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BALTIMORE (AP) — A year after the death of , a small part of his legacy can be seen at a southwest Baltimore recreation center, where the pounding of basketballs and squeak of sneakers echo off the walls as young black men in shorts and sweats face off. Ken Hurst, a white policeman, watches from the side, a bum knee the only thing that keeps him from playing. He visits the game each week, not to make arrests but to make friends. “I need them to realize I’m not out here to lock everyone up,” he says. “I’m here to rebuild trust.” Seldom in the city’s history has that trust been so tenuous: Gray, a 25-year-old black man from West Baltimore, died after his neck was broken April 12 in the back of a police van. Protests erupted and long-simmering tensions between the police and residents exploded into the worst riots and looting in more than four decades. The U.S. Department of Justice announced an investigation into allegations of unlawful arrests and excessive force. In Baltimore andbeyond, Gray’s name became a rallying cry, representative of black men’s mistreatment by police officers, and of the Baltimore department’s own failings. Police commissioner Anthony Batts was fired. His deputy — and replacement — Kevin Davis — promised to repair a relationship with the community that was so strained some say it’s safer to run from police than take a chance on interacting with them. While some in the community remain skeptical, other say there has been progress. Davis has implemented a mandatory, 40-hour community patrol class that teaches officers in training — and eventually, all officers — how to engage residents. Davis said he has also begun honoring officers each week for demonstrating “guardianship” — for forging strong bonds with residents, rather than making arrests. “That’s how far we’ve come this year,” he says. “Would that have happened before Freddie Gray? Probably not. “We can no longer just go occupy a geography, a poor minority neighborhood, and stop 300people in the hopes of catching 10 bad guys,” Davis said. “We’re also looking at who we’re hiring … Are we hiring people with a service mind set, or people who watch too many cops and robbers television shows?” Another initiative, the one that brought Hurst to the rec center, aims to get more officers out of their cars and walking the streets of Baltimore’s most crime-ridden neighborhoods as full-time patrol officers. Howard Hood is a 22-year-old black man who was born and raised in the neighborhood Hurst patrols, and he shows up to the rec center every Tuesday night. “Not all cops want to see us dead or in jail. We need more officers to come out and feel comfortable being around us,” he says. An hour earlier, Hurst, blue-eyed with tanned skin and an easy smile, was walking along a commercial strip in the Irvington neighborhood, dotted with corner stores, liquor stores, cheap restaurants and a massive thrift shop. Spotting a group of young men loitering near a bus shelter, he gentlybut firmly told them to move along. As he strolled down the block, a car stopped in the middle of the road and a young man popped his head out of the passenger window. “Whassup Hurst?” he shouts, his smiling lips parted to reveal teeth plated with gold veneers. As part of his routine, Hurst walks to a cellphone store to check in on the manager. On the way, 45-year-old Keith Hopkins, who sat in a wheelchair, a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers, stopped the officer to chat. “Hurst don’t need a gun or a badge around here,” he says. “He’s one of the good ones.”
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