Beginning, Previous Section, Section XXIII

Posted on Saturday, 15 March 2008

Chapter 63

January, 2006
K plus four months

New Orleans started the New Year striving for as much normalcy as possible. Of course, with the damage to the tourist infrastructure, the Sugar Bowl could not be played in the Superdome, and the game was moved to Atlanta. Still, certain things were going to happen, come hell, high water, or FEMA. To the shock of almost everyone outside of Louisiana, the city announced an abbreviated Mardi Gras schedule – ten days of parades to end on Carnival Day, February 28. The out-of-towners thought the people down there had gone mad, and perhaps they had, but it was a unique insanity that made perfect sense to the locals, who didn’t care what people said about it on CNN.

A tradition in urban politics was the annual Martin Luther King Day speeches, as politicians and self-appointed leaders of the African American community strived to link themselves to the greatness of the martyr to civil rights. It was no different in New Orleans, and Ellie Elliot knew this speech to be very important to her boss. Not only did Mayor Nagin need to reenergize his black constituents, reaffirming that the poor and black would not be left behind in the Come Back Home program, but there was an election coming up later that spring.

Ellie was troubled by the seemingly erratic behavior of the mayor. Just when he would finally settle ruffled feathers through long and blunt-talking private meetings, he would stir things up again with a strange off-the-cuff remark to a reporter, and the staff would have to do damage control again. She had hopes for this speech, but the mayor had not let any of his inner-circle see it. That was not unusual, but Ellie was uneasy.

The mayor moved to the microphone at City Hall and began by welcoming everyone in a sprit of love and unity.

Love and unity – good, thought Ellie as she began to relax. A nice, boring speech, filled with platitudes would just be the ticket…What!?

The mayor had said, “You know, when I woke up early this morning, and I was reflecting upon what I could say that could be meaningful for this grand occasion. And then I decided to talk directly to Dr. King. Now you might think that's one Katrina post-stress disorder. But I was talking to him and I just wanted to know what would he think if he looked down today at this celebration.”

To Ellie’s increasing horror, the mayor continued his bizarre recanting of a conversation with a man long dead, putting words in Dr. King’s mouth. It didn’t seem to be hyperbole – he was talking as if he had actually had this conversation.

She began to calm down as Nagin’s speech addressed the problems in the black community, those of hate and crime and illiteracy. But then he said, “And as we think about rebuilding New Orleans, surely God is mad at America. He's sending hurricane after hurricane after hurricane and it's destroying and putting stress on this country. Surely He's not approving of us being in Iraq under false pretense. But surely He's upset at black America, also.”

“God is mad at America.” Oh no, boss, oh no!

Then, he spoke the words that would flash across the country. “We ask black people – it's time. It's time for us to come together. It's time for us to rebuild a New Orleans, the one that should be a chocolate New Orleans. And I don't care what people are saying Uptown or wherever they are. This city will be chocolate at the end of the day. This city will be a majority African-American city. It's the way God wants it to be. You can't have New Orleans no other way; it wouldn't be New Orleans.”(1)

Oh, my god, you just insulted half of the current population of the city. You just told the white folks to go to hell. You’re calling to rebuild black New Orleans, not all of New Orleans. Oh, my god!

She would hardly register the mayor’s call for the end of the renewed violence in the poorer sections of town. It would be a couple of days before Ellie would recognize the resolution she made at the moment. By the end of the week, her resume would be in the hands of a recruiter. She had had enough. It was time to leave the madhouse.

February, 2006
K plus five months

There might have been billions of dollars appropriated for the rebuilding of the Gulf States, but the US government wasn’t releasing a penny until there were plans in place. Who would spend the money, and on what, and who would be accountable? No plan, no check.

Mississippi got the message. Since the storm, the governor had called two special sessions of the legislature before the regular session began on January 3. The plans were either in place or were in the process of being drawn up, and the Mississippi federal delegation used this to their advantage in earmarks for funding.

Louisiana cried foul, claiming theirs was the bigger disaster. They were right, but they were also far behind their neighbors in planning. It wasn’t until February 6 that Governor Blanco finally felt ready to call her own special session, the first since Katrina and Rita. Federal aid had to hang fire until Louisiana got their act together.

“Welcome back, Lizzy!” cried Jan Hill.

The two shared hugs in the lobby of the EDNO offices. Lizzy’s deployment with FEMA was over, and thanks to Carl Eden’s non-stop fundraising, she was able to rejoin her comrades. The impromptu celebration didn’t end there, as Lizzy was accosted by one and then another of her co-workers as she tried to make her way to her office. Most of the team was back – Eddie Masters, James Williams, Sarah Hunt, and, of course, Charlotte Lucas. Deborah Styne had returned from New York. But there were loses, too. Bonita Carasso’s position had been eliminated, as, under the New Normal, EDNO’s budget could no longer afford an international expert and the travel that position required. Fortunately, Bonnie had gotten a job with the international department of Louisiana DED, and the state pledged to work closely with EDNO on projects. Steve Papa left to take a position with an economic development outfit in Texas that was looking for a new executive director. And Kaywanda Johnson was now living in Madison, Wisconsin.

With the storm came more shake-ups. The rule on family members on the board of directors was suspended so that William Darcy could remain on that body. The city’s economic development department was in shambles, so EDNO moved forward independently, working even closer with the other EDOs in the region. Identifying and writing grants became a major part of the program of work, so the research arm was working overtime.

As Lizzy sat in the familiar comfort of her office chair, she breathed a sigh of relief that her time inside of FEMA was done. Never in her life had work been so intense. She put in sixty hours a week and more, but she could show very few results for it. It wasn’t that the workers weren’t trying. They stayed in constant contact with local officials, trying to find funds for debris removal and repair of vital public infrastructure. The trouble was the constant turnover in FEMA workers. Everyone’s contract seemed to end at different times, and the replacements had very little preparation to take over. Worse were the government employees “borrowed” from other agencies. Each had their own way of doing things, the bureaucratic culture of their home agencies ingrained in their souls. They knew they were short-timers, so there was little motivation for them to think outside the box.

FEMA proved to be more or less helpful than advertised. She had never seen such red tape. Much of the funding came with strings attached. Either matching funds were required or the moneys were for reimbursement. Both rules were horrendous to local governments. They were broke, so even raising a modest 10% match was often out of the question. And with coffers dry, how could governments pay the bills, even if they were to be reimbursed? The money had to be borrowed, and the rate of interest on the bonds would be a sword hanging over the taxpayers.

There was already a stack of calls for Lizzy to return. As she reached for the first of the messages, the phone rang.

“Hey, honey, how’s the first day back at work?”

