BUILDING INSPECTOR WITH A BULLETPROOF VEST

James Delgado has been threatened, assaulted and sued, he's been chewed out
by his bosses, but in D.C. neighborhoods the word is out: If you have a
problem, call him

Delgado tenses as he approaches the battered front door and listens for
movement inside the run-down row house at 3439 14th St. NW. He is wearing a
gold badge on a chain around his neck identifying him as a D.C. government
building inspector. He's also wearing a gray sweat shirt, beneath that a
blue bulletproof vest, beneath that a T-shirt, and beneath that, resting
against the bare skin of his chest and back, a blue cloth scapular of Saint
Michael to protect him from evil. Just before he knocks on the door, Delgado
says a soft, hurried prayer to himself: "Blessed is he who comes in the name
of the Lord."

Then he takes a deep breath and pounds hard with his fist. "Open the door!"
he commands. When nobody responds, he shouts, "Open the door! . . . Open the
[expletive] door!"

A hollow-eyed man in an old work jacket cracks the door and Delgado dashes
past him to see several men running out the back. Delgado knows this
wreckage of a building is an active crack house. A few legitimate tenants
remain, but it has been invaded by squatters. He calls to D.C. Police
Officer Medgar Webster, his escort and protector this April day, and they
bound upstairs two steps at a time as Webster radios for backup.

"Everybody out of there! Everybody out!" Delgado yells as he hits the second
floor. "What are you doing in here? Do you belong here?" All the water,
electricity and gas have been cut off for nonpayment. While Delgado expected
to find a few squatters, he is stunned to see 11 men and six women
straggling out of the second and third floors of the house. Some of them are
shabbily dressed crack and heroin addicts, several are middle-aged men in
work clothes. Two younger men are wearing well-pressed black suits and shiny
shoes.

Delgado opens the bathroom door and his body recoils at the stench. Human
waste and wadded toilet paper overflow the dried-out commode. The rusted old
bathtub has become the urinal. Delgado grimaces and slams the door. He heads
down to the basement and confirms another suspicion: The squatters who have
moved in here without paying rent have also illegally, and dangerously,
turned the gas back on, using a large wrench and a length of flexible
aluminum pipe. They have similarly stolen electricity, by rewiring the
disconnected Pepco meter.

"Everybody take a seat down on the ground!" Delgado barks at the people
filling the foyer. Five police cruisers and at least 10 cops have arrived,
but the building inspector takes charge of the scene. "I am condemning this
property. This building is getting boarded up," he announces in a deep
voice. This statement is partly a bluff: Delgado knows it usually takes the
government many months to board a building, unless the owner can be
pressured to do it more quickly -- but they don't know that.

"You have a choice of sitting here, or finding another place real quick," he
warns them, his voice rising. "Trust me! . . . If you stay here, at 3 or 4
in the morning when you are resting, we are gonna be [expletive] kicking the
doors down!" Then he turns to the few tenants and demands, "How many days do
you need to move out? How many hours?"

A blue Washington Gas truck pulls up, summoned by Delgado, who has a "hot"
company phone number and authorization to get trucks quickly. Pepco,
likewise, responds to Delgado's summons a few minutes later. With the
utility trucks and police cruisers, the scene on 14th Street looks like a
major civil disturbance. Actually it is only a building inspection,
Delgado-style -- a multi-front assault that sends a clear signal to the
entire neighborhood.

Minutes later, the building's owner arrives -- also summoned by Delgado's
cell phone. Her name is Mary Watson, and she is 84 and walks with a cane.
The building inspector confronts her on the front porch. "I have some bad
news for you," he begins, telling her he is citing her for $1,500 worth of
building and zoning code violations per day. But as that news sinks in, he
dangles before her a way out: If she shuts the building down within 15 days,
then no code violations, no fines.

As Watson ponders her options, Delgado walks inside and angrily tears down
the blankets, plywood and metal sheeting that the squatters have put over
the front windows. He surveys the scene disgustedly. "The government knew
about this for two years, and nothing happened."

Four days later, Delgado returns to find all the tenants and squatters gone,
piles of junk on the front porch, and Watson sitting in a Lincoln
Continental watching two workmen board up the building with thick plywood.
Delgado's dark, thick mustache arches into a broad, satisfied smile.

