Dispatches From the Edge Part 9

"How'd you get that?" I ask, laughing.

"We snuck right in there, crawled under the Duty Officer's desk, and cut it free," one of the guys says, laughing. "Who's the real Fort Apache now, motherf.u.c.ker?"

"I DON'T THINK I could ever come in and look at this place the same," Captain Casey Geist says. "I'll never come here for a football game." I could ever come in and look at this place the same," Captain Casey Geist says. "I'll never come here for a football game."

We're in the Superdome. It's empty now, except for a few dozen cleaners in white hazmat suits sc.r.a.ping the grime off the seats and floor. It's noisy. Miniature tractors pick up the mounds of garbage piled on the Astroturf field. Here and there you find a child's football, abandoned wheelchairs, rotting food half eaten by evacuees. Some twenty thousand people took refuge in the Superdome, told to come by the city's mayor, who called it a shelter of last resort. He'd hoped that help would arrive from the state or federal government within two days. It didn't. Hope is not a plan.

Captain Geist is with the Eighty-second Airborne. He's been to Baghdad, but says that this is much worse. He's heard a lot of the rumors about what happened inside the Superdome, and he's not sure which of them are true. He seems to believe any of them is possible.

"People were here, they were doing drugs. People were having s.e.x out on the floor, shooting up," he says, recounting the various stories he's heard. "It seemed like just madness, uncontrollable madness."

At the Superdome, however, there was at least some order. They had medical attention, stockpiles of food and water, and police and National Guard. When the levees failed, however, and the electricity with it, the Superdome started to bake. The mayor had warned people to bring their own food, and some did, but as the floodwaters spread, more people began arriving.

"They started defecating all over the place," Captain Geist says, shaking his head. "You know you can go to one corner, and everyone can go to the bathroom in one spot, but, I mean, people would drop their pants in the middle of the field and just go."

We like to think we are so advanced. We like to imagine we have protection from our own dark impulses. The truth is, it doesn't take much for all of that to be stripped away. Desperate people sometimes do terrible things. New Orleans was no different. The lights go out, the temperatures rise, and very quickly we get in touch with emotions that the cool air keeps at bay. We are all capable of anything. I've seen it again and again. Great compa.s.sion, terrible carnage-the choice is up to us.

Pretty soon they'll have finished cleaning up the Superdome, and the debris at the Convention Center will be swept away. It seems that a lot of people want the evidence, the memory, simply to disappear, the slate to be wiped clean. One day there will be football games played in the Superdome once again, and all of us will forget the lessons we've learned.

"Mark my words, man," a cop tells me one day, "it's all going to be cleaned up and forgotten. It's all going to be for s.h.i.+t. People are going to cover up things. And you know, these people are poor. No one's going to speak for them."

"You really think people will forget?" I ask.

"I've had family members tell me, 'Why don't you just leave, why don't you just leave? You didn't sign up for this.' But my father was at D-day, and what if he had said 'Forget it, I'm not doing this. I didn't sign up for this. There's too many people dying. There's too much carnage.' You just don't leave. You can't just forget."

I TRY NOT to imagine my brother hanging from the ledge. Try not to picture him pressed against the balcony, his legs dangling fourteen stories above the concrete sidewalk. Did a couple out for a summer stroll catch a glimpse of him before he let go? Did a family gathered around the dinner table see him plunge past their window? What was he thinking right before he hit the ground? to imagine my brother hanging from the ledge. Try not to picture him pressed against the balcony, his legs dangling fourteen stories above the concrete sidewalk. Did a couple out for a summer stroll catch a glimpse of him before he let go? Did a family gathered around the dinner table see him plunge past their window? What was he thinking right before he hit the ground?

That's the thing about suicide. No matter how much you try to remember how that person lived his life, you can't forget how he ended it. It's like driving by a car smashed on the side of the road. You can't resist craning your neck to take stock of the damage.

"Will I ever feel again?"

That was the question my brother asked moments before he let go of the ledge he was hanging from. It didn't make sense to me at the time. I'd even forgotten he said it until my mother recently reminded me.