Lizzy smiled at the warm tones of her husband’s voice. “Great. I’ve got a stack of calls to make, and I couldn’t be happier.”

“Okay, I won’t keep you, but I just got off the phone with Gina. How’re you for a half-dozen guests over Easter?”

“A half-dozen? Is Gina on a basketball team?”

“Gina’s organizing a group of friends from Auburn to come down here over spring break and work on houses for Habitat for Humanity. She volunteered Pemberley as a place to bunk.”

“That’s wonderful, Will! You won’t mind having a house full of college students for a week?”

“Nah, our bedroom’s sound-proofed.”

“William!”

“Got to remember what’s important. You okay with this?”

“Honey, it’s your house…”

“Nope! It’s our house, and you’re the boss of me, so it’s your call.”

Lizzy laughed over the thought of anyone being the boss of William Darcy. “I’d be happy and proud to host Gina’s friends. My folks are supposed to come over Easter Day, but we’ve got plenty of room.”

“All right, Lizzy. I’ll let Gina know it’s a go. Want me to pick up something for dinner?”

“What’s open?”

“I don’t know. Whatever strikes my fancy. There’s gotta be a po’boy shop open around here someplace.”

“Mother’s is open.”

“It sure is! Roast beef or Ferdi?”

“You know what I like.”

“Yeah – plenty of gravy. See you tonight, honey.”

March, 2006
K plus six months

If Emma glanced out of the window of the high-rise office, she could have seen a bit of Baltimore’s famed Inner Harbor. Instead, she sat quietly in the armchair before the desk, her sister, Irene, beside her, as their attorney finished her long-distance telephone call.

The woman made a few more notes before ending the call. “Thank you for your patience. That was my colleague in Louisiana, giving me an update as to how things are moving under probate.”

She glanced at her notes. “To recap, your late father had a last will and testament drawn up by his lawyer, now deceased. We know that Mr. Weinberg’s copy was in a file in the house and was destroyed in the flood. Apparently, the lawyer’s copy was stored with the rest of his papers in a warehouse in New Orleans East, which also flooded.

“Therefore, we are moving forward with settling your father’s estate as if he died without a will, or intestate, under Louisiana law. Mr. Weinberg’s life insurance policy named Emma Katz and Irene Parker as beneficiaries, and that has been settled. What is not settled are the investments, bank accounts, and other assets of Mr. Weinberg.”

The two women listened, taking notes. “The estate devolved to his two living heirs – you two, Mrs. Katz and Mrs. Parker. Before any distribution can take place, the Louisiana court must have a final accounting of the assets and any claims against the estate before a judge will render a Judgment of Possession.

“We seem to have all of the assets of the estate accounted for – investment accounts, retirement accounts, and a house lot in Florida. The only debt against the estate is the house. Mr. Weinberg was a co-signer on the loan, and there is a balance due on the mortgage. We’ll have to make some decisions on that.”

Emma spoke up. “Ms. Fairfax, I think we can move to discussing the house now, as it applies to this.”

Fairfax picked up a paper. “You had federal flood insurance on the house in New Orleans, and that claim has been paid. Unfortunately, the maximum payout of $250,000 did not cover the balance left on the mortgage, and you owe a bit over $50,000.”

“On a flooded shell,” said Irene.

“Uhh, yes. Your private insurance company, Standard Insurance, has rejected your claim, saying that the policy is null and void because the house was flooded, which the policy does not cover.”

“That’s crazy,” Irene stormed. “George and Emma had hurricane coverage, and they were damaged by a hurricane!”

“You’re correct, Mrs. Parker. According to the hurricane rider in the policy, Standard is supposed to cover damages caused by wind and other forces from a hurricane. It does not cover flooding from rainfall. The company claims the flooding was from storm surge. We dispute that. It is our argument that the roof damage on the house is clearly from high winds. Also, the levees and storm walls, built by the US Army Corps of Engineers, were damaged by those same forces, allowing in the flood waters. This is not an Act of God; rather, our damages were caused by foreseeable forces that could have been and should have been accounted for.

“That’s why we have joined in class-action suits against Standard Insurance. We are also joining a class-action suit against the Corps of Engineers and the Federal Government.”

Emma looked up. “Where does that leave us with regards to Papa’s estate?”

“I have to be frank with you, Mrs. Katz. While we have a reasonable argument against Standard Insurance, this could drag out for years and years, and even then there is no guarantee of success. The suit against the government is a long shot. Unusually, the government and its agencies are immune from lawsuits, unless gross misconduct can be proved, or if the Congress specifically allows itself to be sued.

“Misconduct is a huge mountain to climb. We would have to show that the government knowingly and willfully built the levees in such a manner as to be a danger to the people of New Orleans, and that they covered up that fact for years. Truthfully, I don’t know if we can do that. However, by being a part of the class-action, we may be in line for damages if the government decides to settle rather than fight.”

“That’s unlikely, isn’t it?”

“It is unlikely, Mrs. Parker.”

Irene took a breath. “So, to sum things up, Papa’s estate can’t be settled until all claims against the estate are cleared. The major claim is the flooded house in New Orleans, and there’s still a $50,000 claim on it from the mortgage company, even though the house is a total loss.”

“Yes, that sums it up.”

Emma thought back to the few items George had been able to recover from the house when he returned a few months ago. Not much could be salvaged: a vase, some figurines her mother used to collect, most of the silver. Anything made of paper, be it pictures or books or paintings, was now garbage. All the furniture, rugs, clothes, practically everything else was gone. Emma had fled with her jewelry and important papers. Why Papa didn’t allow Emma to keep his papers with hers was a mystery that would never be solved.

Not that money could ever bring any of it back, especially the photographs, but it was still a stab in the heart that the insurance company would pay nothing for these irreplaceable losses.

Irene asked Ms. Fairfax, “How much is Papa’s estate worth? Just a ballpark figure.”

“Approximately $700,000, before expenses, such as legal fees and estate taxes.”

“All right, let’s just settle the house, and get this over with.”

Emma turned to her sister. “Irene, you know George and I don’t expect this.”

Ms. Fairfax added, “Mrs. Parker, that’s very generous. You’ll be a part-owner in the house and the lot it sits on after this settles.”

“I’m aware of that, and I’m fine with it.” She reached over a grasped Emma’s hand. “Tyler agrees. It’s what Papa would have wanted.”

Ms. Fairfax shrugged. “Very well. I’ll notify my colleague in Louisiana of your decision. I hope we can finally settle matters by the end of the month.”

