Evicted

by Matthew Desmond

  “You got a cold?” Scott asked.

  “Yeah,” the man said. “Can’t seem to shake it.” He coughed as if to prove his point.

  “Here,” Scott said. He took out a pen and scrap of paper and wrote, “Vitamin C, Zinc, and Echinacea.” “That’s what I would recommend,” he said.

  Scott didn’t go back to Iowa. Instead, he decided to go to rehab. On the morning he planned to check himself in, Scott woke up while it was still dark, trimmed his beard, and tucked in his T-shirt. He wanted to climb back out. He felt nervous but ready.

  When Scott stepped out of the elevator at seven a.m., an hour before the clinic’s doors opened, he saw that he was late. Fifteen people were already in line. There were older black men who had dressed up for the occasion; a foulmouthed white woman, fifty perhaps, in cowboy boots; a pair of young Mexican men sitting on their feet and whispering in Spanish; a twenty-something black man whose pants were falling down; a brooding, white teenager who had pulled her bangs over her eyes and her sleeves over her hands. Scott slumped against the wall at the end of the line.

  After a few minutes, the elevator opened again and an older Mexican woman stepped out. Her hair was long and black except for a streak of gray down the middle. She wore a walking cast and looked over her large glasses with eyes the color of floodwater. She resigned herself to a spot on the floor next to Scott.

  The woman told Scott she had been there the day before, but they only took four people. When social workers began appearing at desks behind the glass, she observed, “They are calling the county to see how many spots are available.”

  “For what?” Scott asked sardonically.

  “For you. You’re here to get treatment, right?”

  Scott looked up at the ceiling’s fluorescent lights and inhaled slowly, purposefully. He was trying to endure. “Yes.”

  “Look at that girl,” the woman motioned to the white teenager. “She looks suicidal. I’ll bet they take her in. You have to camp out to get a spot.”

  Scott began to tap his foot.

  At 8:10 a.m., a woman wearing gold earrings and a silk blouse opened the door and announced that they could take five people today. A man emerged with a clipboard. “Number 1. Number 2,” he began counting. The line stood and tightened. Scott stepped toward the elevator and pushed the Down button. He could have tried again the next day, but he went on a three-day bender instead.

  15.

  A NUISANCE

  The day after Crystal and Arleen’s argument, Trisha came downstairs from her apartment after Chris had gone to work with Quentin. Trisha liked Crystal. She was much more youthful and silly than Arleen. That morning, the two women passed the time fooling around and playing pattycake. Their palms slapped together as they sang:

  Shame, shame, shame.

  I don’t wanna go to Mexico

  No more, more, more.

  There’s a big fat policeman

  At my door, door, door.

  He grab me by my collar.

  He made me pay a dime.

  I don’t want to go to Mexico

  No more, more, more.

  Arleen watched unamused. She was reviewing apartment listings and making notes on a notepad with HOUSE written in block letters at the top. She regretted not going to a shelter after eviction court. But she hated shelters; mostly she hated the other residents. Collecting her papers, Arleen nodded at Crystal and left to find a new place to live.

  Arleen was able to call on two dozen places before heading back to Thirteenth Street. She had no leads but was undefeated. “If I keep being persistent, I’ll find me a house,” she told herself. She also believed that Sherrena had dismissed her eviction. She had not.

  When Arleen came back, the apartment was quiet, and Crystal looked troubled. After Chris had gotten home from work and Trisha went back upstairs, Crystal had heard him yelling at her for smoking his cigarettes and drinking his beer. She had heard other noises too.

  “The lady upstairs getting beat,” Crystal told Arleen.