We both had tried to cauterize our pain, push our pasts behind us. If only I could have told him that he wasn't the only one. I abandoned him long before he abandoned me. I see that now. I could have reached out to him, talked with him, but he didn't make it easy, and I was a kid, and had myself to worry about.

Several months before he died, my brother went back to Quitman, Mississippi, back to our father's hometown. I didn't know it at the time. I found out only after his death. I went to his apartment and noticed a roll of film he'd never developed. The pictures were from his trip. My father's sister Annie Laurie was still living in Quitman at the time. Carter could have gone to visit her. He didn't. He simply wandered around the town. I realize now that in those last months of his life, he was searching for feeling, but he just couldn't reach out.

IN EVERY DISASTER I've ever been to, there's always been someone making money. Even in Somalia, some people got rich running guns, selling khat, providing security and cars to reporters. Who knows how many people continue to get rich off Iraq, with shady deals and crooked contracts? In New Orleans, while parts of the city are still underwater, investors are already circling, looking for properties to buy up on the cheap. I've ever been to, there's always been someone making money. Even in Somalia, some people got rich running guns, selling khat, providing security and cars to reporters. Who knows how many people continue to get rich off Iraq, with shady deals and crooked contracts? In New Orleans, while parts of the city are still underwater, investors are already circling, looking for properties to buy up on the cheap.

"I've been doing real estate for twenty years, and I've never seen anything like it," Brandy Farris says, maneuvering her silver SUV through New Orleans' Garden District. "It's just crazy. We have a lot of investors calling; they're wanting to buy New Orleans property, wherever it is. They're buying them even underwater."

Farris is a broker with Century 21 in Baton Rouge, and she's come back to New Orleans for the first time to put FOR SALE FOR SALE signs up on some new listings. She has buyers in Miami, Seattle, and New York. signs up on some new listings. She has buyers in Miami, Seattle, and New York.

"They say, 'I want to buy land sight unseen.' If it's flooded they don't care. They did this with Hurricane Andrew-bought up all the properties that were flooded and they rebuilt the houses when it was time."

On her business card is a photo of Farris, long blond hair and a startling white Southern smile. In person she looks the same, except she wears a wireless cellphone headpiece attached to her ear at all times. Her phone seems to ring every few minutes.

"There are a lot of ifs, ifs," she says, momentarily wrinkling her nose. "We have to a.s.sess what the damage is, see if we can even change t.i.tle from the courthouse. We don't even have a way to file anything in the courthouse. A lot of people say their paperwork is underwater. They have no way to show who they are, what their mortgage is. We may just take purchase agreements and see what happens."

Her trunk is full of Century 21 signs attached to stakes, which she hammers into what remains of some people's yards. She also has another sign with her name on it and her commission-4 percent for a ninety-day listing.

"We're certainly not trying to take advantage of anyone losing their home," Farris says, concerned about how all this may look. "In any situation, you're always going to have the vulture investors, but there's something for everyone here. Rich, poor-investment, rentals. I hope it's going to be great."

We get out of the car and head toward a home she's just listed. Her high heels wobble precariously on the cobblestone street.

"Seriously, what is that smell?" she asks me.

"Probably a dead dog, maybe a person," I tell her.

"It's really bad. It's a lot worse than I thought," she says.

"Will the smell be a problem for buyers?" I ask.

"We're just going to have to take one case at a time," she tells me, not blinking an eye. "Everybody has a different need right now. It's very emotional. It's very traumatic."

In the past few weeks, Farris estimates, Century 21 has sold some 1,500 homes in Baton Rouge, a big rise from what the agency would normally sell-and prices are moving up. Farris is not sure what will happen in New Orleans, but she's positioned herself to benefit either way.

"I hope it's going to be great," she says, flas.h.i.+ng the smile that's helped her sell many properties over the years. "President Bush says he's rebuilding New Orleans. We think it's going to be great. We're looking forward to it."

Brandy Farris is nothing if not optimistic.

IT'S TWO AND a half weeks since the storm, and at the daiquiri bar the music is pumping. Outkast sings "Hey Ya." The bar is not very crowded, and for the first time I notice that white police officers sit on one side, African American officers on the other. a half weeks since the storm, and at the daiquiri bar the music is pumping. Outkast sings "Hey Ya." The bar is not very crowded, and for the first time I notice that white police officers sit on one side, African American officers on the other.

