BUILDING INSPECTOR WITH A BULLETPROOF VEST [continued from Part 1]

He was intrigued by a leftist analysis of political power and civil rights.
Reading the book Manchild in the Promised Land galvanized him with the
belief that poor and working people could change their lives for the better,
particularly if government could be made to really work in their interest.

When Delgado took a college internship in 1980 with the D.C. government, he
was thrilled to find himself working for Barry and his top aide, Ivanhoe
Donaldson, both well-known politicos and veterans of the civil rights
struggle. Delgado rose quickly to become a government operations analyst,
but it was not long before he ran into trouble. His dogged style of advocacy
and relentless questioning of authority clashed with the agenda of
reelecting the mayor, and Delgado was banished to DCRA in 1986.

"Here is a man who was exiled to Siberia, and he went to Siberia and made it
a better place," says Sandy McCall, a deputy chief of staff for Mayor
Williams, who arranged Delgado's Judiciary Square presentation as part of
the new mayor's exploration of crime issues.

Williams and Police Chief Charles Ramsey have advocated community policing
as a way to reduce crime and help revitalize neighborhoods. The city,
however, has yet to commit adequate resources. Delgado has submitted written
proposals to various branches of government to expand the kind of work he
does, cut through bureaucratic roadblocks, and create a "strategic
enforcement" unit that would have the teeth, and even the guns, to really do
the job.

Today, Delgado speaks nearly nonstop for 75 minutes, explaining how he
developed his symbiotic relationship between building inspection and crime
fighting. "No single unit in government has a holistic approach. None. I
designed it," he says. It began around 1990, he says, when he was threatened
during an inspection of an illegal junkyard in Mount Pleasant and asked for
police protection. Those cops then asked if his enforcement power could help
them close a nearby unlicensed chop shop dealing in stolen auto parts. When
this succeeded, they asked him to hit an unlicensed pool hall, where Delgado
spotted stolen computers and police made a major arrest.

The idea swiftly spread among police, who started requesting that the brash
inspector team up routinely with them. After several run-ins with armed
felons, the cops gave him a bulletproof vest -- DCRA had refused as a matter
of policy. In recent years, his boss has required him to take police escorts
on all his difficult inspections for his own protection.

As Delgado finishes his presentation, Monty Wilkinson, the mayor's special
assistant on crime issues, questions whether police are using Delgado as
cover to gain entry and circumvent legal requirements for search warrants.
Delgado explains that this argument was used in federal court,
unsuccessfully, to try to invalidate seizures that were incidental to his
building inspections. "There is a way not to violate rights, and yet open up
miraculous possibilities" for law enforcement because contraband is
sometimes spotted in plain view, Delgado says. "You go into a property to
address the regulatory violations, and anything else that comes up is a
godsend."

In groceries and liquor stores, for example, Delgado says he enters because
he has the right to check business licenses and to see whether cigarettes
have valid D.C. tax stamps. In the process, he frequently finds drug
paraphernalia for sale, such as tiny plastic jewelry bags used in the crack
trade. Such bags are now illegal under a 1997 city law for which Delgado
lobbied.

Wilkinson asks, "Are you ever denied entry? Aren't there things outside your
jurisdiction?"

"The regulatory code book is pretty thick," Delgado says, smiling. ". . .
But no, I do not have absolute right of entry. You have to be respectful.
The more humble and the more apologetic you are -- 'Gee, I'm really sorry to
be bothering you' -- the more room you get from people. You have to know how
to handle yourself."

His feet tapping with nervous energy, Delgado ends by urging the Williams
administration to be bold. "If you don't tackle this, you are just reactive.
My theory is, why wait to be called? I dispatch myself, I don't wait to be
dispatched," he says. "We are not talking about a building, we are striking it."

"I've had bona fide death threats" says Delgado, who adds that he is a "hot
commodity" in certain high-crime neighborhoods. "I go out all hours of the
night. Do I get paid for that? No. If I photograph, I'm using my own camera.
If I use my cell phone, does the government pay me? No." (Delgado spent more
than $3,000 on automobile, cell phone and photography expenses, according to
his 1998 tax return, out of a salary of $51,000. DCRA recently gave him a
camera and announced plans to issue cell phones.)

Delgado pauses before wrapping up his pitch. "If you find merit in this, I
will come back and talk to you again about it . . . Or if you want to come
out with me, I will show you," he says. Then, he concludes: "If this
government doesn't wisen up, to save kids, to help the neighborhoods, it's
really a loss."

