I n 2011, Ron Blake said he was raped in his Phoenix condo by his former partner and two others. Though Blake reported the rape the night it happened, and though police showed up and escorted at least one of the men home, it took four years for police to inves- tigate the matter in earnest. Diagnosed with dissociative amnesia and still struggling to clearly recall the incident, Blake was finally introduced to Julie Smith, a Phoenix police detective who served as the department’s LGBTQ+ liaison on his case. Smith spoke to Blake about the events of that night and escorted him to request an order of protection, which was ultimately denied. Despite that, it was never clear to Blake how Smith was supposed to help him. A few months later, Blake stopped hearing from Smith entirely. Written testi- mony from a former detective showed she kept no notes of their interactions. He felt abandoned, and he questioned the purpose of the person who was supposed to be a bridge between the police department and the LGBTQ+ community. “You can’t tell people everything’s OK for LGBTQ+ people and how they’re being treated by police if I’m still experiencing this,” Blake said. “Their purpose should be to walk me through this. I’m coming out of a deep sleep — I need consistency.” The job of LGBTQ+ liaison is not an uncommon one in Arizona police depart- ments. Many local agencies — including the largest cop shops in the Valley — have programs meant to provide support for specific communities, foster trust in reporting crimes and encourage people to work with police. Yet, there is little evidence from local police departments that they have done any of that. A LOOKOUT and Phoenix New Times investigation reveals that many of the people in these positions simply do not serve a clear purpose. None of these departments have accreditation for an LGBTQ+ liaison program, and police have been quiet on what trainings exist across different departments that have a liaison in place. In at least one case, in Flagstaff, a liaison was completely absent during a critical moment for the community. Such an undertaking by police depart- ments seemingly couldn’t come at a better time for groups under siege. But a deeper look at the record shows that too many of these commitments have been all talk — if even that. WHAT IS AN LGBTQ+ POLICE LIAISON? In addition to Phoenix, at least 10 other cities in Arizona currently have a desig- nated liaison program: Chandler, Glendale, Tempe, Mesa, Avondale, Gilbert, Peoria, Scottsdale, Flagstaff and Tucson. At its core, LGBTQ+ police liaisons exist to mend the relationship between the LGBTQ+ community and law enforcement, which has been fraught for decades. In Phoenix, that distrust can be traced back at least to the Eighth Day raid in 1964. In the early morning hours one Sunday, Phoenix police raided Eighth Day Coffee House, an LGBTQ+ social club at 915 N. First St. in Downtown Phoenix. They arrested more than 20 people on charges ranging from “lewd and lascivious acts” to “drunk-and-disorderly conduct.” The Arizona Republic printed the names of those arrested, and many lost their jobs. There are other examples. Phoenix police spied on a local gay bar in the 1990s. Cops clashed with undocumented queer protesters at a Phoenix Pride event a decade ago. Recent cases of gay men and trans people being murdered or assaulted have spurred accusations that police are not taking anti-LGBTQ+ bias seriously. Liaison programs are intended to repair that broken trust and offer safety and guid- ance for LGBTQ+ victims, who are 6.5% less likely to report crimes than their non- LGBTQ+ counterparts, according to a 2024 report by the ACLU. But simply staffing a liaison isn’t enough. In 2017, the U.S. Department of Justice said as much in a document from its Office of Community-Oriented Policing Services. The document outlined ways police should interact with LGBTQ+ folks, highlighting the need for more direct conversations, a constant reevaluation of internal practices and procedures, establishing citizen/ community police academies that include a focus on LGBTQ+ people’s needs, having a presence at LGBTQ+ events and engage- ment with queer organizations. The publication recognized Phoenix police’s Advisory Board and its two desig- nated LGBTQ+ liaisons’ efforts to “create a climate of trust between the community and the Phoenix Police Department” and “provide a forum where the Phoenix Police Department can listen actively to commu- nity concerns and create solutions to social problems.” But in 2023, the Arizona Mirror and the Howard Center for Investigative Journalism called into question the trans- parency and efficacy of that same board, claiming the department “releases virtu- ally no information about what the 12 boards do, what they discuss or how — if at all — leadership incorporates any feedback from the boards into police tactics.” Patrick Kelley, the owner of the Melrose clothing store Off Chute Too, was forced to resign from the LGBTQ+ advisory board in 2017 after he spoke out about the depart- ment’s lack of transparency with hate crime statistics, its inconsistent meeting schedules and its unwillingness to take feedback or suggestions from board and community members. And an ineffective liaison program is little better than none at all. >> p 15 This story was published in partnership with LOOKOUT, a nonprofit news outlet focused on LGBTQ+ accountability jour- nalism in Arizona. Arizona police are letting LGBTQ+ crime victims fall through the cracks. SILENT TREATMENT BY CELINA JIMÉNEZ Ron Blake didn’t find out that Phoenix police had closed the investigation into his rape until two years after the fact. (Danielle Cortez)
