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Baltimore during the New Nation - History

Baltimore during the New Nation - History

In 1820, Baltimore was the third largest city by population. Baltimore was urbanizing more quickly than any other city south of Philadelphia. Its port dealt with grain, pork, beef, and other produce from the farms of Maryland and the Shenandoah Valley. The Ellicott Mills and other mills near Baltimore produced large amounts of flour. These products were sold to the West Indies, Latin America, and Europe.

How Democrats destroyed Baltimore and other American cities, too

It’s getting so bad for the Democratic Party leadership that one could almost start feeling sorry for them. Almost, but not entirely. What’s happening to that party is of their own doing with the extraordinary destruction delivered by a party run and influenced by charlatans and frauds.

The latest illustration, courtesy of President Donald Trump, comes in the form of their bizarre panic because Mr. Trump spoke publicly and passionately about the Democratic destruction of Baltimore, a great and important American city.

Baltimore was established in 1729. The U.S. Navy’s first ship, the Constellation, was launched in Baltimore in 1797, and the Continental Congress from December 1776 to March 1777 met in Baltimore. It was a grand start for a wonderful city that has been kneecapped by 20th- and 21st century liberal policies reducing it to a hopeless, poverty-stricken, rat-infested, murderous town.

But this is not a unique story this is the trajectory we’ve seen in every liberal-run city in this country. The people of Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Detroit and New York, among others, all know what the people of Baltimore are going through.

The reason we are talking about Baltimore is because Mr. Trump thought it worth mentioning while watching Rep. Elijah E. Cummings, Baltimore’s congressional representative for a quarter of a century, spend his time in Congress “resisting” Mr. Trump’s pro-America agenda, especially obstructing any effort to address the continuing southern border human catastrophe.

Being the newest guy in Washington, Mr. Trump had not received the memos forbidding talking about the abject failure and corruption of the Democrats, which is condemning so many great American cities. He also wasn’t told he should not notice how the Republican Party has been complicit in this obscene destruction of people’s lives by abandoning the inner cities, allowing Democrats to continue their unabated corruption and incompetence.

So it wasn’t a surprise that as Mr. Trump dared to call out the condition of Baltimore and the responsibility of people like Mr. Cummings, his comments were immediately derided as “racist” and an “attack” on the city.

Last time I checked, leading a great metropolitan area, with a majority of citizens who are people of color, into death and despair and poverty is the racist attack on that city. Calling it out, demanding change and discussing how the people of that city deserve better, is the height of leadership.

While some Democratic leaders insist it’s America’s 400 years of racism that’s responsible for the condition of inner cities, it is instead a systemic addiction to power and money that is ravaging Democratic-run metropolises and continues unabated because the Democratic Party doesn’t actually care about people’s lives, simply seeing them as fodder in their political wars.

In the depth of their despair over their city, the people of Baltimore are seeing national attention and national concern is what makes the difference. As the legacy media (aka the propaganda arm of the Democratic Party) went berserk over Mr. Trump’s comments about the condition of Baltimore, their coverage focused on how Mr. Trump is Hitler and all of this was racist. Also, mentioning the rat infestation was an insult to the people of Baltimore.

Those are things which are to not be spoken of. Legacy media protect their heroes by omitting facts that are inconvenient, such as rats, poverty and murder rates.

During the third Democratic debate, CNN’s Don Lemon asked a question about gun control referencing three shootings this weekend. Like a good liberal soldier, he omitted the deadly Chicago weekend where eight people were murdered and 40 wounded. He can’t mention that because Chicago has some of the strictest gun control laws in the country, so the murders of those people don’t count because they are not useful.

This is, in part, why this disaster rolls merrily along: The media doesn’t dare bring up the facts about our big Democratic-run cities because it highlights the failure of Democratic leadership and their rage and hate-filled platform.

Orkin, the national pest control company, issued a “Top 10 Rattiest Cities” list just last year. All 10 are important American cities — run by Democrats. The cities 1-10 are: Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, Washington, D.C., San Francisco, Detroit, Philadelphia, Cleveland, Baltimore and Denver.

Moreover, Paul Bedard at the Washington Examiner reported this week, “The Baltimore murder rate is higher than the three Central American nations driving the border surge by migrants seeking to flee crime and murder back home.”

Hale Razor on Twitter reminded us, “Detroit, the great city that all Democrats praise, has the fourth highest murder rate in the United States after St. Louis, Baltimore and New Orleans, and has been run by Democrats since 1962.”

Baltimore’s poverty rate of 22 percent is nearly double the national rate.

Even more illustrative of the emergency that has become Baltimore, One America News’ Liz Wheeler told us the life-expectancy in 14 Baltimore neighborhoods is less than North Korea’s, as also reported by The Washington Post.

The city and people of Baltimore deserve better. We all do. The necessary change begins when someone speaks up and demands better. Mr. Trump continues to give us permission to be honest about what’s happening in our country, which unlocks the door to do something about it. For the Democrats, that is another crime he commits. For the rest of us, it is our future returning.

• Tammy Bruce, president of Independent Women’s Voice, author and Fox News contributor, is a radio talk-show host.

Baltimore And Ohio Railroad, "Linking 13 Great States With The Nation"

Its early years were plagued with frustrations as it was blocked by the state of Pennsylvania on numerous occasions in the western route of its choosing, forced instead to rely upon a much more rugged line through Maryland and western Virginia (later West Virginia).  

Despite these setbacks, the upheaval of the Civil War, and other issues the B&O grew into a powerful railroad stretching more than 10,000 total miles.  

It has long been regarded as the third major trunk line to Chicago behind rivals Pennsylvania and New York Central.  

Its takeover by the Chesapeake & Ohio in the early 1960s helped ensure its survival and it eventually joined the Chessie System family before disappearing into CSX Transportation during the 1980s.

A pair of handsome Baltimore & Ohio F7A's lead their freight train along the railroad's main line near Green Spring, West Virginia on February 27, 1953. Author's collection.

A Brief History Of The Baltimore & Ohio

As this country’s first common carrier railroad the B&O was instrumental in growing and stimulate our nation's economy during a time when “West” meant the Ohio River.

While never a wealthy company its legacy will forever be remembered as a survivor and putting customer service above all else.  

This dedication earned the B&O a loyal following to the extent that some folks steadfastly rode its trains even if they were somewhat slower than that of its rivals.

 In addition, as Brian Solomon notes in his book, "Amtrak," his grandfather, a regular rail traveler during the early 20th century, noted the B&O offered the best dining services.  

When the company’s existence finally came to an end on April 30, 1987 it had just celebrated its 160th birthday and witnessed the industry grow from nothing more than few scattered lines to a rail network consisting of tens of thousands of miles linking the country from coast to coast (it also outlived its wealthier northern competitors by more than a decade). 

Famous B&O Trains: Schedules, Consists, Routes. Photos & Histories

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Fearing its city would be left at an economic disadvantage Baltimore leaders formed the B&O, originally chartered on February 28, 1827 and officially incorporated and organized on April 24, 1827. ਋y that Fourth of July construction began with laying of a cornerstone in the city.  

There were celebrations and ceremonies to mark the occasion and Charles Carroll himself, the last living signer of the Declaration of Independence, was on-hand to take part in the festivities.  He was given the task of turning the first shovel of dirt, signaling the B&O's construction was underway.  

The Baltimore & Ohio Railroad logo. Author's work.

The goal was having the railroad reach the Ohio River at Wheeling, Virginia and connect Cumberland, Maryland along the way.  However, the task would be very difficult as the rugged Allegheny Mountains lay in its path.  

The company would also face stiff political barriers from Pennsylvania, restricting an easier route through that state and forcing it to build across western Virginia.  

The B&O's immediate concern was simply building a rail line as a true pioneer, nearly everything decision it made was an educated guess based on what little was known about trains at the time.  

Perhaps most challenging was constructing a proper right-of-way and figuring out the curvature limits and grade severity a typical train could handle.  To aid in this endeavor engineers sailed to England, the birthplace of railroads, for ideas concerning construction and best practices.  

Among their most notable takeaways was track gauge.  In his book, "American Narrow Gauge Railroads," author and historian Dr. George W. Hilton notes the B&O was initially built to a gauge of 4 feet, 6 inches. 

However, after its engineers studied English railways and witnessed how their gauge of 4 feet, 8 1/2 inches provided for more room of moving parts on inside-connected locomotives, it was adopted and in use by the early 1830's.  The B&O's next task was in designing a track guideway for the trains' wheels to follow.  

Baltimore & Ohio 2-8-8-4 #7615 (EM-1) works a freight up Sand Patch at Mance, Pennsylvania during a fall afternoon on October 10, 1955. Note the F7 helpers. Author's collection.

Once again, engineers found themselves in unknown territory as they experimented with various techniques from stone guideways with wooden beams to iron straps using the same principle.  

They eventually learned the best, most economical design was a wooden beam reinforced with a iron strap supported by wooden crossties.  

Iron strap rails did work although proved incredibly dangerous as worn straps could let go causing the deadly phenomenon of "snake heads," which easily ripped through the floors of early wooden cars and maimed or killed passengers.  

By the 1840s solid iron "T"-rail was introduced, developed by Robert Stevens president of the Camden & Amboy Railroad.  In January of 1830 the B&O launched service over its first 1.5 miles from a small station in Baltimore at Pratt Street.  

Within just a few months, 13 miles was opened to Ellicotts Mills (today Ellicott City) in May where the railroad constructed a sturdy, two-story stone depot along with a small turntable.  