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and Chuck Bingley was stuck in traffic on US 190 between Mandeville and Covington, trying to make his way to his next appointment. Conditions on the major artery had been bad for years, as the money for road improvements couldn’t keep up with the growth of the area. Since the storm, a bad situation had gotten worse as the population jumped by over fifty percent with people forced out of their homes in Orleans and St. Bernard flocking to the North Shore. What was as inconvenience for 200,000 people was intolerable for nearly 300,000.

Chuck didn’t allow the traffic jam to bother him. He remembered all too well how this six-lane highway was almost completely empty only six months ago. All these cars meant that people were back, working and rebuilding. To a banker, it was music to his ears. Just like his cell phone going off.

“Chuck Bingley here. How can I help you?”

“Chuck? Tom Bennett.”

“Tom! How’re you doing, partner?”

“Can’t complain. We just got our floors redone in the house in Metairie.”

“Know how you feel. We finally have a contractor working on my daughter’s window.” One of the first things Bayou State Bank did for Chuck was refinance his house, which freed up his settlement from Acme National Mortgage. It still took several weeks to get a contractor. Meanwhile, Hailey was still sleeping in the nursery and Joanne’s crib remained in the master bedroom.

“Did you hear about Manwarring? He’s no longer with Gallic National Bank.”

“No, I didn’t. What happened?”

“Justice, my friend. His decision to move corporate lending to Dallas just about killed the department. We’ve been able to keep the biggest accounts, but the small and medium-sized players are jumping ship left and right. The book was down by more than thirty percent, and it was getting worse by the day. The board got fed up with his excuses. Officially, he resigned to seek other opportunities, but in reality he was pushed out. Resign or be fired.”

Chuck laughed. He had gotten many of his accounts to move to Bayou State, including B&B Oilfield Services, and he was part of a syndicate that was handling a portion of DGS’s working capital.

“It couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, Tom.”

“The jerk should have been shot, if you ask me. I’m calling to give you a heads up. GNB is reestablishing corporate leaning in downtown New Orleans, and they want their people to come back. You interested?”

Chuck thought about it for half a second. Sure the excitement of international lending had its attractions, but Chuck had made a home at Bayou State. Part of his job was to be engaged in the community. Chuck was now serving on two committees of the local chamber of commerce, and was considering an offer to sit on a non-profit arts council board of directors.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m pretty happy at Bayou State.”

“I thought you would say that, but I promised my boss I’d ask. Things going good there?”

“Oh, yeah. Lots of rebuilding loans, and we have a ton of mortgages to close if we could get stuff through the title companies. They’re swamped.”

“I hear ya. Well, good luck Chuck.”

“Thanks Tom. And thanks for thinking of me and putting in a word with Tom Lefoy.”

“What are friends for? Let’s do dinner soon.”

“You got it.”

The NOPD Public Integrity Division officer stood as Richard Fitzwilliam entered the interview room. “Thank you for coming down, Captain. I’m sure we can clear this up in no time. Please have a seat.”

Fitz took his seat, throwing a hostile look at the PID. “All right, I’ve got things to do. Let’s get this over with.”

The officer sat and pulled out a file. “We’re looking into the fatal shooting of one Gregory Wickham on September–” he reported before Fitz interrupted him.

“What for? That was a clean shooting.”

“Was it?”

“You know it was! What is this – some kangaroo court?”

“Captain Fitzwilliam, we are attempting to conclude our investigation into this case, as we do anytime deadly force is used by an officer. This is not a formal hearing. We are trying to collect the facts. While you can leave at any time, we would appreciate your cooperation. Can you take me through the events of that day?”

“All right. We were called to the site of a reported shooting at a USCG helicopter engaged in search-and-rescue. After setting up a command post and deploying personnel on hand, I observed the suspect on a second floor balcony brandishing a weapon. In my opinion, we did not have time to wait hours for tactical back-up. I made the decision to end the stand-off as quickly as possible with the least risk to my people. The sniper was under my orders. I gave the green light to shoot.”

The interrogator glanced at his notes. “That’s all right here – the after-action report, the shooter’s affidavit, and the interviews with the other officers present. All consistent.”

Fitz stared at the PID. “The shooter was cleared.”

“In the preliminary investigation,” the officer clarified. “We need to clear up a few things.”

“Ask your questions – I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“Good.” He looked at the file. “You’ve known the victim for some time…years, in fact.”

“Yeah. I busted him for distribution over eight years ago.”

“You were known to have been on the lookout for him while you were in the Second District.”

“Of course! I was working Narcotics.”

“Wickham seemed to garner your special attention, though. There’s this case about the Bertram/Smith killings in 1999.”

“You know about that. That was all tied into taking down the traitor, Officer Jones. If you remember, I was PID’s man on the inside, setting her up. I cooperated with you people.”

The investigator ignored his statement. “You also investigated the victim…”

“Perpetrator.”

“…Wickham,” the investigator conceded, “in conjunction with an alleged sexual assault at Tulane in 1999, without success.”

“That’s tied into the Bertram/Smith killings.”

“You didn’t find anything.”

“I didn’t find enough. There’s a difference.”

“Yes. Then there was the incident at Sacred Heart Academy. Your cousins were involved?”

Fitz eyed the man. “If you know about that, then you’ve read my reports. Known drug dealer hanging around an all-girls high school. It doesn’t matter if the target was my cousin or not, that deserves some attention.”

“Right. Now, on to 2004 and the raid on a house in Gretna.”

“Hang on a second!” cried Fitzwilliam. “Are you going to review every case I’ve worked on?”

“Only if it concerns Wickham.”

“What’s the point?”

The investigator said nothing for a moment. “How’s your wife?”

“What!?” Fitzwilliam stormed to his feet. “What the hell does that have to do with anything!?”

“She’s still in Atlanta with your daughter, isn’t she? We’ve heard reports that your marriage is having its troubles. I’m sorry about that…”

“(Expletive deleted)!”

“…but we are concerned as to your state of mind on the date of this incident.”

Fitz placed his hands on the table and leaned down to stare the man in the eye. “Get to the point of all this.”

The investigator returned the stare impassively. “I think you’ve been obsessed with this Wickham character for years. He’s been a thorn in your side. He corrupted one of your people while you were working in the Second District, and he’s had several run-ins with members of your extended family. You’ve been on the lookout for him for years at the Second District and the Third, but you’ve failed every time you’ve tried to pin something on him. I think you finally got the opportunity to take him down forever, and you took it. You acted as judge, jury, and executioner.”

Richard Fitzwilliam gazed at his tormentor with no emotion on his face for a minute. “Do you have any other questions for me?” he asked in an unnaturally quiet voice.

“I’ll eventually prove this.”

