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I met Catherine Lang at a Starbucks in Tinley Park, Ill., one day last summer.
We exchanged niceties, acknowledging that it was, in fact, a bit weird to tell one’s story to a total stranger. Then she shared with me, in great detail, how crime-free housing policies had changed her life.
In 2021, when Ms. Lang was 31, she was arrested and charged with driving drunk. The police told her landlord that, because of her arrest, she would need to be evicted from her apartment in Tinley Park within a few weeks.
Months later, a jury found her not guilty. But by then, Ms. Lang had moved into her parents’ home a town over and was saving up to buy a place of her own. She was done with renting — it no longer felt safe, she said.
For Ms. Lang, it seemed the interview was an opportunity to share her side of the story. For me, it was the culmination of months of reporting. It was the first time I had been able to sit down in person with someone who had found themselves on the wrong side of what are known as crime-free housing laws, local laws that can penalize renters for contact with law enforcement.
In an investigation published today, The New York Times and The Illinois Answers Project found that, from 2019 to 2024, there were more than 2,000 cases across 25 Illinois cities in which city officials told landlords that their renters were in violation of crime-free housing ordinances.
These ordinances are meant to keep neighborhoods safe by evicting dangerous criminals. But more than 1,300 cases, we found, were based on misdemeanors or noncriminal offenses.
We found nearly 500 cases in which tenants — and sometimes, entire households — had been evicted from their homes between 2019 and 2024, in many cases for minor crimes or allegations that had not been fully investigated or that had gone unproven.
The idea for the story came across my desk almost two years ago. I received a tip from a lawyer about a woman who was suing the village of Richton Park for evicting her under crime-free housing laws after she called the police to report a shooting on her block. At the time, I thought her story would be one of very few.
But when I dug into crime-free housing policies in Illinois, I learned that housing advocates, who say the ordinances disproportionately affect people of color and low-income residents, had been trying to compile enforcement cases in the state for more than a decade, to little avail. Most of them told me it was difficult to track down people who had been affected by crime-free housing enforcement.
I spoke with lawyers who had helped their clients sue cities over particularly egregious cases. One woman was threatened with eviction after her son’s friend gave the police her address as his residence when he was arrested on shoplifting charges.
Each story made me more eager to find a systematic way to track crime-free enforcement cases in Illinois.
I looked at every city in the state that had a law written into its municipal code that penalized landlords or tenants for contact with law enforcement. Fifty-five of those municipalities had crime-free housing programs that were run by the city or local police departments, which trained landlords to closely monitor criminal or nuisance activity in rental properties. I filed records requests in every one of those towns. Thirty cities denied or did not respond to requests made through the Freedom of Information Act, or said they did not keep records of ordinance enforcement.
When municipalities did respond, the records often included enforcement letters informing landlords of criminal or nuisance activity, eviction case records and internal reports from city and police officials.
The records were a start, but they were often incomplete or had been redacted to exclude tenants’ names and demographic information. The advocates were right: It was difficult to get in touch with people personally affected by crime-free housing.
Tenants often left their homes after receiving a 10-day notice from the city or their landlord, leaving no paper trail. When they were evicted through a court order, eviction records typically did not cite crime-free housing as the basis for the case. And, in many cases, the pain and embarrassment of losing a home was just something people did not want to talk about.
I drove around the suburbs of Chicago, knocking on doors and leaving fliers on porches, asking if people felt they had been wrongly evicted and offering my contact information if they wanted to share their story. I spent hours at courthouses taking notes on eviction and criminal cases. And I sent dozens of direct messages to people on Facebook and Instagram.
Ms. Lang was the first of what would be a number of other interviews.
We cataloged dozens of cases in which tenants had had their housing threatened over offenses committed by someone other than the leaseholder. I spoke with tenants who had been forced to live in their cars or crash on friends’ couches while they tried to find a new place to live.
I also spoke with supporters of crime-free housing programs who pointed to the hundreds of cases in which tenants had been flagged for repeat problems or dangerous and violent behavior. The main arguments for strengthening crime-free housing programs hinge on a belief that cases like the hundreds we found were the exceptions, not the norm.
Crime-free housing was intended to keep neighborhoods safe. Our investigation contributes to a conversation about whether that model, which can sweep up people not yet proven guilty of alleged crimes, is doing more harm than good.
Reporting for this article was supported by a grant from the Richard H. Driehaus Foundation. Funders have no control over the selection and focus of stories or the editing process and do not review stories before publication. The Times retains full editorial control of this story.
The post Finding Stats, and Stories, About ‘Crime-Free Housing’ Laws appeared first on New York Times.