The location did not offer significant passenger traffic but did serve a local granite quarry, known as Ellicott's Quarries, along with nearby agriculture and less-than-carload freight.  

These early trains all operated with horses as power, trotting along with what was little more than retrofitted carriages.

A Baltimore & Ohio publicity scene featuring FA-2's with a unit coal train and mixed freight near Orleans Road/Sir John's Run, West Virginia circa 1950's. This units were later renumbered into the 4000 series.

That same summer on August 28th the B&O successfully tested Peter Cooper's 2-2-0 "Tom Thumb," a Planet Type steam locomotive.  It lost its famous race with a horse that day but successfully proved the viability of steam-powered locomotives.  

Share All sharing options for: The opioid epidemic is increasingly killing black Americans. Baltimore is ground zero.

BALTIMORE — The latest disaster in Baltimore’s deadly and worsening opioid epidemic was a small one: The addiction treatment van, now 13 years old, wouldn’t start.

The white GMC truck, open four mornings a week and parked outside the city jail, is an attempt to close a gap in the city’s struggling addiction treatment system. But as the breakdown showed, even the attempts to plug holes in the system sometimes themselves have holes. With the van out of service, doctors and nurses took to their own cars to see patients, some of them already skeptical about getting treatment.

The cramped van, funded by private foundations and run by the Behavioral Health Leadership Institute, has a narrow hallway, a tiny kitchen, and two offices so small I could barely stretch my arms. It was back up and running by the time I visited, offering buprenorphine, one of the two medications considered the gold standard for opioid addiction treatment, to patients.

The Behavioral Health Leadership Institute’s buprenorphine van, parked outside the Baltimore Central Booking and Intake Center on March 12, 2019, offers patients low-barrier access to treatment. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

Since November 2017, clients have been able to walk in, unscheduled, and get started on treatment. The van doesn’t require ID — a big barrier, especially for people experiencing homelessness — or any kind of insurance. The main goal is to get someone into care, and then connect them to longer-term treatment in the more traditional health care system.

The van changed Michael Rice’s life. Without it, “I’d still be getting high,” Rice, 58, told me, laughing nervously. He said that after 15 years of using heroin — a $1,000-a-week habit, he said — he “got sick and tired of being sick and tired.” Since he came to the van a year ago, he’s been in recovery.

Michael Rice, 58, has been receiving opioid addiction treatment from the buprenorphine van for nearly a year. If it wasn’t for the program, he said, “I’d still be getting high.” Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

“This program works,” he said. “I feel good. I keep money in my pocket.” He pulled out dollar bills to prove it.

For Rice, treatment seemed inaccessible until he found the van. Treatment gaps exist all across the US. But Baltimore’s gaps have been amplified by huge economic and health care disparities, leaving treatment inaccessible to the city’s poor and, often, black residents — as overdose deaths climb to record highs.

“They need more of this,” Rice said, pointing to the van.

For the past two decades, the news media has generally focused on white victims of the opioid epidemic in suburban and rural areas, such as in West Virginia and New Hampshire. And it’s true that during the early years of the crisis, beginning with opioid painkillers, white people were the primary victims. But as the crisis has widened to involve illicit drugs like heroin and fentanyl, it’s hit black and urban communities harder and harder.

In 2011, the national overdose death rate for black people was 8.3 per 100,000, compared to 14.9 per 100,000 for white people. By 2017, the black overdose death rate had more than doubled — to 19.8 per 100,000. The white overdose death rate had climbed to 24 per 100,000.

Aaron Robinson (right) and Wayne Stokes (center), with Recovery Network provide information on free services for opioid addiction recovery in West Baltimore. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

Roland Brandon with Bmore POWER hands out fentanyl test strips and free naloxone kits to people in the Winchester-Sandtown neighborhood of West Baltimore. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

In that time, Baltimore’s drug overdose crisis has spiraled. According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the city’s overdose death rate was 22.7 per 100,000 people in 2011. It climbed to 49.1 per 100,000 in 2015 — comparable to the current figures in West Virginia, the state with the highest overdose death rate in the country. In 2017, the rate in Baltimore reached 85.2 per 100,000. That’s almost the equivalent of 0.1 percent of the city’s population dying from drug overdoses in one year.

Based on the most recent figures, 2018 was likely worse. Black people make up most of the overdose deaths in the city.

The Baltimore mayor’s office referred questions about the opioid epidemic to the city’s health department, which declined interview requests.

For Baltimore activists, the rising overdose death rate is proof that city, state, and federal officials aren’t doing enough to stem the opioid epidemic. “People aren’t all hands on deck to stop this,” said Natanya Robinowitz, executive director of Charm City Care Connection, which offers services to mitigate the dangers of drug use.

Beyond lack of access to treatment, the increase in overdose deaths can be blamed on the powerful synthetic opioid fentanyl supplanting heroin in the illicit market. Fentanyl can turn a more predictable dose of heroin deadlier by making it difficult or impossible to gauge the drug’s strength.

“People are scared,” Rice said.

Baltimore has suffered decades of urban blight, poor governance, and crime and socioeconomic statistics that can rival developing countries. There are vast health disparities from neighborhood to neighborhood. The US Department of Justice concluded in 2016 that “[r]acially disparate impact is present at every stage of [the Baltimore Police Department]’s enforcement actions.” Gun violence is endemic one recovery outreach worker I met had to move his work to another block because there was a shooting — an event that was treated as typical and unavoidable, like a storm that forced people indoors.

The city and state governments are taking some steps — like opening a stabilization center, where people in crisis can be directed for addiction treatment, and supplying organizations with the opioid overdose antidote naloxone (often known by a brand name, Narcan).

But Baltimore, already dealing with increases in murders and major policing scandals, and Maryland, focused on education, are limited in their resources. And the federal government, despite some increases here and there, hasn’t committed the level of funding that experts and advocates have called for nationwide to combat the opioid crisis.

A sign for addiction treatment at the Penn-North intersection of the Winchester-Sandtown neighborhood in West Baltimore, Maryland. As Baltimore sees an increase in drug overdose deaths, city officials are trying to take some steps to get people into care. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

The result: Treatment still isn’t accessible enough in Baltimore. People struggling with addiction often don’t have adequate health insurance, cash for out-of-pocket expenses, means of transportation, or even IDs needed to get into care. Treatment centers in Baltimore, due to either their own rules or government regulations, frequently tie specific requirements to their services — like invasive tests, group therapy, or arduous zero-tolerance rules. The city’s stabilization center, which is supposed to expand access to care, doesn’t even allow walk-ins.

That’s where the treatment van can help. It doesn’t require an appointment, an ID, or insurance. Clients who relapse aren’t kicked out of care, as happens in other settings, and are instead offered support to get through the backslide. There aren’t requirements for specific therapies someone can pick up a prescription for buprenorphine and be on his way. Addiction experts call this kind of care “low-threshold” — patients don’t need to do much to get into treatment.

“There are plenty of high-threshold options, but not enough low-threshold options,” Robinowitz, of Charm City Care Connection, said about Baltimore. “If you had a functioning system, it would be very low-threshold.”

Right outside the van, I ran into Edward Kingwood, 56, smoking a cigarette. He said he was abused by his parents, so he ran away from home — in Fort Lauderdale, Florida — in 1978, and has been mostly homeless and jobless ever since. He started using heroin in 1986.

“It’s so fucking hard,” he said.

Kingwood, who’s been with the van program since January, had recently been in jail for an armed robbery. He complained that the city and state did little to connect him to social services: The jail didn’t provide him with treatment and released him without doing anything to address his homelessness or drug use, both of which contributed to his crime. When he got out, he went back to using heroin.

Edward Kingwood waits to receive treatment outside the Behavioral Health Leadership Institute’s buprenorphine van on March 12, 2019. After decades of homelessness, he said treatment is helping him put his life back together. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

In the middle of the interview, Kingwood excused himself, dashing in front of the van and throwing up on the side of the street. It was withdrawal. “I’m sick,” Kingwood said, apologizing repeatedly, his downcast eyes watering. He squeezed a rubber ball in his left hand — a stress reliever, he explained.

That sickness is what drives many people to continue using heroin and other opioids. Withdrawal is commonly described as a mix of the worst stomach flu and crushing, crippling anxiety. To make it stop, people often go to whatever opioid they can find.

This is one reason medications like methadone and buprenorphine are so successful. As opioids themselves, they can be prescribed to people with opioid addiction to prevent full withdrawal. Once patients are stabilized on a dose, the medications don’t produce a high, and instead help someone feel normal — “get straight” — without resorting to dangerous drugs. Decades of research show the medications work, with studies finding they reduce the all-cause mortality rate among patients with opioid addiction by half or more and do a far better job of keeping people in treatment than non-medication approaches.

Still, stigma remains. One methadone patient in Baltimore, Ricky Morris, 52, told me his previous primary care doctor told him to get off the medication, arguing, “You’re killing yourself.” Despite the scientific evidence for the benefits of methadone and buprenorphine, there’s a widespread misconception that the medications, as opioids, are “substituting one drug with another” — even though the medications are, when taken as prescribed, simply much safer than heroin or fentanyl, and reduce cravings and withdrawal.

In response to rising overdose deaths in the 1990s, Maryland and Baltimore expanded access to methadone and buprenorphine treatment. That led to a drop in overdose deaths by the late 2000s, according to a study published in the American Journal of Public Health. But once fentanyl arrived in the mid-2010s, overdose deaths started to skyrocket again — and remaining gaps in treatment were exposed.

