What happens after the police stop? People of color with disabilities face higher risks

In the wake of George Floyd's killing by police in Minneapolis, where several officers failed to prevent one officer's actions, New Orleans police have been besieged by requests from police nationwide to export their method of training officers to intervene to prevent misconduct by fellow officers. New Orleans' reputation for police brutality and corruption has improved, in part because of its "active bystander" training. Complaints are down and public support is up. Now its internal EPIC training course is available free to other departments as ABLE: Active Bystandership for Law Enforcement.

Montgomery County's longtime crisis response center illustrates the pitfalls of embracing a policing alternative without proper resources or thinking through the implications. The racial-justice protests of 2020 inspired many more cities and counties to explore mobile crisis response teams instead of police, to minimize violence and get people needed help instead of incarceration. While Montgomery County's team often deescalates crises and can either provide care or refer people to needed services, it lacks the staff to respond effectively. And the system of mental health care is too thin for the need.

Alameda and Santa Cruz counties have fielded their own mobile teams to respond to mental health crises as alternatives to police-only responses. Aimed at reducing conflicts with police, overuse of hospitals and jails, and involuntarily commitments for short-term emergency mental health care, the services' limited hours and resources mean that the police still handle the majority of such calls. Alameda's pilot, begun in July 2020, is able to provide help to about one-third of the four dozen monthly calls it gets. Santa Cruz's volume is higher. Impacts on involuntary commitments unclear.

More than a year after taking effect, California's law restricting when police can use deadly force has had some effects on police accountability and training, but a number of flaws illustrate how long and difficult the process of change will be. The Act to Save Lives, which limits the use of deadly force to cases when it is needed to defend a life, has been cited by prosecutors in two homicide prosecutions. A number of police departments have followed the law's training dictates. But many others have been slow to roll out the training, and the state is not requiring officers to take it to stay certified.

A series of killings by the police sparked a community-led movement urging greater accountability and better training. The campaign bore fruit when the Chico mayor formed a committee to examine use of force policies. While police-reform advocates got appointed to the committee, the panel was dominated by the police and their political allies. Use of force policies never got examined. The city, in fact, ended up giving the police more resources and power. One policing critic concludes from this episode that professionalizing the police without scrutinizing their mission is bound to fail.

Seattle Police Department's crisis response team answers some of the city's many 911 calls for people in distress, pairing police trained in handling such calls with mental health professionals. The aim is to counter the default policing approach to problems that usually involve mental illness or substance abuse, which is to control people. It doesn't always work, due to the complexity of the calls, the nature of policing, and the department's limited resources devoted to the program. But, when it works, it can help rather than escalate situations, and avoid the ultimate failure, the use of excessive force.

Since early 2019, a mental-health crisis response center, the West Philadelphia Consortium, has worked to get the police to call in the consortium's mobile crisis team to de-escalate crises and get people into treatment. In more than 1,200 cases in 2019, police made only six arrests and no one died. After police shot and killed Walter Wallace, Jr., during a mental-health crisis, the consortium revealed that it had worked with Wallace but wasn't called for help when police were summoned to his home. The consortium seeks to formalize its relationship with the police department to prevent more violence.

Daniel Prude's death in police custody illustrates a common flaw in how police respond to mental health crises, but reform advocates disagree on whether to improve police training or bypass police almost entirely. Mental health crises make up a large share of police calls, jailings, and fatal police shootings. Most police training on mental health responses is limited to 4-12 hours. Some departments put at least some officers through crisis intervention training. But critics of police-focused responses prefer non-police response teams, in use in a few cities.

More than 2,700 police departments in the U.S. have crisis intervention teams aimed at responding to mental health crises with fewer arrests and less violence, but the death of Daniel Prude in Rochester police custody offers clear lessons in the shortcomings and misuse of the CIT model. A lack of adequate mental health services across the country, coupled with superficial training of the police, too often means a police response to a crisis will not de-escalate the situation or lead to meaningful help for the person in crisis. A recent study found CITs have not shown they will lower violence.

After all 36,000 New York Police Department officers took required training in recognizing implicit racial bias, more officers understood how racism may increase officers' aggressiveness but there was no evidence that this awareness translated into a less racially disparate outcome in the numbers of people stopped and frisked. Since the protests of police bias that started in Ferguson, Mo., in 2014, most states have imposed mandatory implicit-bias training on police. NYPD's study is a rare measurement of the effects such training can have.