Story Talia Schmidt

Photos Jarod Opperman

On this dreary Friday afternoon in the heart of Portland’s Old Town district, Officer Mark Friedman of the Neighborhood Response Team slows his police car when he sees a familiar figure stumble into traffic. Friedman surveys the man, who appears to be approximately five foot eight, heavily intoxicated, and in desperate need of a hot shower. He staggers onto the sidewalk as a half-empty bottle of vodka slips from his grasp and falls to the pavement.

“I’m calling for backup,” Friedman says. “You never know in these kinds of situations.”

When his partner arrives, Friedman exits the car and approaches the man. After a quick pat-down, they find a tattered wallet, a faded baseball cap, and a small alcohol stash. The officers cuff him as he writhes and complains that they’re hurting him.

“We don’t want to hurt you. We just don’t want you hurting yourself,” Friedman responds. Together, they lead him into the back of the car, where he falls onto the seat. “This isn’t your first time,” Friedman reminds him. “You know the routine.”

Friedman knows the drill, too. He’s arrested the same man for shoplifting, drinking in public, and disturbing business owners. Now, he’ll once again take the man to the Hooper Detox Center where he can focus on getting clean — for up to eight hours, at least.

It’s a decade-old cycle the police bureau has been working tirelessly to solve. Crime, drugs, and mental health issues plague Old Town more than any other neighborhood in Portland, Oregon. The same small group of criminal offenders, many of whom are addicts, continue to cost the city thousands of dollars in taxpayer money for service treatment every year. Police officers are frustrated arresting the same offenders for the same crimes every day. Driving them to detoxification centers to sober up may work temporarily, but often they are back on the streets drinking or using the same night. The man Friedman arrested is definitely on the police bureau’s radar — in fact, he’s probably on what Portland media now call “the list.”

The list, created by Neighborhood Response Team police officer Jeff Myers in 2003, causes the city’s most frequent offenders to receive felony charges for crimes the county typically counts as misdemeanors because of a severe lack of funding and prison space. Conversely, it ensures immediate drug or alcohol treatment to some of Portland’s neediest addicts, thus reducing drug use and drug-related property crimes. It typically takes up to six months to receive such treatment. Every ninety days, the police bureau runs arrest-record data to determine the thirty-five most-arrested offenders. Though violators face felony charges, Myers says he has people calling him and asking to be on the list. It’s clear the energetic blonde-haired officer who stands at nearly seven feet tall remains committed to his brainchild — no matter how much heat the program has taken.

The Portland Police Department believes that the list — part of the larger Neighborhood Livability Crime Enforcement Program (NLCEP), which costs the city $2.5 million in services per year — is effectively reducing drug activity in Old Town and central precinct neighborhoods while simultaneously pushing its “regulars” into treatment.

But civil libertarians are deeply concerned with the program’s logistics. In a hearing to get police testimony to learn more about the program, ACLU attorneys discovered that people on the list are never notified and have no way to appeal. The names on the list remain secret to everyone except law enforcement officials.

ACLU of Oregon Executive Director David Fidanque says he disagrees with the idea of using felony convictions to force people into treatment. People need to want the help first, he argues.

“I think this program is well-intentioned, like a lot of government programs,” Fidanque says. “It’s how they’re trying to do it — without any [public] review — that we don’t like.”

Elden Rosenthal, an attorney working with the American Civil Liberties Union, worries that the program’s secrecy runs contrary to democracy. He believes the program violates certain constitutional rights.

“These people aren’t being treated equally,” Rosenthal said. “The fact that one officer can make this decision is a perfect example of not treating all people equally.”

Spurred by the police bureau’s latest plans, the ACLU joined forces with Multnomah Defenders Inc. and Metropolitan Public Defenders to represent three individuals on the list. Attorneys argued these cases in the Multnomah County Circuit Court to drop the felony charges brought against their respective clients — but later learned how difficult that would be.

The city has tried implementing exclusionary drug-free zones in which police officers, district attorneys, and the courts could issue drug users citations preventing them from returning to the area for ninety days. After a fifteen-year trial run, the city determined it wasn’t working. Inspired by the innate problem in the system, Myers decided to take matters into his own hands.

Myers ran a background check in 2003 on Ronald Terrance Washington, a severely handicapped 42-year-old man caught deep in the cycle of addiction. Myers learned Washington had been arrested forty-six times in a ninety-day period, was overdosing while riding public buses, and was costing taxpayers $1 million annually for police, jail, and health services.

Myers finally decided he’d had enough of watching the same violators waste the city’s precious resources, time, and funding. With the NLCEP and the list to clearly identify Old Town’s most-frequent offenders, the police department watched as the number of calls reported decreased substantially. The controversy signifies a deeper desire from community members to feel safe in their own neighborhoods while simultaneously helping those in need. However, criminal lawyers defending people they later discovered were on the list insist that there is a way to combat crime and enhance livability without violating civil rights.

The master list names about four hundred people with significant criminal histories — some of who have more than 150 incidents with police and the courts. Officers compile the list based on arrest data in five central-city neighborhoods. The only way to get off the list is to keep from committing any of the crimes related to the list in the Portland neighborhoods for three years.