James Delgado is one of 32 building inspectors who work for the D.C.
Department of Consumer and Regulatory Affairs. He is 48 and lives in the
city with his wife, two daughters and an old basset hound named Babygirl. He
is a slender man of 150 pounds and a 31-inch waist. He is trained in boxing,
tae kwon do and aikido, all of which he has somewhat reluctantly employed in
self-defense during his decade as the city's most unusual building
inspector. He has been seriously assaulted five times, threatened with
violence countless times, sued several times, and chewed out by some
superiors because he has been the subject of more complaints than any of his
colleagues -- even though charges against him have been consistently ruled
unfounded. One lawsuit was settled out of court; the others were dismissed.

All this because Delgado has chosen to put himself on the cutting edge of
the movement known as "community policing." The concept is to unite
communities -- citizens' groups, various government agencies and police --
in a coordinated attack on quality-of-life problems from broken windows,
graffiti and vandalism to the abandoned cars, illegal rooming houses and
vacant buildings that become havens for drug trafficking and other serious
crimes.

In Washington, community policing efforts have usually failed because of
poor staffing and overall decay within the police department, as well as the
chronic ineptitude of other city agencies. Over the past decade, however, no
public servant in Washington arguably has done more than Delgado to put
crack houses out of business, stop the sale of drug paraphernalia from
corner stores, close down illegal "chop shop" garages, shut down
prostitution operations and after-hours nightclubs, and eliminate countless
other public nuisances that plague many of the city's poor and middle-class
precincts.

"If you ask people and ask the police, they will tell you that Delgado
should be cloned," says D.C. Council member Sharon Ambrose, who chairs the
committee overseeing his agency, DCRA, and who has witnessed some of
Delgado's exploits in her Capitol Hill ward. "In the eyes of the community,
if you just turned Delgado loose in your neighborhood for a month, you could
clean it up."

Indeed, Delgado's personnel file is filled with more than 40 letters of
commendation from government agencies and citizens groups. The Justice
Department cited him for "generous contributions and dedicated service." The
Metropolitan Police honored his "exceptional commitment and outstanding
service." Child Protective Services officials commended him for saving
children from harm and asked DCRA to lend them Delgado. The Humane Society
praised him for alerting them to animal abuse cases. In North Lincoln Park,
the neighborhood association proclaimed him a "Bona Fide Local Hero." Around
Union Station, two Advisory Neighborhood Commissions joined to declare he
had "done more to improve public safety and quality of life in our
neighborhood in the past months than anyone can remember."

There are testimonials, too, from just plain people who said that until
Delgado, government officials had ignored their previous pleas for help. "He
has reinstilled my faith in mankind that there are people who care," said
Stephen Burgess, a Northwest tenant who couldn't get heat from his landlord
until Delgado intervened. "I can only wish you had more people who would
take their jobs as seriously," wrote Georgetown businessman James Harper.
And when Delgado closed a crack house in Southeast and made sure the evicted
occupants were relocated, a neighbor, William James, wrote: "As a citizen of
the District, I can only comment -- Thank God Mr. Delgado works for the city
and thank God he was able to help us."

But those same personnel files contain no promotions, honors, awards,
bonuses or merit raises from DCRA. Because of his unorthodox tactics,
Delgado is a pariah within his own agency, Ambrose says. She criticizes DCRA
for what she says is its lethargy in cleaning up nuisance properties and
urges officials to make Delgado a model. Instead, his work has been
tolerated, but not supported. His immediate boss, chief building inspector
Vincent Ford, says that over the years higher-ups in government have wrongly
labeled Delgado a "cowboy" who makes reckless and possibly illegal moves.
Such criticism, Ford says, comes primarily from people who don't understand
what Delgado does.

"I call him my jungle fighter. He goes where nobody else goes," says Ford,
who has consistently rated Delgado's performance as outstanding. Having
Delgado, he says, is "almost like having a strike force." Ford, a 16-year
DCRA veteran, and Ambrose believe Delgado's speed and effectiveness have
bred resentment among bureaucrats who feel threatened by his success. DCRA
has had a large staff of housing inspectors whose jurisdiction overlaps with
Delgado's but who are generally not noted for their vigilance. Says Ambrose,
"They don't want to be judged by the standard Delgado sets in hustle and
commitment."

Delgado's methods have also earned him his share of enemies outside his
agency. "I think he is a danger. I don't think he should be employed by the
city," says Donald Schlemmer, a lawyer who represented a Capitol Hill
restaurant owner who accused Delgado of assault in a 1992 dispute over a
sign. He characterizes Delgado's "super-hyper-aggressive" style as an "abuse
of authority."

That same aggressiveness, though, is welcomed in many crime-plagued
neighborhoods, and has caused the word to spread among community activists:
When you have a problem, don't call the government, call Delgado.

