The Squalor of Police Work

It's not all medal ceremonies and 12-gun salutes.

Photo by Widline Cadet.

I have a close family member in law enforcement. While this was not the profession I had envisioned for him, he feels it is his calling.

Callings choose us; we do not choose them. I have to respect that.

Police work is a fraught undertaking, especially these days. And I freely admit that I have always nursed grievances against authority. But having an immediate family member in law enforcement has forced me to take a more nuanced view of my own prejudices, which admittedly still exist, only now they’re complicated by an involuntary empathy for those who are tasked to clean up the messes we make.

So, in an effort to humanize people within the profession as opposed to the profession itself, I would like to detail a recent week in Terrence’s life, just to give you an idea of what members of law enforcement go up against every day. It’s not pretty.

But if they weren’t doing it, who would? And what should our expectations be for people whose job obliges them to interact, day after day, week after week, month after month, with living souls who are at the end of their tether, whose “morality” (in whatever way we define that word) has been eroded by appalling generational poverty, drug use, sexual abuse, no hope for the future?

What does a society do with those who, through no fault of their own, don’t fit the mold? Who don’t speak the language of corporate boardrooms—or for that matter, Cappuccino? Our present course of economic and political action, which is to “let God sort it out” is not only inhumane, it impacts all of us.

Here’s why.

Terrence moonlights as an armed security guard at an apartment complex. It is twice as dangerous as any other kind of police work he does, often requiring brute force. Backup from the local police department is undependable, taking two or three hours on average for an officer to arrive. More than once, Terrence has walked into the complex’s laundry room to find used syringes on the floor or piles of human feces.

A month ago, the onsite property manager urged Terrence to come into work early. They were going to evict a tenant and needed Terrence to be there in case things went sideways, which they often do. No one likes being evicted, especially when they have nowhere to go and no money to (not) go there with. American rental laws are shockingly unfair—few legal protections are in place for renters. Compared to Europe, America is positively ghoulish. If you’re a week late on your rent in many states, eviction proceedings can be brought against you.

In this instance, no attempt had been made to pay rent on the apartment in question; in fact, neighbors complained about the foul odor emanating from it. When Terrence showed up, two maintenance workers were already knocking on the door. Terrence joined them, surprised when a kid in his late teens finally answered, his eyes dull, his face slack. Arturo, the maintenance foreman, went into the apartment while Terrence explained to the kid that he was being evicted for non-payment of rent. Thirty seconds later, Arturo came staggering out again, vomiting copiously in the parking lot.

The smell. Terrence was getting a whiff of it now. He stuck his head inside and saw three dogs lying on a carpeted floor that was covered in urine and feces. So much urine, in fact, it had puddled in various spots. The kid explained that these were his grandmother’s dogs. She’d been in the hospital. He may have forgotten to walk them.

The odor hit Terrence all at once. Eyes streaming, he, too, threw up in the parking lot.

With no safeguards in place to protect people who are hospitalized and can no longer work, there are going to be evictions. In the United States, we don’t even entertain the possibility that housing, like healthcare, ought to be a human right. If the grandmother ever made it out of the hospital, she’d be coming home to a locked door. As for her drug-addicted grandson, where would he go? Drug treatment programs (assuming he’s even interested in getting clean) are wildly underfunded, even in the rare instances where a bed is available to someone who doesn’t have health insurance. More importantly, why should he get clean? What is there for him to look forward to—a life of sucky, minimum-wage jobs, exorbitant rent, possible incarceration, and soul-crushing debt peonage.

A week later, Terrence went out on one of his afternoon patrols to find two little girls, one about four years old, the other two, wandering barefoot through the parking lot. Heat shimmered off the macadam. No adults stood outside supervising. The rows of doors, upstairs and down, remained shut.

Terrence picked up the children and took them to the office. Their feet were bloody. While the property manager called Child Protective Services and the police, Terrence bandaged the children’s feet. Then he canvassed the apartment complex, trying to discover who the little girls belonged to. It didn’t take long to find out.

A twenty-three-year-old woman (we’ll call her Mary), who was always at loggerheads with management over her unpaid rent, lived in unit 214. Terrence knocked on the door, but no one answered. A baby wailed inside. The door was unlocked, so Terrence went in and found the baby screaming in its crib. Since there were no adults in the apartment, Terrence took the baby downstairs to the office.

Four hours later, Mary’s seventeen-year-old gangbanger boyfriend showed up. Mary had gotten a job at the airport, leaving him in charge. “I just went out for five minutes to go to the corner store,” he insisted. “Why you breaking my dick?”

Both Child Protective Services and the police released the children into his custody and left.

A week later, the gangbanger boyfriend got into a beef with the resident drug dealers who did business in the parking lot. They were arguing about the best breed of pit bull, and things got heated. The boyfriend took out a gun, waving it around while he tried to make his point. That night, the drug dealers emptied fifty rounds into the outside wall of his apartment, shattering windows, and almost killing one of the neighbors. By some miracle, the children weren’t hurt. But what’s the best we can hope for them? That they somehow survive this much vicious poverty?

Mary’s been evicted. She spent hours down in the office, arguing with management (to no avail) while everyone wondered who was watching her kids. Mary has both a drug problem and mental health issues. Mostly, she just never had a chance.

Ever.

Since I heard what had happened, I’ve been brooding over the fate of Mary and her kids. Where will they go? Evictions stay on your record for seven years in states like Texas. Will she and her family swell the ever-increasing rolls of the homeless? How will her kids ever go to school?

There are no easy answers here. But what we’re doing as a country, which is nothing, isn’t working either. We fail to recognize the humanity of the poor just as we fail to recognize the humanity of law enforcement, who are forced to deal with genuine squalor day after day. Demonizing either group isn’t the answer. Hate never is.

We don’t pay cops enough. We don’t pay teachers enough. We don’t help single mothers. In Texas, firefighters—men and women putting their lives on the line to protect your home from being engulfed by flames—are mostly a volunteer service. Meanwhile, the rich keep getting richer, and we keep getting squeezed.

And the question I keep asking myself is this:

Where does it end?

Chime in! I want to hear your thoughts. Be sure to leave your comments below.

Copyright © 2022 Stacey Eskelin