No Ordinary Heroes:. Demaree Inglese

      The ride back to my house finally pushed me into action. The sight of my neighbors’ expensive 100-year-old homes, all of them vacant and too quiet, shuttered and boarded up with cheap plywood, sharpened my sudden sense of dread. I hadn’t even bothered to tape the glass in my own house. I had a lot to do, and limited time. I parked and raced inside, frantically trying to decide where to begin.

      The silence depressed me, so I turned on the TV in the den. The weather map appeared on almost every channel, with the menacing arrow of Katrina ready to strike at Louisiana’s heart. Going upstairs to the bedroom to pack a bag, I realized I hadn’t done laundry in days. I grabbed a pile of dirty clothes, rushed down to the basement, and threw in a load. Then I checked my kitchen.

      The cabinets were still empty, and the refrigerator contained only a package of chicken breasts, two slices of American cheese, a jar of relish, and two bottles of Ketel One vodka—not exactly ideal hurricane provisions. The jail kitchen would provide meals, but how long could it feed 7,000 inmates plus hundreds of deputies and the family members who would undoubtedly seek refuge in the steel-and-concrete buildings? It was common for employees to bring their families and pets to shelter during storm alerts. They also brought their own food and water as a precaution, but I was miserably unprepared.

      Delaying what might be a futile search for a store with supplies, I started packing and finally prepped my house. First I filled all three bathtubs with water, then I ran around securing my valuables. I moved the chairs and sofas away from windows and took important papers and several artworks—cherished paintings my father had done—to the second floor, along with old family furniture that came from my grandmother. They’d survive if the roof blew off the third floor or if the ground floor flooded.

      While I waited for another load of clothes to dry, I called my parents, who had recently retired to South Carolina. I kept the conversation brief, just long enough to assure them that I’d be safe at the jail. After all, it was a massive structure with generators and access to a warehouse full of food. I doubted I’d have any trouble riding out the storm.

      As for planning for any medical emergencies at the jail, Paul Thomas and I had exchanged half a dozen phone calls on Saturday, coordinating our disaster plan and the staff needed to carry it out. We had designated thirty nurses out of seventy total as essential medical personnel and notified the seven physicians who had volunteered to stay at the jail of their assignments.

      When it came to hurricane response at the jail complex—a sprawling assortment of old and new buildings that spread over some five city blocks near the central business district of New Orleans—the procedures were well established and well practiced. Most officers had been at the jail twenty or thirty years and took shelter there two or three times each hurricane season.

      The Correctional Center, as always, would be the heart of the operation. The ten-story building—twelve if you counted the basement and the roof—served as headquarters for the Sheriff’s Office, which included all the jail structures. The Center’s main-floor lobby contained a waiting area, computer room, and control room, where the sheriff’s deputies monitored building security. Upstairs, the inmates lived in tiers, multicell dormitories on four floors, with an administrative floor in between each of them for offices, classrooms, the central phone system, and a medical clinic. A core group of doctors and I would be stationed in the Center.

      The surrounding neighborhood resembled a quilt pieced together with multistory prisons, garages, open parking lots, court buildings and legal offices, seedy bail bond businesses, mechanic shops, and warehouses. One edge of the area—which could be a confusing jumble even to those who worked in the jail complex—was bordered by modest houses of one and two stories.

      The back of the Correctional Center faced the jail’s warehouse and vast kitchen, which was already ratcheting up preparations to feed inmates, employees, and their families during the coming storm.

      On the block beyond that stood the Intake Processing Center, where prisoners were normally brought in or released from custody. Arrests and bookings were unlikely during the hurricane, but I had made sure Dr. Marcus Dileo and several clinic nurses would be there, just in case.

      From the rear of Intake a fenced, roofed walkway formed a long T, whose arms stretched in both directions to the newest jail buildings—four massive steel and concrete structures with bars across every window. Inside, the vast hallways were interrupted by thick, sliding security doors.

      Templeman 3, with 1,200 prisoners in its four stories—a mix of maximum-security prisoners and newly arrived inmates—was on the left, along with the much smaller Templeman 4. I had assigned Dr. Larry Caldwell to cover those buildings.

      At the right end of the walkway stood Templeman 2 and Templeman 1, where the infirmary was located. Sam Gore, as usual, would be in charge of its 200 seriously ill patients.

      Surrounding all these interconnected buildings, adding its own air of menace, was a twenty-foot wall of smooth poured concrete topped by curls of razor wire.

      The Old Parish Prison, New Orleans’ original jail, was in the other direction—down the block and around the corner from the front steps of the Correctional Center. Attached to the grand parish courthouse, the Old Prison had a gray concrete exterior punctuated by small square windows that added to the building’s dank, sterile atmosphere. All of the jail’s facilities held different classifications of inmates—male, female, juvenile, federal or state prisoners, or municipal offenders. The Old Prison had the worst of the worst; it housed the red-banders, maximum-security inmates named for their colored plastic wristbands. The Old Prison would be staffed by nurses, who could call for a doctor from the Correctional Center, if necessary.

      There were several other jail buildings as well: the House of Detention, across the street alongside the Correctional Center, loomed twelve stories. Among other things, it housed a psychiatric unit, which would be overseen by Dr. Shamnugan Shantha. The women’s prison, Conchetta, was a converted hotel a few blocks away; also on the outskirts of the complex was Templeman 5, so new that no prisoners had transferred there.

      The assignments were made; the doctors and nurses knew when to report. Before Katrina’s next move, though, I still had my own preparations to finish. I had time for one more phone call, this time to my grandmother. At eighty-six, she lived alone in the Pittsburgh suburbs and still had a razor-sharp mind. Gram had been anxiously watching the news. She wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until the danger to her precious grandson was past.

      She knew though that I could handle myself. My seven years in the air force had included a year on a “remote” tour in Osan, Korea. Right out of residency training, I’d found myself as the only air force internist in that country, as well as chief of medical services and the leader of a disaster casualty team. Because of the time difference between Korea and the States, I could count on little help from more experienced physicians in the United States. Those months taught me to work independently, shoulder responsibility, be decisive, and take command of personnel. I was confident I could reach back to those experiences and handle whatever emergencies Katrina threw at me.

      Ironically, it was because of the air force that I’d first grown to love this city. When I got some rare time off as a resident at the base hospital in Biloxi, I’d escape to New Orleans, and it wasn’t long before I had a large network of friends here. The place had captured my heart. I still couldn’t believe that the free-and-easy city that I now called home faced destruction. Another glance at the TV brought that reality home. I still needed gas, water, and food. I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door.

      Chapter 4

      I got in my Mercedes and started looking for supplies. The first gas station I saw had closed, and my fuel gauge was now below E. I could feel myself beginning to panic: I was going to run out of gas now. Then, a mile and a half down the road, I could make out perhaps two dozen cars waiting to fill up at an open gas station–convenience store. I pulled up to the end of the line and prayed that the pumps wouldn’t run dry before it was my turn.

      Since