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Posted on Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Chapter 58
Monday, September 5, 2005
K plus one week
By Monday the exhausted Corps of Engineers were able to report that the breach of the 17th Street Canal was temporarily patched. However, pumping out the stinking floodwaters would be a long process. Not only was there a massive amount of water to pump, but many of the city’s pumping stations were still inoperable. And the water in Lake Pontchartrain was still very high.
Now that the rescue phase of the recovery was winding down, FEMA could concentrate on what it was designed to do – coordinate federal aid to state and local governments. To do so required manpower, something FEMA, by design, was woefully lacking. FEMA had a detailed plan on setting up shop, and it intended to follow though as quickly as possible.
The usual first step was to determine which fellow federal agencies were needed in the aftermath of a disaster. HUD, Social Security, and other social services were always needed, whether flood or tornado or bridge collapse. In the case of Katrina, however, everybody was needed, even the Department of Agriculture.
Space was needed for a headquarters to manage the thousands of government workers and contactors who were and would be flooding into the area. Since three states were affected, three headquarters had to be set up – mustn’t tick off the local politicians. The usual place for such headquarters was in the state capitals, so FEMA requested space in Montgomery, Jackson, and Baton Rouge.
Congress had authorized massive amounts of aid. Most of the immediate aid was to pay for the workers, clean up the debris, and begin to fund the reconstruction of government buildings, such as city halls, fire and police stations, schools, hospitals, and other public infrastructure. The need was colossal, time was short, and the staffers on the ground knew it. The Louisiana-based FEMA director of recovery command sent out a memo on September 6. She directed that once local and regional officials approved of a project, the money to fund it would be released within three days.
Unfortunately, the senior bureaucrats up the line balked at such a sweeping order. There were rules to follow – anyone who could read the Stafford Act could see that! Government had a duty to make sure the government’s money was spent wisely. The order was quickly countermanded. All requests for money would go through the usual channels.
The result of the reversal would be to delay needed projects for months and months, while staffers checked and doubled-checked the requests, looking for graft. It would be telling that not one single project was rejected or even sent back for further information. The money would eventually be paid out, but the fears that were the basis of the delays would prove to be groundless.
In 70 AD, the city of Jerusalem fell to a siege waged by Titus Flavius, son of the Roman emperor, and the holy Second Temple was razed. Thus began what many Jews call the Diaspora, the scattering of God’s people throughout the world, wandering until the Hebrews returned to build the Third Temple.
The word “diaspora” has entered into the language to describe wholesale displacement of large populations, defined by race, religion, or region. Diasporas have occurred all over the world – Stalin’s purge of the Kulaks, the Armenians from the Ottoman Empire, the Kurds, the Vietnamese, and others.
Louisiana was created by a diaspora – the Great Expulsion or Grand Dérangement, which occurred when the British expelled about 10,000 Acadians, over three-fourths of the Acadian population of Nova Scotia, between 1755 and 1764, because there were fears that they would not assimilate into the new English government. Most eventually ended up in the plains and swamps of Louisiana, their name corrupted to Cajuns.
Now a state built by a diaspora was a victim of an even greater one. Over one million people were scattered across the nation, almost 400,000 in shelters or hotels. Not only every state but almost every county in the lower forty-eight had at least one refugee from the Gulf area.
They all wanted to come home. But without housing, come home to what?
It didn’t take long for partisan politics to raise its head. Even while passing the second of the Katrina relief bills, authorizing an additional $51.8 billion for pay for the Defense Department’s response, the Corp’s emergency levee repairs, and funds for FEMA’s Disaster Relief Account, the Congress was already looking for someone to blame for the “slow response” to the disaster in New Orleans. The Republicans pointed at the local officials – all Democrats – while the Democrats went after the White House.
It didn’t help matters that FEMA Administrator Brown didn’t seem to be doing anything. Even while President Bush was patting the FEMA chief on the back, thanking him for his “heck of a job,” stories were coming out about his preening for the cameras and his detachment from the real efforts on the ground. When reports surfaced that his résumé had been padded, the Administration reacted quickly and relieved Brown from his duties on September 9. “Brownie,” as the President nicknamed him, resigned three days later.
This wasn’t good enough for some in Congress. Already smarting from Bush’s order to suspend the Davis-Bacon Act in the affected region, and thereby preventing the politically-connected building trade unions from profiting from the massive rebuilding of public structures, the cry from the House and Senate went out for investigations. FEMA mismanaged the search and rescue operation, it was claimed, and the government needed to get to the bottom of it.
It didn’t matter that FEMA responded exactly the way Congress designed it to. In every emergency preparedness plan mandated by the government in the wake of 9/11 across the county, it stated that communities must not expect aid from FEMA for the first seventy-two hours, as it would take that long for the federal response to ramp up. In other words, for the first three days communities will be on their own, and should plan accordingly.
The basic fact of the matter was that FEMA wasn’t a search and rescue organization, and during the first days of Katrina, the organization was actually involved in matters and issues that were beyond its purview. It wasn’t ineffectual because it was staffed by incompetents. It was ineffectual because it was rushed in to do things it didn’t know how to do, and it was trying to learn on the fly. Congress knew this, because it was in the Stafford Act, but kept it from the people, lest it got tarred by the same brush they were using on the White House, Louisiana, and New Orleans.
FEMA staffers fumed and stewed in silent indignation over the unwarranted criticism, but they did not challenge their political masters and so saved their jobs and pensions. They shed no tears over the fall of Michael Brown, as he was only a politically-appointed fool, anyway. They sat and nodded and promised to do better before the cameras and public hearings. They knew that their time was at hand, as Congress handed over $60 billion dollars for FEMA to manage, and if there was one thing FEMA knew how to do, it was how to spend money.
Now FEMA would show the nation just how it was designed to operate.
Friday, September 9, 2005
Elizabeth and Charlotte made their way to the meeting room at the Department of Administration for a 10:30 update meeting on housing. Upon entering the room, Lizzy saw Carrie Buford in an embrace with a slim black woman.
“Lizzy!” Carrie cried and Lizzy had no choice but to greet her with the now-standard hug. “How’d you make out?” The two quickly shared their stories before turning to the others. “Lizzy, I don’t know if you remember my friend from school, Ellie Elliot – she works for the mayor of New Orleans.”
The two shared a half-hug, Lizzy trying not to stare at the small bandages on the woman’s face. She then introduced Char, and all four got into a general discussion on the storm. The foursome broke up as others came in and began taking their seats when a short, heavy-set man bustled in, his government-issued ID swinging from a lanyard around his neck.
“Ah! Everyone here? Wonderful. Let’s get started, shall we? I don’t know if everyone is acquainted with each other, so let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. I’m Bill Collins, a field officer with FEMA, assigned to short-term recovery.”
The rest of the people in the room stated their names. The City of New Orleans and almost all of the surrounding parishes had sent representatives to the quickly called meeting; only Washington Parish was absent.
Collins continued. “I have some good news. According to information I’ve received from Washington, FEMA has begun taking delivery of about 145,000 mobile homes and travel trailers. Also, we’ve made an agreement with Carnival Cruise Lines to move the cruise ships we originally had docked at Galveston, Texas for refugees and move them to New Orleans. They’ll be used instead, for housing for police, firefighters, municipal workers and their spouses. They will also be available for FEMA workers and other recovery personnel not housed in hotels.”
“The city thanks you, Mr. Collins, for responding to our suggestion,” said Ellie.
“You’re welcome, Ms Elliot. Remember – we’re FEMA-flexible here!” Collins checked his notes. “Oh, we’re also ready to ramp up Operation Blue Roof. We’ve hired contractors to put blue plastic tarps over damaged roofs at no cost to the homeowner. We’ve already been in contact with the local governments about this, but those of you who want more information please see me afterwards.