  “Who cares? I don’t,” Arleen answered. She had painful menstrual cramps and just wanted to lie down. “I kind of figured that was going to happen when he got here.” Arleen didn’t feel she had enough space in her head or her heart to consider Trisha’s problems. Her own problems were enough.1

  After night fell, more sounds came through the ceiling. There were blunt and muffled thuds, interspersed with loud pounds when Trisha slammed into the floor. Arleen covered her head with a pillow, but Crystal stewed. “I ain’t fixing to see no woman getting beat up by no man,” she said. She wanted to help Trisha, but she also couldn’t help feeling repulsed by her weakness. She pitied Trisha and found her pathetic. “If a man hits you like that and you let him back in, you like it,” Crystal mused. At one point, she had had enough. Crystal climbed the steps to the upper unit and yelled through the locked door, “I’m gonna dot your eyes, you scary ho! And I want Chris to hear me too, ’cause I dare him to put his hands on me!”2 Arleen had to pull Crystal back downstairs.

  Crystal called Sherrena, who didn’t answer. Then she called 911 three separate times. The police finally showed up and took Chris away. When they left, Arleen looked at Crystal. “You must want to lose your house,” she said.

  The next day, the police called Sherrena. The officer, a woman, sounded stern, but Sherrena had been through this before. Last year, she had received a letter from the Milwaukee Police Department regarding the same apartment on Thirteenth Street. “Pursuant to Section 80-10 Milwaukee Code of Ordinances (MCO),” the letter began, “I am informing you that the Milwaukee Police Department has responded to nuisance activity at your property…on at least three occasions within a thirty-day period.” It then listed the nuisance activities, which included a fight and a woman being sliced with a razor blade. The letter went on to inform Sherrena that she would be “subject to a special charge for any future enforcement costs for any of the listed violations” that occurred at her property. The city had itemized all police services, down to $4 per 911 call. Sherrena was to respond in writing with a plan to “abate the nuisance activities” occurring at her property. Should those activities continue, the letter concluded, she could be subject to a fine between $1,000 and $5,000 or thrown in jail.

  Sherrena wrote back to the Milwaukee PD, explaining that the 911 calls that had generated the letter were attributed to a domestic-violence situation. “If these problems continue,” she wrote, “I will ask her to vacate the premises.” When the district captain read Sherrena’s reply, he underlined the word “ask” and drew a question mark in the margin. “Not accepted,” he scribbled on her reply.

  After she was notified that her abatement plan was rejected, Sherrena stapled a copy of an eviction notice to her next letter to the police. The district captain wrote back, “This notice serves to inform you that your written course of action is accepted.”

  Now Thirteenth Street was a nuisance again, with issues upstairs and down. Most of Crystal’s 911 calls were on Trisha’s behalf, but once she had also called after getting into a roaring argument with Arleen. The police officer on the phone was asking Sherrena to explain why her former and current tenants were living together. Sherrena told the officer how Crystal and Arleen had met. When the officer asked Sherrena why she had allowed such an arrangement, Sherrena replied by saying that she had felt sorry for Arleen. “But neither of them have a pot to piss in,” she said. “And they don’t have a window to dash it out of.”

  The officer laughed.

  “She did wrong for trying to sublease my place,” Sherrena said. “You know, Crystal doesn’t quite understand that it’s her place, but it’s not her place.”

  The call had embarrassed Sherrena. “I’m steady trying to work with these low-quality people,” she said after hanging up. She had been content to “turn a blind eye to Arleen still being there,” but now the police were involved. The officer advised Sherrena to toss them both out. Sherrena decided to start with Arleen. She called her a
nd began yelling into the phone. “I’m sick of the bullshit,” Sherrena said, “sick of this motherfucking shit….Tired of you throwing your fucking weight around when you’re the one who owes. When your kids didn’t have nothing to eat who was it that went to the church and got a big box of food, milk and stuff like that for them, when you first got there, who had spent her money and she didn’t ask for it back, and you know—hello? Hello?”

  —

  The police had called Sherrena on a Saturday. She had told Arleen to be out by Monday. Sunday morning found Arleen sweeping the carpet as Trisha looked on. On the kitchen counter, cornbread was still caked in the pan, the brown edges giving way to the spongy yellow middle. The night before, Arleen had made muffins too, and boiled pinto beans and neck bones. Her brothers had come over to eat, smoke, and throw spades upstairs at Trisha’s. They drank but knew not to offer Arleen a cup. She almost never drank alcohol, didn’t like the feeling. “Thing I hate about Milwaukee,” Arleen said, “is that the rent is so high.”