Edward Kingwood waits to receive treatment at the buprenorphine van, which is parked outside the city’s jail. Kingwood complained that when he was in jail, officials didn’t link him to treatment or other social services. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

For Kingwood, the van is an opportunity to avoid withdrawal in the future — in a legal way. “I’m not fucking breaking the law anymore to get well,” he said.

He just wishes he had the opportunity earlier.

“I’d like to live in a house. I’d like to eat food. I’d like to have a job,” Kingwood said. “Give a guy a chance.”

Barriers to treatment are a problem nationwide — one reason, the US surgeon general concluded in 2016, why only one in 10 people with a drug addiction get specialty treatment. Even in places that have received widespread national attention, like West Virginia and New Hampshire, people struggling with addiction can still face waiting periods of weeks or months for treatment.

But such barriers are especially acute in Baltimore, where historic disinvestment and segregation have led to high poverty rates and huge racial disparities in wealth, income, and education.

“We’re overlooked,” Darrell Hodge, a peer recovery specialist and former patient at the REACH treatment clinic in Baltimore, told me. “A lot of people in Baltimore feel deprived, like second-class citizens.”

Darrell Hodge, once an addiction treatment patient himself, now works with addiction patients at the REACH treatment clinic in Baltimore. “If I could recover, I wanted to share,” he said. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

There’s a common wisdom in Baltimore about why drug overdose deaths were allowed to dramatically increase in recent years with little outside attention.

“Racism always has a part in this thing,” Christian Diamond, a community wellness worker at Charm City Care Connection, told me. “We have been trying to tell people this is a disease for years, but no one was listening” — until the face of drug addiction became white and wealthier, he explained.

Keith Humphreys, a Stanford drug policy expert, acknowledged that racism is “no doubt” a factor in the lack of attention going to the opioid epidemic in Baltimore and other mostly black communities. But he pointed to the role of class, too: A meth epidemic in the early 2000s, which disproportionately hit poorer white communities across the US, received infrequent media attention and was usually framed as an issue of crime, not public health.

A coalition of harm reduction activists meets regularly to talk about the various issues facing their organizations, from rising overdose death rates to what policies they should advocate for. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

The opioid crisis has received a lot of attention nationally in part because it affects people who are white, affluent, and powerful — not just the black, poor, and downtrodden.

This is why former New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie could make a moving speech, which got more than 15 million views on Facebook, about his high school friend dying after years of struggling with addiction: It happened to someone he knew. That personal connection made the crisis more visible to people in power and pushed them to react with more sympathy — to their family, friends, and neighbors — in contrast to the punitive, criminal justice–oriented approach that dominated reactions to previous drug epidemics.

Bmore POWER is among the groups trying to fill the gaps in Baltimore. I tagged along with them in West Baltimore as they provided naloxone and fentanyl testing strips to people who use drugs.

Ideally, people who use drugs would get treatment. But Bmore POWER and groups like it try to ensure that people who use drugs don’t overdose and die first. Ricky Morris, who now works with Bmore POWER, described the group’s harm reduction philosophy: “You gotta be here the next day to change your mind.”

Bmore POWER hand out fentanyl test strips and naloxone in West Baltimore. People are often curious about the services, and thankful that the organization is there to help. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

Bmore POWER staff offer instructions on how to use free naloxone kits and fentanyl test strips to prevent opioid overdoses. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

Morris was stationed along Pennsylvania Avenue, near the CVS that was burned down during the Freddie Gray riots in 2015. Several police cars lingered nearby. But there didn’t seem to be any efforts to stop drug dealing I saw money and goods exchange hands several times in the two hours I was there.

In fact, this is why Bmore POWER was here: The group hoped to catch people right before they used drugs, giving them tools and instructions to reduce the risk that they overdose and die.

“We hope people will see us as they’re copping shit,” Ro Johnson, with Bmore POWER, told me. She’s seen the harms of drug addiction personally, including with siblings and cousins.

As we spoke, a medical emergency across the street drew an ambulance and firetruck. Johnson said she wouldn’t be surprised if it was an overdose.

She added, “I just hope it ain’t my sister.”

Roland Brandon with Bmore POWER hands out tools for overdose prevention, while an ambulance attends to a medical emergency across the street. Some Bmore POWER staff worry it may be an overdose. Gabriella Demczuk for Vox

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The Tragedy of Baltimore

Since Freddie Gray’s death in 2015, violent crime has spiked to levels unseen for a quarter century. Inside the crackup of an American city.

The scene of the murder of Jason Reuben Haynes, one of the 309 homicide victims in Baltimore last year. Credit. Peter van Agtmael/Magnum, for The New York Times

This article is a collaboration between The Times and ProPublica, the independent nonprofit investigative-journalism organization. Sign up here to get ProPublica’s latest investigations.

O n April 27, 2015, Shantay Guy was driving her 13-year-old son home across Baltimore from a doctor’s appointment when something — a rock, a brick, she wasn’t sure what — hit her car. Her phone was turned off, so she had not realized that protests and violence had broken out in the city that afternoon, following the funeral of Freddie Gray, the 25-year-old man who drew national attention eight days earlier when he died after suffering injuries in police custody.

As she saw what was happening — fires being set, young people and police officers converging on the nearby vortex of the disorder — she pushed her son, Brandon, down in his seat and sped home. “Mom, are we home yet?” Brandon asked when they pulled up at their house just inside the city line, where they lived with Guy’s husband, her grown daughter and her husband’s late-teenage son, brother and sister-in-law.

“You’re still holding my head down,” he said.

Guy grew up in an impoverished, highly segregated part of West Baltimore near what was now the focal point of the street clashes, but she had long since climbed into a different stratum of the city’s society she was working as an information-technology project manager for T. Rowe Price, the Baltimore-based mutual-fund giant. Seeing her old neighborhood erupt changed her life. After long discussions with her husband, who manages the office of a local trucking company, she quit her job and went to work for a community mediation organization. “It just felt like it was the work I was supposed to be doing,” she said.

In Baltimore, you can tell a lot about the politics of the person you’re talking with by the word he or she uses to describe the events of April 27, 2015. Some people, and most media outlets, call them the “riots” some the “unrest.” Guy was among those who always referred to them as the “uprising,” a word that connoted something justifiable and positive: the first step, however tumultuous, toward a freer and fairer city. Policing in Baltimore, Guy and many other residents believed, was broken, with officers serving as an occupying army in enemy territory — harassing African-American residents without cause, breeding distrust and hostility.

In 2016, the United States Department of Justice’s Civil Rights Division concurred, releasing a report accusing the city’s Police Department of racial discrimination and excessive force. The city agreed to a “consent decree” with the federal government, a set of policing reforms that would be enforced by a federal judge. When an independent monitoring team was selected to oversee the decree, Guy was hired as its community liaison. This was where she wanted to be: at the forefront of the effort to make her city a better place.

But in the years that followed, Baltimore, by most standards, became a worse place. In 2017, it recorded 342 murders — its highest per-capita rate ever, more than double Chicago’s, far higher than any other city of 500,000 or more residents and, astonishingly, a larger absolute number of killings than in New York, a city 14 times as populous. Other elected officials, from the governor to the mayor to the state’s attorney, struggled to respond to the rise in disorder, leaving residents with the unsettling feeling that there was no one in charge. With every passing year, it was getting harder to see what gains, exactly, were delivered by the uprising.


One night last October, after Guy and her husband, Da’mon, had gone to bed, Da’mon’s brother banged on the bedroom door. “Yo, yo, get up!” he shouted.

It was around 11:30 p.m. Da’mon’s 21-year-old son, Da’mon Jr., whom Shantay had helped raise, would ordinarily have been home by then, after his bus ride across town from his evening shift working as a supply coordinator at Johns Hopkins Hospital. But he was nowhere to be seen. Da’mon Sr. rushed to the door and asked what was going on.

“Dame’s been shot,” his brother said.

Four months later, I met Guy and Da’mon Jr. at a cafe near my office in the center of the city. Da’mon had recently been released after spending 47 days in the hospital, with 20 surgical procedures. His inferior vena cava, which carries blood from the lower body to the heart, no longer functioned he had to rely on collateral veins instead. He was trying to go back to work, but swelling in his legs and shortness of breath were making it hard.

Da’mon told me he had no idea who was behind the shooting, which he surmised was either an attempted robbery or a gang initiation. It was unnerving, he said, knowing the shooter was still out there somewhere. “I don’t like it when cars slow down to me or people are staring at me too long at stop signs,” he said. “Any one of y’all could be that person. You never know.”

But Guy, somehow, had come through the experience even more committed to the cause she had signed on for. “Our city needs restoration,” she told me.

It takes remarkable fortitude to remain an optimist about Baltimore today. I have lived in the city for 11 of the past 18 years, and for the last few I have struggled to describe its unraveling to friends and colleagues elsewhere. If you live in, say, New York or Boston, you are familiar with a certain story of urban America. Several decades ago, disorder and dysfunction were common across American cities. Then came the great urban rebirth: a wave of reinvestment coupled with a plunge in crime rates that has left many major cities to enjoy a sort of post-fear existence.

Until 2015, Baltimore seemed to be enjoying its own, more modest version of this upswing. Though it is often lumped in with Rust Belt economic casualties like Cleveland, St. Louis and Detroit, Baltimore in fact fared better than these postindustrial peers. Because of the Johns Hopkins biomedical empire, the city’s busy port and its proximity to Washington, metro Baltimore enjoyed higher levels of wealth and income — including among its black population — than many former manufacturing hubs.