“The reason I’ve called you all in today is to continue to find locations for us to establish refugee housing. We know it’s important to bring people and workers back to the affected areas. That is our priority, here.
“Not that we aren’t looking for housing for displaced people! We certainly are, but other teams are working that issue, preparing vouchers for apartments and other rental property, so that will not be part of our discussion today. Those programs will be offered directly to the people in the evacuation centers, so that they will have a place to live until we can get housing back in Southeast Louisiana.
“We need to get from all of you a list of acceptable property that can be used by the mobile homes and travel trailers. The locations should be a minimum of six acres – ten would be optimal. The lots must be flat, free from trees, have available power, water, and sewer, or have some sort of sewage-treatment plant brought in, as I know there is a lot of well water around here.” He pointed to a map. “As you can see here, we’ve already identified two locations in East Baton Rouge Parish, here and…yes?”
The representative from Jefferson raised his hand. “Mr. Collins, those locations are several miles outside of Baker. They’re nowhere near Metairie or New Orleans!”
“Uhh…that’s true,” Collins admitted.
“They’re not near anything!” cried the St. Tammany rep.
Charlotte spoke up. “My friend from Mandeville is right, Mr. Collins. We need these ‘FEMA cities’ you’re building to be closer to the city, closer to the jobs.”
“I wish you wouldn’t use the term ‘FEMA cities.’” Collins requested.
“All right – trailer parks!” Ellie snapped. “Excuse my bluntness, Mr. Collins.”
“No, that’s fine, Ms Elliot. Bluntness is good.” The fake smile on his face belied his good humor.
“Thank you. Sir, you’re forgetting that many of the people that will be housed in these trailer parks will be poor African Americans from the inner city. They’re used to having shops within walking distance of their homes. You’re taking these people to trailers in farm fields, miles from stores and jobs. They don’t own cars.”
Collins interrupted her. “We’re planning to provide shuttle service to local markets and to bus transfer stations.”
“Oh, come on!” Ellie cried. “These are people who are used to walking! You’re going to put them in the middle of the country!”
“It’s the most efficient way,” Collins explained. “We’re tied by the Stafford Act to use government property and assistance in the most efficient and cost-effective way possible. Now, if you can find locations in the city when water and sewer is restored, we can certainly look to establishing parks there.”
Ellie waved her hand in disgust, and Lizzy used it as an opportunity to change the subject. “Mr. Collins, how large are these mobile homes and travel trailers?”
Collins rifled through his notes. “I’m sorry, Ms Boudreaux, but I don’t have the exact figures. Umm, the mobile homes are about forty feet long. While we’re ordering about 50,000 of them, we’ve learned from our experiences in Florida that many people don’t need something that big. Also, a large grouping of forty-foot trailers takes up lots of space. That’s why we’re also ordering thousands of travel trailers. They’ll sleep between two-to-six people and they’re around twenty-three feet long, if I remember correctly.”
“A camping trailer.”
“Yes, that’s what they are.”
Ellie jumped back in. “Why put them in trailer parks? Why not just park them in people’s driveways?”
Collins blinked. “You mean, individually?”
The St. Tammany representative spoke up again. “Yes, that’s exactly what my parish president has been asking for!”
“Jefferson, too!” The other parishes’ representatives voiced their agreement with the concept.
“Let me tell you, partner,” drawled the man from St. Bernard, “my people from St. Bernard got nothing left of their houses but slabs, but they ain’t gonna live in no FEMA cities, no matter what you call ’em. Let a man park one of those trailers in his front yard while he fixes up his place is what you ought to do.”
Collins held up his hands. “Hold it, hold it! We’ve heard your requests for individual deployment of the travel trailers, and those requests have been passed up to our superiors for review. That’s all I can say about this for now.”
Carrie was sitting next to Lizzy, and she leaned over. “So much for being FEMA-flexible,” she whispered.
Lizzy was caught between biting back her laugh and hiding her surprise that Carrie had reflected her own thoughts as to the matter. She decided to restrain from reflecting on the irony of that until later and cleared her throat.
“Mr. Collins, I have another issue to bring up, and that is worker housing. Our large employers, like the Port, NASA, and the shipyards are virtually undamaged, and Entergy has done a magnificent job of restoring power to these locations. But they can’t resume operations until they can get their workers back, and the workers need housing.”
“That’s certainly true, Ms Boudreaux,” Collins conceded.
“The obvious solution is to provide housing on site. When we asked before about providing trailers to Northup Grumman, FEMA said the mobile homes were too large to park in the parking lots. But these travel trailers sound like the answer.”
“Yes,” said Charlotte, “they’re small enough to be transported by train or even by barge.”
“Bringing them in by barge makes sense,” added the Jefferson representative. “All the employers we mentioned are on the river or the Intercoastal Canal.”
“I can safely say the city would back this idea,” Ellie stated.
“So would the state,” added Carrie.
Collins looked around the room. “Very well, I’ll send the request to Washington.” He made a note. “Meanwhile, we need to return to the subject of park locations. Uhh…Tangipahoa Parish, do you have any locations available?”
Lizzy was surprised to receive a lunch invitation from Carrie and surprised herself by accepting. Both Ellie and Charlotte had to beg off, so it was just the two of them in the downtown café, perusing their menus while the waitress took their drink orders.
“Just water for me,” Carrie said with a sigh after Lizzy asked for iced tea. “Two more months – the doctor wants me to stay off caffeine.”
“Two months? You and Jane are due about the same time,” Lizzy observed. I don’t even want to know what was going on around Mardi Gras! “I have to thank you for taking care of Janie for the last couple of weeks. She’s told me how kind you’ve been.”
Carrie waved that off. “What’s family for? I’m just sorry that things weren’t as pleasant at my mother’s house as it should have been. It’s been nice having Jane around while John’s been gone.”
Lizzy couldn’t miss the wistful tone in her companion’s voice. “Have you heard much from him?”
“He tries to call once a day, as his schedule allows.” Her voice trailed off and Lizzy was struck by the painful expression on her face. “And Will? How is he? I know you must miss him.”
“Of course, I miss him – but Carrie! Will’s safe in Houston, while John’s been stuck in New Orleans. It’s hardly the same thing. I haven’t gone through anything like you.”
“Houston – New Orleans – it’s the same thing when your man’s gone.”
Lizzy saw only sincere concern on Carrie’s face, the concern of a woman who shared her pain. Lizzy admitted she did not know Jane’s sister-in-law as well as she should, and that was her own fault. True, they had only socialized at family events, mostly hosted by Chuck and Jane, but Lizzy never took the opportunity to spend much time with her. There was still a tiny bit of resentment in Lizzy’s heart over Carrie’s pursuit of Will during their college years, and Lizzy had to admit she was jealous of Carrie’s close friendship with Jane. She had felt that the woman was forever intruding into her territory – if not her boyfriend, then her sister.
But now she had to reevaluate Carrie Buford. There was no doubt of the devotion she had for her husband. And she had to be thankful for Carrie’s kindness to Jane, especially after Jane shared with Lizzy her difficulties with Catherine Bingley. Lizzy never thought Carrie would defend Jane against her mother. But, looking back at their history, she had to admit that Carrie had never been anything less than polite to her, and many times welcoming. She realized she had allowed her prejudice against her one-time rival to unfairly color her opinion of the other woman’s character. She had never allowed Carrie to become her friend.
I’ve been so wrong about you. Lizzy reached out and briefly grabbed Carrie’s hand in thanks.
As they ate, Lizzy found that they had many opinions in common. She wasn’t surprised that neither were impressed with either Bill Collins or FEMA.
“Sending our request for trailers up the line!” Carrie snidely recalled. “It’ll take weeks to get through the FEMA bureaucracy. I hope you’ve got your lobbyists working on this.”
“It’s on the top of their list, along with funding for the region. The Port doesn’t have much pull in Washington, but Northup Grumman and Lockheed Martin certainly do.”
