Backstory: In St. Paul, putting less heat on the homeless

The Listening House, packed with people watching TV, using computers, or just keeping warm, laid the foundation for the police-social-service collaboration. Rosemarie Reger-Rumsey, the center's director, noticed that police never felt comfortable coming into the shelter unless they needed to make an arrest. One day she invited a beat officer to stop by for coffee. "He accepted, and then introduced us to his partner," she recalls. "Then we extended the offer to his commander."

Eventually, she suggested formalizing a partnership between police and a variety of social-service providers - shelters, medical staff, housing experts. The idea meant overcoming prejudice on both sides, but the first meeting, held about a year ago, was well attended.

"I really hold those two officers up as being the start of it all," she says. One still comes by regularly to play cards. Ms. Reger-Rumsey and Paulos agree that the most important outcome is simply the improved trust and communication. "We're trying to change a culture here," she says. "We've had officers call and say, 'so-and-so is hanging out with a tough crowd.' It gives us an opportunity to sit the person down and talk."

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There have been concrete changes, too. When police mentioned they were spending too much time shuttling homeless people to detoxification centers, one shelter, the Dorothy Day Center, agreed to admit people with higher alcohol levels. The result: police have more time to patrol streets and handle emergencies.

Dozens of police attended two days of training on how to deal with the mentally ill. They, in turn, held a session for providers on the use of force - when and why it's necessary. The next time Paulos found himself fighting off an antagonistic man, one social-service worker stopped and wished him well. "Now they understand what we're doing," he says.

Commander John Vomastek first saw the partnership's potential when someone forwarded an e-mail sent to the mayor's office: A resident of a new condo development was upset about a man with a shopping cart throwing trash along the river.

"Instead of giving it to the [police] squad, I called a guy who works with the homeless camps.... He found the guy, who was mentally ill, and got him to the hospital," he says. The guy who sent the e-mail "loved it. And we spent zero police time on the whole thing."

As Paulos navigates the streets, we check out an encampment by the railroad tracks. There, surrounded by shacks of scrap metal and tarps, and an astounding array of pots, pans, and bikes, two men build a fire and open a can of Dinty Moore chicken stew with a knife.

One, Rich, says he lost his job as a retail manager over a year ago. A former addict, he avoids shelters since they have drugs. His friend, Paul, says he's been homeless for two months. He was laid off from his truck-driving job and had to sell his house.

Both men are articulate and thoughtful. As we leave, Paulos muses that the next training session should introduce officers to the homeless who have had jobs, been to college, and, through some misfortune, ended up on the streets. "They're no different from you or I, just a different path of life was dealt," he says.

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