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| In this April 8, 2016 photo, Rosa Brown, right, hugs Baltimore Police Department Officer Ken Hurst in Baltimore, after a resident directed Hurst to Brown when she expressed suicidal thoughts following the recent death of her son. Hurst is part of a foot patrol program aimed at getting officers out of their cars and onto the streets of the city's most dangerous neighborhoods, not to make arrests but to make friends. |
BALTIMORE
(AP) -- A year after the death of Freddie Gray, a small part of his
legacy can be seen at a southwest Baltimore recreation center, where the
pounding of basketballs and squeak of sneakers echo off the walls as
young black men in shorts and sweats face off.
Ken
Hurst, a white policeman, watches from the side, a bum knee the only
thing that keeps him from playing. He visits the game each week, not to
make arrests but to make friends. "I need them to realize I'm not out
here to lock everyone up," he says. "I'm here to rebuild trust."
Seldom
in the city's history has that trust been so tenuous: Gray, a
25-year-old black man from West Baltimore, died after his neck was
broken April 12 in the back of a police van. Protests erupted and
long-simmering tensions between the police and residents exploded into
the worst riots and looting in more than four decades. The U.S.
Department of Justice announced an investigation into allegations of
unlawful arrests and excessive force.
In
Baltimore and beyond, Gray's name became a rallying cry, representative
of black men's mistreatment by police officers, and of the Baltimore
department's own failings.
Police commissioner
Anthony Batts was fired. His deputy - and replacement - Kevin Davis -
promised to repair a relationship with the community that was so
strained some say it's safer to run from police than take a chance on
interacting with them. While some in the community remain skeptical,
other say there has been progress.
Davis has
implemented a mandatory, 40-hour community patrol class that teaches
officers in training - and eventually, all officers - how to engage
residents. Davis said he has also begun honoring officers each week for
demonstrating "guardianship" - for forging strong bonds with residents,
rather than making arrests.
"That's how far we've come this year," he says. "Would that have happened before Freddie Gray? Probably not.
"We
can no longer just go occupy a geography, a poor minority neighborhood,
and stop 300 people in the hopes of catching 10 bad guys," Davis said.
"We're also looking at who we're hiring ... Are we hiring people with a
service mind set, or people who watch too many cops and robbers
television shows?"
Another initiative, the one
that brought Hurst to the rec center, aims to get more officers out of
their cars and walking the streets of Baltimore's most crime-ridden
neighborhoods as full-time patrol officers.
Howard
Hood is a 22-year-old black man who was born and raised in the
neighborhood Hurst patrols, and he shows up to the rec center every
Tuesday night.
"Not all cops want to see us dead or in jail. We need more officers to come out and feel comfortable being around us," he says.
An
hour earlier, Hurst, blue-eyed with tanned skin and an easy smile, was
walking along a commercial strip in the Irvington neighborhood, dotted
with corner stores, liquor stores, cheap restaurants and a massive
thrift shop. Spotting a group of young men loitering near a bus shelter,
he gently but firmly told them to move along.
As
he strolled down the block, a car stopped in the middle of the road and
a young man popped his head out of the passenger window.
"Whassup Hurst?" he shouts, his smiling lips parted to reveal teeth plated with gold veneers.
As
part of his routine, Hurst walks to a cellphone store to check in on
the manager. On the way, 45-year-old Keith Hopkins, who sat in a
wheelchair, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers, stopped the
officer to chat.
"Hurst don't need a gun or a badge around here," he says. "He's one of the good ones."
In
2015, the city experienced the most violent year in its history, and
the Southwestern District, Hurst's post, saw 51 killings - the most of
any precinct except the Western District, where Gray was arrested.
"Police
officers, a lot of them think that every guy standing on the corner is
dealing drugs, which isn't true," Hurst said. "And the community, a lot
of them out here think every police officer coming up to them is going
to make them sit on the ground and cuss at them and treat them badly."
Community
mistrust of police in Baltimore dates back decades. Former Gov. Martin
O'Malley, mayor from 1999-2006, instituted a "zero tolerance"
crime-fighting strategy that advocated "stop and frisk" practices and
cracking down on lower-level crimes such as public drunkenness and
disorderly conduct. In 2005, more than 100,000 people were arrested -
roughly one sixth of the city's population- and a Baltimore grand jury
found excessive arrests in poor black neighborhoods.
The
city paid $870,000 to settle a lawsuit by people who said they were
illegally arrested, and O'Malley's successors have moved away from
zero-tolerance policing. The police commissioner says those days are
over, but the hangover lingers.
Dorothy
Cunningham, 58, the president of the Irvington Community Association,
was instrumental in getting Hurst assigned to her district. Hurst, an
eight-year veteran, is beloved in the neighborhood, and has already
helped residents feel safer, she says.
"Maybe the police learned something from the unrest in the spring," Cunningham says.
Other
officers struggle to blend into the communities they patrol, where
residents are still fearful of police and critical of the department.
Across
town, Jordan Distance, a black officer, walks a commercial strip
surrounded by blocks dotted with abandoned buildings and vacant homes.
The day before, five people were shot, one fatally, on his beat. The
police had yet to identify a suspect.
"The shooting last night, there's so many vacants and alleys and nobody's going to tell me what he looks like," he says.
"There's that disconnect between us and the people. I don't know if it's because they're scared or what."
For
Hurst, policing is only one aspect of the job. He hands out flyers
advertising jobs and is helping transform a vacant property into a
community center, complete with a computer lab, a police substation and
workshop space.
"There's a guy who said, I'll
come and teach them carpentry. Another guy in the neighborhood said he'd
come in and help them with their homework," Hurst says.
"We'll
put in a garden and when the vegetables are ripe we'll pick them and
pass them out. We're trying," he says, "we're trying our best."