“Good,” Carrie said as she munched on her salad. “I’ve been talking to other communities that have had to deal with FEMA in the past – New York, south Florida, Oklahoma City, South Carolina, San Francisco. They’ve all said the same thing. If we wait for the federal government to pull us out of this, we’ll be waiting for a long time. Most of the recovery needs to start with us.”
“Our congressional delegation seems to be doing a good job.”
“That’s one bright spot.” The Louisiana delegation wasted no time coming together across party divides and reached out to their counterparts from Mississippi and Alabama. Together, the three states were leading the way, pushing for assistance for the Gulf region. “Baton Rouge could learn a lot from them.”
“Oh, really?” It seemed to her that Carrie wasn’t blindly loyal to Louisiana’s government.
Carrie looked around, making sure they couldn’t be overheard. “You know what I’ve heard out of Jackson? Governor Haley Barbour is looking to call a special session of the Mississippi state legislature before the end of the month.”
“As he should. Isn’t Louisiana doing the same?”
Carrie smirked. “When the going gets tough, Momma Blanco calls for a conference,” she said in a low voice. “There are no plans for a special session anytime soon.”
Lizzy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding!”
“Shush, not so loud!”
“But what is she waiting for?”
“She and the rest of her inner circle want to plan everything down to the last detail before they call the lawmakers to Baton Rouge, and present them with a near fait accompli. Otherwise, there’s no telling what the legislature would come up with, as far as they’re concerned.”
“Carrie, some of the legislators are extremely bright! Why not use them? Use the committees to hold hearings and formulate plans with the administration.”
“I know – I’ve dealt with them for years. But remember the governor’s background. She was a school teacher and marketing consultant. She was a Public Service Commissioner and was Lieutenant Governor under Mike Foster, dealing with tourism. She’s served only four years in the Louisiana House, and that was like twenty years ago. She’s not used to the give-and-take of politics. She wants to plan everything and then reach consensus with the legislature. We don’t have time for that now, but she can’t see that.”
She lowered her voice again. “Also, she carries grudges. Don’t think for a minute she’s forgotten that Mayor Nagin, a fellow Democrat, endorsed her Republican opponent, Bobby Jindal, in the governor’s race. You’ve certainly noticed how tough it was for New Orleans to get anything through the governor’s office before the storm.”
Lizzy looked horrified. “You’re not saying she’s going to abandon the city, are you?”
“No! Absolutely not! But, whatever she does, you watch – she’ll make damned sure that Nagin gets no credit, or as little credit as possible.”
“Great, she’s playing politics with this.”
“It’s who she is, Lizzy. We permanent employees in the Office of Administration will do what we can, but we have to be careful. We’re protected by Civil Service, but if we make too many waves, we can be transferred to another posting, or even have our position eliminated. They’re the only ways they can use to get rid of us, other than an accusation of malfeasance and a Civil Service hearing, and they hardly ever win one of those.”
“Why do you put up with it?”
Carrie shrugged. “I try to make a difference. I’m good at what I do. Besides, the retirement and health benefits are great.”
The ladies talked of other things as they finished their lunch, during which Lizzy learned that she and Carrie shared a similar, slightly sardonic view of the world. The real difference between them was that Carrie was more willing to voice what Lizzy generally kept to herself. After settling the bill, Carrie expressed a desire to have lunch again while Lizzy was posted to Baton Rouge. Lizzy happily agreed.
“Maybe one night, while Jane’s still here, you can come over to the house for dinner on your way home,” Carrie offered. “I know you want to see her and the kids.”
“I’d love to, Carrie, and see Trey, too. I’ll bet he’s grown a bunch since the last time I saw him.”
Carrie smiled widely. “You don’t know the half of it! He takes after his father. C’mon, let’s get back to work.”
Time lost all meaning in the aftermath of Katrina. There were no clocks, no television, nothing to give a sense of which day of the week it was. There were no appointments to make, and no places to be. The weather was unvaryingly hot and muggy. One day was like another, dragging on and on with nothing to distinguish any of them. Time had stopped on Monday, August 29, in Katrina-land.
More and more assistance flowed into the affected areas. Regular Army troops joined the National Guard. The Navy sent the Bataan to the Gulf Coast and the Iwo Jima to New Orleans to house the troops and fuel the helicopters. Utility trucks re-hung power lines. The Red Cross, the Salvation Army, and other charities inched their way into the devastation, reaching out to the thousands in need. Trucks poured into the Gulf Coast to replenish the retail and grocery stores.
Except for New Orleans. Under a mandatory evacuation order, the job of the NOPD, the National Guard, Coast Guard and other military units was to get people out of the stricken Crescent City, whether they wanted to leave or not. Meanwhile, the helicopters continued their increasingly futile mission to rescue stranded people.
Wentworth and his team were tired – dog tired. Cajun 101 had been in almost constant operation since the storm, standing down on Sunday only because of a direct order from the commander. Now they were in the air again, looking for people. Some of them were stranded on elevated roadways, others on roofs. A couple of people were found trying to walk out on the levee by Bayou Savage. The crew of Cajun 101 had to stay in the game – not only for the sake of those who were in need, but to get their minds off of what each of them had personally lost. It was never far from their minds – they had flown over their houses and apartments for days. They had lost count of the number of people they had saved.
In the months afterward, it would be determined that the USCG had rescued 33,000 people throughout the Gulf Coast region, while the National Guard saved 17,000 and the “Cajun Navy” was responsible for 20,000 lives – the greatest rescue in American history.
Wentworth was flying close to the French Quarter when Price sang out. Glancing over, he saw nothing at first, and then Lauck took up the cry. There – a bed sheet was being weakly waved from a tiny attic window, a thin, dark arm extending from the house.
“Got it, skipper?” asked Price.
“Yeah.” He switched to Randle. “You’re gonna need the axe again, Randle.” This wasn’t the first roof the airman needed to hack through.
“Yes, sir – got it already,” the rescue swimmer replied as he and Lauck once again went through the preparations for him to be lowered out of the aircraft.
“You see an approach, Jeremy?” Wentworth asked his right-seater.
“Not yet, skipper. How about from the north?”
Wentworth shook his head. He didn’t like how close that billboard was to the house. He orbited, trying to decide.
Prince Gregory of Orléans sat in his throne room, as the favorite of his concubines presented him with a tray of fruit and cheese. He sipped his tankard of beer, his eyes greedily caressing the wench’s neckline. It was his order that all women in his kingdom display their bounty for the perusal of their prince, and it was not unusual for a comely maiden to occasionally fall out of her top. He idly considered ordering her to the royal bedchamber for a bit of ravishing, a command she appeared to expect with some anticipation, when his chamberlain came running into the room.
“What is this!?” roared the prince. “You approach your monarch without being summoned? We can have you killed for this!”
“Forgive me, my prince!” the terrified old man begged, throwing himself to his knees before the throne. “All compliments, mighty sovereign, but the dragon approaches yet again!”
“Why do you bother us with this? Do we not have guards? They certainly cost us enough.”
The chamberlain set his forehead upon the floor in trepidation. “A thousand pardons, my liege, but the guards have all fled in fear. Only your Power can save the castle.”
“What, again?” Gregory asked in a bored tone. The councilor said nothing as he trembled at his feet. The prince turned to his companion. “Well? What say you, my pet?”
“Oh, please, sire, save us and I shall serve you in any manner you desire!” Her bosom heaved quite nicely in her agitation.
“Any way?” Gregory inquired with a leer.
“Yes,” the concubine returned, her eyes flashing, her voice full of dark desire,
“Very well. Prepare for us our Royal Magic Powder, and after we dispatch this creature meet us in the royal bedchamber – with your sister.”
“Your wish is my craving, O prince,” she said as she fulfilled her task. Gregory fortified himself, and after a quick grope of the comely maiden, he strode towards the open window and the battlements.