The city still had its ills — its blight, suburban flight, segregation, drugs, racial inequality, concentrated poverty. But as recently as 2014, Baltimore’s population, which is 63 percent African-American, was increasing, up slightly to 623,000 after decades of decline. Office buildings downtown were being converted to apartments, and a new business-and-residential district was rising east of the Inner Harbor. The city was even attracting those ultimate imprimaturs of urban revival, a couple of food halls.

The subsequent regression has been swift and demoralizing. Redevelopment continues in some parts of town, but nearly four years after Freddie Gray’s death, the surge in crime has once again become the context of daily life in the city, as it was in the early 1990s. I have grown accustomed to scanning the briefs column in The Baltimore Sun in the morning for news of the latest homicides to taking note of the location of the latest killings as I drive around town for my baseball coaching and volunteering obligations. In 2017, the church I attend started naming the victims of the violence at Sunday services and hanging a purple ribbon for each on a long cord outside. By year’s end, the ribbons crowded for space, like shirts on a tenement clothesline.

The violence and disorder have fed broader setbacks. Gov. Larry Hogan canceled a $2.9 billion rail transit line for West Baltimore, defending the disinvestment in the troubled neighborhood partly by noting that the state had spent $14 million responding to the riots. Target closed its store in West Baltimore, a blow to a part of town short of retail options. The civic compact has so frayed that one acquaintance admitted to me recently that he had stopped waiting at red lights when driving late at night. Why should he, he argued, when he saw young men on dirt bikes flying through intersections while police officers sat in cruisers doing nothing?

Explaining all this to people outside Baltimore is difficult, not only because the experience is alien to those even in cities just up or down the Interstate from us (though a handful of cities elsewhere, like Chicago and St. Louis, have experienced their own waves of recent violence, albeit less dramatically than Baltimore). It’s also because the national political discourse lacks a vocabulary for the city’s ills. On right-wing talk radio, one of the few sectors of the media to take much interest in Baltimore’s crime surge, there are old tropes of urban mayhem — Trump’s “American carnage.” Typically lacking from these schadenfreude-laced discussions is any sense of the historical forces and societal abandonment that the city has for decades struggled to overcome.

On the left, in contrast, Baltimore’s recent woes have been largely overlooked, partly because they present a challenge to those who start from the assumption that policing is inherently suspect. The national progressive story of Baltimore during this era of criminal-justice reform has been the story of the police excesses that led to Gray’s death and the uprising, not the surge of violence that has overtaken the city ever since. As a result, Baltimore has been left mostly on its own to contend with what has been happening, which has amounted to nothing less than a failure of order and governance the likes of which few American cities have seen in years.

To understand how things in Baltimore have gotten so bad, you need to first understand how, not so long ago, they got better. Violence was epidemic in Baltimore in the late 1980s and early 1990s, as it was in many other cities, as crack intruded into a drug market long dominated by heroin. In 1993, the city crossed the 350-homicide mark. These were the years that inspired “The Wire.” They also gave rise to Martin O’Malley, a city councilman who was elected mayor on an anti-crime platform in 1999.

O’Malley set about implementing what was then known as the New York model: zero tolerance for open-air drug markets, data-centric “CompStat” meetings to track crime and hold police commanders accountable and more resources for law enforcement paired with tougher discipline for officers who abused their power. By the time O’Malley, a Democrat, was elected governor of Maryland in 2006, crime rates, including murders, had fallen across the board, but at a cost. Arrests had jumped to 101,000 in 2005 from 81,000 in 1999 — leaving a city full of young men with criminal records and months and years away from jobs and families.

This perturbed a police detective named Tony Barksdale. At the time a colonel in his mid-30s, Barksdale, a bald, bearish man with a lugubrious manner, grew up in a rough section of West Baltimore. “I saw my first guy get shot at a football tryout at Franklin Square,” near his home, he told me when I met him for lunch last spring in the city’s Canton neighborhood. His own block was relatively safe, however, because a police officer lived on it. Barksdale was drifting through Coppin State College, “blowing Pell grants,” when he saw a bunch of young black cops on the street one day. The sight inspired him to sign up himself.

Early in 2007, he proposed a more targeted approach to policing to Sheila Dixon, the City Council president who finished O’Malley’s term as mayor after he was elected governor. Dixon, like Barksdale a product of the city’s black working class, agreed with Barksdale’s vision for reducing the murders without mass arrests. “She said, ‘How long will it take you?’ ” Barksdale recalls. “I said, ‘One day.’ ”

Fred Bealefeld, Dixon’s new police commissioner, promoted Barksdale to deputy of operations — he was the youngest deputy commissioner in the city’s history — and Barksdale got to work. He developed plainclothes units with a more surgical approach to policing, which targeted the most violent corners and worked with homicide detectives to arrest the people whose names surfaced in connection with killings. He and Bealefeld met weekly with top-ranking staff members in the mayor’s office and sat down with top city officials every couple of weeks in CitiStat meetings — the municipal equivalent of CompStat — where Bealefeld was quizzed on overtime costs, recruiting and other markers of departmental health. Every couple of weeks, representatives of the police, the state’s attorney’s office and others met to review data on firearms prosecutions.

Arrests fell by a third from 2006 to 2011 — and homicides plummeted as well, to 197 in 2011, the city’s first time under 200 in almost four decades. A 2018 study by Johns Hopkins found that the new approach to policing was the city’s most effective in recent years. “Baltimore had it going on,” Barksdale told me.

But while Dixon had carried on O’Malley’s government-accountability practices, she proved less than ethical in her own affairs. A few years into Barksdale’s efforts, she was charged by the state prosecutor with theft and fraud. The prosecutor had scrutinized contracts and jobs her friends and relatives had received from the city — investigations that led to the discovery that she had personally used hundreds of dollars in gift cards solicited from developers and meant for poor children.

Dixon was convicted and resigned, and was replaced by the City Council’s president, Stephanie Rawlings-Blake, an Oberlin- and University of Maryland School of Law-educated daughter of a powerful state legislator. Rawlings-Blake, a more reserved leader than Dixon, wanted Bealefeld to communicate with the public more often than he was inclined to but also less candidly a white cop from a family full of them, Bealefeld was known for his blunt talk about “punks” and “knuckleheads.” In 2012, he retired, as did two of his closest City Hall allies, and Barksdale became interim commissioner.

Barksdale interviewed for the permanent job, but Rawlings-Blake instead hired Anthony Batts, the former police chief in Oakland, Calif. Batts had resigned in Oakland amid tensions with the mayor and federal court monitors, but he had a doctorate and spoke fluently about the need for community relations. Batts’s profile suited a city that wanted to believe that its most violent days were behind it. Barksdale didn’t find out he had been passed over until he got a call from Justin Fenton, The Sun’s lead police reporter.

When the Black Lives Matter movement transformed the debate about policing in 2014, Batts embraced an image as a reformer. He attended street festivals in full uniform. He reined in Barksdale’s plainclothes teams after a series in The Sun reported how much the city was spending to resolve lawsuits over rough arrests — more than $5 million since 2011. On Bealefeld and Barksdale’s watch, there had also been a rise in shootings by police officers, which roughly doubled between 2006 and 2007 before dropping to earlier levels — a fact Barksdale remains unapologetic about. “To hit the brakes on crime, there will be police-involved shootings,” he recalls telling Dixon and Bealefeld. “I know their mind-set. They’ll respect you if you’re willing to die just like them. And there are people who just don’t get that.”

It was a controversial approach and one that Batts did not subscribe to. He replaced much of the command staff, and other people left on their own. Among them was Barksdale, who retired at age 42. “I like a commissioner who says, ‘Look, we have people in the community we have to arrest,’ ” Barksdale told me. “Not cops out here dancing in full uniform.”

Political developments, meanwhile, had eroded foundations of the department’s recent successes, which depended heavily on coordination with City Hall and state and federal prosecutors, as well as with Maryland’s parole-and-probation office and other state agencies that might not have been as attentive to the city if the governor had not been a former Baltimore mayor. But in 2014, Maryland elected Larry Hogan, a Republican suburban real estate developer, as O’Malley’s successor for governor. Hogan put less pressure on state offices to work closely with the city’s police. And the new state’s attorney, after an upset victory in a low-turnout Democratic primary, was Marilyn Mosby, a 34-year-old former assistant prosecutor who had run with the apparent goal of shaking up the city’s law-enforcement bureaucracy. She jettisoned not only top deputies but also many prosecutors more left of their own accord. Over time, senior members of her office became a less-frequent presence at CompStat and other meetings with law-enforcement partners. (Mosby’s office did not respond to requests for official comment.)

In her campaign, Mosby called for diverting more nonviolent drug offenders into treatment. One halfway house used for this purpose was in West Baltimore, and drug dealers had zeroed in on its residents as a clientele, according to a member of Mosby’s staff. On March 17, 2015, Mosby’s office asked a police commander to target a nearby intersection for “enhanced” drug enforcement. A few weeks later, two officers on bike patrol a couple of blocks south of that intersection encountered a man named Freddie Gray.

Among the deaths at police officers’ hands that animated the Black Lives Matter movement in its early stages, Gray’s was uniquely ambiguous. He was not shot, as were Laquan McDonald in Chicago, Michael Brown in Ferguson, Mo., Tamir Rice in Cleveland and Walter Scott in North Charleston, S.C. All that is known for certain is this: When he encountered the police officers, Gray — who had engaged in low-level dealing over the years — ran. When the police gave chase and tackled him, they found a small knife in his pocket and placed him under arrest. Gray was put in the back of a police van shackled and unbuckled, in violation of a new department policy. When the van arrived at the Western District’s headquarters, Gray was unconscious with a nearly severed spinal cord. He died seven days later.