“You can try. Meanwhile, I have work to do. My job is to put bad guys in jail and keep the city’s streets safe, not harass the men and women trying to police this hellhole.” He leaned closer. “And before you ask, I sleep at night just fine. Do you?” Without waiting for a response, Fitz turned on his heel and left the interrogation room.

A moment later the door opened again, admitting a tall man in a dark suit. The PID asked, “Well, what do you think?”

FBI Special Agent David Baugham rubbed one hand over his face. “Look, the bureau agreed to help you finish up this investigation, not to engage in the NOPD’s version of waterboarding.”

“You worked with Fitzwilliam and planned the raid in Gretna. You watched the interview through the one-way mirror. All we want are your impressions.”

Baugham frowned. “If you ask me, if Fitzwilliam really wanted to get Wickham off the streets, I’d say yeah. Was Wickham Public Enemy Number One? No. Is he sorry that he’s dead? No. But, name me a cop that doesn’t have one case or one perp that stands out in his or her head? It’s natural.

“The grenades found in Wickham’s Ninth Ward house link him to the 2004 Naquin murder in Houma, and to the burned-out boat with three bodies aboard found floating in the Gulf. Thanks to Captain Fitzwilliam, we can finally close those cases. We thank the NOPD for their help. Is there anything else you want of me?”

The PID put his head in his hands. “Look, I think Fitzwilliam’s been a good cop. He’s been an outstanding one, in fact. But we can’t have somebody go all cowboy and start taking the law into his own hands. He’s been under tremendous pressure, and his marriage breaking up isn’t helping matters. Did he break the law? Is he a danger to the citizens if he’s on the street? I’ve got to know if Fitzwilliam is a bigger threat to the department than he’s worth. That’s my job.”

“And you’re welcome to it. I know you’ve got several other cases against NOPD personnel, and the FBI is cooperating. But as for Captain Fitzwilliam, as of now, we are done. You get something more, let us know. Good day.”

(1) – From a transcript of the “Chocolate City” speech given by New Orleans Mayor Ray Nagin on Monday, January 16, 2006 during a program at City Hall commemorating Martin Luther King, Jr.

Posted on Tuesday, 18 March 2008

Chapter 64

April, 2006
K plus seven months

On April 5, 2006, months after independent investigators had demonstrated that levee failures were not due to natural forces beyond intended design strength, Lt. Gen. Carl Strock testified before the US Senate subcommittee on Energy and Water that, “We have now concluded we had problems with the design of the structure.” He also testified that the US Army Corps of Engineers did not know of this mechanism of failure prior to August 29, 2005.

Except for the New Orleans Times-Picayune, this story got virtually no play in the national media. They were still busy talking about Chocolate City, if they were talking about New Orleans at all.

EDNO held a small summit of the local business leaders at the Hilton Riverside, reporting on progress to date – very little – and collecting plans and ideas to help evolve the program of work. Many of the players were in evidence, including William Darcy of DGS.

But his wife was not in the room. Elizabeth’s job was hob-nobing with the press gathered outside. Lizzy spent most of her time with the local media, as they understood the importance of the event. The out-of-towners were just interested in the photo opportunity. The crowd of national types had dropped dramatically from the fall before, but a few were known to fly in periodically to grab some footage, interview a few people and get out of town.

Lizzy was doing deep background with a friend from WDSU-TV 6 when the conference doors opened. The TV people were the most aggressive, shooting the participants as they left as if they were in a perp walk.

Katrina had made Bryan Thorpe, as he had hoped. His agent was talking to several cable outfits. Meanwhile, his bosses had given him a raise and had approved a monthly report from New Orleans. It was just good timing that this shin-dig happened during this trip back. He shoved his microphone into the face of a tall, young executive.

“Hello! Bryan Thorpe of Action NOW News! Can you tell us, what are the plans for relieving the crippling unemployment in the city?”

Will Darcy looked at the reporter as if he was a cockroach that needed to be squished. “The press conference will be handled by Mr. Eden of EDNO. They’re setting it up in the ballroom. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” With that he stalked off with a little wave at Lizzy, knowing he would see her at home later.

Thorpe’s producer edged up to his talent. “Oh, no loss with that stiff. I remember him from…” Justin Middleton’s voice trailed off. “Lizzy? Is that you?”

Lizzy frowned.

“Justin Middleton – Loyola VOICE – remember?”

Her eyes grew wide, but she held her temper and greeted him with a patented smile. “Justin, it’s been so long. How long have you been in town?”

Justin grinned as he shook hands. “Just a day or so, this trip. We were here during the storm. Damn, you’re looking great!” He glanced at her logo pin. “You’re with this business group?”

“VP of Communications with EDNO. And you?”

“TV producer with Action NOW News out of Delaware…”

“A-hem,” interrupted Thorpe.

“Ah, yeah. This is Bryan Thorpe, our investigative reporter. And Sam Watson, cameraman.”

Thorpe poured on the charm. “Pleased to meet you, Lizzy. We’ve got some footage to shoot around here, but maybe we can all grab a drink later?” The smile he gave her had been more successful than not in his career.

Somehow, Lizzy was successful in not laughing full into his face. “Sorry, but I have a previous engagement.” Like, for the rest of my life! “But, here’s my card, if you need any more background information. You too, Justin.”

Thorpe glanced at it. “Elizabeth Darcy.”

Justin made a strange sound and switched his attention between his old college colleague and her business card.

“Darcy?” he finally managed. “Darcy? You mean…” His mouth was flapping like a fish.

“That’s right – Mrs. William Darcy,” she smiled, enunciating each word as if they were the most precious on earth.

“But…but…how did that happen?” Justin cried. After the story in the long shuttered VOICE, this was the last thing he had ever thought would ever occur.

Lizzy’s eyes glowed with secret knowledge. “Let’s just say I saw the light, Justin. Maybe one day you will, too. Now, if you would just follow me to the press conference?”

It is a facet of human nature that not everyone can maintain a sense of sympathy for an indefinite period of time. Eventually, the hearts of some turned away from the Crescent City. Whether from jealousy, ignorance, selfishness, emotional exhaustion, or Schadenfreude(1), people starting saying out loud what had been whispered before – New Orleans had it coming.

The eyes of the nation fell upon the mayoral election in New Orleans, and it seemed to justify this thinking. To say it was a circus was to insult show business. Twenty-one men and women eventually registered to run to oppose the reelection of C. Ray Nagin, Jr., including former close supporters, some who broke with him over Chocolate City.

The diaspora had thrown the political make-up of the Crescent City into turmoil. Only about half of the pre-storm residents had returned. The state, therefore, set up a massive absentee voting operation to mail and process the ballots expected to be demanded from people scattered all over the nation.