  “High!” Trisha agreed, clicking her tongue. “I pay upstairs four hundred and fifty for a one bedroom?”

  The house was quiet with Crystal and Jori at church. Jori had gone with his dad. Jafaris sat silently on the floor, coloring. Arleen tried to calculate how much time she had. If Sherrena served the writ the next day “that’s still another five days to get my stuff outta here before the sheriff come.”

  Trisha nodded.

  Arleen sat down at the table and looked at Jafaris while talking to Trisha. “We in this house. So I didn’t think about moving. I didn’t have to think about my kids changing schools. I didn’t have to think about none of that. No sense in crying,” she said, straightening up. “I might as well wipe my tears and do what I got to do.”

  She called Sherrena. Arleen started and stopped. Her words caught at the bottom of her throat. But she managed to ask Sherrena if she could stay until Thursday. Sherrena said no, and Arleen protested. “That’s Crystal! Ain’t no police been called ’sides Chris beating up Trisha. It’s been her!”

  —

  In the last decades of the twentieth century, as the justice system was adopting a set of abrasive policies that would swell police forces and fuel the prison boom, it was also leaving more and more policing responsibilities to citizens without a badge and a gun.3 What about the pawnshop owner who sold the gun? Isn’t he partially responsible for the homicide? Or the absentee landlord who failed to screen his tenants? Didn’t he play a role in creating the drug house? The police and courts increasingly answered yes.4 It was in this context that the nuisance property ordinance was born, allowing police departments to penalize landlords for the behavior of their tenants.5 Most properties were designated “nuisances” because an excessive number of 911 calls were made within a certain timeframe. In Milwaukee, the threshold was three or more calls within a thirty-day period. The ordinances pushed property owners to “abate the nuisance” or face fines, license revocation, property forfeiture, or even incarceration. Proponents argued that these new laws would save money and conserve valuable resources by enabling police departments to direct manpower to high-priority crimes.

  In 2008 and 2009, the Milwaukee PD issued a nuisance property citation to residential property owners every thirty-three hours.6 The most popular nuisance activity was “Trouble with Subjects,” a catchall designation applied to a wide variety of incidents, including people refusing to leave a residence and loud arguments. Noise complaints came second. The third most common nuisance activity was domestic violence. The number of domestic violence incidents—most of which involved physical abuse or a weapon—exceeded the total number of all other kinds of assaults, disorderly conduct charges, and drug-related crimes combined. One incident involved a woman having bleach thrown in her face. In another, a woman was “hit [on the] head with a can of food.” Two involved the battering of pregnant women. Box cutters, knives, and guns were used. In one incident, “the caller stated that [her boyfriend] just sprayed her with lighter fluid and also set a piece of paper on fire.”

  Most nuisance citations were addressed to properties on the North Side. In white neighborhoods, only 1 in 41 properties that could have received a nuisance citation actually did receive one. In black neighborhoods, 1 in 16 eligible properties received a citation. A woman reporting domestic violence was far more likely to land her landlord a nuisance citation if she lived in the inner city.7

  In the vast majority of cases (83 percent), landlords who received a nuisance citation for domestic violence responded by either evicting the tenants or by threatening to evict them for future police calls. Sometimes, this meant evicting a couple, but most of the time landlords evicted women abused by men who did not live with them.8

  One landlord wrote to the Milwaukee PD: “This is one girl in one apartment who is having trouble with her boyfriend. She was a good tenant for a long time—until her boyfriend came around. Probably things are not going to change, so enclosed please find a copy of a notice terminating her tenancy served today.” Another wrote: “I discussed the report with [my tenant]….Her boyfriend had threatened her with bodily harm and was the reason for the [911] call. We agreed that he would not be allowed in the building, and she would be responsible for any damage to the building property and evicted if he returned to the property.” Another wrote: “First, we are evicting Sheila M, the caller for help from police. She has been beaten by her ‘man’ who kicks in doors and goes to jail for 1 or 2 days. (Catch and release does not work.) We suggested she obtain a gun and kill him in self defense, but evidently she hasn’t. Therefore, we are evicting her.”

