Herrington went up to the front row of the bleachers. “This is a public hearing, and I want to hear from you. I want to know what you’re thinking.”
He looked out into the crowd and spotted a woman about midway up the bleachers tentatively raising her hand. “You’ve got a question? Good. I’d appreciate it if you’d stand up so we can all see you. And speak up so we can all hear you. This is important, and we all need to know what you’re going to say.”
A lady in a print dress stood up. “You say you’re proud of St. Bonaventure Parish. Well, I am too. I was born and raised here, but I’m not so sure I want my children to stay here. In their school, just down the road, there are three kids with cancers. Now, that ain’t right. Kids gettin’ cancers just ain’t normal. I can’t recall no one with any cancers when I was in school here. There weren’t no plants here then, but there’re plants here now, and three kids got the cancer. It’s because of all that pollution, isn’t it? So, my question is . . . what you gonna do about it?”
She sat down and the crowd applauded.
Herrington walked to the bleachers directly in front of the questioner. His voice was full of compassion and empathy. “You said you were born and raised here. I think that’s great. What makes this parish great, what makes this state great, is people like you. But, you raise a good point.” He turned to the entire crowd.
“You’ve got a right to be concerned, and that’s why I’m here. I’m as concerned as you are about these allegations that there are elevated cancer rates in St. Bonaventure Parish And I’m as concerned as you are about allegations of unlawful dumping and discharges into your bayou. DEH has done a great job under my administration, but we’ve got more to do. Lots more. As long as I’m Secretary of the Department of Environmental Health, we’re going to do our best to make sure that the industries that are located here obey the law.”
There was no applause.
Herrington did not appear fazed. He walked back to the center of the bleachers and looked at the crowd.
“How many of you work at the plants?” A few hands were raised.
“Come on, I know there’s got to be more than that. How many of you work in the plants, or work for a contractor who does work in the plants?” Hands were raised throughout the audience.
“And how many of you work on the rigs offshore, or in the service companies that serve the rigs?
More hands were raised.
“Your jobs are important. You know that. We all know that. Your jobs support your families. They let you buy food and live in a decent house. They give you money so you can fix up your boat, so you can buy your fishing gear, so you can get that new rifle or shotgun. You know we need those industries. But I’m not foolish enough to think that these companies should be able to do whatever they want. We need them to run right, to run clean. That’s the job of DEH, and that’s my job. Together, we can make a difference. We can have jobs and we can have a cleaner environment, both at the same time. That’s what DEH stands for. You’ve got my word on that.”
Herrington paused, hoping, I thought, for applause. Instead of that, however, low murmurs began to run again through the audience.
Herrington proceeded on without hesitation. “Questions? I’m hearing you talk among yourselves out there. Why not talk to me? That’s why I’m here. With this kind of turn-out, there’s got to be a lot of you with questions.”
An elderly man to Herrington’s left rose unsteadily to his feet. Herrington went over to give him a hand, but the man waved him away and said angrily, in a strong voice, “You say you want the industries to run clean. Well, some do and some’ums don’t. Take that Camellia Industries plant. They say they’re making some kind of stuff for houses, siding and such, but you should smell that place sometime. It don’t smell like the plants I’ve worked at, and I’ve worked at more than a few. That smell – that’s the smell of death to our community. That’s what I’m saying!”
The crowd greeted his remarks with cheers and thunderous applause.
This was what I had come for. To observe anything that arose about Camellia Industries.
Herrington calmly waited until the noise subsided. “Excellent question,” Herrington complimented. “Odor is an important clue, sometimes, in helping us to catch polluters. We’ve got some strong laws in this state, and I intend to enforce each and every one of them.”
Herrington’s comments were greeted with disbelief.
Another man on the front row stood up. “You didn’t answer Cornell’s question. He asked about the Camellia Industries plant. We’ve been complaining about that plant for a long time, and yet your Department issued a permit that allowed it to continue operations. We want to know what’s going on.”
The air filled with the crowd’s approval of what had just been said.
I recognized the man who was speaking. Fireworks were about to begin.
Chapter 25
Herrington smiled at the questioner. “Mr. Doucet. I hadn’t noticed you, but I should have. I’m pleased to have you here. You’ve been a strong voice for this Parish.”
Herrington was outwardly gracious, but I knew Rad was the last person Herrington wanted to see tonight. Herrington had come to charm the crowd. Rad had come for another purpose.
I went to law school with Octavius Radolphus “Rad” Doucet. He had developed quite a reputation since then. President of the Louis A. Martinet Society, the state’s association of African-American attorneys. Active in a number of environmental organizations. Always calling a press conference about some injustice he had uncovered, some new lawsuit he was going to file, or some protest he was planning to lead. Rad had been quoted in the newspaper article about G.G.’s death. He was the lawyer who had gotten the TRO against Camellia Industries. If things worked out the way I anticipated, I’d be in court next week, facing off against him, representing Camellia Industries.