The moat was nothing but an open sewer, and the stench was powerful, but it served its use of keeping enemies at bay. But dragons were a different problem. They had the power of flight, and no earthly defense could stop them. But Gregory had the Power of the Magic Powder, which gave him command of lightening and thunder. He would see to this menace to what was his. He contemplated the various different combinations he would employ with the sisters as he awaited the dragon to come within range.
And there it was – a vast, ugly orange beast, screeching in its characteristically low voice. The air itself trembled at the monster’s approach, but Gregory stood silently, unaffected, his Power in his hand. He waited until the beast was almost upon him before raising his hand and bellowing, “BEGONE, FELL CREATURE! I SEND YOU BACK INTO THE HELL FROM WHICH YOU WERE SPAWNED!”
Lightening flew from his Power, and thunder split the air. The dragon came to a dead stop, frightened by the incredible forces deployed against it. Wings flapping too fast to see, it began backing up.
“FLEE, YOU THING OF THE DARK! FLEE FROM GREGORY OF ORLÉANS! FLEE FROM OUR SIGHT!” Power flowed out yet again as the creature retreated.
“WHAT WAS THAT!?” Wentworth cried as a bullet hole appeared high in the windshield right between Price and himself. “PRICE, DO YOU SEE WHERE THAT CAME FROM!?”
“No, not…Yeah! There he is! (Expletive deleted), it’s some nut with a gun! Pull up, pull up! Hold on, guys!” he warned his teammates in the rear.
Wentworth didn’t wait to respond, working the throttle and collective to first stop the forward momentum of the aircraft, and then to pull away and down. Once they were dashing away at rooftop level, he called for damages.
Price looked around. “Everybody’s okay, skipper. No damage to the aircraft, except for the windshield. What the hell was that all about?” he asked as he reached for the radio.
“Hell if I know. They must be going crazy down there.” Wentworth had heard the rumors of sniper fire at helos, but except for one confirmed report, most of the shooting turned out to be people trying to shoot a hole through their roofs and escape from their flooded houses. This was the first crazy that Cajun 101 had come across.
“Command, this is Cajun 101,” Price reported on the joint distress channel. “We are under fire. Repeat, we are under fire. Suspect is on the balcony of a house in the Upper Ninth Ward, near St. Claude. Repeat, Cajun 101 has received fire and sustained minor damage. We have taken evasive action and are now in a wide orbit around the area. Come in, Command.”
“Cajun 101, this is Command. Give us your coordinates…”
With the emptying of the Convention Center, units of the NOPD Third District had been redeployed back to the Central City area. Captain Richard Fitzwilliam was working a mixed detail of NOPD and National Guard along St. Claude Avenue, enforcing the anti-looting and forced evacuation orders from City Hall. It was the first time such an order had ever been issued by any mayor of the city, but it was understandable. With no power or water or sewerage, New Orleans was a disease outbreak waiting to happen. What made it controversial was Nagin’s additional order to confiscate all firearms found.
Fitz was of two minds about the command. There were still too many looters in the city, and that kept the police and Guardsmen on edge. They were jumpy, because anyone they saw could be a potential bad guy, including people who were trying to help. Yesterday, his people damn near shot two animal rescue fanatics breaking into a residence. Until order was restored, somebody was likely to get hurt.
Certainly the streets would be safer if there were fewer guns, but on the other hand there was that pesky thing called the 2nd Amendment to the US Constitution, as well as safeguards in the Louisiana Constitution. The NOPD was short-handed, and even with thousands of National Guardsmen and other law enforcement personnel supplementing them, they couldn’t be everywhere to protect lives and property.
Fitz finally decided to do what he was told and leave the legal arguments to the lawyers. They had just loaded a short, half-crazed, middle-aged white man who kept yelling, “I can’t leave! Don’t you know who I am? I’m Reginald de Courcy, and I must save the theatre!” over and over again into the back of a National Guard truck, when the call came in about shots fired on a USCG helicopter. Fitz’s team was the closest detail to the area, so it was the first responder.
The water in the streets in this part of town, close to the French Quarter, varied from almost dry to three feet deep. Fitz set his command post almost three blocks away, looking towards the Lake at the house where the suspect was alleged to be holding up. Thanks to high-water trucks from the National Guard, Fitz was able to surround the area with officers and troops. The standard procedure was to reconnoiter the vicinity, waiting for the arrival of a Special Operations Division SWAT unit to initiate operations against the building. With the city gone to hell, it might take hours for the SWAT unit to arrive. Fitz pulled out his binoculars, propped his arms on the roof of his un-marked squad car, and scanned the two-story house.
“Suspect has just left the interior of the house and is on the second-floor balcony,” his radio blared.
Fitz moved his binoculars, refocused – and damn near dropped them. The man was pacing from one end of the balcony to the other, looking up into the sky, occasionally shouting and waving a black handgun in the air. It had been over five years, he couldn’t hear the suspect’s voice, and he had lost a lot of weight, but it was still the face of the man that had haunted Fitz’s dreams.
“Wickham,” he breathed.
Greg Wickham was still deep into his drug- and hunger-induced, sword-and-sorcery fantasy. Since the deluge began, he had consumed more and more of his product. He no longer knew where reality ended and his dreams began. Sometimes he was a 1970’s mob boss in the Bronx, sometimes he was an eighteenth century pirate on the high seas. The Gregory of Orléans hallucination was a favorite. Wickham forgot he was trapped in a half-flooded house in the Upper Ninth Ward. He was the Prince of Orléans with women at his beck and call, protecting his castle from the dragons of his enemies.
In his mind, Gregory strode up and down the battlement high on top of his keep’s walls, screaming for the dragon to return to face its ultimate destruction. He gestured in his anger and impatience, brandishing his instrument of Power above his head.
“Wickham.” Without moving his attention from the spiky-haired drug dealer, Fitz reached for his radio. “Attention all units – weapons free. I repeat, weapons free.”
“Sir?” Fitz turned to the patrolman behind a squad car parked next to him, a scoped M-16 in his arms. “Aren’t we to wait for the SWAT team?”
“The suspect is armed and dangerous,” Fitz said. “He has fired upon a Coast Guard helicopter engaged in search and rescue. We can’t wait hours for a tactical team.” Fitz activated his radio again. “All units. We cannot wait for back-up. The sniper is a danger to us and rescue personnel. It is incumbent upon us to neutralize this situation in quick order. We are acting on my authority. Take your positions and stand by.” Fitz turned to the M-16 armed officer. “Can you take him from here?”
The patrolman had sunglasses on, so Fitz could not make out his expression, but his voice was confident. “I’ve had sharpshooter training.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder and sighted the target in the scope. “He’s within range, sir. Am I clear to shoot?”
Fitz returned to his binoculars. Wickham was walking back towards the near side of the balcony. “You are clear to shoot,” Fitz croaked, his mouth dry. He waited intently, following every move of his nemesis.
Now! Shoot him now! Kill him now!
“Take him!” he hissed through his teeth.
As intently as Fitz scrutinized his quarry’s every movement, the report of the gunshot next to him was startling, jerking the binoculars from the lock he had on the house. Fitz tried to reacquire his target, but the balcony was now empty. No! Did he get away? Did he escape again!?
“Suspect is down, suspect is down,” he heard the sharpshooter report. “Torso shot – upper chest.”
Fitz turned to the officer, trying to believe the words. After a moment that seemed to stretch for hours, he raised the microphone to his lips.
“All units – suspect down. The suspect is down. We do not know his condition. Begin moving in. Follow standard procedures. Repeat, the suspect is down, and his condition is unknown. Move in following standard procedures.”