On a sunny spring morning, Delgado is part of an interagency team inspecting
shops along Georgia Avenue and Seventh Street NW as part of a mayoral
initiative to promote cleanup and development of inner-city businesses. One
businessman, Julius Bell, is not happy to see the inspector. Delgado has
paid several visits here in the last six months to warn Bell against setting
up an outdoor barbecue on the sidewalk in front of his business. Now, things
turn ugly.

"I know you. You're not such a big guy now -- without your police friends,"
Bell says accusingly as Delgado enters his carryout, the Original Buffalo
Wing House on Seventh Street. "Can I see some ID?" Bell demands. As Delgado
goes to his wallet, Bell says, "You don't need to be cussing us out."

"I'm not cussing you out," Delgado says.

The two men face each other near the doorway. An argument erupts over
Delgado's language and behavior during his past visits.

"You disrespected me," says Bell, a burly man in his thirties. "Saying,
'Can't you understand English?' Sitting there on the street in the car with
a white cop, yelling at me! Saying you are tired of my [expletive]! Well,
you are not talking so big now, without the police."

Delgado is saying he never cursed at him, and Bell is getting agitated: "You
are not with the po-lice today, so I won't kiss your ass this time. You
think we're supposed to kiss your ass. Show me some respect! Calling me a
mother [expletive]!"

"I never called you a [expletive]!" Delgado retorts.

"I'm sick of this! You don't talk to us out of respect!" Bell yells.

Delgado asks to see Bell's certificate of occupancy.

"You're in my space!" Bell shouts.

"You're in my space!"

Delgado reaches for the certificate, and Bell snatches it back, and their
wrists bounce off each other. They appear near blows. Delgado, having been
assaulted several times before, tenses up. But the assault is only verbal:
"When you are out with your white cop friends, you talk like you are
[expletive] God. You cuss us out!"

Delgado is shaking his head. "Are you finished?" he asks.

This visit was supposed to be only for issuing warnings. But by the time it
is over, Delgado has called the police for backup, and has written out three
$500 citations to Bell, for a sign without a permit, recent electrical work
without a permit, and garbage cans stored on government property adjacent to
Bell's place.

The men part bitterly, Bell saying he will come to DCRA headquarters to
complain. Delgado tells him he'd welcome the visit.

Several days later, both men are still bristling over the incident. Bell
says he lost his temper because Delgado "cannot just come into the
neighborhood talking down to people." He acknowledges that Delgado had
warned him about his outdoor grill and was considerate in not ticketing him
for it. But he says Delgado was nonetheless disrespectful. "I think he is a
bully. I think he is abusing his badge and intimidating people."

Delgado admits he was particularly irritated at Bell months ago for failing
to heed repeated warnings, but he is adamant in denying he cursed him. "How
many times do I gotta tell you? Don't you understand? You can't afford my
fines!" is Delgado's recollection of what he told Bell, hoping to avoid
writing him a ticket for the illegal outdoor grill. Delgado, who often
travels with black and Hispanic cops, also says that in the racially charged
environment of the city, he is careful to speak to all people with respect.

Two weeks later, Bell says he has gone to DCRA to appeal the citations but
they have no record of the tickets. Delgado, like other inspectors, often
uses the citations as bargaining chips, hoping to get building owners to
comply voluntarily rather than face fines. Delgado says he has not yet
submitted the tickets for processing. He sounds ready for a truce. "I am
considering calling him and seeing whether we can start over," Delgado says.
"I can tear up the ticket."

The three young prostitutes are from the Dominican Republic by way of New
York City. One is slender with a tattooed heart on her left breast, another
wears a shiny black leather two-piece that is much too tight, and the third
is a husky woman wearing little more than an ill-fitting white thong. They
are sitting at a kitchen table in a basement apartment on Park Road in Mount
Pleasant and all are wearing disgusted expressions. Delgado is about to ruin
a profitable Wednesday evening.

He has entered the 20-unit brick building through an unlocked side door to
the basement. Business is so brisk tonight that eight men are sitting on
three couches, waiting, and the door to the apartment stands wide open. "How
are you this evening?" Delgado says casually, in Spanish, as he walks in. A
few steps behind him are the police.

Suddenly, the apartment erupts in commotion, as the men offer explanations
to the police, in Spanish and English. "I'm here with a friend . . . I'm
just waiting for somebody . . . This is my first time here . . . I don't
know nothing about that . . ."