Protesters took to the streets after Gray’s death. Batts, who had canceled a European vacation he was scheduled to take the previous week, appealed to Hogan’s new state police chief for reinforcements, but he received an offer of only about 120 officers, far fewer than he hoped for. The demonstrations proceeded mostly peacefully for a week until Saturday, April 25, when rowdy baseball fans headed to Camden Yards — including out-of-town Red Sox fans — taunted a group of protesters who had marched into downtown. In the mayhem that ensued, some teenagers and young men smashed in police cruisers’ windshields and bar windows and looted a 7-Eleven.

The police held back, making only about a dozen arrests. It appeared as if Batts wanted to set himself apart from the heavy-handed tactics in Ferguson, where anti-riot police officers bristled with military hardware. That night, Batts, who declined to be interviewed on the record for this article, hailed his officers’ limited response to the disorderly crowd amassed downtown. “We’re taking our time to give them the opportunity to leave,” he told reporters.

Bealefeld, Batts’s predecessor, told me: “There were people inside police leadership circles that were being celebrated for their restraint. People were thinking, ‘Aha, we want to be seen in that light.’ ” But this hands-off response drew resentment within the department, where many were already disgruntled with the commissioner from California. “It would have been over that night if we’d been able to do our jobs,” one veteran officer who attended a command briefing that weekend told me, speaking on the condition of anonymity because he was not authorized to talk to reporters. “They let it fester.”

The approach was notably different two days later, the day of Gray’s funeral. The police were on edge over two separate rumors — a social-media call for a youth “purge,” or rampage, into downtown after school let out, and talk of gangs uniting to attack police officers. The F.B.I. quickly determined that the second threat was baseless, but Batts responded heavily to the first rumor, sending 300 officers to confront students at a big west-side transit hub after school and stand guard outside the adjacent shopping mall. Someone in authority — to this day, officials won’t say who — ordered a shutdown of transit service. Some of the stranded teenagers started throwing rocks and bricks at the police, who lacked proper protective gear and had received little riot-response training. Before long, a CVS pharmacy a mile away was on fire.

In hindsight, it’s hard to avoid the conclusion that the riot was probably avoidable — if Batts had had more officers at his disposal, if his officers had been better trained, if there hadn’t been the seeming overreaction to Monday’s swirling rumors. But within three hours it was out of his control. Governor Hogan dispatched National Guard troops and established a command center in West Baltimore. That Friday, Mosby — whose policing request may very well have led to Gray’s arrest — held a televised news conference announcing a long list of serious charges against six officers, including “depraved heart murder,” or causing death through indifference. “I have heard your call for ‘no justice, no peace,’ ” she declared.

Her announcement of charges — based on an investigation her own office conducted, not trusting the department’s — helped stanch further unrest, but it delivered a profound blow to morale among rank-and-file officers, who were already aggrieved over their leadership’s handling of the riot, in which 130 officers were injured. Officers bridled at the ringing, declamatory tone of her announcement. “It was the way she did it — the grandstanding,” the veteran officer told me.

“Cops don’t necessarily stop in their tracks because another cop is charged in a crime,” Kevin Davis, one of Batts’s deputies at the time, told me. “Typically it’s a bad cop, a crook, a drug dealer or a drunk or someone who abuses his wife. But when these cops got charged criminally and the probable cause was not easily understood by the rank and file — that gave them a sense of dread.”

The department’s officers responded swiftly, by doing nothing. In Baltimore it came to be known as “the pullback”: a monthslong retreat from policing, a protest that was at once undeclared and unmistakably deliberate — encouraged, some top officials in the department at the time believe, by the local police union. Many officers responded to calls for service but refused to undertake any “officer-initiated” action. Cruisers rolled by trouble spots without stopping or didn’t roll by at all. Compounding the situation, some of the officers hospitalized in the riot remained out on medical leave. Arrests plunged by more than half from the same month a year before. The head of the police union, Lt. Gene Ryan, called the pullback justifiable: “Officers may be second-guessing themselves,” he told The Sun. “Questioning, if I make this stop or this arrest, will I be prosecuted?”

Ray Kelly, a West Baltimore community activist, had achieved measured success in building relationships with officers along the drug-riddled Pennsylvania Avenue corridor, where his organization had an office. Suddenly, those officers were gone. “We saw a pullback in this community for over a month where it was up to the community to police the community,” Kelly told me. “And quite frankly, we were outgunned.” In the vacuum, crews took new corners and people settled old scores. Not a single person was killed on the day of the rioting. But the following month, May, would conclude with 41 homicides — the most the city had experienced in a month since the 1970s, and more than the city of Boston would have for the entire year.

Late that month, Batts admitted he was having trouble getting officers to do their job. “I talked to them again about character and what character means,” he told me and other reporters following a City Council hearing. He grew so mortified over the pullback that he started wearing suits instead of his uniform. By July’s end, 45 people had been killed during the month, and Rawlings-Blake had replaced Batts with Davis. The department was hemorrhaging officers now, at all ranks.

Amid the upheavals of 2015, Shantay Guy found herself recalling, as a girl on North Avenue in the 1980s, diving under a car during a shooting, getting oil on her favorite shirt. Her work at T. Rowe Price suddenly seemed unacceptably rarefied. “I’m not doing enough,” she thought. “I’m doing a lot to make rich people richer.”

She approached a friend, Erricka Bridgeford, who is director of training at the Baltimore Community Mediation Center, a nonprofit group that helps settle personal and neighborhood conflicts. Bridgeford encouraged Guy to take her training course. Guy started volunteering as a mediator and was soon offered the job of leading the center. She took it, along with a two-thirds salary cut.

Across Baltimore, there was by then a mounting sense that whatever path there was to be found out of the city’s chaos, its residents were going to have to find it themselves — that the authorities were no longer up to the task. The lawlessness that followed the police pullback had persisted, and the city ended 2015 with 342 homicides, a 62 percent increase over the year before, within a dozen deaths of the worst year of the 1990s. Ninety-three percent of the victims were black. The rate at which detectives were able to close homicide cases fell from 50 percent in 2013 to 30 percent, as residents grew even warier of calling in tips or testifying.

In July 2016, Mosby’s office dropped all remaining charges against officers in the Gray case, after trials resulted in three acquittals and one hung jury. It was that August that the Department of Justice released its 163-page report on the Police Department, a result of a yearlong investigation it opened at the request of Rawlings-Blake after Gray’s death. The report concluded that the police had engaged in “a pattern or practice of conduct that violates the Constitution or federal law.” The police’s pedestrian stops were disproportionately focused on African-Americans. They frequently patted down or frisked people “without identifying necessary grounds to believe that the person is armed and dangerous.” Baltimore officers used “overly aggressive tactics that unnecessarily escalate encounters, increase tensions and lead to unnecessary force,” the report stated.

The report affirmed years’ worth of civilian complaints about the department. But it also essentially ignored Barksdale and Bealefeld’s largely successful efforts to move toward a more targeted policing approach. It suggested that mass arrests led inexorably to Gray’s death and the protests, when in fact by 2014, arrests had been halved from a decade earlier. Barksdale was especially livid about the report’s suggestion that the department, which is roughly 40 percent black, was prejudiced because it arrested mostly African-Americans in many parts of town. “Now a cop in a black community is wrong because he confronts black people?” he told me.

He was also confounded by the report’s mockery of the department’s crackdowns on dice games, a frequent target of robberies and shootings. “Dude, you can’t have [expletive] open-air dice games,” he said. Armed robbers “want to stick that up, and if they have a shotgun and buckshot, you’ll have six or seven victims.” The failure of the report’s authors to grasp this, he said, betrayed a fundamental ignorance of local realities. “They have no understanding of what these things mean in Baltimore,” he said.

By that point, Baltimore had elected yet another new mayor: Catherine Pugh, who won the Democratic primary that April — in Baltimore, the only election that matters — after Rawlings-Blake opted not to run for re-election. That December, Pugh came to her first meeting of CitiStat, the municipal accountability body started by O’Malley. The meetings were held on the sixth floor of City Hall, where top city officials sat around a curved table and put questions to whichever agency head had been called to the lectern that day to defend his or her agency’s performance.

Very few people knew what to expect from Pugh. A longtime state legislator, she had won mostly by virtue of not being Sheila Dixon, who, having served her community-service sentence, ran again for her old job and narrowly lost. Pugh’s inscrutability extended to her bearing — she spoke in muffled tones, and her bangs often hung so low as to almost cover her eyes.

At the CitiStat meeting, a major topic of discussion was a rise in carjackings. Earlier that month, an 80-year-old member of the City Council was attacked by two teenage boys while getting into her car in a parking garage, leaving her with a black eye. Davis, the commissioner, and his deputy said that the carjackings appeared to be the work of violent drug crews, who were deploying teenagers to steal cars as an initiation of sorts, and then often using the cars while committing homicides.

Pugh grew agitated. The carjackings weren’t a law-enforcement problem, she said they were a problem of footloose youth. Why wasn’t the meeting instead focusing on how to get teenagers into jobs or after-school programs? She declared the meeting a waste of her time and left. It was the last CitiStat meeting she would attend for at least six months.

