
The first thing I did was to put a knife in my back pocket. Although he was standing alone, I wanted to be prepared in case he reacted violently. The next thing I did was to knock on Arlen’s door. I simply told Arlen “I’m going to go take care of the problem on the side of the house, but if you hear gunshots, you better be there to back my ass up.”
So I walked past the drug dealer, picked up the trash can (that still had his drugs inside it) and started walking towards my front yard. He began stammering “Hey, what are you doing?” his tone was more of a shocked one than an aggressive one. He followed me as I walked towards the house, so I put the trash can down in my front yard. I said “Look, you’re out here selling drugs, and your using my property as cover for it. That is not going to happen.”
I had no idea how much stuff he had stashed in the trash can, or the value of it. Realizing that losing money would probably piss him off much worse than just being told to leave, I offered him a way out. I said “I’m going inside to get a trash bag. When I come back, everything in this can is going in that bag. Take your stuff and get off my property.” I told him I‘d call the police if he came back. To my surprise, when I came back out a minute later, the man was gone, and the trash can was still setting upright.
The next day, when I arrived home from work, there were three cars parked beside my house, and about eight guys standing on the grass median. They were drinking beer and eating food, and most of the trash strewn about was obviously from them. They all stared at me in unison as I got out of my truck, and it appeared they were looking for a fight.
I had enough sense to not directly challenge such a large group, so I just grabbed my trash can from the side of the house and went over to where they were. I started weaving in between them and picking up trash. Most of them just stared at me, but Cliff looked at me and said “What’s up?” with a friendly demeanor. I replied “You know, I wish people wouldn’t throw their trash on the ground here, it really makes this whole neighborhood look bad.” Cliff actually started helping me pick up some of the trash then, and the others began walking or driving away shortly after that.
I think back on events in my life like this one, and I really am amazed that I haven’t gotten my head kicked in somewhere along the way. I still did not own a gun at this time, and the only “weapon” I had on me was a screwdriver in my back pocket. Who knows what they were thinking about my actions. Perhaps it was the fact that I protested in a positive manner, by picking up the trash, rather than shouting at them. Perhaps it was the fact that Arlen was out there also, so they didn’t want to attack me with a witness around. Or perhaps they just thought I was crazy enough that I should be left alone.
A few days after this event, I called FWPD for the first time. I wasn't asking for anything specific. I just wanted to alert them to the problems here, and ask that they help keep an eye on the area. I thought it might also be useful to speak with one of the officers who patrols this neighborhood to see how we could work together to alleviate the problem. The response from the civilian employee that answered the phone was one that I would begin to hear quite frequently, but I'll cover that in my next post.
As the summer progressed, the provocative stares and the amount of trash on the ground began dissipating. I would often notice that my trash can by the side of the house had a lot of stray trash in it. I decided that I didn’t mind someone stepping a few feet into my yard for a moment if it would lessen the amount of liter on the ground. I would eventually come to realize that this concession was also a mistake.
A novel way to sell your drugs
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