CITY WAGES FIGHT TO SAVE YOUNG LIVES

Arlee Solomon provided her son, Justin, with a nurturing, two-parent home
environment that included field trips to Niagara Falls and Boy Scout
gatherings.

But on April 28, none of it mattered. Outside her home, where she couldn't
protect him, her 18-year-old son was slain with his own gun.

The streets had won.

She'd had enough.

So rather than let Justin be a statistic -- one of Marion County's 119
homicides last year -- the 52-year-old accountant held a picnic at nearby
Tarkington Park, at 39th and Illinois streets, shortly after his death.

She created fliers, gathered adults and youths from the surrounding
neighborhoods, and delivered this message: Make good choices about how you
live your life.

"You don't have to be in the streets, looking for wrong," she told them.

It's a motto being echoed by law enforcement and community leaders hoping
to interrupt the rising number of homicides.

The battle to do that is being fought on multiple fronts, from community
policing to anti-violence forums that stress positive adult role models for
at-risk youths. And that battle includes pointed and painful questions
about the roles that some victims play in their deaths.

According to the annual analysis of homicide statistics by The Indianapolis
Star, 30 percent of homicides in 2001 were the result of a dispute or
revenge. Another 12 percent were attributed by police to illegal drugs.

And although another 23 percent were labeled "unknown," detectives suspect
many of those killings were the result of drugs or a dispute. The rest
involved a mix of motives, led by robberies and family-related violence.

A person is more likely to become a victim of homicide if he or she has a
criminal record, carries a firearm, engages in illegal behavior in a
crime-ridden area or lacks the ability to resolve conflicts in a nonviolent
manner, according to the Marion County Justice Agency.

In 2000, this proved true in the jurisdiction of the Indianapolis Police
Department, where 69 percent of homicide victims had prior drug arrests,
and 38 percent of all homicides involved drugs. (Similar numbers for 2001
are not yet available.)

Homicide detectives see it over and over.

"Their whole life is the criminal element, staying high, getting drugs and
anything that's not positive," said Detective Anthony Finnell of the
Indianapolis Police Department. "The idea of getting up to go to work isn't
part of it. They get up to go hustle for dope. Some of them are victims of
their lifestyle.

"Nobody wants to hear it," Finnell adds, "but regular Joes aren't being
shot in the head."

Black Males At Risk

As in years past, the majority of victims were black, male and killed with
a gun -- 77 of the 119 were black men. According to The Star's analysis,
black males in Marion County died of homicide at a rate that was 15 times
higher than that of white males last year.

"I think it's an epidemic," said Olgen Williams, executive director of
Christamore House, a Westside community center. "They've got to stop this
killing. It could be your son, my son . . . 119 is too many dying,
especially 77 from one particular group. We know where it's happening. The
statistics speak for themselves."

The homicide total for 2001 still is well below the record: 162 in 1998.
But it's up 6 percent from last year.

As always, many of the stories behind the homicide statistics transcend
race, gender and geography: A 5-month-old boy was beaten and buried in a
ditch. An 89-year-old retired school cafeteria employee was slain in her
home by intruders. A 24-year-old sheriff's deputy was shot to death with an
assault rifle during a pursuit. Nine women lost their lives to domestic
violence.

None of them led at-risk lives. But most of the year's other victims did,
especially young black men.

Talk with police, prosecutors, pastors and residents, and the issue of
lifestyle always arises.

Ask the Rev. Charles Harrison, pastor of Barnes United Methodist Church,
about his experience with homicide victims.

One of them predicted his death.

He remembers meeting 23-year-old Eddie L. Jones after the Indianapolis
man's release from prison in May.

Jones, who had a lengthy arrest record, told Harrison that "he'd taken some
drugs off another individual" and that he feared retaliation.

"He indicated to me he was a dead man," Harrison said.

On July 31, Jones was found shot in the head in the 1200 block of West 34th
Street -- in what Indianapolis police called a drug house. That crime
remains unsolved; revenge was determined to be the motive.

Other examples from 2001's homicide roster:

* In February, a 22-year-old Indianapolis man was found dead inside his car
behind a vacant house in the 2900 block of North Park Avenue. Police report
that he "routinely used the house to hide his crack cocaine for sale."

* In November, a 29-year-old Indianapolis man was found shot in the
basement of a residence in the 3400 block of Wallace Avenue. Police reports
state that "a large amount of marijuana and cocaine and money was recovered."