The mayor had won election in 2002 by appealing to working class people and the white business community. Some of the more progressive blacks doubted the mayor’s “black credentials,” and Nagin received only twenty percent of the black vote. Since he had almost all the white vote, he had won, but the taunts of Oreo – black on the outside, white on the inside – were still fresh in his head from four years before.

Now that he had alienated his bi-racial base, the mayor played the race card. He brought in ACORN and Jessie Jackson’s PUSH-Rainbow Coalition to demand satellite voting precincts be set up outside Louisiana. It didn’t manner that it was strictly against Louisiana law. The people must be heard!

Unfortunately for them, this wasn’t New Jersey. The courts stuck to the state election statues. The Secretary of State did set up special voting precincts in border cities like Lake Charles and Shreveport, and the civil rights groups organized bus trips for refugees to the polls.

Late on April 22, it was apparent that Nagin had survived the first round, receiving thirty-eight percent of the vote in the open primary, while Lt. Governor Mitch Landrieu, brother of the US Senator and fellow Democrat, got twenty-nine percent. The pundits fell all over themselves predicting Nagin’s doom. Landrieu, while white, was firmly in the progressive wing of the party and, therefore, would get far and away more than his share of the black vote. The Landrieu name was well-respected. All the polls seemed to back up the belief that the election was over.

Except it wasn’t. After the run-off polls closed on May 20, the city was stunned to learn that it wasn’t even close. Nagin got eighty percent of the black vote, and enough of the business community, uneasy with the liberal Landrieu, decided to stick with the devil they knew, and the mayor was reelected by 4,000 votes.

As surprised as the residents were, the rest of the country was apoplectic. How stupid were those inbreeds? They reelected the Chocolate City Man? What’s wrong with them?

All the New Orleans haters finally found their voice. It didn’t matter that the flooding was the fault of the Corps of Engineers. It didn’t matter that much of the billions that Congress had earmarked for hurricane relief was tied up in red tape – manufactured by the same Congress – or wasted by FEMA. It didn’t matter that people were being cheated by their insurance companies.

All that mattered was – New Orleans had it coming!

June, 2006
K plus nine months

The large crowd, jammed into the rather funky, intimate Chicago nightclub, was very quiet as the haunting voice of Billie Joe Armstrong filled the darkness, lit only by the images flashing across a projection screen.

“Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends.”

The event was a fundraiser for Tipitina’s Foundation, which was working to relocate evacuated musicians back to New Orleans, and the music was part of a presentation by New Orleans Times-Picayune writer Chris Rose. Photos taken by the newspaper during and after Katina rolled on and on, forever changing the music of Green Day’s big hit.

“Here comes the rain again
Falling from the stars
Drenched in my pain again
Becoming who we are.

“As my memory rests
But never forgets what I lost
Wake me up when September ends.”(2)

Marianne Breaux fought to keep her composure. It was like looking into a scrapbook of all the pain in her heart. She had seen it all before, all the photographs, all the sights. Not just Downtown and the Ninth Ward, but all over the city. St. Bernard. Plaquemines. The North Shore. Gulfport and Biloxi. Evacuation centers in Texas and other places. But in this setting, in a darkened club surrounded by strangers nine months and a thousand miles away from the disaster, the effect was more poignant than she could have believed. Again, a traitorous tear slipped down her cheek.

She felt a touch on her arm, and a soft voice whispered, “Honey, are you okay?”

Christopher, bless him, always knew what she needed and when she needed it. She could not lose control of her emotions. Not tonight. At least, not yet.

“I’m fine, babe.”

He squeezed her hand in reassurance. To distract herself, Mari allowed her eyes to move to the audience to gage their reactions. It was with satisfaction she observed the incredulous looks of horror and disbelief on the assembled faces. They thought that had seen the devastation, and the realization that they truly had no idea as to the extent of the calamity was written all over their faces. Rose and his team had done a marvelous job.

A light came up on Rose, sitting on the small stage next to a guitarist. Like a poetry reading from a bygone era he read passages from his book, 1 Dead in Attic, interspaced with accompaniment. Mari had received the book as a gift from Lizzy Darcy some months before, but she was spellbound by hearing Rose recount his observations, both hilarious and heartbreaking, in his own voice.

The scenes moved from disaster and despair to reunion and rebuilding. The music changed as well to that unofficial anthem of the Crescent City, “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Mari could not stop herself from lightly clapping, keeping time, while a grin spread over her face.

The lights came up and the manager stepped forward, encouraging everyone who wanted a copy of 1 Dead in Attic signed by Chris Rose to buy them at a table set up against one wall. It was a fundraiser, and the entertainment would continue in a few minutes, but in the meantime, they were collecting donations.

That was Mari’s cue. A few minutes later, she was on stage to light applause. She began by thanking Rose and his guitarist for their inspiring performance. She then got into the theme of her contribution to the evening.

“As you might be aware, I, too, am a Katrina victim. My husband and I have relocated to the Chicagoland area, and I have just resumed my jazz singing locally.” There were a few loud cheers and whistles from her fans in attendance. “Thank you! Glad y’all could make it!

“But, tonight, we want to do something different, and the band has agreed to give it a go. My hubby, you see, is from Lafayette, and we thought we needed something a little more up-tempo to encourage you to give generously to the Tipitina’s Foundation. So…here we go!”

Mari’s reconstructed combo included only her old keyboardist; everyone else was new. They were supplemented by two guest performers that night. One, a decent fiddler, stuck up the familiar melody with the drummer.

“Saturday night and the moon is out
I wanna head on over to the Twist and Shout
Find a two-step partner and a Cajun beat
When it lifts me up I'm gonna find my feet.
Out in the middle of a big dance floor
When I hear that fiddle wanna beg for more
Gonna dance to a band from a-Lou'sian' tonight.

“Well I never have wandered down to New Orleans
Never have drifted down a bayou stream
But I heard that music on the radio
And I swore some day I was gonna go.
Down Highway 10 past Lafayette
To Baton Rouge and I won't forget
To send you a card with my regrets
'Cause I'm never gonna come back home.”

Mari had her hair loose and flowing, her flirty red-and-white halter dress danced above her knees as she rocked with the beat. Her eyes were closed, and her face beamed with joy. She held the microphone in one hand, raising the other above her head as she spun around and around on her four-inch heels. It was infectious, and the dance floor was filled.