Pugh seemed overwhelmed by the continuing violence. It was not until August 2017 that she announced her plan to counter it. It would be built around daily meetings to focus city services in high-crime areas — which she dubbed the Violence Reduction Initiative — as well as the addition of a Boston-based program for at-risk young people called Roca, and the expansion of Safe Streets, which deploys ex-offenders as “violence interrupters.”

At the core of Pugh’s plan was the notion that crime was driven by root causes. This was true, but it risked overlooking the most immediate dilemma: People inclined toward lawbreaking increasingly thought they could do so with impunity. Delivery of basic services to address root-cause problems was also undermined by the departure of key city officials, as word spread that Pugh was not easy to work for.

By this point, it was plain that the surge in violence was not simply going to abate. Robberies and burglaries had also risen sharply. The city’s population was falling again, nearing a 100-year low with less than 615,000 in a census estimate released in March 2017. There were other, more ambient signs of disorder: the dirt bikes, squeegee boys at intersections. The city’s bike-sharing program was so plagued with vandalism that it was eventually shut down.

That summer, Erricka Bridgeford, Shantay Guy’s friend at the mediation center, started Baltimore Ceasefire, an effort to get the city’s criminal element to put down their weapons for one weekend every three months. The group’s main slogan was straightforward: “Nobody Kill Anybody.” A second slogan was aimed at those inclined not toward violence but toward apathy: “Don’t Be Numb.” During the first cease-fire, that August, two men were killed. Bridgeford went to the scenes to mourn the victims.

The Justice Department’s report, meanwhile, had led to the federal “consent decree” that the city negotiated with the department — a sweeping set of reforms of the Police Department that set out new rules governing stops and searches, internal discipline and much more. Gene Ryan, the leader of the police union, complained that his organization had been shut out of the process of drafting it. Tony Barksdale, who had been retired for three years and now spent his days trading stocks online, attacked it incessantly on Twitter, accusing city leaders of “handcuffing your own cops while turning the city over to criminals.”

One afternoon not long after Guy began her job as the consent-decree monitoring team’s community liaison, she strapped on a bulletproof vest and rode along with a city police officer to see the realities he and his colleagues faced. The officer started his shift at 9 a.m. and, because of the department’s shortage of officers, would work until 2:30 the next morning.

They cruised block after block of rowhouses in an especially drug-plagued area. The officer received a text message to disperse a cluster of young men — a frequent point of confrontation in the city. Young men often congregate in front of corner stores or liquor stores, sometimes just hanging out, other times selling drugs the city would have a record 692 fatal opioid overdoses in 2017.

“I’m supposed to clear this corner,” the officer told Guy, showing her the address on the screen.

“Can you do that?” she asked.

“No,” he said. As he understood it, the consent decree barred him from dispersing the young men. So he didn’t. But then his phone rang. “I guess when I ignore a call, then I get a phone call telling me I need to do my [expletive] job,” he said. Which was indeed what the call was.

He and Guy drove to the address, where half a dozen young men in their late teens or early 20s were standing outside. The officer got out of the car and told them to move along. “The kids are angry,” Guy recalled they had already been booted from a nearby corner that afternoon. “Like, ‘What the [expletive], we’re just standing here. We’re not doing anything, what’s going on?’ ”

For Guy, the moment affirmed her belief in the consent decree. This sort of rote policing seemed pointless nothing was accomplished by confronting the young men beyond fomenting ill will. “The question for me becomes: What’s the intention for clearing the corners?” she told me. “Are you clearing the corners in white neighborhoods? The corners would not be so crowded if we actually became responsive to community needs.” This was, in essence, Pugh’s strategy — if only it could be made to work.

On Nov. 15, 2017, a veteran detective, Sean Suiter, drove with a partner to a blighted corner of West Baltimore to investigate a recent homicide. Suiter told his partner he had seen someone suspicious in a vacant lot and went to investigate. Shots rang out. His partner found Suiter bleeding from the head, his gun lying under his body. The 43-year-old father of five died the next day. His death was ruled a homicide, the 309th of the year.

The police locked down six square blocks around the scene for six days. Davis, the commissioner, pleaded with the community to offer tips to identify the “heartless, ruthless, soulless killer.” The death felt like the city’s reaching its nadir, in more ways than one. As the public learned in the week that followed, Suiter was scheduled to testify the next day before a grand jury in a vast corruption case that federal prosecutors filed earlier in the year: a conspiracy that painted a picture of a Police Department that, amid the lawlessness of the city, had descended into widespread lawlessness itself.

The accused were eight current and former members of an elite plainclothes unit called the Gun Trace Task Force, which, prosecutors said, had developed a penchant for robbing people, mostly but not exclusively drug dealers. Six of the officers pleaded guilty to racketeering and robbery.

The trial of the remaining two, when it started in January 2018, offered daily revelations of brazen amorality. There was the video shot by the unit to document “discovering” $100,000 in a drug dealer’s safe from which they had removed nearly twice that amount to divvy up. There was the bail bondsman describing how, over the course of many months, he sold $1 million in drugs funneled to him by Sgt. Wayne Jenkins, the group’s ringleader, including bags of pills looted from pharmacies during the April 2015 riots.

There was the wiretap of officers’ conspiring to lie to avoid detection for causing an accident during an improper high-speed chase, while doing nothing to help the victim lying in pain across the street. And there was the extremity of their fraudulent overtime, many tens of thousands of dollars for each — they were being paid while at the beach, while spending weeks doing exurban home renovations — all of it draining the treasury of a city where, as the trial was taking place, thousands of children were shivering in unheated classrooms.

The trial was an indictment of the string of police chiefs who had, despite some headline-making arrests of corrupt officers, presided over the decay of measures O’Malley pushed for as mayor, like reducing internal-affairs trial backlogs and expanding integrity stings. The court proceedings also illuminated how the surge in violence after Gray’s death abetted the corruption. Some officers had been lining their pockets for years, but their activities became a true conspiracy amid the chaos of 2015-16, as commanders were so desperate to stem the violence that they gave them free rein.

After the trial concluded, a dozen officers gathered at headquarters for a focus group, convened by the department to solicit their input on new policies stemming from the consent decree, on which they were to start receiving training in 2019. But the officers had no interest in talking about the decree, according to one participant. Instead, they vented about the impossibility of doing their job in a department in meltdown. They were bitter about being constantly “drafted” into mandatory overtime — departures and anemic recruiting had left the department with only 2,500 sworn officers, down 500 from five years earlier.

A change in how the department scheduled shifts — made during Batts’s tenure at the urging of the police union despite the warnings of Barksdale and Bealefeld — had helped cause the city to pay $47 million in overtime in 2017, three times overbudget some days, 40 percent of patrol shifts were being staffed with mandatory overtime, wearing down officers. The officers were also angry about the lack of resources and equipment. They fumed over the conflicting orders they received. “It’s: ‘Go out and stop crime, but don’t hurt anyone’s feelings,’ ” the veteran officer told me. “ ‘Be aggressive — but not too aggressive.’ ”

In January 2018, Pugh replaced Kevin Davis with a new commissioner, Darryl De Sousa, but De Sousa resigned five months later after federal prosecutors charged him with failing to file tax returns for three recent years. The interim commissioner, Gary Tuggle, had barely stepped into the revolving door of leadership when he found himself facing fresh crises: an officer who quit after being caught on video pummeling a man on the sidewalk, another found passed out drunk in his patrol car, a top commander who quit after throwing a chair against a wall during an argument at Police Headquarters.

And then there was the stunning conclusion of the independent review panel investigating the death of Detective Suiter: He had most likely committed suicide in the vacant lot and made it look like a cop-killing, the panel ruled in August. The investigators believed his suicide was possibly due to his ties to the corruption case.

On a hot day in mid-August, several dozen city officials, police officers and commanders gathered at a bedraggled shopping plaza in the Highlandtown section of southeast Baltimore for one of the regular neighborhood walks that Mayor Pugh was conducting in her effort to exude a sense of authority. The mass of suits and uniforms did a slow circuit of a few blocks of rowhouses, trailing behind Pugh. “Watch your step,” someone called out as the group neared a dead rat.

A neighborhood leader pointed out problem spots: a dark block where prostitutes congregated, a bus stop in front of a liquor store that allowed loiterers to claim they were waiting for the bus, piles of trash. It was far from the city’s roughest neighborhood, but Pugh was visibly taken aback by the disorder on display. She expressed particular displeasure over the trash bags that had been piled into containers in advance of pickup day. “You don’t see trash out front in Ashburton,” the middle-class black enclave where she lived, she said under her breath.

Two weeks later, I met Pugh in her office in City Hall. The month was on its way to ending with 30 homicides, almost one per day. But when I started to ask her about the surge in violence since 2015, she cut me off. “If you follow the trends lately, since November of last year we’re trending downward,” she said.

“They’ve trended down only so much,” I protested.

Pugh looked down at an iPad, swiping through crime-data summaries. “May, we had almost a 30 percent reduction in violence. In October of last year, when I created the Violence Reduction Initiative, the following month, November, we dropped by almost 18 percent. We dropped again in December, in January, in February.”

“Year to date right now,” I replied, “we’re barely below where we were last year, and last year was our worst year ever.”

Baltimore and Ohio Railroad

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Baltimore and Ohio Railroad (B&O), first steam-operated railway in the United States to be chartered as a common carrier of freight and passengers (1827). The B&O Railroad Company was established by Baltimore, Maryland, merchants to compete with New York merchants and their newly opened Erie Canal for trade to the west. A driving force in its early years was the Baltimore banker George Brown, who served as treasurer from 1827 until 1834 and had Ross Winans build the first real railroad car.