One of the cops I'm sitting with is angry at CNN. We aired a story about some police who were allegedly looting after the storm. He's not disputing that it happened, but he wishes we'd done more to point out that it was only a handful of cops.

The police officer has just had two days off. He drove out of state to visit his kids. He went in a police cruiser, which New Orleans cops are allowed to use on their days off. Every couple of hours, however, he was stopped by state police, who thought he was a deserter.

"The first cop who stopped me gave me a card with his name on it and his phone number, in case I got stopped again. But the next time it happened, they just ignored the card. They'd stop me and make me go through the whole explanation each time." Even their own seem to have turned on them.

Another cop, who's been on the force more than a dozen years, says he plans to leave. A few years ago he'd been offered a job with a small-town police force in the midwest, but turned them down. Now he says he's going to call them back. "I'll work anywhere. I don't care. I just want out."

"With 9/11 they treated it like a crime scene," he says, holding his beer by the neck. "With 9/11 they sifted through the wreckage, every piece. Here, they're simply going to bulldoze some of those buildings, which still have people in them. Months from now, people are going to be sitting around and they'll say, 'Yeah, whatever happened to old Joe. Where'd he go?' And no one will know. People will simply disappear."

His neighbor was dead for two weeks before anyone realized she was missing. "I went and found her body," he says, his voice clipped. "I took a forensics cla.s.s a couple months ago, and they told us, in a situation like this, to always look for the flies. I actually found my neighbor by listening to the beating wings of flies."

Drinking with these police officers, I can't help but feel they're the only ones who'll really remember what happened here. I saw pieces of the horror; they saw it all-who was here, who wasn't. They know who the real heroes are.

A cop says, "You can tell, it's the people who do this"-with one hand he mimicks someone talking-"the people who are talking big, they are the ones who ran."

When the storm hit, his fiancee told him to leave. "'f.u.c.k them,' she tells me, 'f.u.c.k the police,'" he says clutching a beer. There are nearly a dozen more on the table. "I told her, 'I was a cop before I met you, and I'll be a cop after you leave. f.u.c.k you.'"

Like a lot of cops, he tried to look after family members while still doing his job. He used a wave runner to help rescue his partner's mom. As he took her out, he realized how many more people still needed help.

"We turned a corner, and there were just dozens of people on roofs, and they were all crying out. You could hear some of them trapped in their homes, all screaming. Just driving away, leaving them in the dark, that was the hardest part." His voice is quiet, plaintive. "I'm only twenty-three," he says.

In disasters, in war, it isn't governments that help people, at least not early on. It's individuals: policemen, doctors, strangers, people who stand up when others sit down. There were so many heroes in this storm, men and women who grabbed a bandage, an axe, a gun, and did what needed to be done.

Well past midnight, I stroll down Bourbon Street with a half-dozen cops. The street is empty and dark. The cops are off duty, out of uniform. A Louisiana state trooper pulls his car over and demands their IDs. He knows they're New Orleans police, but it's past curfew and he wants to prove a point.

"f.u.c.k you," one of the police officers yells. "You're in my city, telling me I'm violating curfew? f.u.c.k that." The trooper drives off. We walk back to the bar. There's no place else to go.

BLACK HAWK HELICOPTERS still pa.s.s overhead, the sound crus.h.i.+ng, comforting. The cavalry's come; help has arrived. They're still occasionally plucking people off rooftops and porches. Now it's the holdouts who decided to stay but have finally had enough. still pa.s.s overhead, the sound crus.h.i.+ng, comforting. The cavalry's come; help has arrived. They're still occasionally plucking people off rooftops and porches. Now it's the holdouts who decided to stay but have finally had enough.

Since the storm, the hallways at the Coast Guard command center at Air Station New Orleans have been crowded with cots-pilots and mechanics cras.h.i.+ng between flights. Hundreds have come from all over the country, flying sparkling red choppers, angels from the sky.

