No Ordinary Heroes:. Demaree Inglese
As the hospital record printed out, I called the infirmary, where Davis had been housed. Every inmate had a medical chart, containing doctor’s notes, X-rays, lab results, and medication records. I would need the complete file to conduct a thorough case review. Two hours later—with periodic interruptions by Paul to let me know of Katrina’s worsening outlook—I had all the necessary paperwork on Davis, but SID had still not located any family member. Assuming they had evacuated, we postponed the notification until after the hurricane.
On my way out of the building, I ran into Captain Allen Verret, the associate warden of the Correctional Center. A barrel-chested man of forty-three, with a mustache and brown hair flecked with gray, he had the calm, assured presence of a born leader. He instilled confidence and treated his deputies with the same respect they felt for him.
“How’s it going?” I asked. The Correctional Center warden—each building in the jail complex had its own—was away on vacation, and Verret was in charge.
“It’s been a busy couple of days. I barely had enough time to see my wife and son off to Mississippi and pack a bag for myself.” Verret’s manner was off-hand, but deep worry lines creased his face. He was obviously preoccupied with serious matters.
“I don’t really believe all this,” I confessed.
“You’re not the only one,” Verret said. “I just came from a meeting with the sheriff and his officers.”
Verret told me he and several others had voiced serious reservations about keeping the inmates at the jail. I had raised similar concerns myself yesterday, and I certainly wouldn’t have been shy about arguing had I been invited to the meeting. I could be insistent and even headstrong when pressed.
But now that Jail Administration was certain that Katrina would hit, they felt there was no longer time to evacuate almost 7,000 prisoners. In addition to the usual 6,400 inmates, the facility had taken in 374 prisoners from neighboring St. Bernard Parish, which was considered more likely to flood.
“We don’t have enough food, water, flashlights, and batteries stored in the warehouse,” Verret continued. “If we’re here longer than a couple of days…”
“We’re as prepared as possible in Medical,” I assured him. We’d been implementing our disaster plans for a couple of days. “The clinics have been stocked with supplies, and the nurses will pass out extra meds just in case.”
“Good.” Verret nodded. “Jim Beach wanted to distribute food and water to all the buildings before the storm, but Administration decided to wait.”
As the director of Food Services, Major Jim Beach was responsible for providing 20,000 meals a day to the prisoners. On a routine day, three cooks and two dozen inmate workers prepared breakfast, lunch, and dinner in the kitchen, then transported the food—one hot meal and two cold ones daily—to each of the jail buildings, where deputies and inmates carried it to the tiers, as the barracks-like cells were known. The hurricane would undoubtedly create problems, and Beach was trying to anticipate them.
As I left Verret and walked outside, Paul Thomas’s latest bulletin weighed on my mind: “The Mayor just ordered a mandatory evacuation of the city. This is going to be brutal.”
Katrina was the worst storm to threaten the Louisiana coast in recorded history. There was nothing more I could do to prepare at the jail, and I still had to gas up two cars, buy food and water, and pack.
Chapter 2
As I drove away from the Correctional Center, I used my cell phone to call the St. Tammany Parish Jail, where I held a second job as medical director. The smaller facility was forty-five miles north, close to Lake Pontchartrain, which put it at considerable risk. The staff there had a well-thought-out hurricane plan, and with only one building to cover, preparations were proceeding on schedule.
Next I contacted Sam Gore, the doctor who had overseen Carl Davis’s treatment in the infirmary. Not surprised by the patient’s death, his matter-of-fact tone masked the sympathy he felt for all those in his care. “Did you tell his mother?”
“No, his family probably left town,” I explained.
“That’s what the sane people are doing,” Sam quipped. “Lisa and the kids are already gone. I’ve got some last-minute things to take care of, but I’ll see you soon.”
Sam and I had been friends since our residency at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi, Mississippi, a dozen years ago. Later we were stationed together again at Andrews AFB, near Washington, D.C. I grew used to his unflappability; he addressed all situations—good and bad—with the same unemotional detachment. He didn’t shout. He didn’t raise his voice. In fact, there was little about Sam that made him stand out in a crowd. About five-foot-ten and average weight, he looked like the best friend of the main character in a TV sitcom. His most prominent physical characteristic, a dark brown cowlick, stuck up just like Harry Potter’s. But his mental toughness, and our many years together, had taught me to rely on him without question. I would do anything for close friends and colleagues. And I expected them to respond the same way. True to form, Sam had readily agreed to work throughout the storm.
When Sam hung up, I dialed Gary French at his house, a quarter mile from Lake Pontchartrain. I’d known him for years, too, ever since he had been my medical student at the Andrews AFB hospital. When I became medical director at the New Orleans jail, Sam and Gary were the first doctors I recruited.
If Sam was stoic, Gary was not. Thirty-five and five-foot-nine, he had the sturdy build of an ex–high school wrestler and the disposition of a born pessimist. During the buildup to a crisis, Gary always appeared frantic, but when hell broke loose, he was focused, steady, and got the job done. When I had asked him to work during the storm, he’d balked at the idea of staying in the city during a category 5 hurricane. However, despite his reluctance, I wasn’t worried. He always came through.
“Made up your mind yet?” I asked when Gary answered his phone.
“I’ll be at the jail.”
I smiled. “The hurricane wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Gary muttered, then added, “At least Allen’s gone. He took the dogs to stay with his family in Arkansas.”
I was glad that Sam’s family and Gary’s roommate had already evacuated. The normally bustling city streets were empty of traffic, virtually deserted. Obviously everyone had headed to the interstate, and even with contraflow in effect—using all the lanes to send cars out of New Orleans—traffic on the highway would be bumper to bumper.
“Do you have food and water?” I asked Gary.
“I bought supplies three days ago, but I haven’t done anything to hurricane-proof the house. And I don’t know what to do with my car.” A nervous tremor crept into Gary’s voice. “What are you doing with yours?”
I hadn’t decided yet. My normal way of dealing with those kinds of decisions was to logically work out a plan, then, at the last moment, go with my gut. I told Gary to be at my house at two. I’d have figured something out by then.
I hung up and turned onto my street. Barely a breeze ruffled the neighborhood’s majestic oaks or disturbed the lush, carefully tended landscaping around Greek Revival and Victorian mansions. What would happen to those gardens, I wondered, in 150-mile-an-hour winds?
I pushed that thought to the back of my mind, when I realized that though I had taken a different route home, I still had not seen a single open store or gas station.
Chapter 3
Midday:
Katrina’s sustained winds reach 175 mph, with gusts of 215 mph.
The eye is 225 miles from the mouth of the Mississippi River.
The Superdome now contains 10,000 evacuees and 550 National Guardsmen.
The