Not far from the bustling thoroughfare of Gallatin Pike—nestled in tracts of thick vegetation behind strip malls, along train tracks and under bridges—is a world where the homeless find refuge. These makeshift shelters offer little protection from the elements, but they provide an escape from police and proprietors ordering them to “move along.” Typically, these enclaves have existed with little interference—until last week, when Metro Police conducted the first of what’s to be many sweeps of these so-called homeless camps throughout Madison. One reason for the sweeps, according to police, is to look for illegal activity—a response to complaints of panhandling, loitering and petty theft attributed to the area’s homeless. If no crimes are uncovered, that’s when social services representatives step in to help. Finally, the camps’ inhabitants are forced to gather any belongings and, of course, move along. A press release posted on the Police Department’s website invites the media to take part in the inaugural sweep. The reason: “Just to let the public know what’s going on out there. We just want to let everybody know,” says North Precinct Sgt. Ricky Williams. And with the media present, the public is sure to know police are responding to its complaints about the homeless. But the flock of reporters armed with notebooks and cameras seem to make an already delicate situation even more humiliating for those assailed by the group. Metro Council member Michael Craddock is unmoved, however, and instead complains about the homeless “terrorizing” his taxpaying constituents. He explains that one such vagrant in his district, whom he calls “Homeless Jimmy,” walks up and down Gallatin Pike spitting at people and harassing women. What starts as a casual conversation among those gathered at the North Precinct before heading out on the sweeps quickly escalates to a heated dialogue. Clifton Harris, the city’s homelessness services coordinator, sharply replies that what Jimmy needs is mental health treatment. But Craddock says Nashville’s homeless already receive more attention and services than senior citizens and homeowners. “A lot of these guys choose to be homeless. They choose this life,” Craddock says. “They don’t have any worries. They don’t pay taxes.” Apparently, sleeping outdoors is not a legitimate worry. When it’s time to head out to the first of five camps, the group of six police officers, two social services workers, one city council member, a handful of reporters and the brother of one of the officers (who came along just because) gathers outside the police department. Led by Williams, the caravan pulls up to a dried-up creek bed that runs under Gallatin Pike and Webster Road. It’s not even 8 a.m. when the group descends a steep ravine to access the opening of a large concrete tunnel strewn with crushed Busch beer cans, empty packs of generic brand cigarettes, a grocery cart and a pornographic magazine. Several pairs of blue jeans and T-shirts hang along the wall. The ceiling is no more than 6-feet high, forcing some to stoop as they traverse the dark passage toward the end of the tunnel. As the passage opens up, a man and a woman are found sleeping on the concrete, without blankets and with nothing under their heads. They wake to more than a dozen onlookers. “We’re gonna need both your names,” Officer Phil Vincion tells the startled pair. The woman, Jamie, digs through a bag in search of identification. Her companion, Jeremy, hands his ID to police, who run a background check looking for any outstanding warrants. An officer asks Jamie about a white gauze bandage around her wrist. Twitching and rocking back and forth, she lights a cigarette and says, “I wasn’t trying to commit suicide.… I just wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing.” That’s when Ouida Cole, a Metro Social Services worker, steps in front of the officers to intervene. She kneels down to ask how they’re doing. “I’m just tired,” Jeremy says, insisting this is the first time he’s ever slept in the tunnel. Cole gives them each care packages of toothpaste, soap and other toiletries. She asks if they’re interested in receiving mental health treatment or other services, but they appear eager to get away from the crowd that’s converged. They decline Cole’s offer, so instead she hands them a business card. The background checks reveal no arrest warrants, so the two are told to leave the area. Jamie is 27 years old, but her weathered skin makes her look much older. Jeremy is 35 and walks with a cane. The two slowly climb up the ravine and head one way, while the officers and their entourage for the morning head the other direction. “For now they’re just going to find another place to sleep,” Cole says, disappointed with the outcome of the first sweep. Efforts to reach out to the homeless usually are conducted without police. “The reason for that is to establish trust,” says Charles Strobel, director of the Campus for Human Development. “When you join the police with Metro Social Services, not only does it discourage developing a trusting relationship, but it potentially becomes simply a law enforcement activity.” Strobel also was surprised to hear of the media’s involvement, but because he wasn’t present for the camp checks, he says, “I don’t know what the spirit of it was.” Down the road police encounter a man sitting on a bench next to a vacant business, behind which is another homeless camp. The man—John—says he isn’t homeless and asks reporters not to take his picture. He says he usually sleeps in a motel and that he has a job. After a few minutes of questioning John, police tell him to leave. There’s no one behind the building, but police find an old TWA baggage cart containing blankets, clothing and candles. A few feet away, a tree stump serves as a table, on top of which sits barbecue sauce, a jar of mayonnaise and plastic utensils. With no more people to question, the group heads to another camp. Behind the Sav-a-Lot on Clarksville Pike there’s a small clearing in the trees. Back in the woods are train tracks and a rather elaborate set up, including rows of cardboard boxes, two wingback chairs and a ratty recliner just a few feet from the tracks. Upon hearing the commotion, a man named Gary emerges from behind the rocks. Police search the area and find two handmade pick axes, which Gary says he keeps for protection, just in case. When a background check shows no outstanding warrants, Harris talks to Gary about available services, and he agrees to meet with a representative from nearby Centerstone Community Mental Health Center. With more than a dozen onlookers watching, Gary gathers up his belongings in a red gym bag. As he leaves the camp, he holds up a pair of boots and says, “These are work boots.… I do work, you know.” Upon reaching the final destination of the sweep, police again encounter John—whom they questioned at a previous site 45 minutes earlier—laying on a slab of concrete overlooking the creek behind H.G. Hill Food Store at Old Hickory Road and Gallatin Pike. “I don’t know what you all want from me,” he says as the same crowd approaches. Officer Vincion presses him, again asking where he lives and if he ever sleeps outdoors. John, looking down, answers almost inaudibly. He pleads with reporters to leave him alone and grows increasingly agitated with Vincion’s questions. Then Cole steps in to take the officer’s place. She offers a care package and he declines: “I’ve got a little pride, you know.” As the two continue to talk, the rest of the group carries on conversations of their own. Reporters are interviewing council member Craddock and a few of the officers, who discuss the problem they’ve tackled today. Meanwhile, John picks up the beer he had been enjoying from a brown paper bag before the spectators arrived and takes a drink. “I don’t do drugs. I don’t steal. I’m just sitting here,” he tells Cole, finishing what’s left of his beer. Finally, he breaks down and says, “I lost my job. I lost my wife.” He turns his back to the crowd—none of whom seem to notice—and starts to cry. “I don’t do drugs. I don’t steal. I’m just sitting here,” he tells Cole, finishing what’s left of his beer. Finally, he breaks down and says, “I lost my job. I lost my wife.” He turns his back to the crowd—none of whom seem to notice—and starts to cry.