The first stone for the line was laid on July 4, 1828, by Charles Carroll, the American Revolutionary leader and last surviving signer of the Declaration of Independence. The first 13 miles (21 km) of line, from Baltimore to Ellicott’s Mills (now Ellicott City), Maryland, opened in 1830. Peter Cooper’s steam locomotive, the Tom Thumb, ran over this line and demonstrated to doubters that steam traction was feasible on the steep, winding grades.

The railroad was extended to Wheeling, Virginia (now in West Virginia), a distance of 379 miles (610 km), in 1852. In the 1860s and ’70s the railroad reached Chicago and St. Louis. In 1896 it went bankrupt. After it was reorganized in 1899, it grew further, reaching Cleveland and Lake Erie in 1901. In 1963 the B&O was acquired by the Chesapeake and Ohio Railway Company and in 1980 became part of the newly formed CSX Corporation. In 1987 the B&O was dissolved when it merged into the Chesapeake and Ohio.

French and Indian War (1754–1763)

In the mid-1700s, a group of Virginia investors set their eyes on the land beyond the mountains in the Ohio River watershed. They had a vision of linking the Ohio Valley with the Chesapeake to open the way for harvesting western resources for southern and European markets. French possessions stood in the way, leading to the French and Indian War between Great Britain and France. This war was part of the larger Seven Years War that involved several European powers.

England won the war, forcing France to abandon almost all its land in North America. Two other outcomes affected the Chesapeake region: (1) formation of a new national identity as English colonists began to think of themselves as American and (2) England's decision to tax the colonies to pay for the war.

Case Study: The Lower Garden District

Built in the early nineteenth century around a spacious park, the once-affluent Lower Garden District in New Orleans, Louisiana, began its long decline after the Civil War. In the 1970s, the crumbling old homes found new buyers, activists who fought to stop a proposed bridge over the Mississippi River that would have split the district in half and cut off access to the park. A decade later, however, many homes were abandoned and storefronts on the main commercial thoroughfare, Magazine Street, were nearly all vacant.

In 1988, the Preservation Resource Center, a local advocacy organization, launched Operation Comeback, a nonprofit program to help potential homebuyers purchase and rehabilitate vacated buildings in seven New Orleans neighborhoods. Owners pay the monthly interest on the loan, carried by Operation Comeback, and contribute their own labor. Architects donate their expertise, and contractors are paid in stages by Operation Comeback through a bank line of credit. When the renovations are finished, the owners buy their homes for the fair market value purchase price plus taxes, fees, and the cost of repairs.

In 1992, working with a $220,000 budget and two-person staff, Operation Comeback had rescued, or helped others to rescue, one hundred houses. Magazine Street bloomed again with restaurants, shops, and small businesses. Another Preservation Resource Center program, Christmas in October, organizes teams of volunteers to repair rundown homes occupied by poor, elderly, and disabled residents as well as blighted community buildings.

As an outgrowth of these middle-class renovation efforts, a combination of private money and government matching grants—under a Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD) program to rid the United States of the one hundred thousand worst public housing units—revived the blighted fifteen-hundred-unit St. Thomas Public Housing complex, built in New Orleans in 1939 for the working poor. Begun in 1999, the multimillion-dollar project consists of tearing down older sections of the complex and replacing them with public housing designed to blend in with traditional neighborhood residences. Both symbolically and practically, these efforts help to create more cohesive neighborhoods, the building blocks of livable cities.

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Baltimore police stopped noticing crime after Freddie Gray's death. A wave of killings followed.

BALTIMORE – Just before a wave of violence turned Baltimore into the nation’s deadliest big city, a curious thing happened to its police force: officers suddenly seemed to stop noticing crime.

Police officers reported seeing fewer drug dealers on street corners. They encountered fewer people who had open arrest warrants.

Police questioned fewer people on the street. They stopped fewer cars.

In the space of just a few days in spring 2015 – as Baltimore faced a wave of rioting after Freddie Gray, a black man, died from injuries he suffered in the back of a police van – officers in nearly every part of the city appeared to turn a blind eye to everyday violations. They still answered calls for help. But the number of potential violations they reported seeing themselves dropped by nearly half. It has largely stayed that way ever since.

“What officers are doing is they’re just driving looking forward. They’ve got horse blinders on,” says Kevin Forrester, a retired Baltimore detective.

The surge of shootings and killings that followed has left Baltimore easily the deadliest large city in the United States. Its murder rate reached an all-time high last year 342 people were killed. The number of shootings in some neighborhoods has more than tripled. One man was shot to death steps from a police station. Another was killed driving in a funeral procession.

&ldquoIn all candor, officers are not as aggressive as they once were, pre-2015. It’s just that fact.&rdquo

Gary Tuggle, interim Police Commissioner of Baltimore

What's happening in Baltimore offers a view of the possible costs of a remarkable national reckoning over how police officers have treated minorities.

Starting in 2014, a series of racially charged encounters in Ferguson, Missouri Chicago Baltimore and elsewhere cast an unflattering spotlight on aggressive police tactics toward black people. Since then, cities have been under pressure to crack down on abuses by law enforcement.

So has the U.S. Justice Department. During the Obama administration, the department launched wide-ranging civil rights investigations of troubled police forces, then took them to court to compel reforms. Under President Donald Trump, Washington has largely given up that effort. "If you want crime to go up, let the ACLU run the police department," Attorney General Jeff Sessions said at a gathering of police officials in May.

Whether that scrutiny would cause policing to suffer – or crime to rise – has largely remained an open question.

In Baltimore, at least, the effect on the city's police force was swift and substantial.

Police typically learn about crime in one of two ways: either someone calls for help, or an officer sees a crime himself and stops to do something. The second category, known among police as an “on-view,” offers a sense of how aggressively officers are doing their job. Car stops are a good example: Few people call 911 to report someone speeding – instead, officers see it and choose to pull someone over. Or choose not to.

Millions of police records show officers in Baltimore respond to calls as quickly as ever. But they now begin far fewer encounters themselves. From 2014 to 2017, dispatch records show the number of suspected narcotics offenses police reported themselves dropped 30 percent the number of people they reported seeing with outstanding warrants dropped by half. The number of field interviews – instances in which the police approach someone for questioning – dropped 70 percent.

“Immediately upon the riot, policing changed in Baltimore, and it changed very dramatically,” says Donald Norris, an emeritus professor at the University of Maryland Baltimore County, who reviewed USA TODAY's analysis. “The outcome of that change in policing has been a lot more crime in Baltimore, especially murders, and people are getting away with those murders.”

Police officials acknowledge the change. "In all candor, officers are not as aggressive as they once were, pre-2015. It’s just that fact," says acting Police Commissioner Gary Tuggle, who took command of Baltimore's police force in May.

Tuggle blames a shortage of patrol officers and the fallout from a blistering 2016 Justice Department investigation that found the city's police regularly violated residents' constitutional rights and prompted new limits on how officers there carry out what had once been routine parts of their job. At the same time, he says, police have focused more of their energy on gun crime and less on smaller infractions.

"We don’t want officers going out, grabbing people out of corners, beating them up and putting them in jail," Tuggle says. "We want officers engaging folks at every level. And if somebody needs to be arrested, arrest them. But we also want officers to be smart about how they do that."

The change has left a perception among some police officers that people in the city are free to do as they please. And among criminals, says Mahogany Gaines, whose brother, Dontais, was found shot to death inside his apartment in October.

“These people don’t realize that you’re leaving people fatherless and motherless,” Gaines says. “I feel like they think they’re untouchable.”

A wave of violence

On a sticky morning in May, the Rev. Rodney Hudson slips on a black “Sermonator” T-shirt and walks down the street from his west Baltimore church, a gray stone edifice two blocks from where police arrested Gray. A few days earlier, a drug crew from another neighborhood set up camp on the corner across the street. Hudson says the dealers nearly got into a gunfight with the crew that usually works across from the elementary school down the block.

Since Gray’s death, at least 41 people have been shot within a short walk of Hudson’s church.

“Drug dealers are taking control of the corners and the police’s hands are tied,” Hudson says. “We have a community that is afraid.”

Rev. Rodney Hudson, the pastor of AMES United Methodist Church in West Baltimore, conducts a Bible study on the sidewalk in front of his church. (Photo: Doug Kapustin, for USA TODAY)

Two blocks away, Mayor Catherine Pugh and a knot of city officials are under a tent on an empty lot to break ground for a group of new townhouses. Police officers linger on the streets, and a helicopter swirls overhead. But three blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue, drug crews still appear to be at work. Shouts of “hard body” – one of the drug cocktails on offer – ring clearly. Another man shouts a warning as Hudson and a reporter approach.

Drug dealers have worked Baltimore’s street corners for decades. But Hudson says it has been years since he has seen so many young men selling so brazenly in so many places. Dealers, he says, “are taking advantage” of a newly timid police force.

At least 150 people have been killed in Baltimore this year.

Ebony Owens’ son, Decorey Horne, 20, was shot to death in 2016 in a parked car along the narrow street behind his aunt’s house. Another man who was with him was shot but survived. Eleven months later, the father of Owens' youngest son, Sherman Carrothers, was found dead outside his house with a gunshot wound. He was one of four people shot in the city that night.

Owens grew up in Baltimore and knew the city could be dangerous. But this, she says, is different:

“I don’t remember it being like this.”

