One Tuesday evening in February, a few blocks from the 81st Precinct station in Bedford-Stuyvesant, a clutch of angry protesters leafleted the rush-hour commuters. They cornered subway riders, shouting like Old-Testament prophets, "Justice for Timothy Stansbury Jr.!" Block letters at the top of the flyers spelled out their message: "Get the police out of the 'hood and schools."

This poor Brooklyn neighborhood made headlines in January when a police officer from the nearby 79th Precinct fatally shot Timothy Stansbury, an unarmed 19-year-old. The shooting occurred on the roof of one of the housing projects that honeycomb against the neighborhood skyline. A few days after the shooting, Police Commissioner Raymond Kelly answered protesters with a terse statement: "There were some eager to poison police and community relations with distorted and enflamed rhetoric about the incident."

These protesters enlisted African-American youth in a campaign to reduce police presence in the neighborhood. Twelve Brooklyn community organizations signed the protest flyers, from churches to the Hip-Hop Project.

They marched on City Hall in February, but soon afterwards, the New York papers quietly dropped the story. The officer was acquitted of the shooting a few weeks later, leaving protesters unsatisfied and community perceptions damaged. While Commissioner Kelly dismissed this protest as "enflamed rhetoric," the speeches addressed some real problems. Police presence has increased over the last two years, and unlike Perez, most Bed-Stuy residents don't idolize the police.

Walking towards the 81st Precinct that Tuesday evening, the community/police divide seemed tangible. Underneath the glare of neon-lit storefronts, broken glass sparkled on the sidewalk. A thick brick wall with razor wire divided the police station compound from the outside.

Inside the police station, glossy blue paint smoothed every metal surface. Upstairs, Officer Brad Herrschaft hosted more than 50 parents and teenagers packed inside the Youth Council squad room, everybody mingling like cheerful relatives in a precinct family reunion.

Herrschaft runs the precinct's Youth Council, facing the tough job of renewing the bond between Bed-Stuy kids and the police. Instead of mug-shots and police reports, motivational posters cover the concrete-block walls of his office.

In one corner, Herrschaft set up portable burners to heat giant aluminum pans of Mexican fried-rice, pork and chicken for an after-meeting feast. For big meetings like this one, he enlists neighborhood volunteers to cook food for the kids. The institutional room smelled like grandma's kitchen. Teenagers wrestled and giggled in their seats, completely comfortable in the middle of police headquarters.

Wearing a cream-colored sweater and sporting a goatee, Officer Herrschaft speaks with the self-effacing, quiet voice of a high school guidance counselor. Asked to describe his work, Herrschaft just smiled. "Don't talk to me, ask the kids about it."

Herrschaft took over the Youth Council three years ago, after working 10 years as an officer in the precinct. Every Tuesday and Wednesday, Herrschaft stays hours past the end of his shift to work with kids. He kept the youth council busy last year, supervising the NYPD Explorer Program, the weekly after-school sports leagues and the occasional cop vs. kids basketball match. He convinced Bed-Stuy parents and organizations to donate special-event tickets for the youth council members, taking kids to Knicks and Yankee games, concerts, panel discussions and museums last year—stretching a thin budget into a consistent program.

Fifteen years ago, the 81st Precinct formed the Youth Council, an umbrella outreach program including NYPD Explorers, sports teams, cheerleading squads and field trips. The group meets every Tuesday in the police station, working with Herrschaft to plan activities. All NYPD precincts have youth officers, but they struggle with small budgets and limited publicity.

Herrschaft shares his office with two other youth crime officers. Together, they cover gang problems, youth drug offenders and the rest of the juvenile cases in Bed-Stuy. That night, they mingled with the teenagers who had overrun their space.