It took almost twenty minutes for the first officers to reach the building, as procedures called for approaching in such a manner that maximized the safety of the officers. They determined that the suspect was lying motionless on the balcony, so a National Guard truck was brought in to use as a platform for ladders. The first police in the house were surprised to see their assistant precinct captain right on their heels. Fitz hauled himself over the railing and stepped onto the balcony. There, five feet from him, lay Wickham, surrounded by the initial assault team.
One of them looked up. “He’s dead, Captain.”
“Dead,” Fitz repeated in a voice devoid of emotion.
The officer glanced at the trail of blood at Wickham’s feet. “Suspect appears to have dragged himself to this spot after being shot, and then expired. Not long – he’s still a bit warm.” He sighed. “Maybe ten minutes, sir.”
Fitz nodded as more police climbed over the railing behind him. While the others fanned out to search and secure the premises, Fitz squatted next to the filthy body of his late opponent. His mind was filled with incomplete thoughts as he wrestled with the concept that his long odyssey was over. The fog of hate that clouded his thoughts was gone, and he could see the obvious. Death could not hide the fact that life for Gregory “G-Daddy” Wickham had not been good. The wretched man’s limbs were basically skin and bones. Wickham appeared as malnourished as any survivor of the Holocaust or Darfur.
Was this someone to fear? he considered. Wickham had been a walking dead man. The sniper’s gunshot had ended his existence only a few days before starvation would have killed him. Fitz glanced back at the Glock, still lying where Wickham had dropped it after being hit. How many rounds were left in that thing? For the first time he considered, Might there have been another way?
“Captain!”
Fitz tore his thoughts away from his musings and looked up.
“There’s a methamphetamine lab in one of the bedrooms, and we just found a cache of hand grenades in the closet!”
Fitz leapt to his feet, back in command. “All right, everyone out! Now! Nobody touches this place until the Bomb Squad clears it. Now, move it!” A cop started towards the body. “No. Leave Wickham where he is.”
The officer started. “You know him, sir?”
Fitz sighed. “Yeah, I knew him.”
Less than five minutes later, the police were gathered around the impromptu command post. Downtown had been alerted, and the Bomb Squad and a medical examiner were requested. Fitz set his people to work. He would take command of the crime scene with a small deployment and wait the hours it would take before being relived, while the rest of the team went to rescue the people the Coast Guard had spotted. The police sniper, as per regulations, stayed behind with Fitz, to await transfer back Downtown and desk duty until cleared by PID. Fitz hated to lose a man, but he had broken enough rules today.
It was a clean shooting, he told himself. That officer will be back on the streets in no time. I mustn’t do anything to jeopardize that. We need him. We need all of my people. We’ve got to save the city – my city. We’ve got to save it so we can rebuild it.
Captain Richard Fitzwilliam had found his new obsession.
Posted on Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Chapter 59
Saturday, September 10, 2005
K plus one week
Katrina was starting to make its effects felt across the nation. Before the storm, one-tenth of all the crude oil consumed in the United States and almost half of the gasoline produced in the country came from refineries in the states along the Gulf of Mexico. An additional quarter of the natural gas supply was extracted or imported in the region.
The Coast Guard could not tell for sure, but at least twenty oil platforms were set adrift, sunk, or had simply disappeared. The Louisiana Offshore Oil Port was out of commission until power could be restored, which accounted for eleven percent of US consumption. But even with electricity, the crude had nowhere to go. Ten refineries were shut down, four of which were damaged or destroyed, and the rest worked at reduced capacity. Supply and demand pushed oil prices to over seventy dollars a barrel.
This affected gasoline prices. Prices spiked to five or six dollars a gallon in isolated locations, along with long lines at the pumps, until they stabilized at a nation-wide average of over three dollars for the first time in history.
The loss of exports of corn, wheat, and other commodities could not be immediately felt by average consumers. But spending twenty percent more to fill up the car hurt. It got people’s attention.
Conditions in the evacuation centers were not pleasant, despite the best efforts of local Texas officials and Red Cross personnel. Things were close and loud, with no privacy whatsoever. It was hot and humid, and inevitably fights broke out, sometimes over the smallest and silliest of issues. There weren’t many thieves, but only a handful could fill an arena with a sense of mistrust.
The good news was they had working bathrooms and, occasionally, showers. Clothing was donated from charities, because the rags on the refugees’ backs were fit only for the trashcan. Best of all, hot food broke up the monotony of MREs and canned drinking water. It was a far cry from the Superdome, much less the Convention Center.
Relief officials huddled to decide what to do with the refugees. The football stadiums in Houston and San Antonio had to be emptied for the upcoming games, and since there was no New Orleans or Gulfport or Chalmette for the people to return to, long-term housing was the priority. Interview teams were set up, and the plans and skills of the people were checked against a list of offers flooding the centers from all over the nation. Skilled workers and college students were the easiest to place.
So it was that Scott Davis walked hand-in-hand with Kaywanda Johnson and her mother off an airliner at General Mitchell International Airport in Milwaukee, Wisconsin to meet with a welcoming committee from Lutheran Social Services, carrying nothing but the clothes on their back and Scott’s duffle. They were whisked to a waiting van, and were soon driving westward along Interstate 94, passing signs with strange names, like Waukesha, Pewaukee, and Oconomowoc. The driver, a man named Kruepke, kept up a monologue of the passing countryside, as the rolling hills in the Milwaukee region grew gentler. Scott and the Johnsons watched as the built-up areas gave way to dairy farms and acres of corn and soybeans.
After about a half-hour, civilization reappeared as the van approached the state’s second-largest city, Madison. Turning off the interstate, they drove for some time down a road that reminded the Louisiana refugees of Jefferson Highway on a bad day. But in the distance, at the end of the road, appeared an unusual sight. Soon, they were upon it, the Wisconsin State Capital Building, centered on a thin isthmus between the twin lakes that defined Madison. The building had four wings set at right angles to each other at the points of the compass, like a large plus sign lying on its side. Soaring above the axis was a familiar looking dome.
“Looks like the US Capitol, doesn’t it?” Mr. Kruepke said as he drove around the square surrounding the building. “It’s 265 feet tall, about three feet shorter than in one in Washington, DC. On top is a statue of a woman with a helmet with a badger on top. It’s really something, isn’t it?”
“Badger, huh?” Scott asked politely, while Kaywanda and her mother sat back, trying to recover from culture shock. They hadn’t seen a black face since they left the airplane. It’s so white here!
“Oh, yes,” said Kruepke in that slight, hard-to-place Wisconsin twang that sounded vaguely Scandinavian. “Lots of things in Wisconsin are tied somehow to badgers – that’s the UW mascot, you know. Badger this, or Badgerland that. We love our Badgers.”
Scott nodded. “Yeah, it’s the same way with Baton Rouge and the LSU Tigers.”
“Really? I suppose so. Never been to New Orleans, myself.” Kruepke pronounced Orleans in the French manner of ‘Or-leans.’ “Guess it’s too late, now. Oh! And the Packers. Packer football is just about the state religion.”
“Of course,” Scott replied, rolling his eyes at Kaywanda. The van continued out of downtown Madison a short ways into the University section.
“This is the University of Wisconsin,” Kruepke said. “Which one of you is enrolling?”
“That would be me,” Scott answered.
Wisconsin, like many universities across the nation, had reached out to the student-victims from Tulane, UNO, Loyola, SUNO, Xavier, Dillard, and the medical schools. Tuition wavers were common, and some paid for board and books as well. Lutheran Social Services had found housing near the campus and had arranged for transportation for the group from Texas. There was an opening at Wisconsin for Social Work, and the small family decided to take advantage of it, knowing the house in New Orleans was a total loss.
Minutes later, the group walked into a small, two-bedroom apartment. “It’s got a good location, as it’s only a few blocks from the campus, and there’s a bus stop right in front,” Kruepke said. “Though it might get a little noisy on Saturdays – you know, from Camp Randall.”