“What about the permit?” Doucet pressed Herrington. “Why was it issued?” Doucet was in his cross-examination mode.
“Mr. Doucet, as a lawyer, you’re well aware that DEH’s rules and regulations deal with just such issues, and I know you must be aware that the permit was issued in accordance with those regulations.” He smiled again and scanned the crowd, looking away from Doucet and towards the upper bleachers. “I know there’re more questions out there.”
But Doucet didn’t sit down. “I’ve got another question.”
“I’m sure you do, but one aspect of a public hearing is to give everyone a chance to speak, not just one person.” He gestured to the bleachers, attempting to elicit a response from anyone other than Doucet.
Doucet took a step forward onto the basketball court. “Since I can’t get past your staff to get an appointment with you, I figure this is a good time to ask all my questions and make all my comments.” Doucet looked at the faces on the bleachers for support, and they gave it to him. Shouts of “let him talk” and “answer his questions” came from the audience.
Herrington, sizing up the situation, graciously smiled and stepped back to listen.
“On behalf of the members of PLEA, our Parish and Local Environmental Action Committee, I sent you a letter of complaint. Your office sent a canned response. Then I sent you a petition signed by over three hundred St. Bonaventure residents, a petition against your granting permits both for future plants and for expansion of current plants. All you did? Shoot back another form letter. How can you stand there and say you enforce the laws when you continue to issue permits to operations like Camellia
Industries?”
Herrington moved to the lectern and nestled up against the microphone. His voice enveloped the gym and boomed over Rad’s unamplified questions. “Glad to provide you with a response to all queries, Mr. Doucet, even though I’m certain that your organization’s petition is not an accurate portrayal of the real concerns, thoughts, and
desires of the thousands and thousands of hard-working citizens of this great parish.”
Herrington s
pun out information quickly. “Let me tell you about these regulations. They’re carefully drawn, and they ask for information about things like acenaphthene, and benzo fluoranthene, and butyl benzyl phthalate, and dichloromethane and tetrachloromethane. And none of that stuff with the long, fancy names was shown to be in the manufacturing or output processes at Camellia Industries. And when it’s not
shown, the regulations don’t give me a basis to deny a plant a permit.”
Herrington thought he had disposed of the question. He was wrong.
Doucet now turned to face the crowd. “He can get his mouth around jawbreaking technical terms. He’s very good at all this hot air. But, you’d expect that from a politician.”
Doucet jumped onto the platform and grabbed the microphone. “You didn’t mention toluene, or four-methyl phenolnaphthalene, or any of the xylenes, or dichlorinated phenol . . . but that wasn’t the point, was it, and you know it. The point is the utter failure of DEH to protect the African-American citizens of this parish. You’re full of big talk about how important this parish is to you, full of your hunting and your fishing. But you don’t know what real importance is. My great-granddaddy hunted and fished here too, but he didn’t do it on some white man’s recreation weekend, or because he wanted to mount some green-billed mallard or three-pointed buck on the walls of some cypress-paneled den. No, he did it to feed his family. And his grandfather, my great-great-great-granddaddy, fished when he could to feed his family, but he couldn’t have hunted here – he was a slave, picking cotton, and if he’d had a gun to fire, they would have hunted him down for being ‘uppity.’ So, don’t tell us about your attachment to this parish. The families of many of those here tonight, like my great-great-great- granddaddy, were attached to this parish . . . by shackles.”
Voices from the crowd yelled out “that’s right” and “tell it,” chorusing their approval.
Doucet’s voice filled the gym with power and indignation. “You look at where these plants are being built. They’re not next to some white subdivision. They’re not impinging on your property values. Where are they? They’re next to our homes.”
The crowd applauded. Doucet glanced over at Herrington, who was sporting an expression that came across as bitter rather than compassionate.
Doucet continued to build his case. “These plants hurt African-Americans. They’re bringing death and destruction into the homes our families have lived in for generations. They’re raining down pollution from their smoke stacks. They’re lighting up the sky with flares that emit gases, flares that burn like the fires of Hell. They’re dumping chemicals into our streams and polluting the waters we drink from. We – not you. Our homes, not yours. Our children. Our families. Our heritage. And you have the audacity to stand here and smugly talk about ‘regulations’? Well, I’ll tell you what kind of regulations these are. If they allow such things to happen, they’re racist, plain and simple.”
The crowd was punctuating each of Doucet’s sentences with shouts of approval. Herrington raised his hands. “If y’all will be quiet, I’ll be glad to respond.”
The crowd started to quiet down, but Doucet would have none of it. Facing the bleachers, he asked, “What do you want to be quiet for? To listen to him tell more political lies? What’s he going to say? Nothing. Is he going to cancel the Camellia Industries permit?”