“Bring your mama, bring your papa, bring your sister too
They got lots of music and lots of room
When they play you a waltz from 1910
You gonna feel a little bit young again.
Well you learned to dance with your rock'n'roll
You learned to swing with a do-si-do
But you learn to love at the fais-do-do
When you hear a little ‘Jolie Blon.’”(3)

After the song was done and the applause died down, Mari introduced her musicians, saving the guest accordionist for last. “The idea for tonight’s music selection is rooted way back while packing to move here. I discovered a very interesting object among my husband’s possessions. I asked him, ‘Honey, what’s this?’ He looked at me like he had never seen it before. ‘Don’t you know what that is?’ he shot back.

“Rolling my eyes, I told him, ‘Yes, honey, I know what it is. Can you play this thing?’ He then said something really stupid. He said, ‘Of course, I can!’

“Boy, was that the wrong thing to say! I drafted him right then and there! Ladies and gentlemen, on Cajun accordion, my sweetie – Dr. Christopher Breaux!”

Chris made a big deal out of his bow to the audience. Mari blew him a kiss and spoke into the mike.

“Our next song is very special to me for two reasons. First, it’s almost the story of my relationship with my dear husband. And second, since it’s a duet, I get to sing it with him! Usually, it’s performed ‘Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man,’ but we’ve flipped it around, ‘cause that’s what we are.”

Looking each other in the eye, they sang together.

“Mississippi woman, Louisiana man,
We get together every time we can.
The Mississippi River can’t keep us apart
There's too much love in this Louisiana heart
Too much love in this Mississippi heart.”

Mari lowered her microphone and Chris sang.

“See the alligators all a waitin' nearby
Soon or later they know I'm gonna try.
When she waves from the bank don't you know I know
It's goodbye fishin' line, see you while I go.
With a Mississippi woman waitin' on the other side
The Mississippi River don't look so wide.”

After a round of the chorus, it was Mari’s turn.

“Well I thought I'd been loved but I never had
Till I was wrapped in the arms of a Louisiana man.
When he holds me close it feels almost
Like another hurricane just ripped the coast.
If he can't come to me I'm gonna go to him
That Mississippi River, Lord, I'm gonna swim.”

They moved together staring one-another in the eye, forgetting everyone in the place, as they took turns, Chris first.

“Well Mississippi River, Lord, it's one mile wide
And I gotta get me to the other side.”

“Louisiana man I'm losin' my mind
Gotta have your loving one more time.”

“I'm gonna jump in the river and here I go
Too bad alligator you swim too slow.”

Breaking apart, but holding hands, they finished together.

“Mississippi woman, Louisiana man,
We get together every time we can.
The Mississippi River can’t keep us apart
There's too much love in this Louisiana heart
Too much love in this Mississippi heart.”(4)

It might have been corny, but Mari couldn’t resist laying a big fat kiss on Chris. The crowd loved it.

August 29, 2006
K plus one year

All over the country, in ways large and small, the nation paused to remember the calamity that occurred twelve months before. With all the speeches and sermons and bell-ringing, the most poignant were the small acts of remembrance of those who had been lost by those who had been left behind.

So it was that Emma Katz found herself again in Lake Charles, Louisiana. There were a couple of things that were different. A year ago, the sun was hot and unrelenting. Today, it was overcast with a threat of showers. This time, her husband, George, stood at her side as the cantor sang from the Psalms.

“My soul, bless the LORD and do not forget any of His benefits.
Who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your illnesses.
Who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with kindness and mercy.
Who sates your mouth with goodness, that your youth renews itself like the eagle.”

The Katzes and the Parkers had gathered at the cemetery in this, the last act of their year-long mourning period. For eleven months, they had avoided parties or concerts or other forms of entertainment. There was no son to recite Kaddish everyday in the synagogue, so Emma and Irene prayed quietly each morning.

“The LORD is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and with much kindness.
He will not quarrel to eternity, and He will not bear a grudge forever.
He has not dealt with us according to our sins, nor has He repaid us according to our iniquities.
For, as the height of the heavens over the earth, so great is His kindness toward those who fear Him.”

The grass had grown in dark and green over Abe Weinberg’s grave. At the head was a new addition – a large object shrouded by a white tarp.

“As a father has mercy on sons, the LORD had mercy on those who fear Him.
For He knows our creation; He remembers that we are dust.
As for man-his days are like grass; like a flower of the field, so does he sprout.
For a wind passes over him and he is no longer here; and his place no longer recognizes him.”

It has been a horribly hard year, yet a strangely empowering one. George and Emma had gone through some of the worse that life could throw at them. Some things had gotten better – George’s job and Emma’s charity work. The condo in the heart of Baltimore was comfortable and centrally located. There were new friends and interests. Others things had not improved – the insurance company had proven intractable, and the outlook for a successful lawsuit was dim at best.

But in spite of death and dislocation and discord, George and Emma had found their rock in each other. Neither was perfect, yet together they were perfect. Their love and respect and mutual admiration had not dimmed, but had grown brighter and stronger. Their relationship with Irene and Tyler was closer than ever.

There was absolutely no doubt in either Emma’s or George’s minds that theirs was a marriage for the duration. Especially now…

“But the LORD'S kindness is from everlasting to everlasting, and His charity to sons of sons.
To those who keep His covenant and to those who remember His commandments to perform them.
The LORD established His throne in the heavens, and His kingdom rules over all.”(5)

George and Tyler reached down and removed the tarp covering the stone. It was made of dark gray marble, the words carved upon it a mixture of Hebrew and English.

Another prayer was recited, and the ceremony was over. As the family walked back to the car for their return to the hotel, George asked Emma, “I wonder how often we’ll ever return.”

Emma started to speak but thought better of it. She took a few more steps before replying.

“Let’s be honest, George. We won’t be back here many more times. But we will, sometime, bring the children here, after they come and are old enough. Papa deserves that.”

Dr. George Katz wrapped his arm around his wife as the fist drops of rain began to fall. “Yes, he does.” He kissed her temple as he continued. “But our family is here – you and me – and wherever we are, so will be our home. You are my home and my life.”

What could Emma Weinberg Katz say to that? Nothing, except kiss the man that was her world.

Chapter 65

September 25, 2006

This was one insane Monday night.

It was the return of the city’s beloved Saints to the refurbished Louisiana Superdome. The NFL and FEMA had poured $185 million into the repair of the stadium. The citizens had an answer to the naysayers that said there were more important things to do than fix a place to watch football – for the first time since the team came into being in 1967, the entire regular-season home schedule was sold out.

This was football. Saints football. Nothing was more important to this battered and nearly-beaten city. The city was coming back, and the Saints were the first sign of it. Yes, the team had won the first two games of the season, but it didn’t make that much difference. The Saints represented normalcy – a return to pre-K days when most of the housing stock wasn’t destroyed, damaged or deserted.

