Executioner's song

What happens when you give prosecutors a neighborhood beat?

by Sarah McNaught

By day, Chelsea's Bossom Park, on Grove Street, is a run-down, trash-strewn playground. The jungle gym's paint is chipping. The picnic tables, carved with names and symbols, show signs of rot. Tatters of a chain-link fence hang loose and twisted from posts around the park's perimeter.

All over Chelsea, long-time residents have been chafing at petty crimes that are bringing the neighborhoods down. The area where the park is located -- near City Hall, in Bellingham Square -- is particularly bad. Vandals have sprayed graffiti on the newly painted homes, and broken their windows. Streets are overrun with garbage and stolen shopping carts. But at a monthly community meeting, talk kept coming back to the park, which residents felt had become a headquarters for local derelicts.

After the meeting, a man named Will Korman went to check out the park for himself. "Although it is virtually empty by day -- when it should be thriving with children playing -- it is jam-packed at night," says Korman, a stocky 27-year-old with brown hair and striking blue eyes. "I mean, the place was full of groups of kids hanging out, drinking, doing God knows what." Korman promised himself he'd do something about it.

What's unusual about Korman's interest and dedication is that he neither lives nor works in Chelsea: he is a "neighborhood prosecutor" for the Suffolk County DA's office. His job is to prosecute low-level crimes that affect Chelsea's quality of life.

"I am here to follow through on the broken-windows theory," Korman explains, adjusting his goldfish-printed tie as he nods at the police officers passing him in Chelsea District Courthouse. "If I can get the chronic offenders off the street, then the larger offenses will eventually dwindle."

Korman is one of four prosecutors currently employed under District Attorney Ralph Martin's Safe Neighborhood Initiative (SNI), which partners police, prosecutors, city agencies, neighborhood residents, and local businesspeople to bring down crime in targeted areas. The first project of its kind in the US, the Suffolk County SNI is being looked to as a model for cities nationwide. The DA's office currently acts as lead agency in SNIs in East Boston and Chelsea, and as a partner in Dorchester and Roxbury.

The task for Korman is to learn the mechanics and problems of the community he defends, taking his cues from local residents and merchants -- the people who best understand the neighborhood. This means his job is quite different from that of a traditional prosecutor, who generally works within the courthouse building. Korman's work takes him far beyond the broad wooden doors of Chelsea District Courthouse and into the streets.

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It's late on a Wednesday morning in the second-floor office the prosecutor shares with four DA staff members. Korman talks on the phone -- making quick decisions about cases that went before the court that day -- and counsels one of his victim-witness advocates on how to deal with a restraining order snafu that has just cropped up downstairs.

Surrounded by deep piles of files on his desk and "target area" maps on his walls, Korman looks like a man not to be trifled with.

Yet this is also a man who bakes chocolate-chip and cherry cookies for the office and who, on rare occasion, will even offer up chocolate cake.

"I used to bake much more when I was working out of Roxbury Court," Korman explains sheepishly. "But I am just so busy now."

Korman's job requires an unusual mix of aggressiveness and compassion, of hardheadedness and creativity. Neighborhood prosecuting, which came to Boston in May 1996, is very much in sync with the idea behind community policing: go into the streets and talk to the people to find out what the real issues are. Then do something about them.

Community policing gives residents an opportunity to voice concerns, participate in anticrime operations, and work closely with the police. Similarly, community prosecuting gives local citizens a chance to participate in crime-solving by testifying and giving victim-impact statements, and by calling special SNI tip lines.

Because Korman specializes in crimes such as prostitution, public drinking, drug dealing, graffiti, vandalism, and assault, he doesn't get wrapped up in complicated cases that could take months and countless court appearances to resolve.

He also gets to know his targets: Korman often encounters the same criminals repeatedly. Of his 293 cases now pending, almost half involve defendants who have seen the inside of Chelsea District Courthouse at least once before. Korman's current caseload includes 134 violent offenses, 67 drug offenses, 54 assault-and-battery cases (half of which are domestic disputes), and 38 public-nuisance offenses.

It's a big job, but Korman's caseload is roughly a third of the average prosecutor's. This allows him to make a greater personal investment in his work. "Sometimes I find myself sitting in my home wondering about the person I put in jail that day, wondering if he's okay," Korman says. "And sometimes I think about the victims in one of my cases and wonder what they are doing and if they are doing okay. It's definitely a job that's with me all the time."

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Marlboro Street, known to police as one of the worst streets in the city, lies directly across from Chelsea City Hall. Running parallel is Grove Street, another trash-strewn, graffiti-covered stretch where drunks begin sitting on front stoops as early as 11 a.m. Along both streets, teenagers in hooded sweatshirts hang out on front porches, checking out passing cars. Between the two- and three-family clapboard homes, narrow, rat-infested alleyways provide hiding spots and getaway routes for criminals.

In the heart of the area lives a family SNI participants call the "Dukes of Hazzard." The Smiths are two generations of drug dealers, addicts, and petty criminals who have haunted Marlboro Street and eluded police for years, according to Sara LoCoco, the DA's SNI coordinator for East Boston and Chelsea.

"Despite numerous attempts by the police to crack down on the family, the Smiths have maintained what is known as one of the busiest drug centers in the area," LoCoco says.

They always seem to be a few steps ahead of the law. "They manage to hide the drugs and money before the police get there," LoCoco explains. "Just like they manage to have their house immaculate and their children programmed to say the right things whenever DSS [Department of Social Services] pays a visit."