  Each of these landlords received the same form letter from the Milwaukee PD: “This notice serves to inform you that your written course of action is accepted.”9

  The year the police called Sherrena, Wisconsin saw more than one victim per week murdered by a current or former romantic partner or relative.10 After the numbers were released, Milwaukee’s chief of police appeared on the local news and puzzled over the fact that many victims had never contacted the police for help. A nightly news reporter summed up the chief’s views: “He believes that if police were contacted more often, that victims would have the tools to prevent fatal situations from occurring in the future.” What the chief failed to realize, or failed to reveal, was that his department’s own rules presented battered women with a devil’s bargain: keep quiet and face abuse or call the police and face eviction.11

  —

  Crystal blew through the door along with the cold air, and the house tightened up. Church had taken a lot out of her, and “her stomach was touching her back,” as the saying went. She poured herself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and planted herself on the love seat. She was wearing a black-and-gold silk blouse, a calf-length skirt, and a red headwrap. Crystal was aware of Arleen’s situation, having returned Sherrena’s call on her bus ride home. Sherrena had given some ground. Arleen could stay until Thursday if Crystal agreed to move into one of Sherrena’s other properties. If Crystal said no, Arleen had to be out the next day.

  Her cereal gone, Crystal was still hungry. She put some of Arleen’s biscuits in the oven. “You want some of these, baby?” she asked Jafaris.

  “He don’t want none of that,” Arleen snapped.

  “You can’t get mad at me. You can take it out on Sherrena.”

  “I’m pissed off at you, and I’m pissed off at Sherrena!”

  “I have no control over what my landlord say!” Crystal interrupted, pleading. “I told y’all you can stay until February, because that’s what you paid me for. But Sherrena…said that you got to go. I have no say-so over that because I’m not fitting to be out on the street because somebody gave me a hundred and fifty dollars.” Crystal breathed in deep and continued. “I’m not fittin’ to get irritated. I’m not fittin’ to get agitated. I’m not fittin’ to get frustrated. I’m not fittin’ to call Momma and tell her I ain’t got no peace, ’cause I got peace right now. And I’m keeping it. I’m keepi
ng it. I’m keeping it.”

  “You got peace, and me and my kids got to go.”

  Crystal bit her lip and looked to the ceiling.

  “I can be out tomorrow. It don’t matter! You can put my biscuits back in the refrigerator where you got ’em from.” Arleen was yelling now.

  Crystal shook her head and called Sherrena. “Which day did you say you want Arleen out?…Monday? You said Monday?”

  Arleen began pacing around, talking to the room. “I really truly hate that I got into this situation….That’s bogus, that is bogus as ever. I swear to God! That is bogus!”

  “I called the police,” Crystal was telling Sherrena. “Chris and them was making a lot of noise upstairs, and he was up there beating on that girl.”

  Arleen asked for the phone and Crystal ignored her.

  Arleen began to shake. “Now look! Now my kids homeless! Nowhere to go and ain’t got no money!…Fuck me and my kids. Just fuck it! Fuck it!”

  Crystal had never seen Arleen like this, so unraveled. She handed her the phone.

  “I mean,” Arleen said to Sherrena, “they just throw me and my kids out on the street! After I got my money, after we ain’t got nothing no more!…It was okay that we was here up until last time when the police got called….All I can say is thank you for what you done for me and my kids. Before Thursday, me and my kids will be gone. That’s my promise. I can’t give you nothing else!”

  Arleen listened for a few seconds before shutting the phone while Sherrena was midsentence. “I feel that we getting used. Me and my kids getting used!” She looked at Crystal, who that morning carried an old and calm spirit. “I’m frustrated,” she apologized. “If I took my anger out on you, I’m pissed….Arrangements was made.” She slapped her palm with the back of her hand.

  “But the reason I know what you feel is that my family did this to me….The issues you got? Can’t nobody fix ’em but God.”

  “I don’t have nothing but a trust issue, and I’ma always have a trust issue.” Arleen sat down.