The citizens would work hard tomorrow, just as they had done for over a year. But tonight, they were going to party. What made it bigger was that the battle with tonight’s opponent – the Atlanta Falcons, the damned Dirty Birds, the city’s most hated rivals – was being nationally broadcasted on ESPN’s Monday Night Football.

The crowds were such that it was silly to try to drive and park at the Superdome, so the Darcys and their guests arrived in a stretch limo and were dropped off a block away. Walking from Loyola Avenue, the group made their way up the ramp to the plaza. Emblazoned on the side of the building was a huge banner that proclaimed, “Our Home – Our Team – Be a Saint.” The NFL had brought in the Goo Goo Dolls as pre-game entertainment for some god-forsaken reason.

“Where the hell are the Neville Brothers?” grouched Chris Breaux.

“Aaron won’t sing in New Orleans because of the mold,” his wife said, patting his arm. “It’s okay, sugar. Don’t get upset over the band. We’re here to enjoy ourselves.” She turned to their hosts. “Thanks again for inviting us, guys.”

“Don’t mention it, Mari,” said Will Darcy. “We couldn’t have this celebration without you.”

“You got that right,” cried Chuck Bingley, one arm around Jane’s shoulders. Suddenly, he began waving. “Hey, Carrie! Over here!”

Carrie Buford, in a Reggie Bush jersey, waved as she jogged over to the group. She gave hugs to everybody and kisses to the out-of-towners.

“Where’s John?” asked George Katz.

Carrie waved her hand off into the distance. “Somewhere over there, with the other First Responders. They’re going to be honored tonight.”

“That’s great, Carrie,” said Elizabeth. “Are you going to be able to sit with him?”

She assured her that she would. She then looked hard at Lizzy. “Wow. I can’t tell who’s further along – you or Emma.”

Lizzy giggled as she caressed her pregnant belly. “It’s as bad as you and Jane last year! We’re what, Em? A couple of days apart?”

Emma Katz ran a hand over her own six-month along bump. “December 15 for me.”

“And you, Lizzy?” Carrie asked.

“The tenth,” she smiled as Will’s arms enveloped her from behind.

Mari shook her head. “Jezze, I don’t even wanna know what was in the water back in March.”

“Your day’s coming, redneck,” laughed Emma.

“Redneck?” cried Carrie. “She’s in Chicago now. She’s a damned Yankee.”

“No way!” Mari assured her. “You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the Redneck out of the girl!”

“Still, you just wait,” Emma insisted.

Chris whispered in Mari’s ear, “It’s not for lack of trying.”

“Chris!”

“Are y’all staying at Pemberley?” Carrie asked.

“Yeah,” said George. “We fly back to Baltimore tomorrow.”

“Mari and I are staying through the weekend,” Chris added.

Elizabeth watched the interaction with a lump in her throat. It was William’s idea to have the gang all together again. While the box was reserved for DGS executives, he had extra seats on the 20-yard line, and that was where his guests would be. They would meet up after the game to return to Pemberley.

As wonderful and as normal as it was to have her friends in her house, Lizzy knew it was a temporary joy. The Breauxes would go back to Chicago until they could get Chris a job back in New Orleans. LSU’s Charity Hospital was virtually destroyed – it would be a while before a position opened up again for him in the Big Easy.

It was different for the Katzes. Even though Tulane Hospital had reopened back in February, they were not coming back. There were too many bad memories here. Emma and George had established themselves in their new home in Baltimore. They had joined the thousands of others who had been blown away forever from the Crescent City by Katrina’s evil winds.

Yes, New Orleans would come back, Lizzy told herself for the hundredth time. But it would never be the same. Just as America now lived in a post-9/11 world, New Orleans would eternally be pre-K and post-K.

“You okay, babe?” Will asked, noticing Lizzy’s pensive expression.

“I’m fine,” she answered, touching his hand. “It’s just…” she jerked her head at their friends, deep in conversation.

“Yeah, I know. I feel the same.”

“Live for today, Will,” she said into his eyes.

“That’s us – that’s out battle cry,” he grinned. “You can’t keep us Cajuns down.”

“Yeah you rite.”

“Hey!” Chuck cried. “They’re opening the doors.”

Carrie turned towards the door. “Oops – that’s my cue to scoot. I’d better get back to the others, or Major Buford will put out a search party for me!”

“Major? He got promoted?” asked Emma.

“Yes. The Guard’s trying to get him to re-enlist.”

“Is he?”

“Haven’t decided yet. Gotta run. I’ll call you – bye!” Carrie waved as she fought her way through the crowd.

Lizzy looked around. “Will, didn’t you say Richard was going to be here?”

“Yeah, but he’s with the First Responders.”

Chris leaned over. “How’s he doing, anyway?”

“Okay.” He paused. “You heard about him and Olivia?”

“Yeah. Is the divorce final yet?”

“Not yet, they’re still trying to work things out. But she won’t leave Atlanta, and he won’t leave New Orleans. It doesn’t look good.”

“Crap. That’s tough.”

“Yeah. He’s got to make a choice.” Will’s glance at Lizzy was a clear indication where his choice would lie. Lizzy was not insensitive to it, and she took his hand. “All right, everybody – you’ve got your tickets? Good. We’ll meet up outside this gate after the game. Have a great time.”

The Bingleys, Breauxes and Katzes moved towards their gate as the Darcys headed for the entrance to the skyboxes. Lizzy and Will would have preferred to be with them, but there were customers and board members to entertain in the luxury suite. The Darcys would have to wait to be with their friends until the big after-game party. They were almost there when they noticed a TV reporter sticking a microphone into the face of DGS’ VP, Leon Anderson. Mrs. Anderson was looking on impassively, and both were wearing Saints jerseys.

“Hello – Bryan Thorpe, Action NOW News. Can you share with our viewers your feelings about tonight’s event? How was this facility repaired while so many of your people still have no housing?”

Leon realized this moron was only talking to him because he was black, so he gave it to him with both barrels.

“Where the hell are you from?”

“Umm…Delaware…”

“Figures. Don’t you understand our economy is based on three things – petroleum, shipping, and tourism?” he lectured the reporter as he counted off the industries on his fingers. “Most of my people—” he made quotation marks in the air, “are in the tourism industry. How the hell are they gonna have jobs if the tourists don’t come? Repairing the Superdome shows the rest of the nation that New Orleans is open for business.” Leon looked directly into the camera. “C’mon down, America! Party on Bourbon Street! And while you’re here spending your money, you just might see how much else has to be done.”

He then returned his attention to Thorpe. “Besides, do you have any idea what this team – what this building – means to this city? To this whole state – the whole region? Look around you. There are people here from Mississippi, Alabama - everywhere!

