For more than four years homeless activists and their supporters have accused Denver officials of making homelessness a crime. What they mean is that Denver is unwilling to turn over its sidewalks, alleys, parks and other public property to homeless encampments.
Now the dispute appears headed for a climax, with cases in both federal and local courts challenging the enforcement of the anti-camping ordinance that the Denver City Council approved in May 2012. If those challenges succeed, it could mark an alarming watershed in urban policy. For the first time, Denver could effectively be denied the right to control public rights of way and amenities, keeping them accessible to all.
Denver is no outlier in its policies or problems. Hundreds of cities have ordinances that activists mischaracterize as criminalizing homelessness — that outlaw sleeping in cars, for example, or camping in parks or on sidewalks. And most such policies have been in place for decades. They’ve by and large withstood legal challenge, too.
Boulder has had an anti-camping ordinance since the early 1980s, which it successfully defended in court. But attacks on such policies escalated as the number of homeless swelled in some cities following the Great Recession. (Nationally, but not in Denver, the number of homeless is now in decline.)
Two years ago, the U.S. Justice Department weighed in on the side of activists, arguing in an Idaho case that has since been settled that anti-camping ordinances violate the Eighth Amendmentap ban on cruel and unusual punishment. The argumentap basic premise is hardly a revelation: People have to sleep somewhere. And perhaps in cities where there is no room at the inn — shelters and other sanctuaries — the idea of a right to camp on public property should be taken seriously. But Denver has insisted since the anti-camping ordinance passed that there have been options for the homeless that some refuse to accept.
The most ambitious of the challenges to Denver’s law is a suit filed last fall in U.S. District Court accusing the city of “engaging in the ongoing, conscious practice — based upon official policy — of seizing and summarily destroying the personal possessions of essentially all homeless persons living in Denver who even appear to be residing in public space.” The lawsuit charges police and city workers descend on encampments without warning and without telling campers “how they can retrieve their property.” Their possessions are thrown into trucks and ultimately destroyed, according to the suit — which seeks certification as a class action.
If the city truly were the heartless, ruthless eviction machine depicted in the lawsuit, it might deserve judicial rebuke. But the city takes strong exception to the description. Evan Dreyer, deputy chief of staff to Mayor Michael Hancock, points to four levels of notice: from outreach workers, police officers who specialize in interaction with the homeless, the posting of signs and the distribution of flyers. Meanwhile, he says, campers are given the chance to take their property and then, if they don’t, to retrieve it for 30 days from a holding center.
Even the best-laid plans can look messy on the ground or be clumsily enforced, and if the city has been ham-handed in handling of property then it should fine-tune the policy. After all, the city adjusted its policy recently for the rare occasions when police actually issue tickets under the camping ban (fewer than 30 in 4 1/2 years). Rather than seize tents and sleeping gear for evidence, the mayor decreed, police will only photograph them instead.
Fine-tuning a policy is one thing. Crippling the ability of the city to disperse encampments altogether is the real danger. The experience in other cities proves that such encampments can quickly degenerate into a safety and health problem — a haven for crime and drug use. And even if that weren’t so, Denver has a host of reasons to want to keep its neighborhoods and parks attractive to the mass of citizens who foot the gargantuan bill for homeless services, which officials say equals $50 million annually.
On frigid nights in Denver, there may be 1,500 homeless persons in shelters, another 1,500 in motels (for which the cities offers vouchers) or some form of transitional or alternative housing, and up to several hundred who remain outside. But the challenges involving that last category are not easily addressed.
Dreyer told me, for example, of an incident this month when the temperature reached zero and outreach workers approached a camp of 25 — including two pregnant women — to urge them into shelters. Their advice was resisted. Only the lure of motel vouchers finally turned the tide — and even then four people elected to stay outside.
Imagine the futility of such conversations when the weather is balmy. No wonder Denver is determined not to lay down the welcome mat for homeless encampments.
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