Jamel Broadway is pretending he's Joe Montana leading the San Francisco 49ers to a close Super Bowl victory over the Denver Broncos.

As he and a group of his buddies huddle in the courtyard outside his home, Jamel orders a teammate to go down the grass for a long pass.

Suddenly, gunfire erupts down the street.

The kids drop to the ground and look around nervously to see if anyone has been hit. No one has.

As they watch two men sprint from the playground, Jamel and his friends pick themselves up, dust the grass off their shirts and resume their game.

For Rose Fletcher and her three children -- Jamel and histwo sisters, 9-year-old Ebony Williams and 4-year-old Nakia Williams -- violence has become so routine that the sound of gunfire or the sight of a dead body no longer shocks them.

They have seen several people killed on the grounds of the George B. Murphy Homes public housing complex.

They have seen apartments raided by police narcotics squads and children abused by parents strung out on drugs.

Yet the violence outrages Rose -- who has lived at Murphy Homes since she was 2 -- as it does most of her neighbors. Together, they talk often of the crimes. They read about them in the newspapers -- often finding the names of people they know in the stories.

But with outsiders -- especially the police -- they don't say a word.

"I don't say anything because someone could bust in my house and hurt me and my children," Rose says. "I want to go when it's mytime, not when someone else decides to send me.

"I don't want to have to worry about my kids playing outside."

But Rose does worry. She makes sure her children do not wander far from her front door. She never allows any drugs into her home. And if she leaves her children at home alone, she orders them -- sometimes with threats -- not to open the door for anyone.

Law enforcement authorities say the number of crimes committed in major cities is three to four times greater than is reported to the police. In public housing, the number is far greater because residents are afraid of retaliation by criminals and don't trust the police to help.

Baltimore's four family public housing high-rise complexes -- Murphy Homes, Lexington Terrace, Flag House Courts and Lafayette Courts -- are notorious for drug-related crimes. The police say about 90 percent of all arrests made in those developments are for drug-related crimes -- ranging from drug distribution to robbing someone for drug money. Four out of five of those arrested at public housing projects do not live in them.

The police say that people living in Murphy Homes are no more vulnerable to violent crimes such as murder or rape than any other resident of Baltimore. Rather, public housing residents are more likely to be victims of what are called "predatory crimes" -- such as assaults on the elderly or burglaries of their homes, domestic violence, vandalism or extortion.

Most of the residents are either young single mothers or single seniors -- easy prey for drug dealers and thieves.

Rose is one of the lucky ones. She has never been robbed, mugged, assaulted, shot at or threatened.

"I know who to stay away from and I mind my own business," she said. "And I don't trust anyone but me. The only thing that means anything to people is money. They want cars and nice clothes, and the fastest way to get it is by selling drugs."

"And they'll kill you if you try to stand in their way."

On a blustery night a year ago, Rose and the three children went to visit her younger sister, Tammy Fletcher, who also lives in the Murphy Homes.

Despite the chill, the children went to play on the balcony overlooking the playground while Rose and her sister shared a beer and talked inside.

Suddenly, Jamel screamed.

"Mommy, they're shooting out here. I think someone got shot."

Indeed, someone had been. When the police arrived moments later, they found the body of a 30-year-old man who, investigators later determined, was killed because he had taken $22 from a friend to buy drugs but had never delivered the goods.

Rose recognized the man and in fact had run into him in the elevator the day before.

The police said someone walked up to the victim on a playground 150 yards from Rose's front door and shot him once in the chest. The victim died on the spot.

Many of the hundreds of Murphy Homes residents who came out of their houses to watch the police cordon off the scene of the crime and do their work knew who the victim was and where he lived. Some had even seen the shooting. But nobody stepped forward to volunteer information.

"This happens all the time out here [in public housing]," said Detective Mark Tomlin, standing in the midst of the crowd. "Here we have 800 people standing from the rafters and gathered on the street, but no one says they saw anything. I bet at least 20 people out there know who did the shooting. But not one will come forward."

A couple of weeks later, the police did find witnesses -- Rose was not one of them -- and they got a warrant for the arrest of a West Baltimore man.

By then, the suspect had fled to San Francisco, the police said. The suspect was arrested there and brought back to Baltimore to stand trial. He was acquitted after the witnesses from Murphy Homes took the stand to testify and "forgot what they had seen," in the words of a detective who had helped prepare the case.

"It's really tough for these people," said Detective Tomlin, who investigated the murder. "They have to live there."

The reluctance of residents in neighborhoods like Murphy Homes to help the police should not be misconstrued. Few keep quiet out of any desire to help the drug dealers and petty thieves who prey on their neighbors. Fewer still show any sympathy for those who are caught -- even if, as happened with Rose, one of them is a relative.

A year ago, one of Rose's relatives -- a mother of two who also lives in Murphy Homes -- was arrested on charges of stealing money from a friend. A little girl who lived next-door to the relative brought the news to Rose.

"She is always getting herself into some kind of trouble. I'll be damned if I'm going to worry about her," said Rose, pacing nervously through her kitchen. "But now that she's locked up, what's going to happen to her children?"

Rose's confusion added to her anger. She didn't know what the charges were against her relative. She didn't know where the woman was being held. And she didn't know where to go for answers.

Rose sent Jamel to get her relative's children, then she began calling her sisters and her mother for advice.

She went to the Central District police station to find out what the charges were and what bail, if any, had been set.

But when she asked an officer for the information -- which by law is available to the public -- she was told that it could not be disclosed to "just anyone."

"The one time I need help from the police and this happens," Rose said. "How do they expect anyone to help her if I can't even find out how she's doing in there?"

To add to the crisis, Rose discovered that shortly after the arrest her relative's apartment in Murphy Homes had been burglarized and vandalized. Most of her relative's kitchen appliances, the stereo, television, dinette set and other light pieces of furniture were gone.

"It was probably the drug dealers," Rose said. "They just kick the door in, take what they want, and no one sees a thing."

Rose's relative spent one night in jail before her family could raise $1,000 for her release. Eventually, the theft charge against her was dropped.

"I just hope she sat in there thinking about what she's done," Rose said later. "Then again, a lot of people get right out of jail and do the same things over again."

*

Afraid to help the police, Rose and many other residents of Baltimore's housing projects do the best they can to protect themselves and their families without outside help.

A neighbor of Rose's, for example, carries a knife up her sleeve and has pulled it when she's felt threatened. Rose herself does not hesitate to confront young troublemakers and drug dealers in hopes of at least driving them off her doorstep.

Sometimes she succeeds. More often, the protective cocoon she tries to build around her family is punctured.

On a warm day last spring, about a month after the drug shooting, Rose's temper snapped. She opened her front door to see a line of sleepy-eyed people gathering in the courtyard to buy drugs from two boys who could not have been older than 14.

As they began passing out little bags of drugs and collecting money, Rose burst out of her door screaming.

"God, you'd think they're handing out cheese and bread out here," yelled Rose. "You all have to go. My children play out here."

The boys looked up calmly, but otherwise paid Rose no 'f attention. They left only after they had served their last customer.

TOMORROW: Hard work, broken promises.