But this is not a police raid and nobody is arrested, nobody charged with
prostitution or soliciting. Rather, this is a zoning enforcement. The
building inspector knows he cannot write tickets for prostitution -- but he
can cite for unauthorized commercial activity. So, after the police frisk
the men for weapons and check for criminal records, Delgado asks each of
them a question: Are you here for a massage or for prostitution? Hesitant,
and with puzzled expressions, several men say massage. Then, in Spanish,
Delgado asks the others. Is this place una casa para masaje or una casa de
mujeres? Masaje, comes the answer, masaje.

After an intense private chat with Delgado, Alejandro, a 31-year-old
Salvadoran, goes into the kitchen, bends over the trash can and fishes out a
fat wad of bills he just ditched. Wrapped inside a $100 bill is a roll of
tens, twenties and fifties totaling $760. Delgado learns from the women that
they charge $30, but they only keep half and they don't handle the cash.
Instead, customers get yellow theater tickets from Alejandro. He manages the
money but is not their pimp, who stays away from the apartment, according to
the women.

Delgado spreads out Alejandro's stash on the couch, takes a photograph of
the money and picks up the large roll of tickets. Then he orders all the men
to stand up together for a group photo. "Oh no, man!" exclaims one thirtyish
customer, who says he is married. Delgado calms them by saying they can
cover their faces if they wish, which they all do as he snaps several pictures.

The building inspector feels he now has enough evidence for a zoning
violation case. He doesn't even attempt to deal with the legal morass of
proving prostitution. Rather, he will write up the citations for an illegal
massage parlor operating in a residential zone without a certificate of
occupancy and without a commercial license. He can make a case for fines of
at least $1,000 against the building owner, but more importantly, he has
disrupted tonight's operation and he may be able to persuade the owner to
evict the offending commercial tenant. The three women are allowed to dress
and leave with their own money. Alejandro's stash, though, is considered to
be abandoned money, and is taken by the police to be turned over to the city
treasury as found property.

Delgado's been through all this before. In fact, he busted the same
apartment months ago after neighbors complained about the traffic of
prostitutes and their customers in and out of the apartment house, one of
some 20 brothels Delgado has hit in the community.

"There's just too much of it, and it has to stop," he says. "People don't
want this in their neighborhood. They don't want to raise their kids in this
environment." Chief Ramsey has said he wants to crack down on prostitution,
but the police can't be everywhere and they can't make arrests without a
lengthy investigation. "But I have a zoning violation," Delgado says,
smiling. "It is a business, and this is a residential zone."

Delgado realizes that this "massage parlor" will probably reopen somewhere
else tomorrow, as will the crack houses and chop shops. But he contends it
is still worth the effort, day after day. "The question is whether we allow
drug havens to flourish . . . or prostitution," he says. "I can't protect it
and patrol it, 24-7, but I can stop it from flourishing. I can make it
difficult to do business."

"You haven't solved the deeper problems," he acknowledges, "but somebody on
that block is gonna sleep a little bit better tonight. And to me, that's
worth it."

A workday for Inspector Delgado usually is a marathon venture into a largely
hidden world where there is always crime, drug abuse, poverty and squalor,
but also some small measure of progress and hope.

This April morning begins at 9, when Delgado makes the first hit among 13
stops in the next 14 hours. It's a neighborhood complaint at 14th and W in
Southeast about a guy who takes up valuable parking spots because he is
working on an assortment of cars and trucks -- plus overnight he also leaves
his food-vending van with two fierce Akitas chained inside for security.
This is quick work: Delgado calls people he knows in the police and the
Humane Society. The Virginia license tags turn out to be stolen; the animal
control officers break into the van to free the dogs, who have defecated and
urinated inside; and the police have the vehicle towed.

Not all problems are so neatly solved in an hour. At other stops, Delgado is
frustrated because nobody is home and he can't get access. As he drives past
vacant buildings and littered alleys, he points out landmarks of lengthy
past struggles. In Columbia Heights are the boarded-up rooming houses once
owned by Kingsley Anyanwutaku, a slum landlord whom Delgado ferociously
pursued for two years after learning that children took sick in his
vermin-infested properties. In 1995, Anyanwutaku pleaded guilty to 1,318
building and housing code violations and, thanks in large part to Delgado's
agitation, was sentenced to nearly six years in prison, the first District
landlord prosecuted criminally in more than a decade.

In Northeast, Delgado drives by properties owned by Franklin Lamb, a
landlord against whom Delgado testified 10 days earlier in Superior Court.
Delgado was the key witness, describing dangerous and unsanitary living
conditions in Lamb's properties in a weeklong jury trial. The result: a
$750,000 punitive damage verdict against the landlord.