Officer Philip Banks tussled playfully with a teenager who stole his cushy seat. "A 15-year-old kid thinks he can sit in the King's chair!" he boomed.
Across the room, Christopher Williams greeted every officer by name. The burly 15-year-old slouched in his chair, wearing a perpetual teddy bear's grin. His two older siblings graduated from the Youth Council a few years ago. His oldest sister Alecia even brought her toddler son to the meeting—bringing the second-generation of their family into the fold.

"I feel like I have a second family on Tuesdays," Williams explained. "A family that keeps me off the street." Williams worked on his junior high newspaper, and hoped to study creative writing in college someday.

Herrschaft shushed the noisy crowd by formally recognizing the Youth Council’s graduating seniors. Each member stood bashfully for a few moments while their friends and family applauded. Herrschaft passed around a sign-up sheet for a Knicks' game field-trip. Boys and girls grabbed for the coveted list, giggling the whole time. Then, the officer handed control over to the Council president. Herrschaft tries to stay out of the center at these meetings; he wants the kids to do the work themselves. He believes these kids need to take responsibility and decide things themselves.

"Our job is trying to keep kids out of trouble," he explained. "But that doesn't have much to do with us. It's more about the kids being willing to change." So most meetings, Herrschaft steps aside, letting the leaders do the work. The kids always thank him for his help, but he stays out of the spotlight most of the time. He works more for the satisfaction of seeing college-kids come back and visit during the yearly open house.

Kishan Perez was one of the lucky ones that graduated from the Youth Council. One Saturday afternoon in February, Perez steered his battered Cutlass Supreme past his old Bedford-Stuyvesant high school. "They used to make us wear ties every day, and I hated it back then" he said. "I went there on a call last week; some guy popped another kid with a glass bottle. They already took him to the hospital, but I saw the blood and glass on the ground."

At 28, Perez cut a more commanding figure than he did in high school. This sunny February afternoon, he wore a hardboiled-stubble and a black tie peeked out underneath his v-neck sweater. He drove with a police scanner squawking on his dashboard, tuned to the voices of the officers he idolized since he was a kid. Many years ago, this Bed-Stuy native found his purpose in the middle of a police station.

Perez's infatuation with police-life began almost 10 years ago when he worked with the NYPD Youth Council at the 81st Precinct in Bed-Stuy. As a NYPD Explorer—a sort of Cub Scouts for aspiring police officers—Perez and 10 other boys worked side-by- side with cops. They learned military marching drills, rode along in squad cars, and cleaned graffiti in the neighborhood. This year, police-community relations collapsed in Bed-Stuy, endangering under-funded programs like the Explorers. However, under the guidance of the program's director, Officer Bradley Herrschaft, the Council stayed open, helping kids like

Perez beat the odds in a tough neighborhood.

Perez now works as a bail-bondsman and studies criminal justice at Brooklyn College; at night, he patrols the streets in the Bed-Stuy volunteer ambulance corps. He grew up to be a community activist in Bed-Stuy, and hopes to work here as a police officer someday. These days, many Bed-Stuy kids won't be so lucky. According to the Brooklyn School District, 67 percent of the students at Perez's old school, the Boys and Girls High School (K 455), will graduate. Fewer than 40 percent of those students will ever complete college study.

"It's a rush," he said about his 10 years of volunteer work. "I feel like I'm helping people."

"I remember Kishan," said Officer Bradley Herrschaft. "He was a character. He still comes by the precinct sometimes."
One March afternoon, a local museum-director and Youth Council patron spoke about Herrschaft's community influence. Laurie Cumbo runs the Museum of Contemporary African Diasporan Art (MoCADA), a cozy museum nestled on the top floor of a skinny schoolhouse. Wearing a no-nonsense blue bandana, Cumbo showed off her current exhibit with all the enthusiasm of a proud mother.

She paused by a set of ink drawings by the late Bed-Stuy illustrator, Tom Feelings. There, the artist sketched a little black boy staring through the gate of a Bed-Stuy brownstone. The old bars have twisted with decay, and the boy can barely see over the railing. The sidewalk slabs poked out like mismatched teeth, transforming the ordinary street into a dreamy, cartoon sea. Cumbo explained how Feelings had escaped the poverty of Bed-Stuy, traveling all over the world in his career as an illustrator. He always returned to Bed-Stuy, dedicated to sparking the imagination to lost children like that little boy in the drawing.

