In the 73rd precinct in Brownsville, reporting a crime goes like this: you step through a brick entryway into a cramped, dimly-lit room and you wait there, staring at a wall.
A set of double doors and a window break up the metal barrier, but red-lettered signs remind you that you aren’t allowed to go through. On the other side of the plexiglass, police dash around the station’s spacious interior. They pay little mind to the lobby, where the four plastic seats are often taken, leaving everyone else to stand on the stained linoleum.
An officer comes to help, eventually. He opens the door halfway to ask people what they need, one by one. But therein lies another problem: the tiny, triangular waiting room has no privacy. So, everyone can hear every fearful crack in an old man’s voice as he tells how he’s lost $2,700 to an online scam. And they can see every tear on a woman’s face when she rushes into the precinct after learning that her child is in trouble…
Eric L. Piza, Ph.D. 