[ On a two-block stretch of Brownsville in April, the police
stepped aside and let residents respond to 911 calls. It was a bold
experiment that some believe could redefine law enforcement in New
York City.]
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WHAT HAPPENED WHEN A BROOKLYN NEIGHBORHOOD POLICED ITSELF FOR FIVE
DAYS  
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Maria Cramer
June 4, 2023
New York Times
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_ On a two-block stretch of Brownsville in April, the police stepped
aside and let residents respond to 911 calls. It was a bold experiment
that some believe could redefine law enforcement in New York City. _

Brownsville residents stand sentry on their own blocks, an effort
meant to help the community police itself., Photographs by Amir Hamja

 

It had been a quiet April afternoon until about a dozen teenagers
began running up Pitkin Avenue in Brownsville, yelling and cursing.
They were chasing a girl of about 14 and it was clear they wanted a
fight.

Five plainclothes police officers watched warily. Across Pitkin stood
about half a dozen men, civilians in jeans and purple-and-gray
sweatshirts.

“They got it,” an officer said.

The teenagers slowed as they spotted the men, workers from an
organization called Brownsville In Violence Out
[[link removed]], who calmly
waved them in different directions. They scattered as the girl fled
down a side street.

The brief encounter encapsulated a simple yet unorthodox concept that
is at the heart of a bold experiment organizers believe could redefine
law enforcement in New York: letting neighbors, not the police,
respond to low-level street crime.

Several times a year, workers from Brownsville In Violence Out stand
sentry on two blocks for five days. The police channel all 911 calls
from that area to the civilians. Unless there is a major incident or a
victim demands an arrest, officers, always in plainclothes, shadow the
workers.

The civilians have no arrest powers. But they have persuaded people to
turn in illegal guns, prevented shoplifting, kept a man from robbing a
bodega and stopped a pregnant woman from hitting a boyfriend who had
not bought a car seat and a stroller as he had promised.

They are part of the Brownsville Safety Alliance, a group of
neighborhood and city groups, police officers and members of the Kings
County District Attorney’s office that is trying to ensure that
fewer people are arrested and entangled in the criminal justice
system.

[A man in a yellow windbreaker labeled “God Squad” walks down a
street.]

Members of the Brownsville Safety Alliance keep their eyes and ears
open for problems that could become conflicts that would otherwise
draw the police.

As the men and women from Brownsville In Violence Out watch for
trouble, agencies offering services like free child care and addiction
recovery sit at folding tables, distributing pamphlets and luring
passers-by with games, stress balls and pens.

Over the next three years, the city will provide $2.1 million to help
link the local organizations that participate most frequently in the
Safety Alliance so that they can work cohesively throughout the year.

The effort mirrors others that have sprung up after demonstrations
swept New York and much of the country to protest the police killing
of George Floyd in Minneapolis. They are meant to modulate the use of
officially sanctioned force, using a neighborhood’s innate desire
for order as a tool.

Residents have embraced the concept, said Nyron Campbell, 37, an
assistant program manager at Brownsville In Violence Out.

“They say, ‘We feel more safe. We can walk without feeling
anxiety,’” he said. “While they know that we do need police,
it’s possible that we can police ourselves.”

The idea came from Terrell Anderson, who in 2020 took over as
commander of the area’s 73rd Precinct. Raised in Brownsville, he
promised to rebuild the precinct’s relationship with a wary
community.

Residents had complained that officers had become aggressive
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grabbing men off the street to arrest them for minor offenses. The
neighborhood was reeling from the 2019 shooting of Kwesi Ashun,
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T-shirt vendor with paranoid schizophrenia, killed as he swung at an
officer with a chair at a nail salon.

Inspector Anderson asked residents what the department could do to
engender trust.

[Terrell Anderson in dress uniform with a flag behind him.]

Inspector Terrell Anderson set about rebuilding relationships in the
neighborhood where he was reared.Credit...New York City Police
Department

Among them was Dushoun Almond, a jocular and self-deprecating man who
goes by the nickname Bigga.

Mr. Almond, who runs Brownsville In Violence Out, said Inspector
Anderson realized that sometimes all that is needed to keep the peace
is a person with credibility — not necessarily a badge — telling
someone: “Get out of here. You’re bugging.”

“Members of the community see themselves in Bigga,” said Jeffrey
Coots, the director of the From Punishment to Public Health initiative
at John Jay College of Criminal Justice. The group works closely with
the Brownsville Safety Alliance, conducting surveys about the
initiative and tracking its progress.

“This is someone who is like me, who understands me and is calling
me out on the fact that I’m out of pocket a little bit,” Mr. Coots
said.

Deputy Inspector Mark A. Vazquez, who was also raised in Brownsville,
took over last year after Inspector Anderson was transferred, and said
that he continued the project because public safety is “shared
responsibility.”

Inspector Vazquez said he was 4 when his father was shot and that many
family members have been incarcerated.

“I know how it is,” Inspector Vazquez said.

[An array of plastic cups.]

Workers from Brownsville In Violence Out give away promotional items
and literature about social-service programs.

Not everyone is convinced. Lise Perez, owner of Clara’s Beauty Salon
on Pitkin Avenue, has 26 cameras around her store and works behind a
counter protected by a thick plastic partition. No one can get in or
out without her pressing a button.

“In this area, nobody feels too safe,” she said. “We’re all
here surviving.”

The idea of five days in which the police refer 911 calls unsettles
her.