'These guys aren't stupid'

By almost any measure, this has been a troubled time for Baltimore’s police force.

It began in April 2015, when officers in west Baltimore chased Gray, arrested him for possession of what they said was an illegal switchblade and loaded him into the back of a police van, handcuffed but without a seatbelt. By the time Gray left the van, he was in a coma. He died a week later. Protests followed, then riots. Prosecutors charged six police officers for Gray’s death but abandoned the case after three were acquitted.

The next year, the Justice Department’s civil rights arm accused Baltimore’s police of arresting thousands of people without a valid legal basis, using unjustified force and targeting black neighborhoods for unconstitutional stops. Investigators quoted a detective who said he saw officers plant drugs on a suspect, and a patrol officer who said his job was to “be the baddest (expletive) out there.”

This year, eight officers in an elite anti-gun unit were convicted in a corruption scandal that included robbing drug dealers and carrying out illegal stops and searches. One officer testified that a supervisor told them to carry replica guns they could plant on suspects. Another officer was indicted in January after footage from his body camera showed him acting out finding drugs in an alley. The city’s new police commissioner, Darryl De Sousa, resigned in May after federal prosecutors charged him with failing to pay his income taxes.

For civil rights lawyers and federal investigators, those episodes offer evidence of a police force in trouble and too often willing to trample the rights of minorities.

But some officers drew a different lesson: “Officers no longer put themselves on the firing line,” says Victor Gearhart, a retired lieutenant who supervised the overnight shift in Baltimore’s southern district before he was pushed out of the department for referring to Black Lives Matter activists as “thugs” in an email.

“These guys aren’t stupid. They realize that if they do something wrong, they’re going to get their head bit off. There’s no feeling that anybody’s behind them anymore, and they’re not going to do it,” he says. “Nobody wants to put their head in the pizza oven when the pizza oven is on.”

Former Baltimore Police Lt. Vic Gearhart, pictured at his Baltimore County, Md. home, says "officers no longer put themselves on the firing line." (Photo: Doug Kapustin, for USA TODAY)

Gearhart and other officers say no one ordered them to make fewer stops or take fewer risks. "We didn't have to tell them," he says. "We just said these are the facts, this is the situation, and if you want to risk your career, have at it."

That reaction fits a wider pattern. Nearly three-quarters of police officers who responded to a Pew Research Center survey last year said high-profile incidents had left them less willing to stop and question people who seem suspicious. Even more said the incidents had made their jobs harder.

It has also drawn scorn from civil rights advocates, who scoff at the idea that police can’t protect both the city and the rights of its residents.

“What it says is that if you complain about the way the police do our job, maybe we’ll just lay back and not do it as hard,” says Jeffery Robinson, a deputy legal director for the American Civil Liberties Union, which had advocated for an overhaul of police agencies in Baltimore and elsewhere. “If it’s true, if that’s what officers are doing, they should be fired.”

A sudden change

To track the change in Baltimore, USA TODAY examined 5.1 million police dispatches from 2013 to 2017.

They show that even before Gray died, the number of encounters Baltimore officers initiated on their own was dropping.

But in the weeks after the 25-year-old’s death – after protests erupted into riots, and the National Guard came and left – the number of incidents police reported themselves plummeted.

Where once it was common for officers to conduct hundreds of car stops, drug stops and street encounters every day, on May 4, 2015, three days after city prosecutors announced that they had filed charges against six officers over Gray’s death, the number fell to just 79. The average number of incidents police reported themselves dropped from an average of 460 a day in March to 225 a day in June of that year, even though summer weather typically brings higher crime. By the end of last year, it was lower still.

Hundreds of demonstrators march toward the Baltimore Police Western District station during a protest against police brutality and the death of Freddie Gray in 2015. (Photo: Chip Somodevilla, Getty Images)

At the same time, violence in the city leapt to historic highs. Police recorded more than 200 murders and assaults involving guns in May 2015, triple the number in March.

Criminologists who reviewed the records say it’s impossible to determine whether that rapid change played a role in the city’s rising crime, but some found the pattern troubling.

“The cops are being less proactive at the same time violence is going up,” says Peter Moskos, a John Jay College of Criminal Justice professor and former Baltimore officer who reviewed USA TODAY’s data and analysis. “Cops are doing as requested: lessening racial disparity, lessening complaints, lessening police-involved shootings. All those numbers are just great right now, and if those are your metrics of success, we’re winning. The message has clearly gotten out to not commit unnecessary policing.”

Neither the mayor nor Kevin Davis, the city’s police commissioner until January, responded to questions about the changes.

Anthony Barksdale, a retired Baltimore police commander, says the message to officers was unmistakable.

“These guys have family members who tell them 'Don’t go to work and chase people for a city that doesn’t care about you,'” he says. “If I’m riding down the street and I see an incident, I see it, but you know what? It’s not worth it. That’s what these cops are thinking.”

The present pattern of racial segregation began more than a century ago.

In the early 20th century, the city developed and vigorously enforced discriminatory practices. In 1911, the city council passed the first housing segregation ordinance in the country directed at black people. When a similar Kentucky ordinance was struck down by the Supreme Court in 1917, then Baltimore mayor James H. Preston ordered housing inspectors to instead cite anyone who rented or sold property to black people in predominantly white areas for code violations. Preston’s successor further institutionalized these pressure tactics by forming a Committee on Segregation, a public-private partnership of government departments, community organizations, and real estate industry representatives. The committee intimidated real estate agents and homeowners who were willing to transact across racial lines and promoted the use of restrictive covenants, clauses in deeds that banned the transfer of housing to black people.

The federal government also played an important role. In the 1930s, the Federal Housing Administration prevented black people from moving into white neighborhoods.

Racial divisions this stark are not inevitable. They are still felt today in part because of the enormous effort that went into circumscribing opportunity by race and geography.

At 23.1 percent, Baltimore’s poverty rate is roughly double the national average of 12.7 percent over our study period. Poverty is widespread, with the exception of some of the northern, largely white neighborhoods (hover or click to highlight) east and west of Charles Street .

Across the city’s northern border, in Baltimore County, the poverty rate drops to 9 percent, which is closer to the state average (9.7 percent).

Investment in Baltimore is highly concentrated. Neighborhoods that are less than 50 percent African American receive nearly four times the investment of neighborhoods that are over 85 percent African American. Low-poverty neighborhoods receive one and a half times the investment of high-poverty neighborhoods.

This map shows investments in building construction, rehab, and demolition as measured by estimated project costs recorded in building permit applications. A high concentration of activities requiring permits can reflect several things. It can be part of facility upgrades in industrial areas like the Canton Industrial Area , Holabird Industrial Park , and Dundalk Marine Terminal . It can be a prerequisite to building on and around some of Baltimore’s college campuses, including Loyola University Maryland and Johns Hopkins University . In predominantly residential areas, it can also be a sign of housing renovation and upgrades and new housing development. Going forward, Opportunity Zones , in Baltimore may attract higher capital flows.

Information about property transactions offers another lens through which to examine differences between communities.

Permits, which we saw above, lead to renovation or development that can increase property values, which is visible when a property resells. This map shows residential, commercial, and industrial real estate sales. Per-home sale prices in predominantly white neighborhoods are higher.

How are the resources needed to purchase property distributed? Who has access to capital?

Home value represents a significant share of many people’s personal assets, and refinancing a mortgage is one way to tap into home equity. Similarly, developers need capital to build or rehab apartments. This map captures mortgage loans to single- and multifamily dwellings.

For every owner-occupied housing unit, the average volume of loans in high-poverty census tracts was $59,822 versus $111,577 in low-poverty census tracts. The racial disparity is even greater. The average volume of loans per owner-occupied housing unit in tracts where the population is more than 85 percent African American is $68,133 but is $160,438 in tracts where less than 50 percent of residents are African American.

There are higher concentrations of commercial real estate lending in the central business district and in industrial areas on the waterfront but also in retail centers elsewhere in the city, like Reisterstown Station .

Census tracts where more than 85 percent of residents are African American saw $8,085 in commercial loans per household. Lending levels were more than five times larger ($41,053) in tracts where African American people made up less than 50 percent of residents .

In census tracts where African American people make up more than 85 percent of the population, there was $2,336 of small business lending per household, compared with $11,442 per household in tracts where less than 50 percent of residents are African American .

But high-poverty tracts receive more small business loans per household ($7,145) than low-poverty tracts ($5,498).

Public capital provides opportunities to counteract segregation of resources. Some public programs focus investment in areas that have seen too little of it. The spatial distribution of public-sector capital flows looks different from the private-sector capital flows above.

Bucking the larger investment pattern, public-sector investments are not clustered in predominantly white neighborhoods.

The most intensive concentrations of several programs are in high-poverty census tracts. This does vary by program, however. For example, the HOME Investment Partnerships Program and Community Development Block Grant Program investments are highest among neighborhoods that are more than 85 percent African American.

However, Baltimore’s Capital Improvement Program financing is highest among neighborhoods that are 50 to 85 percent African American.

As with public-sector investments, mission lending is more evenly distributed and more prevalent in high-poverty areas and areas with high concentrations of African American people than private investment.

Despite the benefits they deliver, mission and public funding represent just a fraction of overall investment in the city. Following the lead of Detroit, a redoubled public and philanthropic commitment will be needed to grow the footprint of community development financial institutions and efforts like the Neighborhood Impact Investment Fund. Substantial change will also require mainstream investment to reach more Baltimore communities.

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