The District is pockmarked by at least 1,200 "nuisance" properties that are
abandoned or dilapidated, making them ideal breeding grounds for crime. And
as soon as one drug house is shut down, another inevitably sprouts up.
Closing these places is a never-ending task that others might find
exhausting and frustrating; Delgado embraces it with a messianic fervor
because he believes his actions bring hope to neighborhoods where there is
usually despair.

"I truly believe God has granted me this mission," Delgado says. "I can't be
hurt, unless I get too big for my britches. Sometimes I get cocky, but I
believe I have an envelope of spiritual protection . . . To live God's life
is to seek peace. But sometimes people who do evil will not allow that. So a
good spirit must be inclined to be a warrior. I believe my spirit is a
warrior spirit."

Delgado creatively pushes the outer limits of law and regulations -- using
sometimes novel interpretations essentially to harass people who have been
breaking the law with impunity. Example: He delivered a stern lecture and
then wrote a $500 ticket to a family whose son was selling heroin from a
Northwest apartment. The code violation: conducting commercial activity in a
residential zone without a home-business permit. The fine could've been
challenged and probably overturned; instead it prompted the parents to evict
the son. So Delgado tore up the ticket.

Delgado talks street talk, in English and Spanish. He makes threats, from
huge fines to arrest to jail. Sometimes the threats are real; sometimes he
is bluffing. But most people don't want to take the chance. Such unusual
tactics and an explosive delivery are Delgado's trademarks. "When I yell and
scream at someone, I feel like I am screaming for the people in the
community who want a stop to their personal misery," says Delgado, who grew
up in a miserable housing project in New York's Spanish Harlem. "You yell
and scream at the crack addicts who are abusing the community. You are the
voice of that community, the voice of the victims who can't say it
themselves. Someone is finally sticking up for them. I call it holy anger."

But Delgado probably will not be around much longer. He plans to retire from
government next year -- unless, in his view, the administration of
Washington's new mayor, Anthony Williams, becomes more serious about
community policing. Delgado loves his adrenalized role as an avenging angel,
and he relishes the gratitude he gets from the community he serves. But if
the city is not really serious about doing the job the right way, he says,
there's nothing to keep him from an early retirement.

Delgado flashes his badge and taps his huge black flashlight on the glass
front door of Bag's Billiards, a neighborhood pool hall in far Northeast
that has been the source of complaints about drug activity. It is 10:30 on a
Thursday night and the door is locked, but Delgado sees five men inside,
standing around a pool table, rolling dice, with bottles and plastic cups of
booze on the table. He knows he's got them, on a liquor violation, if not more.

"Building inspector. I need to talk to you," he tells the old man who comes
to the door.

Building inspectors have the right to enter any building -- but owners also
have the right to say no and make them get a warrant. Delgado never
explicitly asks permission to come in; rather he simply and forcefully
declares his need to. If someone should say no, which is very rare, Delgado
expresses his displeasure and reluctantly offers to go get a warrant.
Remarkably, though, he has never had to do that.

This night is no different. Owner Arthur Coleman, age 60, a tall and tired
gray-haired man wearing a black felt hat, lets Delgado inside the pool hall,
accompanied by his police escort, Officer John Jackson. Inside, the four
other men have already scattered and made a futile attempt to hide the evidence.

"Gentlemen, drinking in an unlicensed establishment is a $1,000 fine,"
Delgado says in his deepest voice as he puts on latex gloves to begin his
inspection. (The city will not provide gloves, so he gets them from his
brother who works in a garage.) Delgado has already spotted where the men
stashed the booze. He ducks under the pool tables, and shines his flashlight
behind several chairs and vending machines, emerging with bottles of
champagne, brandy and beer.

As he looks through the cluttered back room, Delgado gives Coleman more bad
news. "When you have a pool hall, you must have two means of egress," he
says, pointing to the rear. "That is a fire exit door, that cannot be locked
or blocked like that."

"This is harassment," Coleman mutters. "You are a tough man."

"No, I'm not, sir. I'm just doing my job," Delgado says. "The mayor and the
control board have said we have to do our jobs, and if I don't do mine, I
gotta find somebody else to feed my kids."

The fines are now up to $1,500, but Delgado is not finished.

"Are you feeling hungry?" he asks the police officer. This is a prearranged
signal Delgado uses when he has seen illegal drugs during an inspection. In
the pool hall's back room, in an open carton near the door, Delgado has
spotted a large plastic baggie filled with marijuana. Officer Jackson ducks
into the back room and after a long minute, emerges with the bag, which he
plops on the pool table.