“You think we’ve forgotten that thousands of our friends and neighbors died? This is as much for them as it is for us!

“I…I can’t explain it better than that. It’s what we are! You either understand it, or you don’t! And if you don’t, then get that microphone the hell out of my face, you idiot!”

With that, Leon, with one arm around his wife, brushed past Thorpe and joined his boss. “Goddamn asshole,” he shook his head as the foursome went inside.

“Uh…Justin,” said Thorpe into his mike, “cut that from the tape, will you?”

The DGS party made it to the private suite. Unlike the rest of the stadium, the sky boxes had not been completely repaired. The floors were bare concrete, the walls were awaiting new wallpaper, and the TVs had yet to be replaced. But the seats were new, and that was all that mattered.

Below, from their seats on the sidelines, the Darcys’ guests had a great view of the pre-game entertainment. U2 and Green Day blew the doors off the house with a rendition of “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” before sequencing into a driving cover of the obscure Scottish punk band The Skids’ equally obscure song, “The Saints are Coming,” followed by U2’s “Beautiful Day.”(6) A few minutes later, Mari gasped.

“Irma! Look, baby, it’s Irma – with Allen!”

Sure enough, the two legends of New Orleans music were at mid-field to sing the National Anthem – Irma Thomas on vocals, and Allen Toussaint on keyboards.(7) Mari was not the only member of the crowd that had tears in their eyes as they sang.

“One day, babe,” Chris promised in her ear, “one day we’ll be able to come home.” Mari smiled and nodded.

As one, the 70,000 faithful rose to their feet as their beloved Saints, in their usual home uniforms of white jerseys and gold pants, took the field, but the visitors weren’t impressed. The Atlanta Falcons had heard it before and still kicked the other team’s ass. Tonight was sure to be no different. Atlanta, wearing red jerseys with black helmets, won the coin toss and assumed they would quiet the locals after scoring quickly on their NFC South arch-rivals. The black-and-gold dressed crowd continued to cheer, a noise not heard in Louisiana in over a year.

It didn’t quite work out the way the Dirty Birds had planned. On the forth play from scrimmage, ninety seconds into the game, as Atlanta was attempting to punt the ball from deep in their own territory, Saints linebacker Steve Gleason sliced in and blocked the kick. Cornerback Curtis DeLoatch jumped on the football in the end zone for the score.

A thunderous roar went up, rocking the newly-repaired building. It was as if a whole city – those at the game, those without, and those who had departed this world forever – had found their voice:

“WHO DAT!? WHO DAT!? WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA BEAT DEM SAINTS!?”

For one bright, shinning moment, we were all New Orleanians.

The Falcons never stood a chance.

Resources

There are a number of books and sources I used in the construction of this novel, and below are my recommendations. You’ll notice a few surprising omissions from this list. There’s a reason for it – especially in the case of the National Geographic. They got it wrong, and they continue to get it wrong. All available at Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and other sites, unless otherwise noted.

1 Dead in Attic, by Chris Rose. Quite simply the best book about the aftermath of Katrina. Rose is a feature writer for the Times-Picayune, and this book is a reprint of the columns he wrote between August 30, 2005, and January, 2006. A must read. www.chrisrosebooks.com/

Leave No One Behind: Hurricane Katrina and the Rescue of Tulane Hospital, by Bill Carey. This book is what the author calls “the inside story of the largest corporately funded rescue in American history.” If anyone tells you corporate America doesn’t care about its employees or customers, refer them to Carey’s inspiring tale of how the staff of Tulane Medical Center and their corporate partner, HCA, were able to do what FEMA, the State of Louisiana, and the city of New Orleans could not – save 178 patients and over 1,000 workers and their dependants from the flooded city. It’s no wonder that of all the medical faculties damaged in the storm, Tulane’s was the first to reopen.

Why New Orleans Matters, by Tom Piazza. A cry from the heart by a New York native and long-time resident of the Crescent City, Piazza focuses on the importance of New Orleans to the musical and cultural richness of the nation.

The Great Deluge, by Douglas Brinkley. The first large recap of the disaster, published six months after the storm by the well-known Tulane historian. Sadly, it is a deeply flawed book, due to factual errors and the author’s blatant political pronouncements. Brinkley’s science is wrong, and he misrepresents what happened at locations other than the Superdome and Convention Center, such as Tulane Hospital and the Aquarium of the Americas. Brinkley supported Lt. Governor Landrieu against Mayor Nagin in the New Orleans mayoral race in the spring of 2006, and it colors his writing. Brinkley has nothing good to say about President Bush, FEMA, or Mayor Nagin, yet he paints Governor Blanco, who cooperated with the book, in the most flattering light possible. Worse, he gives the news media a complete pass over their horrendous coverage.

Still, the book is worth reading - with a huge grain of salt - because of the extensive timeline offered and the stories of the people affected. His recounting of the heroic efforts of the US Coast Guard and the LA Wildlife & Fisheries personnel is worth the price of the book. Read it until a better one comes out.

The Battle of New Orleans, by Robert V. Remini. The best single resource on one of the great battles in American history.

Ten Flags in the Wind, by Charles L. Dufour. Nice, easy-to-read history of Louisiana and New Orleans. Out of print.

The New Orleans Times-Picayune. Historic, award-winning coverage of Hurricane Katrina. While they made many of the same mistakes the rest of the media did, the T-P had the courage and journalistic integrity to not only correct those mistakes, but to call on the rest of the media to do the same. Shamefully, of the major media outlets in the United States, only the Washington Post and the Los Angeles Times have followed the T-P’s lead. www.nola.com/

The Gulfport Sun-Herald. www.sunherald.com/

The National Hurricane Center website archives.

Popular Mechanics - Debunking the Myths of Hurricane Katrina: Special Report (March 2006). While not perfect, it is helpful in correcting some of the major myths out there – especially from The National Geographic. www.popularmechanics.com/science/earth/2315076.html

…and, of course,

The Collected Works of Jane Austen.

(1) – Schadenfreude – (German) A malicious satisfaction obtained from the misfortunes of others.
(2) – “Wake Me Up When September Ends” by Billie Joe Armstrong
(3) – “Down at the Twist and Shout” by Mary Chapin Carpenter
(4) – “Mississippi Woman, Louisiana Man” by Becki Bluefield and Jim Owen
(5) – From the 103rd Psalm – The Tanakh English Translation, The Judaica Press
(6) – You can see the performance of U2 and Green Day at the Superdome here : http://youtube.com/watch?v=N30hSP5w2rI&feature=related
(7) – It's not the National Anthem, but to hear a little Irma Thomas & Allen Toussaint. just go here: http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=Irma+Thomas++Allen+Toussaint&search_type=