“It’s like they left us without protection,” she said. “It
doesn’t give me peace.”

But Minerva Vitale, 66, who lives on the avenue, said the effort was
“incredibly important.”

“We call them and, poof, they come right away,” she said. “You
think they ain’t ready for this? Yes, they are.”

[Two women walk on the street, one pushing a cart.]

Minerva Vitale, left, said she trusts the Brownsville Safety Alliance
to respond to crime on the streets.

Tiffany Burgess, 42, one of the Brownsville In Violence Out outreach
workers, said she was mystified by the skeptics.

“If we can calm them down and get them to walk away, what’s the
problem?” she said. “You should want that.”

More people around the country do. The Brownsville initiative is part
of a movement called the “community responder model,” which aims
to reduce the use of armed officers to handle many calls.

Similar programs are underway in Eugene, Ore.; Denver; and Rochester,
N.Y., among other places, according to the Center for American
Progress, a left-leaning think tank. The group has estimated
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almost 40 percent of calls to police could be handled by community
responders.

[A police officer leans on a car as pedestrians pass by.]

Police officers are present, but they only shadow civilians who are
the primary responders.

In Brownsville, the effort not only gives residents more say over what
public safety looks like, but also can deter crime if people know
there are more eyes watching, said Eric Gonzalez, the Brooklyn
district attorney.

“A lot of people worry that if police systems are not fully active,
crime will go up,” he said.

But the Safety Alliance has been thriving amid a positive trend in the
73rd Precinct, Mr. Gonzalez said. In the first half of 2023, homicides
fell 50 percent, shootings fell 25 percent and the rate of grand
larcenies of automobiles also fell even as it rose in other
neighborhoods, he said.

One set of watching eyes belongs to Mr. Almond, 47, a former gang
member who spent more than 13 years in prison for a bank robbery. He
returned to Brownsville in 2014 and got a tattoo of a smoking gun
behind his right ear to hide a small scar left from a bullet wound.

[A man in a purple hoodie and jeans poses in a sidewalk portrait.]

Dushoun Almond, known as Bigga, has the hard-won experience to help
him talk people out of decisions they may regret.

His past, along with his calm, straightforward approach, helps him
navigate conflicts. During one Safety Alliance week, he persuaded a
man going into a bodega with a gun to give him his weapon and go home.
The next day, that same man returned, but this time to volunteer.

He spent the day “squashing beefs,” Mr. Almond said. “He broke
up like three fights.”

Just as he told the story, a 911 call came in about a fight at a deli
on the corner of Watkins and Pitkin. Mr. Almond slowly walked over to
size up the dispute between two men — one of whom had taken out a
restraining order against the other, a person named Lala.

Lala had disappeared, but the other man remained outside the deli.

“From now on, so there won’t ever be problem like this in our
community, call me,” Mr. Almond told the man, who nodded. “Go in
the store. Don’t antagonize each other.”

Mr. Almond then told one of the outreach workers to find Lala and
order him to stay away.

Mr. Almond walked toward Sgt. Jared Delaney and Officer Nickita
Beckford.

“It’s all good,” he said. “I took care of it.”

The workers take on a heavy load, handling cases that fall into the
yawning gap between law enforcement and social services.

[People sort through a pile of clothes on a table. ]

Social service groups supply clothing, shoes and hot drinks, an effort
to draw in neighborhood residents and tell them about resources in and
around Brownsville.

On the second-to-last day of the Safety Alliance week, a chilly,
overcast Friday, a car pulled up. The driver pushed a woman onto the
street, then drove off. Crying, screaming and intoxicated, she had no
money or identification and did not seem to know where she was.

Mr. Almond’s team surrounded her. Ms. Burgess, the outreach worker,
learned her name was Alicia and it was her 23rd birthday. She told Ms.
Burgess she had paranoid schizophrenia and kept insisting on going to
Rite-Aid. Ms. Burgess was worried she was planning to steal something.

Dana Rachlin, executive director of We Build the Block
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organization that helps run the alliance, bought Alicia Chinese food
to calm her. As she ate her meal, Ms. Rachlin called the city’s
mental health hotline.

She waited while on hold for 10 minutes before someone told her it
would be 24 hours before a team could come, and that she could call
the police.

Ms. Rachlin rolled her eyes and hung up.

It was getting colder. Ms. Rachlin sat on the bench at the bus stop
and Alicia sat next to her, put her head on her shoulder and fell
asleep.

Finally, Ms. Rachlin and Mr. Almond and an executive from a social
services group drove Alicia to an intake center for a shelter. She
could not get a bed until Monday but she could stay at the center
through the weekend.

When Ms. Rachlin called the center the next morning to check on her,
Alicia was gone.

“We’ve been looking for her,” Ms. Rachlin said. “We have our
eyes open.”

She said the eventual goal was to close that gap and create a system
where someone like Alicia, who might have been arrested for fighting
or shoplifting, could get shelter, cash and an identification card
immediately.

At least on that Friday, Ms. Rachlin said, the alliance “provided a
moment of safety.”

[A woman in a hat and olive coat takes another person by the arm.]

Dana Rachlin, left, and Tiffany Burgess, right, try to help Alicia, a
23-year-old woman who was thrown out of a car on Pitkin Avenue.

_Maria Cramer is a reporter on the Metro desk. Please send her tips,
questions and complaints about the New York police and crime
at [email protected]. @NYTimesCramer
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* community policing
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* Brooklyn
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* 911 calls
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