"One of you is going to jail tonight," Delgado declares gravely, his eyes
sweeping the room. All five men look stunned and they stare at one another,
but for several more long minutes, nobody speaks.

"It's impossible. It's impossible," Coleman says, telling Delgado that many
people come in and out of the pool hall and somebody must have stashed the
drugs there.

It's tough, Delgado says, but if Coleman owns the pool hall, he owns the
dope -- unless he can convince the police otherwise. Coleman is exasperated,
repeating again and again that he has no idea. The standoff continues, with
all the men professing ignorance.

Delgado lays it on thick: He points out that the front of Bag's Billiards
has a large sign for which it lacks a permit (as do most city businesses)
and also has apparently had recent electrical work done without a permit.
The fines theoretically are now up to $2,500 and Coleman slumps in his chair
with a dazed expression and watery eyes beneath his hat. He tells Delgado
the pool hall doesn't even make money.

Now Delgado spots a stray electrical wire hanging from the dropped ceiling.
He stands on a chair and peers through a gap in the ceiling tiles to spot an
electric scale of the kind used to weigh drugs. He calls Jackson over.
Jackson takes out his Miranda card and begins to read Coleman and the other
men their rights. Then Delgado has a lengthy private discussion with Jackson
and several other cops who have arrived.

Delgado crouches down and gets up very close to the slumping Coleman as he
says this: "Mr. Coleman, we are here because of complaints about this
establishment from the community. Complaints about this establishment, not
about you. The community wants this place closed." He lets the words sink in
before continuing.

"Mr. Coleman, if you, in writing, now surrender your license and close for
30 days, if you surrender it and close your doors, that should take care of
this."

The police could readily arrest Coleman. But it is highly doubtful he would
be convicted for personally possessing drugs that were found on his
premises. Yet he is confronting the prospect of spending a night in jail and
possibly paying thousands between Delgado's fines and legal fees.

Coleman seems paralyzed. Then he asks Delgado whether closing will
definitely keep him out of jail. Delgado tells him he'll talk to the police.
Finally Coleman says, "Let's go ahead and close it."

Delgado takes out his camera and begins to photograph the drugs, booze, dice
and electric scale now displayed on the pool table.

Coleman hunches over the table and starts writing on lined paper: "I Arthur
Coleman are surrender my licsensin . . . because of the community so I don't
hurt it. Willing to close, for better condition so I can help the
community." Coleman shows this to Delgado, who tells him he must be certain
he is doing this voluntarily. Coleman adds the sentences, "I do this of my
own free will. I was not made to do so," and signs "Arthur S. Coleman." He
hands Delgado his business license.

It is after midnight when Delgado asks him, "Mr. Coleman, are you a
religious man?"

"Yes, very religious."

"Well, tonight I think you should thank someone."

Coleman ponders his situation, repeats that he wasn't making much money
anyway, and tells Delgado wearily, "You all did me a favor."

Delgado is standing at a chalkboard in a Judiciary Square conference room,
drawing a diagram to illustrate his investigative methods and enforcement
techniques. He's wearing old bluejeans and nervously tapping a leather boot.
His audience is two top representatives of Mayor Williams in their dark
business suits.

"The beauty of this is that I discovered a way to use the building code, the
zoning code, the business codes to help combat crime," Delgado says with a
characteristic flourish of ego. "It is like the old Al Capone case: They
couldn't bust him, but they got him on tax evasion."

Lecturing at the mayor's office gives Delgado an ironic sense of
satisfaction because he worked here almost half a lifetime ago, under very
different circumstances. It was in the 1980s, when the office was occupied
by Marion Barry, and Jim Delgado was an idealistic recent college grad,
making his way up from being a high school dropout.

He'd had a rough childhood, particularly after the divorce of his parents,
who were poor immigrants from Puerto Rico. One of 10 siblings, he was
scarred in his youth by physical abuse, a brother's death from heroin, a
sister's traumatic teenage pregnancy. His family depended on welfare and
lived in a crowded apartment where pipes leaked, heating failed, ceilings
fell and rats sometimes swam up in the toilets.

Delgado was a smart kid, and he managed to escape his grim surroundings
thanks to an aunt who invited him to live with her in Michigan. He got his
high school equivalency degree, and he cried the day he was accepted at a
community college. He made some money as a truck driver and factory worker,
and wanted to become a cop or even a lawyer. He transferred to Michigan
State University and there he met some charismatic, politically radical
professors and took a college course that changed his life. It was called
"The Ghetto."

[continued in Part 2: Building Inspector With A Bulletproof Vest]