* That same month, a 39-year-old woman was shot and killed in the 1300
block of West Congress Avenue while trying to buy drugs at a vacant house.

Harrison, a member of an anti-violence alliance called the Ten Point
Coalition, is one of several faith leaders who are troubled both by the
types and number of violent acts.

Ministers from the coalition walk the streets in troubled neighborhoods to
talk to youths about positive choices and turning away from crime.

"I think after we had a two-year decline (in homicides), people started
feeling comfortable. I don't think faith-based and neighborhood groups were
utilized the same way they were in 1999, when we really made a significant
impact on the homicide rate in the city," he said.

Sensitive Issue

Discussion of a victim's role needs to be a sensitive one, some say.

Carroll Ellis, director of victim services for the Fairfax County (Va.)
Police Department, says the tendency to blame the victim is all too easy.

"Just because you lead a dangerous lifestyle doesn't justify dying in a
violent way," Ellis said. "We don't blame them based on whether they were a
pillar of the community, or a prostitute."

But Bonnie Bucqueroux, executive director and co-founder of Michigan-based
Crime Victims for a Just Society, says detailed examination is not
conducted to "victim-blame" but to acknowledge that someone might have had
a substance abuse problem or socioeconomic reason that put them at risk.

"That's the uncomfortable question that the victims' movement is beginning
to wrestle with. We always want to say it's not our fault," Bucqueroux said.

Kenna Quinet, an associate professor of criminal justice at Indiana
University-Purdue University Indianapolis, says studies have found that as
many as 25 percent of homicides fall under a category known as "victim
precipitation," in which they "started out as the aggressor, but ended up
dead."

"We have to get past this whole victim-blaming conversation; just because
we talk about the role a victim plays doesn't mean we're blaming anyone,"
Quinet said.

"But if we don't teach people how to reduce their risk . . ."

A number of efforts are under way in Indianapolis to reduce the risks for
children and young adults, and many of them are geared toward inner-city
black youths.

The county's juvenile court plans to reintroduce an alternative sentencing
program that teaches young offenders about the dangers of firearms. An
ex-convict and minister named Byron Alston is directing a program called
Save the Youth to encourage employers to hire young people with minor
criminal histories.

And Byron K. Johnson, violence prevention coordinator of the Marion County
Health Department, is trying to get into more schools, to openly discuss
with youths the precursors of street violence -- the bullying behavior by
children that ranges from taunting, verbal harassment and put-downs to
physical attacks, such as hitting, unwelcome touching and assaults.

Recently, Johnson was at Stoneybrook Middle School, teaching
conflict-resolution skills.

"A lot of them don't use positive coping strategies," he said. "They are
fighting instead of talking out the problem in a peaceful way . . . and
after a fight it doesn't end there. We've seen fights where someone returns
to the scene with a weapon. In their mind it ends that conflict."

Police Help Sought

Any changes, experts say, will have to be organized and conducted with
police help, such as last summer's gun buyback program in IPD's North
District that took 380 weapons off the streets.

Another example of police-community partnerships, CrimeWatch neighborhood
groups rose 25 percent in 2001, to 400. And the Police Athletic League
expanded last year to serve more than 3,000 youths.

Any changes, black leaders say, also must come from within.

"African-American leaders have to have two discussions," adds Elder Lionel
Rush, a vocal community leader. "We must discuss with our family with the
door closed, to say to black people that we must produce and practice
black-on-black love and not black-on-black crime. Then I think the
African-American leadership must address the American majority community
and say there are systemic policies such as redlining, homelessness and
education that contribute to this kind of violence."

In some ways, those goals are being accomplished.

Last Monday, as part of the celebration of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, an
audience of black men and their sons, stepsons, grandsons and other boys
important in their lives gathered inside a cafeteria at Tabernacle
Missionary Baptist Church.

Over eggs and bacon, they talked about positive choices and the need for
positive male role models.

The youths filled out surveys about their exposure to violence. DeWayne
Smith, 26, of Indianapolis was relieved to see that his son Montess Caple,
11, had only heard about a drive-by shooting. That was the limit of his
experience.

Montess said he understood why it's important to find peace, particularly
when he saw two peers fighting at his school.

"I go break it up," he says. "I tell them, 'you'll get in trouble for it
and get sent to the office.' I tell them the consequences so they will
stop. I make them have a truce."

Tyren Futch, 12, said knowing that people his age, or slightly older, have
died makes him sad. "They probably had a wonderful life in front of them,"
he said.