Out of the Fire

by Mike Newall

Last week, a procession of men and women wanted for nonviolent crimes filed into the True Gospel Tabernacle Church at 16th and Mifflin streets as part of a four-day Fugitive Safe Surrender program. Church volunteers greeted fugitives with applause while judges processed cases in makeshift courts in the church sanctuary. Some saw the program as a way to strengthen community relations while preventing dangerous confrontations between police and fugitives. Others didn't. A white man named Phil smoked a cigarette on the steps of a delicatessen near the church.

"Giving the animals a second chance," he said.

As Phil said this, James Williams, a 24-year-old black man wanted on charges of drug possession, shuffled uncomfortably past the cheering volunteers — "Damn, I'm not doing anything spectacular," he thought. "I'm just getting a warrant lifted" — through the metal detector and into a back-row pew, away from the crowds.

Across James' face, arms and legs are spider-web scars from when he was 9 months old and his father set fire to his house in the Passyunk Homes project.

"He didn't like me or my mother," explained James, "and he decided to hurt us."

James' mother died trying to rescue him; his father is serving life.

"[Things] ain't ever been easy," he said, running the fingers of his good hand over his scorched face. "I'd be happy with a mediocre life."

Deputy District Attorney John Delaney led James into a small room where Judge Pamela Dembe hears the particulars: James was arrested with marijuana and missed his court hearing. Delaney withdrew prosecution. "Good luck," said Dembe. James limped out a side door.

Four days later, he sat on the stoop of a crumbling row house in Point Breeze, across the street from his cousin's house. His cousin has two bedrooms and three children. James sleeps on the living room floor on a pile of balled-up clothes. Until recently, he lived with his father's mother. But she moved to Conshohocken. James fits his belongings into three plastic garbage bags.

"I had a grandmother who wanted me because a check was involved," he said. "But I don't hold no grudges. I'd be mad at the whole world if I did."

A little boy ran toward James to retrieve a baseball. The boy stared at James' burnt face, half-missing ear and shriveled arm.

"Gross," said the boy, returning to his friends.

James dropped out of Audenried High School after classmates set fire to his locker as a reminder of his past.

The dealers on the corner looked after him, he says.

"We see you need some new sneaks young boy," they'd say, giving him money. "Why don't you go get some."

So James dealt himself.

"I could do that now if I wanted to," he says. "It would take nothing but a phone call. I'd be better off but I wouldn't feel good about it."

James earned entry-level computer certification from the Cittone Institute (now Lincoln Technical Institute) on Market Street. Installing computer networks would be a dream job. But he has been to job fairs and filled out applications at dozens of clothing and electronic stores to no avail.

"I'm used to not getting jobs," he said. "And that's not something you want to get used to in life."

The following Monday, James was back at the church after calling Greg Thompson, a counselor whose number he received when he surrendered.

"I'm amazed he's never been in counseling for issues surrounding the fire," said Thompson afterward. "The average person would've jumped out the window by now. But whatever is inside him has kept him going."

"I don't want to finish the job my father started," said James. 

Thompson promised to connect James with a therapist, housing opportunities and job training programs

That night James visited a friend in West Philadelphia, Day-Day, who recently moved out of Point Breeze to get away from the street life. The two friends sat on a park bench.

"James is trying to get out of the street game," said Day-Day.

"Forever," said James.

James and Day-Day can name only one childhood friend who's never been in the drug game.

"It's easier getting in the drug game than it is getting a library card," said James.

"It ain't nothing to grab a package on the street and flip it," said Day-Day. "Make five or six hundred a day."

"Life was easier then," said James.

"More money more problems, though," said Day-Day.

"Yep," said James.

As if on cue, James' phone rang. It was a friend looking to sell a package. James passed, but connected the seller with another buyer for $50 off the top.

"It's my way of staying out of the game," he said. "I ain't buying, bagging or selling. I'm just a middle man."

James said he'd call the counselor in the morning.

Dispatch is filed from all corners of Philadelphia. E-mail mike.newall@citypaper.net.