Lieutenant Commander Tom Cooper flew the first rescue mission over New Orleans, hours after the storm. He joined the Coast Guard straight out of high school, and has been to a lot of disasters, but this one he'll never forget.

"Their images stay with you, you know?" he says of the people he rescues, and I know exactly what he means. "You never get to talk to them because the helicopter's so loud. You hear them yell thank you every once in a while, but most of the communications is just done looking in their eyes.

"It's like an out-of-body experience, you know? To see that, to see it in person, to see it live-people crawling out of their attics on to their rooftops and signaling you for help."

Underneath the hovering chopper, the rotor blades create a mini-storm, hot air whips your face, water sprays all about. When he hovers, Cooper is unable to see the people below him. Normally he has a copilot, but there are so many missions that at times he flies alone. A flight mechanic squats behind him, helping him line up the helicopter. The mechanic holds onto a handle, controlling a hoist used to lower the Coast Guard diver. The diver is attached to a cable, and the hoist can lower him as much as two hundred feet.

The day after the storm, Cooper flew with Lieutenant Junior Grade Maria Roerick, who had just been certified as a Coast Guard pilot. It was her first rescue mission.

"Everywhere you'd look, you'd turn, there's somebody over there, there's somebody over there," she remembers. "You had to start sorting people out, saying, 'There's kids,' or 'There's elderly. I think they need medical attention over there.'"

In the six days after Katrina, Coast Guard pilots out of Air Station New Orleans saved 6,471 lives-nearly twice as many as they'd saved here in the past fifty years combined.

When she sleeps, Roerick still sees the faces of people waiting to be rescued. "You go to bed at night completely exhausted," she says, "knowing there are still thousands of people out there. You can't get them all. You want to scoop them all up."

WE WAKE EACH day unsure what lies ahead. Early in the morning, we gather in the lobby of the hotel. Few words are spoken before we head out. We climb into our SUV, a small platoon searching the city. The water recedes, new streets emerge, the map is redrawn every day. day unsure what lies ahead. Early in the morning, we gather in the lobby of the hotel. Few words are spoken before we head out. We climb into our SUV, a small platoon searching the city. The water recedes, new streets emerge, the map is redrawn every day.

Some residents still refuse to leave. On the street outside her two-room rental, I spot an elderly lady, overweight, overtired. She sits on a rusty metal chair and leans on a cane with the words LOVE MINISTRIES LOVE MINISTRIES crudely carved into the wood. She stares straight ahead, but her eyes are clouded and seem to be focused somewhere just above the horizon. Her name is Terry Davis, but she says around here everyone calls her Ms. Connie. crudely carved into the wood. She stares straight ahead, but her eyes are clouded and seem to be focused somewhere just above the horizon. Her name is Terry Davis, but she says around here everyone calls her Ms. Connie.

"I'm legally blind," she tells me, "and they won't let me take my service dog with me."

On the corner, Los Angeles police officers are fanning out, trying to get everyone on the block to leave. It's been three weeks since the storm, and the mayor has announced that everyone has to get out of the city. Forcible evacuations, some are calling it, but the truth is, they aren't really forcing people out.

"It's just temporary," a police officer says to Ms. Connie.

"No, no, dear," Ms. Connie says, slowly standing up. "I don't mean to be a hard case, but my dog goes where I go, or I don't go."

Normally, I wouldn't intervene-I'd just stand back and observe-but in this case it doesn't feel right. I've just talked to some National Guard troops who told me they have changed their policy and are now allowing people to take their pets on board the evacuation helicopters. I tell the police officer that the policy has changed. He goes back to talk with his superiors.

Ms. Connie lives alone with her dog, Abu. Her husband died years ago. Both he and Ms. Connie were traveling preachers. She invites me inside her home. In her living room there is a large hole in the corner of the ceiling, damage from Katrina.

"This is my skylight," Ms. Connie says, chuckling. Though legally blind, she can see just enough to move around, but not to clean. The apartment is a mess. A thick layer of dirt and dust covers everything.

"I don't trust law officials," she says. "They can't make up their minds." She isn't sure what she would pack if she were to leave, and she has nothing to pack her belongings in. The suitcase she used in her traveling days is broken. On the refrigerator is a hand-drawn sign in smudged ink: JESUS IS LORD JESUS IS LORD.