The program’s opponents remain troubled by the list’s secrecy to those on it. But Service Coordination Team program manager Bill Sinnott argued that as long as the numbers are reflecting a positive shift in the community, it shouldn’t matter that the list is confidential. Public defenders argue the list unconstitutionally labels people as chronic offenders based on arrest data instead of convictions.

But is it really working?

Police officers have arrested Washington less frequently since he’s been on the list, and the county is paying $62,000 annually for his special-needs housing arrangement, compared to the $1 million per year he previously cost, according to estimates from former Multnomah County Director of Mental Health Peter Davidson.

Researchers at Portland State University studied the program as part of a capstone course to evaluate the program’s effects on crime and drug use. The results favored the police bureau’s methods, and the program is currently on its way to national review. If other bureaus in the country agree that this pilot program works well, they may adopt its practices.

“There’s no other program that we know of like this,” Myers said. “What we’re doing — it’s unprecedented.”

Multnomah Defenders Inc. attorney Lisa Pardini was alarmed when she learned her client received a felony charge for a crime Multnomah County usually considers a misdemeanor. She fears that nobody is making sure the police bureau is held accountable for identifying chronic offenders. She’s not alone. Other lawyers were worried too, and they joined forces with the ACLU to defend those who could not defend themselves, including Washington.

The attorneys subpoenaed a copy of the list, which identifies offenders by computer record number (CRN). Just as they were delving further into the issues, a copy of the comprehensive list, complete with names, mysteriously appeared in her colleague Spencer Hahn’s mailbox. She guesses it came from an anonymous social service provider or “someone on the inside.”

Though the copy that law enforcement officials receive lists offenders by CRN, the mysterious tip-off list disclosed full names. Pardini grew even more distressed when a colleague discovered that it disproportionately identified black people. She wants to know why the public did not officially learn about this program until early 2008 — years after its inception. Myers insists that he has been consistent and transparent throughout the program’s inception but that the information on the list is private to protect confidentiality. Myers began charting his data and compiling it into graphs in 2003, but the first written public proposal is dated August 12, 2004. This would suggest that the police bureau began enforcing the program’s policies before any stated guidelines were written down.

“This sounds like something that used to happen in Eastern Europe, not something that could happen in Oregon,” Rosenthal said.

Wary of the fast tracking route, Pardini is skeptical of Myers’ plan to send those on the list straight to social services. She says there is no follow-through.

“It’s not happening,” Pardini said, shaking her head. “My clients say they’re not receiving treatment, they’re not getting help.”

To make sure the NLCEP and its motives were truly aligned with enhancing livability, Myers implemented an advisory board of community members. Making this roster public may fend off some complaints that the police bureau is racially profiling. Myers argues that it’s impossible; he based the list off CRN arrest data, so name, race, and other identification factors are not included. 

“This advisory board met every three months or so before the first list was even generated,” Myers said. “We are absolutely transparent.”

Myers also pushed for a committee to help keep stakeholders updated. Every Monday afternoon, twenty-five to thirty people crowd into the modest Old Town bureau and discuss ways to help repeat offenders get off the streets and stay clean. The group includes representatives from Central City Concern, Volunteers of America, and the District Attorney’s office. At this Service Coordination Team meeting, they collaboratively come up with tailored solutions for each individual on the list.

Yet, it’s the secrecy and the behind-closed-doors policy that frustrates ACLU attorneys and civil libertarians.

Fidanque stares out the window of the modest conference room in his Eugene, Oregon, office and shakes his head slowly. “The ends here don’t justify the means,” he says.

An April 2009 decision from Judge Dale Koch of the Multnomah County Circuit Court denied the motion to reduce charges from felonies to misdemeanors. However, he did rule that prosecutors could not make charging decisions based on the list; the district attorney’s office must review each case individually. The judge declined to comment on the police program’s constitutionality, but criminal defenders on the case, such as Brian Schmonsees, anticipate further discussion in the future. The judge allowed police to continue compiling the list. But the civil case questioning the program’s constitutionality remains an ongoing process.

The program has left some Old Town businesses such as Upper Playground on NW Fifth Avenue and Couch Street wondering how ethical such a project can be.

“My safety isn’t worth jeopardizing people’s basic rights,” says Katie Campbell, an Upper Playground employee. “I think there should be a way to keep everyone safe and protect everyone’s legal rights at the same time.”

That’s exactly what Myers believes the program does; many of the offenders, particularly Washington, are his friends. He works hard to protect them from their addictions and to protect the rest of the city from drug-related crimes.

Myers is still in touch with Washington. Myers will never forget an early court hearing in January 2009 that left defense lawyers stunned. Striding into the courtroom, Myers watched as Washington’s face lit up. He went over to greet his old friend. “You don’t normally see that,” Myers chuckled. “I think [the public defenders] were a little bit in shock.” 

During the lunch hour, Myers stayed to empty Washington’s urinary bag and visit with him. Though he says he’s constantly been portrayed as the villain, Myers picked up a sack lunch from a nearby social service facility and brought it to Washington before court reconvened. Harsh realities set in at the end of the day, but Myers insists it’s a relationship built on trust and mutual learning. Even today, the soft-spoken outgoing officer checks in with his regulars on the darkened street corners of Old Town.

“This is not what police usually do,” Myers said. “This is community-based policing. It’s like being the parent of a child; you give them an immediate consequence for something they do wrong, but in the end, you want [the child] to know that you love him and want him to succeed using all the resources you’ve provided.”