Cumbo laughed when she explained how she met Herrschaft. While showing a film in Bed-Stuy's Fulton Park, a couple teenagers tried to ruin the night. "These kids kept riding bikes in front of the screen and flipping the bird to the audience. I got so mad, and I knocked one of the boys off his bike. He swore up and down that he was going to go get some kids from the neighborhood to come and kick my ass. Then I got scared!"

So she called the police department, and Herrschaft dropped by. The bicycle gang never returned, but he stayed until the end of the movie, just in case. By the end of the film, the two community activists had planned a special tour of the museum for the Youth Council. Cumbo began attending Youth Council meetings, keeping the kids informed about her latest exhibits.

Last fall, Herrschaft took 20 Council kids on a fieldtrip to the museum. The teenagers explored the collection and Cumbo played tour guide. She ended the museum visit with a film about welfare reform in New York City. "They had the opportunity to see City Hall from the inside, see how the mayor made choices that affected them directly," she said. "They were very moved. They saw that this isn't some stuffy museum, this is about their lives."

Over his 10 years at 81st Precinct, Herrschaft has managed to stay in touch with most of the Youth Council leaders—the kids like Perez that found the program and succeeded. "That's the best part," he said, "when they come back from the college or the army to visit us. These are my kids." Although Herrschaft sees results in his kids, the council still stands like a lonely outpost in the middle of a looming youth crisis in Bed-Stuy. The 2000 U.S. Census counted 12,000 teenagers living in Bed-Stuy. Herrschaft, by his most optimistic figures, will only help about 150 teenagers this year.

On another afternoon in March, a constant stream of parents and teenagers poured through Herrschaft's office, airing various problems to the three youth officers who share the room. Herrschaft listened intently to each complaint, making phone calls or leading them through the station to find more help. He handled problems patiently, and none of his visitors minded waiting either. They just chatted in the middle of the squad room.

This easy-going rapport came from a lifetime of experience with ordinary people in the neighborhood. Herrschaft grew up in Brooklyn. After college, he patrolled the neighborhood for years, meeting kids like Perez and Williams every day. He understands how Bed-Stuy worked, and has an easy rapport with the locals. Parents appreciate his work too, donating money and time every year.

"I don't know why, I just always got along with kids," he said. "It was easy, and they kept promoting me in the youth program." A picture of his wife and three children rested on his desk, but he repeatedly steered questions away from home. His stories came back to police work and the office, the places where he spends most of his time.

That same afternoon, Joseph Harris marched into the office. The 16-year-old NYPD Explorer sat with perfect posture the whole time we spoke, dressed in an NYPD T-shirt with replica police badge stitched on the front. The Explorers made him Sergeant this year. Just like Perez, Harris had been attracted to law-enforcement through the Explorer program.

While most kids come to the Youth Council for field trips and sports of the Youth Council, Herrschaft's program also includes the more serious and disciplined Explorers. Harris and his friends learn military formations and run small foot-patrols in the neighborhood, bridging the gap between civilian teenagers and the police officers. Just like Kishan Perez, Harris was attracted to the glamour and discipline of the Explorers. The 16-year-old Explorer hoped to join the auxiliary police next fall, and he just signed up for the ROTC. He hopes someday to become an officer in the U.S. Marines.

"The officers tell us stories about bad things that happen to people on the street," Harris explained. "That's how we learn to do what's right."
Despite these troubled times between police and the community, Harris said he will never join the anti-police protests in the neighborhood—because he worked with these officers. "Sometimes officers seem brutal," he said, "but after you train with them, you understand that they have to be like that sometimes."

