Photograph by Anna Johnston

On a muggy Friday night in West Baltimore, Sergeant Mike Smith and Detective Robert Pulliam drive up to a couple huddled on the corner — two of Baltimore’s many heroin addicts. As they pull up to the pair on the curb the car headlights illuminate the scene: a young white couple, the man with dark hair and a beanie cap and the woman in dirty jeans and a winter coat, buttoned despite the warm night. She has been peeling away at a scratch lottery ticket with her fingernails, hoping to get lucky. The couple look up, partially blinded by the harsh headlights of the cop car. The officers ask them to stand so that they can conduct a search; while having needles or other drug paraphernalia in their possession is not illegal, if the addicts still have heroin they could be arrested. There is no arguing or denying. Both the officers and the addicts silently acknowledge that these two are actively using heroin, and are likely currently high. Yet, at least this time, the police treat the man and woman with respect, chatting casually as they don gloves to search through the woman’s purse and the man’s jacket. An officer asks the man if he has any needles in his pockets; if a dirty needle sticks him through the gloves, the officer could be at risk for contracting a disease. The man shakes his head and instead nods toward his backpack where his drug paraphernalia is stored.

There is no heroin, only about 200 used needles bundled tightly together by rubber bands. The woman explains that they had been waiting for the needle exchange van so that they could turn in their dirty needles in exchange for clean ones. She looks barely 21, a brunette with long, pin-straight hair and legs so skinny it is a miracle they support her weight. The man’s face is more weathered; he has been using heroin on and off for almost a decade, whereas the woman started only a year ago. When asked why she began using heroin, the woman states plainly that she began when she was working as a stripper on The Block, Baltimore’s red-light district. “Taking your clothes off for strangers is pretty uncomfortable,” she says, “heroin makes it a little easier.” Sgt. Smith and Det. Pulliam nod; they’ve heard this story before. The officers ask if she could go back home to her parents, but the young woman snorts. She’s from Baltimore County, and her father is a police Lieutenant. She doesn’t think he would be too pleased at her return.

Before the officers leave, they casually ask where the couple bought their most recent score. The woman pulls Sgt. Smith off to the side and tells him the address of their current source as Det. Pulliam continues talking to the man, making idle chit chat about the weather. After a few minutes, they are done. “Get rid of those needles,” the policemen say as they get back in the car, “and be safe.”

After they drive around the corner, Sgt. Smith and Det. Pulliam compare notes. The woman alerted Sgt. Smith to a house down the block that has been selling heroin, and they record the address for future investigation. Surprisingly, addicts are some of their best informants. “They hate the drug dealers,” Sgt. Smith explains, “because they’re horrible to [the addicts].” Dealers often jack up prices, talk down to addicts, and don’t bother to hide their disdain for their customers. Although addicts are their source of income, most dealers view them as sub-human.

Sgt. Smith sighs as he continues to drive through the barren blocks of a midnight in West Baltimore. There had already been two shootings that night, and the streets are deserted. “[Everyone] profits from heroin,” he says, “the drug dealers, the politicians, the builders that build jails, the government, everyone. The only person who doesn’t profit is the junkie.”