Kaywanda turned to him. “Camp Randall? There’s a military base around here?”
“Oh, no!” Kruepke laughed. “Camp Randall is the name of the football stadium where the Badgers play!”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Johnson. “And where do the Packers play?”
“At Lambeau Field in Green Bay,” he responded, as if Mrs. Johnson had grown a third eye. As they had no idea where Green Bay was, the Johnson women kept quiet.
Kruepke pulled out a folder from his briefcase. “We have some papers for you to sign. Your rent and utilities will be covered for at least six months through FEMA, though we think that will be extended up to a year. If not, Lutheran Social Services will cover it. You’ll have to pay for phone service and any cable or internet. A social worker will meet with you in the next few days to explain all the assistance programs. FEMA will be issuing either debit cards or transferring money into your bank account; that will be $2,000 each. If you don’t have a bank here in Madison, we can help get one for you.
“Ms Johnson, you stated you have a background in secretarial work. We’ll arrange for some interviews with local firms hiring. Mrs. Johnson, I believe you’re on disability. The social worker will help you with that, including medical care and prescriptions. Mr. Davis, you’re to meet with the Dean of Social Work on Friday.”
“Uh,” Scott interrupted, “we really don’t know what day it is. What’s today, again?”
Kruepke nodded. “I understand. There’s a lot that has been thrown at you. Today’s Wednesday.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. We’ll have people meet with you about clothing and other necessities.” He looked down at his paper. “Oh, and there’s some nice restaurants nearby for Friday Fish Fry.” He pointed to one. “I really like the perch at this place, and most times they get walleye. Good potato pancakes, too.”
Scott and Kaywanda looked at each other. Friday Fish Fry? Walleye? Potato pancakes?
Scott leaned close. “K, I don’t think we’re in Louisiana anymore.”
Sergeant Mack parked the Humvee next to the burned-out Shops at Canal Place, and he and Captain Buford walked across Canal Boulevard to Harrah's New Orleans Casino. The owners of the place had set up a kitchen for the soldiers, police officers, and others involved in the city’s recovery area. As the food was good and plentiful, and the air conditioning was fully operational, Buford tried to eat at Harrah’s every chance he got.
Buford patted the holster at his side, comforted by the weight of his government issued M9 Beretta pistol contained within. With the change in orders from search-and-rescue to law enforcement, his unit was cleared to carry firearms. A detail was sent to the armory in Baton Rouge to fetch their weapons, and Mack was pleased to get his hands on his trusty M4 assault carbine. While the governor talked tough about “shooting looters on sight,” the orders were far more benign, no matter what ill-informed rappers had to say. The very presence of armed National Guardsmen was thought conducive in keeping the peace.
As he and his sergeant got their food, Buford noticed a familiar face sitting alone. He made his excuses to Mack, as the NCO joined some other LANG, and walked over to the NOPD officer.
“Fitzwilliam? That you?”
Richard Fitzwilliam looked up to see a tall, dark-haired Guardsman standing nearby. “Buford! Well, I guess it was only a matter of time before I saw you around here. Sit down, and tell me how you’ve been.”
Buford sat across the table. “Tired as hell, but all right regardless. You?”
“Fine, fine.” The haunted look in the back of Fitz’ eyes told Buford that the policeman wasn’t being completely honest. “How did you make out?”
“I live in Baton Rouge, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”
“Except for the power going out, no problems. Umm…you live in Mid City, right?”
“Yeah, I did.”
Buford winced. “Aw, jeez, I’m sorry. Is your family okay?”
“Yeah, they’re in Atlanta. I’ve got four feet of water in my house.”
“That’s tough.”
Fitz shook his head. “Well, some people got it a lot worse. Have you been able to talk to your family?”
Buford smiled. “Yeah, I call home every night.” His eyes grew a little misty as he recalled the conversation from the night before. Man, I miss Carrie.
Fitz’s attention seemed to be on his food. “Yeah, I try to call every day, too. Olivia’s staying with family.”
“My brother-in-law’s wife and kids are staying with us. You know Chuck and Jane Bingley, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Will told me what happened to Chuck’s house. He’s still working on his place?”
Buford confirmed that he was, and the two ate for a bit.
“So, were you stuck at Jackson Barracks when the levees went?” Fitz asked.
“Nope. I was at the Superdome.”
“Crap! No kidding?”
“I was there for one solid week. Don’t wanna go through that again.”
“I hear ya.” Fitz paused. He didn’t want to bring up something painful, but the stories he had heard were all over the place. He settled for, “I heard it was real bad.”
“Bad enough, but not as bad as the Convention Center.”
Fitz grunted at first, but something in Buford’s tone caught his ear. “You know, I was at the Convention Center.”
Buford gaped. “Really? Man! I heard it was like a wild west rodeo in there.”
Fitz chuckled without humor and spent the next couple of minutes telling the soldier about his experiences. He could see that Buford was confused.
“Wait a sec, Fitz. I heard you had a hundred dead bodies in there.”
Fitz rolled his eyes. “I’ve been hearing that story ever since we cleared the place.”
“It isn’t true?”
“No. There was one fatality from stab wounds. We have no idea if the attack occurred in the building or if the victim was assaulted elsewhere and somehow got to the Convention Center before he died. The other three were from natural causes.” He looked down. “The truth is bad enough without exaggerating it.”
“But, I heard this report from the Chief of Police!”
“Who didn’t know anything!” He looked at Buford. “I heard two hundred people died from gunshot wounds at the Dome. Is that true?”
Buford shook his head. “One suicide, one suspected overdose, and four from natural causes. The only person who got shot was a Guardsman, and he wounded himself in the leg by accident.”
Fitz leaned back. “See? Six dead where you were, and four dead at my shop. But according to the mayor on Oprah, we might as well be in Baghdad.” The two sat in contemplation of the misinformation that was being broadcast across the country.
Fitz broke the silence again. “You getting any leave soon?”
“Maybe next weekend. How about you?”
“No, nothing. We’re too short-handed…but,” Fitz grinned, “you know FEMA’s bringing in some cruise ships for housing?”
“Yeah, I heard something about that. We’re staying on the Iwo Jima.”
“Yeah, I saw that big sucker docked over there,” he gestured with his thumb. “Well, about those cruise ships, they’re for police and firefighters – and their families.”
“Really? That’s cool.”
“You said it. As soon as those puppies get here, I’m gonna get Olivia to come back and stay on board with me.”
Buford wore a sincere smile. “Well, I’m happy for you. You guys have really had it tough. You need something nice to happen.”
“Yeah. After this last couple of weeks, things can only get better, right?”
Chris Breaux set down the telephone with a stunned expression. “Well, that’s it.”
His wife and mother exchanged glances. “Bad news, baby?” asked Marianne.
He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. LSU has absolutely no idea when – or if – they’re going to reopen University Hospital. Charity Hospital is gone.”
Mrs. Breaux blinked. “Does that mean you have no job?”
“I’m still being paid, for now, but long-term, it doesn’t look good. LSU is setting up an emergency clinic at the New Orleans Centre next to the Superdome, but they don’t need psychiatrists there. And there are no other openings in the system.”
Mari sat next to her husband and took his hand. “What do we do, baby?”
“I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”
Monday, September 12, 2005
K plus two weeks
William Darcy sat back in his chair and took in the group assembled in the Houston hotel conference room. A special meeting of the Delta Global Shipping board of directors had been called, ostensibly to review the condition of the company in the wake of Katrina. But neither he nor his uncle was fooled. The future of DGS was to be decided.
As VP of Operations, Leon Anderson, droned on about the last quarter’s numbers, Will took the opportunity to weight the strength of his position with the people in the room. He knew the board was happy with his tenure as CEO – that was clear, especially after the Edmund Fitzwilliam incident. Profits had been good and tonnage was up.