"I'm not sure where I will end up," she tells me, "but not sure where I will end up," she tells me, "but G.o.d G.o.d knows where I'll end up." knows where I'll end up."

The police officer returns and tells Ms. Connie she can bring Abu along.

She believes it's a sign. The time has come to go. "I believe the Lord gives you guidance and will give you guidance, if you listen..."

"G.o.d is still watching over New Orleans?" I ask.

"Absolutely, absolutely," she says, smiling. "Will she rise again? Absolutely, absolutely."

AN OFF-DUTY HYATT HOTEL manager reeking of booze takes us on a late-night tour of his Shangri-la. The Hyatt is where the mayor and his staff were holed up throughout the storm. It's within running distance of the Superdome. Cleaning crews have been busy disinfecting the lobby. It looks immaculate. The smell of mold and garbage is nearly gone. The manager takes us on a ride to the top floor and opens up the Regency suites for us to see. The whole side of the building, the outer wall of gla.s.s, is gone. The hotel won't be back in business anytime soon. manager reeking of booze takes us on a late-night tour of his Shangri-la. The Hyatt is where the mayor and his staff were holed up throughout the storm. It's within running distance of the Superdome. Cleaning crews have been busy disinfecting the lobby. It looks immaculate. The smell of mold and garbage is nearly gone. The manager takes us on a ride to the top floor and opens up the Regency suites for us to see. The whole side of the building, the outer wall of gla.s.s, is gone. The hotel won't be back in business anytime soon.

"Do you want to see the phone where the mayor called the president from?" the manager, asks, a plastic cup of beer in his hand.

"No, that's all right," I say, deciding it's time to call it a night.

"I can get you into the Superdome," he says. "I've been there three times already. These soldiers and police are so disorganized. It won't be any problem."

"Thanks," I say, "but I've already been."

BACK AT THE Royal Sonesta Hotel the booze has stopped flowing. I give a producer some cash and ask her to organize a beer run to Baton Rouge. Each night, we've been collecting around the empty hotel pool-small groups drinking, unwinding. It's quieter than at the daiquiri bar, and the crowd is mostly CNN personnel. The gatherings are important-a reminder to each of us that we're not here alone. Royal Sonesta Hotel the booze has stopped flowing. I give a producer some cash and ask her to organize a beer run to Baton Rouge. Each night, we've been collecting around the empty hotel pool-small groups drinking, unwinding. It's quieter than at the daiquiri bar, and the crowd is mostly CNN personnel. The gatherings are important-a reminder to each of us that we're not here alone.

The hotel's power comes and goes. Tonight it's off; a fire in the electrical supply room has apparently shut it down.

"I guess we're back in crisis mode," a handyman says to me as he picks up a flashlight and casually strolls down the hall, his stooped stride anything but a sign of crisis mode.

I introduce myself to a man at the bar. He's a local resident who's been helping CNN crews get around town. He doesn't recognize me, and when I tell him my name, he seems surprised.

"I thought you must be some old geezer," he says, merlot on his breath, Mardi Gras beads wrapped around the stem of his gla.s.s. "When people say your name, they shake."

"I doubt that's true," I say, laughing.

"No, really," he insists. "You have the power of a thousand bulldozers."

I leave the bar and go to my room. I can't get the image out of my head: a thousand bulldozers. I don't think it's true, of course. I don't like to think about my job that way. I've never paid much attention to the business of news-who is watching, how big the audience is, what time slot I am in. That information always seems to take away from the work. Katrina, however, is different. So many times in Africa I wanted people to know the suffering of others, but I long ago gave up believing that it would really change anything. Now people are watching, and I feel that maybe I can can be of some help. I see it in people's eyes; they talk to me on the street: "Hey, Anderson, somebody's got to do something about what's happening over in St. Bernard," they'll say. Or: "You gotta do something about the bodies. Why aren't they being picked up?" I don't want to let these people down, this city, down. be of some help. I see it in people's eyes; they talk to me on the street: "Hey, Anderson, somebody's got to do something about what's happening over in St. Bernard," they'll say. Or: "You gotta do something about the bodies. Why aren't they being picked up?" I don't want to let these people down, this city, down.