Herrschaft's quiet influence came through in the personalities of the kids in the Council. Harris and his fellow Explorer carry themselves with a serious dignity, and the elected Council leaders run meetings with brisk authority. Herrschaft seems shy and invisible, but watching kids like Harris perform, one sees how the Youth Council director shaped them.

While the Bed-Stuy program has worked, Herrschaft has fought funding limitations every year. The NYPD has struggled to improve community relations, but the city doesn't give enough money to the programs like the Council. "The last three years, the department cut back my funding every time," Herrschaft said. "When I started, we used to have field trips every month. Now we depend on donors and our fundraising money."

Since the open house in February, the Youth Council has taken two small groups to basketball games. By the same time last year, the group had attended four youth conferences, gone bowling, saw a movie and organized a neighborhood talent show. This year, they need to save the money for an annual summer trip to Great Adventure Park. "We'll take 40 or 50 kids on that trip," he said. "But that's going to use up all our money this year."

For the last year and a half, the NYPD heavily funded an initiative called Operation Impact. After analyzing crime statistics, the department deployed more officers into high-crime areas. The Bed-Stuy precinct received more officers early last year, and crime fell to record-lows. However, the February protests proved that more police officers on the street won't heal community relations fractured by the Stansbury shooting.

Even though Operation Impact has enabled the capture of more criminals than before, it can't stop kids from growing up to be criminals. Herrschaft saw this from the beginning of his career as an officer: "When I was a day-to-day officer with my cases, I never felt like I accomplished anything. Now I can see results with the kids, and I generally go home smiling," he said. The city enforced crime down to record lows in the community the last few years, funding officers to fix the symptoms, but not the causes of crime.

Sandra Thompson agreed. As a member of the Bed-Stuy Community Council, she had monitored the Youth Council for years. "People only notice the problems over here. I've watched these kids for years, and I think Officer Herrschaft put together the best Youth Council in New York City," she said.

Like Cumbo, Thompson had lived in Bed-Stuy for more than 30 years, leaving only to attend college. The Community Council helped raise funds and recruit around 70 parents this year – more adults to coach and chaperone the precinct projects. She praised the program's college-attendance record. This year, all five high school seniors in the program will graduate from high school, moving on to college or the armed forces. These small triumphs touch the bigger problems of poverty and apathy, problems outside the range of Operation Impact.

By the Brooklyn School District dropout averages, around 2,400 teenagers will drop out of high school in Bed-Stuy over the next four years, and only half of the remaining students will attend college. That leaves at least five thousand teenagers floundering each year. "This year we want to work hard to connect with more youth groups," said Herrschaft, remaining optimistic even though his programming dwindled this year. "We know we need to reach more kids."

Kishan Perez summed up Herrschaft's impact at the end of his Saturday afternoon patrol, steering his car back towards home. The whole car rattled when he made the sharp turn. He pulled out a plastic police light that they gave him for work. "Look at that," he marveled as the interior flashed red in strobe-light bursts. "Most people don't pay attention, because I don't have a siren."

The police scanner skidded off the dashboard and crashed to the floor as he turned another corner. Perez couldn't catch it because he kept the plastic police light propped up with his free hand. The radio chirped away under the dashboard, playing the disembodied voices of real officers working the troubled neighborhood. He drove past rows of crumbling brownstones, gaudy bodega signs and packs of teenagers that roamed the streets.

Perez had a busy schedule, but he still volunteered a couple nights a week in his neighborhood. He explained: "Everybody around here knows me. They see me on the street, and they know I can help."

Perez is proud of himself, with his beat-up car and volunteer badge. Despite all its under-funded and under-utilized potential, Herrschaft's Youth Council had changed his life. "They know me," he repeated, gesturing at the neighborhood kids outside. After graduating Herrschaft's program, Perez found a sense of purpose and stayed friends with the community at the same time. A couple times a week, this sincere, bumbling volunteer helps ease – just a little bit – the tension between police and his community.

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