However, the slow pace of improvements at the Port of New Orleans, particularly in the handling of container cargo, irked a couple of the board members. That, and the fact that New Orleans wasn’t an airline hub, which made travel by board members to meetings inconvenient, kept alive a desire by some to move the headquarters to a larger city such as Houston. Up until now, a majority of the board was satisfied with New Orleans and had stopped any drive to relocate. But Katrina had changed the equation. Will knew he had to act, and act now, or things could get out of hand.
“Thank you, Leon,” said F. Edward Fitzwilliam, who ran the meeting is his role as DGS Chairman. “Let me congratulate the operations division’s performance during this difficult time. You’ve had to think on your feet and react quickly to a very fluid situation, and you’ve done marvelously.” The rest of the board gave Anderson a polite round of applause as Ed gave Will a hopeful glance. Will knew his uncle was hoping to get out of this meeting without a confrontation, and Will shared that hope, as little as it was.
Mr. Fitzwilliam tried to bring the meeting to a close when a hand went up. Will saw that it was Phil Osborne, the representative of an investment group that had taken a five percent stake in DGS two years ago. He ascended to the board last year and had been one of the more vocal over the headquarters issue. Ed blanched and Will sighed, knowing what was coming.
Osborne stood. “Ed, there are a couple of things I believe I should bring to the board’s attention. One is to congratulate Will and Leon on their hard work during this crisis. Let’s give them another hand, shall we?” He began clapping, and the rest joined in.
Slick SOB, thought Will.
“I also think that Will’s plan to bring the new George Darcy to New Orleans with relief supplies is a very noble thing to do, even though we could have waited for a contract from FEMA to do so.” He chuckled, “Hell, the way they’re throwing around money, I wonder if we did the right thing by our shareholders by not waiting - but that’s beside the point.”
Jerk.
Osborne sobered. “What’s not beside the point is the future of this company, and whether we can afford the luxury of maintaining our corporate headquarters in a city that’s so vulnerable to natural disasters.”
Will listened as Osborne expressed his concern over the residents of that “ruined city” and laid out the advantages of transferring the corporate offices to somewhere with a higher global identity, such as Houston or Miami.
Ohh, good one, Osborne. You’re trying to drive a wedge between Uncle Ed and me, knowing that Ed has a house in Ft. Lauderdale. But that’s not going to work.
Osborne finished his presentation and sat down, expecting someone else to make a motion to move DGS. Instead, Will put his plan into action.
Showtime. He glanced at another board member who then raised his hand.
“Yes, Tony?” said Ed.
“Ed, I’d like to make a motion that this board pass a resolution stating that an undeniable and unbreakable connection exists between Delta Global Shipping and the City of New Orleans, and that this board pledges to reestablish operations of its corporate headquarters there as soon as possible.”
“Second!” cried the other plant. Osborne immediately saw the ploy for what it was and began to shout it down, but Will got to his feet.
“The Chair recognizes Will,” Ed said quickly.
“Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Will said formally. He took a breath to collect his thoughts. Will had authority to vote his family’s shares, and he knew he had the support of a large block on the board, but Osborne had the ear of a large number, too. Neither had a majority of the board under their control and the vote could go either way. Will had to shore up his votes and sway the undecided over to his side. Two votes could make all the difference.
“I rise in support of Tony’s motion. Delta Global Shipping has been a Louisiana company, under various names, for almost two hundred years. This company is part of Louisiana and part of my family. Our roots run deep. Our homes are there…”
“This is about more than your family’s homes, Will,” remarked Osborne.
Darcy smiled, for Osborne had fallen right into his trap. “True, Phil, but it’s also home to almost half of our employees, including the entire executive team, and they’ve been with us a long time.” He gestured to the man beside him. “Leon, here, alone has worked for this company for twenty years.” He turned his attention back to the people assembled around the table. “I’m talking about over a hundred years of combined experience in shipping. They’re smart, hard-working, and loyal. They have roots in the New Orleans metro area, too. They serve on numerous boards, they volunteer at their children’s schools and in their churches, and they coach their neighborhood athletic teams. They have their homes there – some of them in need of repair, some have been flooded out. It’s not that easy to sell a house in these conditions. I don’t see the value of uprooting and moving them for someone else’s convenience.”
Osborne paled as the verbal slap sunk in. Darcy had Osborne on the ropes – now he had to finish him off.
“Let’s face it. We’re in Louisiana for a reason. While container traffic is the growth area for the company, the majority of our traffic is steel, dry bulk, and break-bulk cargo. We ship in coffee and ship out corn and wheat. This,” he pointed to a map of the Mississippi River that was hanging on the wall, “is where our cargo is. Not Miami, not Houston. Our goods are here. The railroads and barges are here. And here is where DGS will be.” He turned to the table again.
“If the majority of our business and profits are generated with the ports along the lower Mississippi River, why the heck move our headquarters somewhere else? Why spend the money? Who is served by this? Not our staff, not our workers, not our shareholders. I ask again – who is served?” He stared at Osborne.
Will sat down. “For the sake of our workers and our shareholders, the Darcy and Fitzwilliam families, as well as the Darcy Charitable Trust, will vote in favor of the resolution on the table.”
Ed Fitzwilliam looked around the silent table. “Is there any other discussion on the motion, or shall I call for a vote?”
“Now, that was a butt-kicking!” Leon laughed as he sipped a cognac in Darcy’s office, along with Will and Ed Fitzwilliam.
“Yep,” agreed Ed. “Unanimous, with Osborne abstaining. You set him down firmly but fairly, Will. Good job. The board’s solidly on your side.”
Will scowled over his snifter. “Don’t think this is over. Osborne won’t go away. This vote gives me maybe a year to get us up and running again, that’s all.”
Ed shifted in his chair. “I agree, and that’s why I’ve reconsidered my intention of stepping down this year. You’ve got enough to do without the mantle of Chairman hanging around your neck.”
“Thanks, Uncle Ed. I can use you in there.”
“How’s the trailer proposal going?” asked Leon. “Any movement?”
“Elizabeth’s working on it. With the others putting pressure on the government, we ought to get them.”
“Good.” Leon threw back the last of his drink. “Let me get back to work.”
Ed got to his feet. “I’m flying out this afternoon to Lauderdale. Why don’t you hitch a ride, Will? We can drop you off in Baton Rouge. Go spend some time with Elizabeth.”
Will glanced at Leon. “Go on, boss. You can do more there than here right now. Go get us up and running again so we all can go home.”
“All right, you’ve talked me into it. Give me some time to talk to my secretary and run back to the hotel to pack a bag. Maybe an hour?”
Ed waved. “Take all the time you need. I can hang around here and make a nuisance of myself.”
Leon laughed. “Just like old times, eh, Ed?” The two left the office while Will dialed Lizzy’s cell.
That evening, after Will climbed off the DGS Citation into Elizabeth’s loving arms, he was informed that he was drafted to grill steaks for dinner. He and George Katz shared a beer on Pemberley’s back patio while the filets cooked.
“How’s it feel to be back, Will?” asked George.
“After living in a hotel? So good I can’t tell you.”
George looked around the backyard, the sky a darkening grey with streaks of red. “Thank you for putting Emma and me up for the last couple of weeks. We can never repay the kindness shown by you and Lizzy.”
“Aw, knock it off, George. We’re glad to have you here. To be honest, I like having someone to keep Lizzy company. You’re both doing us a favor.”
“Well, we just wanted to let you know how much we appreciate it.”
“Consider the place your place for as long as you need.” Will turned back to the steaks.
“About that…” Something in George’s voice – a finality – caught Will’s attention. He turned.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. Emma and I have talked it over, and we can’t impose on you and Lizzy any longer. It’s time to move on.”
Will stared into his fraternity brother’s eyes. “You haven’t imposed.”
“It’s time. Emma’s talking to Lizzy right now.”