Delgado acknowledges that he gets personally involved in cases, sometimes
too involved. Ford, his boss, will occasionally ground him for a day or two
if he thinks Delgado needs a rest. But Delgado says he will not back off
from his aggressive style. "I believe when people are suffering, you don't
send a notice. You bring resolution as quickly as you can," he says. "By me
demonstrating a show of force says that I mean business, and it solves
problems. Why would we hesitate to use such enforcement tactics?"

Council member Ambrose agrees, and even endorses a limited form of
harassment as practiced by Delgado. "I say to people that some landlords and
business people are harassing the neighborhood, and if we are harassing
them, within the law, to be a good neighbor, then I don't have a problem
with that," Ambrose says.

This day, Delgado will hit crack houses, chop shops and rundown rooming
houses, and he will revisit places he is monitoring, including a 14-unit
apartment house on Marietta Place in Northwest that has been neglected for
so long that droves of pigeons have taken over the top floor and destroyed
rooms with pigeon droppings that permeate the air throughout the largely
vacant three-story building.

A week earlier, Delgado threatened the owner, Formant Investments, with
multiple fines and with a civil lawsuit by Operation Crackdown, a volunteer
lawyers' group with whom Delgado often works to legally coerce owners into
fixing their property. Within five days of that visit, the owner of Marietta
Place did more cleanup than had been done in years, according to the few
remaining tenants.

"I wish I'd known about you 10 years ago," says longtime tenant Paul
Clemencia, a 45-year-old plumber, when he meets Delgado. Clemencia goes
inside his apartment and emerges with a thick stack of photographs and paper
copies of past code violations written against the owner. Clemencia, who
lives here with his teenage son, tells Delgado that he has been calling DCRA
and other agencies for 10 years. Housing inspectors came and went, he says,
but never got action. "They'd put up a notice and then they leave," he says.
"I'll be honest with you, I thought those people were being paid off."

Delgado shakes his head. "I can't explain what the inspectors did 10 years
ago," he says. Then he adds, "I am really sorry you had to live like this."

As he walks away, Delgado says it is embarrassing to hear stories like that
about city agencies, including his own. "Why does it have to be me, coming
in and yelling" that gets things done?

Inevitably he comes back around to the question of whether it is time for
him to quit: "My dilemma is leaving government. I wonder what is going to
happen . . . How many families have to be locked in their house because they
can't use their own back yards? Because they can't walk in safety on their
own street. Can't go outside without finding needles and drug paraphernalia.
Can't send their kids out safely on their own street. This is real
suffering. People go to church and pray the problem will go away. Well, we
can't just send notices, we have to attack it. It is a [expletive] war in
the streets. The criminal says, 'You can't touch me, I'm inside a building'
. . . But we can touch them."

Having a new city administration, with a new mayor and police chief who say
they are committed to solving some of these problems, has given him pause.
"The only reason I would stay," he says, "is if they cared enough about this
city to say: 'This is really a viable solution for poor communities and we
want a task force of this type' . . . If they cared enough to do that, I
would be glad to stay."

Later that day, at a dilapidated row house on Keefer Place NW, Delgado talks
roughly to a tattered woman who sneaked into a building that is being
repossessed. The woman's wrists, arms and neck are scarred with needle
marks. She is wearing old dungarees, and she is living with no water, no
utilities. She says her name is Cheryl, but she has IDs with two different
names. She gets into a prolonged shouting match with Delgado and a cop who
keep telling her that she is a squatter and must move out or go to jail.

The argument ebbs and flares, and Delgado keeps ragging her for nearly half
an hour, until the woman seems worn out. Delgado takes her out to the back
porch and the two of them stand there alone. Then he speaks to her in a
softer voice and, very slowly, he says: "Find a ministry. Seek religious
help. Find physical help . . . And listen . . . Look in the mirror. Look in
the mirror and think of the little girl who had big dreams. You stole that
little girl's dreams . . . You stole her dreams. You are gonna look in the
mirror, and your mission is to give her back her life. You gotta look for
that little girl because she is still there somewhere."

The woman is silent for what seems a long time. She brings her hand to her
mouth. "Delgado, thank you," she says. "Thank you."

"Okay, sweetheart," he says.

Then she walks out of the house with her clothes in a gray plastic bag,
looking for someplace else to go.

Peter Perl is a staff writer for the Magazine.