In the SNI program, however, the Smiths may have met their match. Neighbors began tipping off police about the traffic in and out of the house, the drug deals, and the filthy condition of the children.

Police set up undercover buys based on information obtained by residents. They then spent two months watching family members sell drugs both on the street and in the house, often in front of their small children. During that time, officers made between two and eight buys from each of four family members.

On June 18 of this year, police efforts paid off. Four of the Smiths were arrested and charged with distribution of crack cocaine within a school zone, which carries a mandatory two-year sentence.

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Jody Harrison, like the Smith family, was a long-time Chelsea hustler who has tormented the community and amassed quite a record. Harrison was a chronic offender known to almost everyone in the Bellingham Square area. She was constantly passing through the courthouse for such crimes as prostitution and assault, and then ending up back on the street.

That is, until Korman arrived. One month into Korman's tenure, residents brought Harrison to the new prosecutor's attention. She already had six SNI cases pending -- four for "common night walking" and two for assault, once with a knife.

"She got a 15-month suspended sentence and was ordered out of Bellingham Square, and off two other street corners she frequented," Korman says. "Although a suspended sentence puts her back on the street, there were strict stipulations. If she didn't keep her nose clean for at least 12 months, she would automatically go to prison."

Korman would not have known about Harrison if residents hadn't clued him in. And he would not have been able to apply pressure without the cooperation of other law enforcers. Situations like this show the strength of SNI's two-tiered approach -- using an "advisory council" and a "steering committee."

Every month, an advisory council consisting of residents, merchants, law enforcement officers, and Korman meets to share information about what is happening in the neighborhood. Paul Shaw, president of a bank in Bellingham Square, says merchants and residents are the eyes and ears of the DA's office.

The steering committee, which also meets monthly, consists of prosecutors, Chelsea police, probation officers, housing police, and MBTA police. This group plans stings or undercover investigations, discusses specific court cases, and reviews SNI arrests based on information brought back from the advisory council meetings. Captain Don Robitaille says the meetings are vital to the daily operation of the police department.

"We learn plate numbers of suspected drug offenders, hangouts for habitual streetwalkers, and other really important information from residents at these meetings," says Robitaille, a 23-year veteran of the police force. "The information is specific enough that we can follow through fairly effectively."

"These meetings cut away red tape, send a message that people are being watched more closely, and put tax money to good use," says the 58-year-old Shaw. Indeed, Korman's dogged efforts let petty criminals know that there will be consequences, no matter how small the crime.

Police action planned at these meetings has ranged from zero-tolerance weekends, john stings, and prostitution sweeps to undercover drug buys, pickpocket lures, and underage-drinking crackdowns.

Statistics from the DA's office show that something is certainly working. Compare the first half of 1997 with the first half of 1996: the number of prostitution arrests in Chelsea dropped from 41 to 24; narcotic arrests slid from 116 to 100; disorderly person arrests dipped from 72 to 65; public drinking arrests plummeted from 116 to 67. Meanwhile, the number of "protective custody" actions -- when an individual is picked up by police and held but not charged until he or she sobers up -- rose from 357 to 413 because of numerous street sweeps.

And those who do get arrested are being put away: Korman's conviction rate was 92 percent in the first year.

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But community prosecuting is not just about cracking down. Consider the case of Bobby Kelly. Kelly is a local nuisance. Down on his luck, homeless, and constantly drunk, he can often be found sleeping under the Tobin Bridge or wailing "Fuck you!" in front of City Hall.

Without information from the police and the advisory meetings, Korman would have treated Kelly like a chronic offender and jailed him.

Instead, he got Kelly sent to Bridgewater State Hospital to spend 30 days in an alcohol rehabilitation program. Stopping the alcoholism might stop the bad behavior, Korman reasoned.

"Residents have sympathy for Kelly despite how much of a nuisance he is," Korman explains. "So I abided by their wishes and got him help."

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Behind the neighborhood prosecuting concept is the theory that punishing small crimes now will prevent bigger ones. In part, this is supposed to work by altering the atmosphere of the community -- by putting an end to the sense that crime is permissible.

But it also works by targeting specific troublemakers. "Some of these offenders go on to become bigger criminals with charges such as murder or rape," Korman says. "If we get them now, they can't go on to ruin a neighborhood or hurt anyone else."

Stanley Noveska has the potential to become a career criminal. He already had an armed-robbery case pending in Middlesex Superior Court -- he was charged with stealing $1000 from an insurance company -- when Korman prosecuted him for purse snatching and burglary. Noveska had stolen jewelry from a home where he was doing construction work.

"This guy was just getting more and more aggressive with the types of crimes he was committing," Korman explains. "I got the elderly woman whose purse he snatched to come into court and explain how this man had impacted her life and the lives of her neighbors."

The woman testified that as long as people like Noveska were allowed to walk the streets, the city of Chelsea would never rid itself of its reputation as a crime-riddled dump.

"The guy is now serving three years, not counting his case pending in Superior Court," Korman says triumphantly.

Had someone unfamiliar with Noveska's history and his place in the community been handling the case, the man might still be preying on his neighbors.

"I can't stand the thought of anyone being afraid to go outside their house," Korman says, his brow furrowed. "I can't allow that."

Sarah McNaught can be reached at smcnaught[a]phx.com.