Gripe : ‘At Our Wits’ End’ : As their alley is taken over by crack users, residents of a historic block seek help from the city and get frustration in return.

Imagine a row of beautiful turn-of-the-century mansions at what used to be the edge of civilization, about two miles from downtown Los Angeles. Built by a lumber and glass magnate, each property is wildly different but each is still beautiful. The owners have taken great care to keep them up--gardens, fresh maintenance, respect. A Tudor is now a bed-and-breakfast, a Moorish castle is a home for young men, a classic Victorian is home to the daughter, now in her 90s, of the original owner. One home, a sort of Queen Anne varietal, was converted to five large apartments in the 1920s. The area, in the Pico-Union district, is impressive; it’s been under State Historical Landmark protection for decades.

An ugly note begins to creep in; the alley that runs behind the row of homes starts to collect crack users in its niches. A cloth hut is raised in front of an absentee owner’s garage, held together by artfully knotted ends of sheets, tablecloths, and other bits and pieces. It usually houses four to eight people, smoking, drinking, shooting up and turning tricks for drugs. As the rain comes, plastic sheeting is added. The beat cops force the structure down, but within two days, it is back up and stronger than ever. At first, residents offer help to the woman who seems to be the catalyst for the activity (she calls herself “Mama”), supplying her with fresh water, fruit, even getting a social worker to come. She wants help, she says, but she uses the money she gets from the state to buy crack rather than rent a room. Soon, all her “friends” are partying together, 24 hours a day.

The little crack shed in the alley and, just a few feet away, the brick building where the dealers live become known as a place to get and do drugs. Fights frequently break out. All the addicts have to do is call out their dealer’s name and someone in the building will bring their drugs down, like a vulture coming to feed its babies. LAPD Narcotics informs us that they’ve made busts in this building before. Doesn’t the landlord have any responsibility here? Isn’t he liable?

Residents desperate to regain their alley, once a main pedestrian thoroughfare, ask the help of the police. But the lawsuits of well-meaning ACLU lawyers have made it impossible for peace officers to dispossess these squatters. The next stop for help is our City Council representative, Mike Hernandez. He assures us that there is a way to take care of problems like ours. The procedure involves police, who make a criminal sweep of the area, a social worker who is present to counsel and offer help to those who need it, and the Sanitation Department, which will clean up the public area. The umbrella agency is the Department of Public Works. The paperwork, we are told, will take 10 weeks.

The 10 weeks come and go. It’s evident that nobody is coming to do the job. The dealers, their runners and the addicted criminals who live in the alley are not arrested. Those that want help don’t get it and the alley is not scrubbed clean of the trash, urine, feces, food waste, needles, stray animals, broken appliances and furniture that threaten the health and safety of everyone who lives in the area. If anything, the alley is much worse; the addicts sense they are winning in their quest to have everything the way they want it.

Hernandez’ aides tell us the paperwork is dead-ending somewhere. They can’t seem to track it beyond the LAPD’s Rampart Division.

The beat cops continue to break up the parties and stop fights, but when they come, not a ripple of alarm or conscience moves among the addicts. They pretend to obey the officers’ orders to remove their belongings, but only until the squad car leaves; then things are dug in stronger than ever. These people jump gates and rifle through our trash cans, often throwing trash out and leaving it on the ground for us to clean up a second time. They throw bottles at parked cars (we have a cracked windshield), harass us for money and food.

Why won’t the city help us? Is it because this is a poor neighborhood? “Better” neighborhoods do seem to receive more help. Maybe Mayor Tom Bradley and Police Chief Willie Williams would like to take a turn hosting this teeming subculture in their Hancock Park alleys. If, as it seems, we’re going to declare a moratorium on “certain” crimes, then let’s declare it on traffic violations and jaywalking until the hard crimes in our city are cleaned up.

The police officer assigned to our Neighborhood Watch more or less tells us to handle it ourselves. We are supposed to take pictures of the dealing, take down license plate numbers, get names and probably, he wishes, Social Security numbers. We are wary: In 1991, a family in Jordan Downs that openly opposed local dealing was killed in an apparent arson fire set by vengeful dealers.

And just where do we draw the line at handling it ourselves? Do we follow sympathizers’ advice and torch the hut? Do we run the people out at gunpoint, using threats and violence, as others have done successfully? Do we hire a mercenary to clean this place out for us? Should we become criminals ourselves so we can have some peace of mind?

Hernandez is trying to help; his assistants, Rafael Gonzalez and Tony Perez, have been patient and informative. We have been “third on the list” for nearly three months. But it’s now been eight months since we formally asked for help. The patrol cops have provided some relief by continuing to stop by to shove the people out momentarily, but aren’t they getting sick of our daily calls? If they are, will this make them angry at us?

So we call police dispatch regularly, always afraid of turning those we need against us.

We called one day about a strung-out man throwing bottles, wailing, screaming and swinging a metal vacuum cleaner tube. As he lifted it to hit another, the police came. We were thrilled; finally, one of these people had been caught in the act. The man was handcuffed, and proceeded to be nice as pie to the four officers who responded. After an hour, to our amazement, he was released. Apparently, however, they took his crack and his pipe, because the instant they left, he began his enraged screaming and cursing about how “unfair” it all was. He threw light bulbs, tipped over shopping carts and trash cans until his next dose of crack an hour later.

The Salvation Army store at the end of the alley is a valuable resource for these addicts; unthinking citizens leave a bundle of clothes or a couple of chairs or a mattress “by the door” after hours and the donations are instantly distributed through the alley. Some clothes are used in trade for crack, some for food, and the rest go on the backs of these wretches. Furniture and mattresses serve to make them more comfortable as they chase the dragon.

During the last rain, we watched in amazement as one woman donned a Burberry raincoat and another a long black leather trench coat (which she put on over her ankle-length silk tunic). Their earrings match their shoes which match their socks. Yes, to add insult to injury, these folks dress better than we do.

We realize that only big-time or repeat criminals are likely to get any kind of jail time from today’s court system, but explain to us how to get these chronically anti-social people started in the system in the first place if no one will arrest them for their crimes?

Also, the mysterious Department of Public Works, which allegedly oversees these clean-up programs, has done virtually nothing. We sit in amazement as everyone blames someone else. We are at our wits’ end. What should we do next?