As far as neighborhood welcomes go, this one was a bit rough. James Jackson knew as much, but in Detroit’s bleak Jefferson-Chalmers neighborhood, there isn’t much time for subtlety these days.
“Just so you know,” he told his newly moved-in neighbor. “There’s probably gonna be some shooting tonight.”
An older woman across the street had testified in court that morning against associates of a suspected drug dealer who was purportedly known to shoot up witnesses’ homes. Anticipating revenge, Jackson had promised the woman he’d stand watch.
“What do you mean shooting?” the new neighbor asked. “Should I call the police?”
“Call the police?” Jackson shot back. “Shoot, I am the police.”