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Street Sweepers

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That doesn't impress Miami residents who are angry that police haven't done more to prevent vagrants from disturbing their neighborhoods. Garcia has received so many inquiries about the Pottinger settlement that she is supplementing outreach to the homeless with talks at community centers, schools, and churches.

"As you know, the Pottinger suit has been settled, and we can address some issues that are impacting our streets," Garcia told a recent meeting of the Shorecrest Homeowners Association on the city's ethnically and economically diverse Upper Eastside. Residents here and elsewhere in Miami say they have seen homeless people dumped inside city limits by police from other municipalities, such as Miami Shores and Miami Beach. (This is a phenomenon allegedly witnessed for years, but which Miami police say residents are loath to complain about without more proof; spokesmen for the Miami Shores and Miami Beach departments assert they haven't heard of the practice and would not condone it.)

The Legion Park neighborhood, in whose clubhouse the homeowners hold their monthly meetings, is frequently clogged with squatters. "In about two weeks we've placed around 200 homeless persons in shelters," Garcia asserted. "But what I came here to say is, Do not expect to see homeless people [gone from] the street, because they have a right to be homeless as long as they don't infringe on your rights."

Some of the city cops attending from the department's north station told Garcia they were having problems with the new system. Sure, they were glad to have their policing powers returned. But all the documentation and rules, and a lack of manpower, are major burdens. "Let's say I got three homeless," explained Lt. Sebastian Aguirre, commander of the Upper Eastside force. "Let's say they got three bags of property each. I don't have time to deal with that. You know what my force is? Five officers. You have domestic violence, you got burglaries, you got the homeless. My worst problem is on Sunday nights. We need help 24 hours."

"You call channel nine [on the police frequency]," Garcia responded. "Channel nine wakes me up. I call the shelter, they tell me they've got five beds. The officers take [the homeless persons] to the shelter. Give us a chance."

"The shelters do not want the property," Aguirre countered.
"But they agreed to take it," Garcia insisted.
The meeting broke for a short recess, and the homeowners association president, Heikki Talvitie, rose from his chair at the front of the meeting hall to face his neighbors. "Now," he concluded triumphantly, "you can call the police when you see homeless people around."

The homeless people who have downed beer, smoked crack, and gone to sleep just about every night for years out on "the slab" downtown are not at all pleased with the new police policy. In street jargon slab generally means sidewalks, but this slab is a particular, time-honored gathering place accommodating anywhere from 50 to 100 people per night. The aged, shaded sidewalks on either side of North Miami Avenue between Tenth and Eleventh streets are bustling with commerce during weekdays and blocked with blankets, mattresses, and baby carriages at night. (Following a police crackdown on purloined shopping carts, carriages are now the common means of storing and transporting possessions.) To survive on this slab denizens must have a trip, or scam, and must know how to take advantage of institutional help while fiercely staying away from institutions. By now most of them have gotten the message from the police officers who stop by at night just as they're getting comfortable: They'll have to find another spot.

When they see squad cars approaching, the men (hardly any women stay here, and the ones who do are usually frightfully marked by violence or addiction or both) begin shoving their belongings into plastic trash bags and quickly disappear into some alley or underpass. But they always know what's happening on the slab, and when to come back. No doubt some have figured out, too, that the cops can't banish them if there isn't shelter space.

On a recent night Felix Howell was one of the few left standing on the slab by 8:30, when officers and outreach workers alighted from their cars and trucks. "They just started doing this the week of the elections," Howell said, scowling. "We're not bothering anybody. The business owners don't mind us being here. I'm not going. It's my choice. I gotta be at work at 5:00 and I'm not going to go to no orientation [at the HAC] at 5:30. I spent two nights there and they kicked me out for drinking a beer. I'm 48 and I can't drink a beer?" Dressed in matching athletic pants and jacket, Howell crossed the street to join two men walking west.

That night Livia Garcia was unhappy because she'd just been informed the HAC had only two beds available; she had thought there were a dozen, and concluded that officers must have been taking people there without informing her. After John Shaw agreed to go, there was one bed left. Shaw, a grizzled man about 60 years old, wearing camouflage pants, a long T-shirt, and a Dolphins cap, leaned on his baby buggy, three garbage bags full of clothes and other gear strapped in. His right eyeball was covered with a milky film, and he looked too tired to walk. "The HAC put me in a program, and then the program closed down," he said. "I don't want to go back."

"You're punishing yourself," Garcia told him. "They'll put you in another program. They'll help you get your [disability] check."

Shaw stood numbly by his buggy and finally said, "I'm tired of being dogged out." As the officers waited, he pulled some clothes out of his trash bags to take with him to the shelter and left the rest behind.

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