“Where are you going?”
“Emma and I have decided to go up to Maryland and stay with her sister for a while, until we get back on our feet.”
Will nodded. “You coming back?”
George looked out at the distance. “I don’t know. We both grew up here, but…with losing both Abe and the house and everything, there’re too many memories here. Bad memories.” He sighed. “Emma can’t go back. Not now – it’s too soon, too raw.”
Will sighed. He wasn’t surprised. “When?”
“We’re booking the airline tickets now. In a few days.”
“Is there anything we can do?”
George looked at his feet. “Yeah, there is one thing, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“Name it.”
“If you can get me back to the hospital to pick up my car, I’d appreciate it. It’s still in the Tulane parking garage. We’ll park it and Emma’s Volvo at some storage facility until we decide what to do with them.”
Will flipped the meat. “We’ll go tomorrow. I’ve got a pass that’ll get us in the city. And don’t worry about any storage place. You can keep the cars here at Pemberley until you need them.” He chuckled. “We’ve certainly got the room.”
“Thanks, buddy. We’ll probably sell them – the Volvo, certainly. I don’t think Emma can drive that car anymore.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. Think you’ll miss this place?”
George took a deep breath as he considered. “No. Maybe later, but I think we both need a fresh start. It’s way too soon to get sentimental over this town.” He turned to Will. “But we will miss our friends. You and Lizzy, Chris and Mari, Chuck and…and…”
To Will’s surprise, his big, strong friend began sobbing. “It’s okay, George, it’s okay.”
Tears flowed down George’s face as his voice cracked. “I know, it’s… it’s like I can’t stop. I…I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He broke down and Will, without another thought, pulled him into a hug. George wept on his shoulder, and Will looked helplessly into the house, only to see Lizzy staring at him in pain, Emma crying in her arms.
Whether from seeing the logic of the proposal or bowing to political pressure, FEMA allowed the positioning of the small travel trailers for workers at large employers deemed important to the national economy. That meant oil and gas refineries, shipyards engaged in military construction, and ports. DGS’ trailers were brought in on a barge and docked near its headquarters, using the huge hollow platform as a wastewater holding tank for the dozen travel trailers. There was one frustrating requirement from FEMA, however – only workers could use the trailers. Spouses and dependants were forbidden from even stepping into the trailers.
Still, it was better than nothing. DGS contacted its workers, promising food and water, and a goodly number showed up to work.
For all his efforts, Will Darcy could not completely keep his promise. On Tuesday, September 13, 2005, around 7:15 p.m., the Lykes Flyer, operated by CP Ships, docked at the Napoleon Avenue Container Terminal, marking the return of commercial shipping to New Orleans.
The brand new container ship, the George Darcy, filled with relief supplies, would dock two days later.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Carrie was already in bed when Jane came into the room to undress. She could tell that her sister-in-law was unhappy. “What’s wrong, Jane? Are the kids still up?”
“No, they’re asleep. I just got off the phone with the mortgage company,” she said as she took a maternity nightgown out of a drawer. She wore the thing as a courtesy to Carrie. If she had been at home, she would have slept in the nude, as usual.
“Again?” Carrie exclaimed to Jane’s back, as the other woman moved into the bathroom.
“Oh! They’re so hard to work with! You know I’ve been calling all of our credit card and gas card companies, explaining the situation down here. We’re not asking for much – just a little more time on the payments until the worst of the emergency is over, without running up any late fees or interest rate hikes. Almost all of the companies have been completely cooperative. Some had already placed holds on accounts from our zip codes even before we called. They all understand we have a historic disaster down here, and they’re willing to help. No payments until January, a freeze on interest costs, things like that. The banks are even letting us use whatever ATM is nearby without fees.” She stuck her head out of the bathroom. “All except for Acme National Mortgage!”
An aggravated Jane brushed her hair so hard that Carrie was afraid she would pull it out.
Jane continued to rant. “I call up, and after I finally get through to a live person – and that was wasn’t easy, let me tell you – the first thing they want to do is put me through to the re-work department, like we’re somebody with bad credit issues. I explain again to them that no, I don’t want to do that, that we’ve had a hurricane, and, no, I don’t want to suspend payment to our loan, which would go onto the back end and charge us more interest! I would like to spend our money on food, now that Katrina has put us temporarily out of our jobs! I explain to them – again – what our other creditors have done and ask them what Acme National’s plan is. Now, they tell me they don’t have a plan for Katrina victims yet!”
Carrie frowned. “Jane, they’re the country’s biggest mortgage company. How can they not have a plan?”
Jane held her head. “They can’t tell me. I don’t know why Gallic sold our home mortgage to Acme National, but they’ve been trouble since day one. Until they tell me they have a plan that will not cost us more money or ruin our credit, I’ll just have to continue making our mortgage payments.” She sat on the bed.
“Can you afford that?”
“We have some money in our savings.”
“Oh, Janie, I’m so sorry.”
Jane sighed and lay down next to Carrie. “At least Standard Insurance has been great. They’re supposed to send an adjuster out next week to the house.”
“Wow, that’s fast. Good thing you got your claim in early.”
“I imagine they’re getting overwhelmed by calls now. I’ve seen Standard, Allstate, and State Farm claim centers spring up all over the place in the last week.” Jane smoothed down the sheets. “Charles is going to stay in Covington, cleaning up, until the adjuster arrives.”
“How are things there?”
“Better. They’ve restored power along US 190 from I-12 into Covington, so Chuck doesn’t have to drive to Hammond for gas. He says the stores are trying to restock, but they have very limited hours, because they have no workers.” She turned over on her side. “What is it with men?”
Carrie laughed. “Now, that’s a loaded question. What’s Chuck done now?”
Jane pursed her lips. “He won’t leave that house! He’s over there, with no power or air conditioning, running the refrigerator with a generator, cleaning up the yard and trying to fix Hailey’s window. He’s no carpenter – we’re going to need to hire a contractor once the insurance settlement comes through. But he’s still putzing around…What’s so funny?”
Carrie was trying not to laugh. “Oh…just something John once mentioned…” She laughed.
“I’m good for a laugh. What did he say?”
“It’s why Chuck is trying to fix the house. It’ll make you happy. If you’re happy, you’ll make Chuck happy – get it?”
Jane rolled that around in her head. “Oh… Oh for crying out loud! Is everything about…that?”
Carrie laughed, “It is, according to John! It makes the world go around!”
Thanks to a mighty effort, the Corps of Engineers, the levee districts, and their contractors had sealed, albeit temporarily, the breaches in the canals. The Corps brought in huge pumps to augment the Sewerage & Water Board’s equipment. To everyone’s relief, the city’s pumps worked once the level of water was lowered enough to restore power. By the middle of the month, over half the floodwaters were gone, enough for the mayor to plan for the repopulation of the Crescent City.
President Bush had returned on September 15 to speak to the nation from Jackson Square. He encouraged tourists to return to the Big Easy, to enjoy its hotels and sights and restaurants. Pundits said the President’s remarks were at best overly optimistic, but it was exactly the message the city wanted to get out. The Port and the shipyards would come back, and oil was always needed, but the third leg of the economy needed the shot in the arm. The grim truth was that, without tourists and the convention trade, New Orleans would never recover.
Many thought Mayor Nagin’s plan too much too soon. Energy New Orleans had worked hard, but still vast areas of the city were without power, and with the utility bleeding money, it would be many months before even half of the city was inhabitable. Without power, there would be no phone or cable service, except for cell phones. The Sewerage & Water Board had restored much of the water in the dry central part of the city, but it was unsafe to drink.
But the tourism trade needed a jump start, and that meant people to work in the lodging and entertainment industries. Besides, Nagin knew his citizens. Most were straining at the bit to return, and with a mayoral election next spring, he wasn’t going to get in the way. The return would start next week.
Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other plans.