I WORRY I'VE forgotten what's important about my brother, what's not. I recall looks, images, arguments. There was the time Carter punched me when I was an infant. The time in high school when he screamed at me, "You're not my f.u.c.king father!" and stormed out of my room. The day I scrawled, "I HATE HIM!" in a diary. forgotten what's important about my brother, what's not. I recall looks, images, arguments. There was the time Carter punched me when I was an infant. The time in high school when he screamed at me, "You're not my f.u.c.king father!" and stormed out of my room. The day I scrawled, "I HATE HIM!" in a diary.

"Were you close?" Inevitably I get that question. Sometimes it's right after a person finds out about my brother's death; sometimes it's only after weeks of their knowing me. Were we close? Not so close that I knew he was going to kill himself. Not so close that I understood why he did.

I knew his laugh, his smell. I knew the sound he made when he walked through our front door, the jingle of his keys, the particular way his shoes sc.r.a.ped on the floor. We didn't talk, however. I didn't ask him deep, probing questions. Do any brothers do that sort of thing? I knew what I observed, I knew his surface, but clearly that was not enough.

I still dream about him, and in my sleep he seems so real. They're not happy dreams, however, because I know he's going to kill himself, and there's nothing I can do to stop him. I wake up believing for a moment that he's alive. I wake up filled with dread.

I found a Polaroid of my mom, Carter, and me celebrating his birthday. It was the first one after my father's death. The cake is small and has twelve white candles almost a foot and a half in length. Carter bends sideways in a half hug with our mom. She's smiling, and I'm next to her. I find these photos from time to time-frozen moments, I can't remember. Every time I do, the violence of Carter's death shocks me again. I keep the pictures, as well as his scribbled notes and magazines-the things I found in his apartment. I tell myself that one day I'll go through them and perhaps discover some clue that will help me understand, help me answer that question: Were we close?

"THEM BODIES SMELL like some stanky a.s.s p.u.s.s.y," a Border Patrol agent tells me. Behind him a stripper in a cop's uniform hangs upside down from a pole. "That s.h.i.+t gets in your clothes, you can't get the smell out. G.o.dd.a.m.n stanky a.s.s p.u.s.s.y." like some stanky a.s.s p.u.s.s.y," a Border Patrol agent tells me. Behind him a stripper in a cop's uniform hangs upside down from a pole. "That s.h.i.+t gets in your clothes, you can't get the smell out. G.o.dd.a.m.n stanky a.s.s p.u.s.s.y."

We're in Deja Vu, the first strip club to reopen in New Orleans. It's just over three weeks since the storm. Beneath some colored lights, a handful of girls b.u.mp and grind on the bar, rubbing their b.r.e.a.s.t.s in patrons' faces. The place is filled with the storm's flotsam and jetsam: cops and soldiers, National Guard, Border Patrol, Customs-you name it, they're all here, their badges and guns badly concealed. They're clutching dollar bills, h.o.r.n.y as h.e.l.l and twice as bored.

I'm here to meet a New Orleans police officer, but he's not around. I call him on his cellphone, and he answers in the middle of a fight. "f.u.c.k you, get the f.u.c.k out of here!" he yells to someone, then, finally tells me, "Anderson, I gotta call you back." A few minutes later, he's in the bar, apologizing.

"This National Guard guy took my seat when I went to the bathroom," he says. "When I get back, I tell him, 'That's my seat,' and he tells me, 'f.u.c.k off.' f.u.c.k off? He's with the National Guard. What the f.u.c.k is that? I'm the PO-leese. So I grabbed him and took him outside. Bulls.h.i.+t."

The night grinds on. Buying beers and whisky shots, the cops come and go, off duty, tired. Their wives and girlfriends are gone; they have no homes to go back to.

"You gotta do something," one cop tells me, inches from my face. It's late, everyone is drunk, the stripper's G-string is filled with wet bills. "No one gives a s.h.i.+t," the police officer tells me, tears streaming down his face.