Rad turned abruptly to Herrington. “Are you? Are you also going to shut down Big Mudcaster Enterprises, or FlowPipe Chemi-Petrols, or any of those other companies on the river that are just as bad?”
Herrington continued to signal to the crowd to be quiet and sit down. “We certainly can talk about these things and air our differences.”
Doucet ignored him. “He’s not going to do anything but jaw at you. Don’t let him. Tell him we want action. Tell him we don’t understand why the St. Bonaventure D.A. has said nothing – not a single word – against the plant. Tell him we don’t understand why the DEH has filed papers in our injunction suit against Camellia Industries, papers defending Camellia Industries and the permits that have been issued. Tell him we don’t understand why they have claimed we don’t have ‘standing’ to bring this suit. Tell him we don’t understand why DEH, if it is so interested in the environment, is raising a whole host of other ‘legal’ issues to try to kick our suit out of court. Tell him we don’t understand why DEH is paying its lawyers to defend Camellia Industries and to fight against the citizens of St. Bonaventure Parish.”
The crowd was now Doucet’s. They cheered him on. They called out “yes” and “you’re right” and “amen” at each of his pronouncements. They stamped their feet with approval.
Doucet continued on with even more fervor. “Tell them NO. Show them all, that we sure as hell have standing. Get on your feet. Come on, stand up for your rights!” The wooden bleachers groaned as person after person rose.
The crowd stood, shoulder to shoulder, cheering.
Doucet urged them on. “Camellia Industries is nothing but a hazardous waste processor, spreading poisons! Yet, DEH still takes the position that Camellia is just a plant compacting trash into building materials. There’s plenty that’s trashy, all right, and it’s not only the Camellia Industries plant. Tell this white man. No compaction. We want action.”
The crowd stomped, clapped and yelled, louder than ever.
The D.A. and the male members of the Police Jury were now on their feet too, backing away from their chairs, looking concerned. The black female police juror, however, walked toward the bleachers, smiling, to align herself with her constituents.
Doucet started a chant. “No compaction, we want action! No compaction, we want action!”
The crowd picked up the refrain. It rang throughout the gym. “NO
COMPACTION, WE WANT ACTION! NO COMPACTION, WE WANT ACTION!”
Again and again they yelled it, louder and louder, stomping in rhythm, a cacophony cascading off metal walls, echoing and reverberating, continuously building in intensity.
Herrington gave up. He, the D.A., Large Gut, and the other male members of the Police Jury scurried out the rear door to the applause and laughter of the crowd.
Doucet raised both hands in victory.
Chapter 26
I found Taylor sitting in her red BMW convertible, top up and air conditioning blasting, on the shoulder of the road about fifty yards from Poirrier’s parking lot, just where she said she would be.
I quickly explained to her that I had met with Spider and told her what had happened at the meeting I had just come from.
“Dammit, Schex. You see why I need you to be in court this coming week to protect Camellia Industries. You’ve got to do it.”
Everything was going as planned. She was trying to convince me, and she was thinking that this was all her own idea.
“You’ve got the papers from Spider,” she continued. “That’s all you need. Just protect Camellia Industries and beat the shit out of these environmentalist fuckers in the courtroom.”
“I’ll look at those papers tonight, no doubt about that.”
“Good. Then it’s settled. You’ll look at the papers and get satisfied with whatever legal crap you need to figure out and get me the money. I can meet you at Lolly’s
tomorrow morning by ten-thirty, and we can get that taken care of as well.” ‘All taken care of’ is just what I had planned.
She was no longer looking at me. She was gazing down the road toward Poirrier’s. Its parking lot was full, packed with pickup trucks and motorcycles, two-door coupes with rusted side panels, tricked-out cars with racing vents, and old sedans in various states of disrepair. On the left side of the building, where the market was located, the windows were dark, but on the right side all the lights were on and people were streaming in the door.
Taylor left her BMW and started walking down the road to Poirrier’s. “Come on,
Schex. The night is still young. Buy me a beer. I need a drink.”
Taylor’s picture had been on the front p
age with a story about her arrest. Being seen in a bar the evening after she had been arrested wouldn’t help her case.
“What’s that look on your face? You don’t approve? Well, fuck you. I want a drink. You’ve told me you won’t be my personal lawyer, so I don’t need your approval, as if that ever meant anything to me, which it didn’t. You worry about Camellia Industries. I’ll take care of myself. So, are you coming inside with me?
Let Lolly deal with the fall-out in the criminal trial. The $775,000 was all that Lolly was going to get. The bulk of the rest of the money was going to legally flow into my pockets, one way or the other. The more trouble Taylor brought upon herself, the clearer the path was for me.
I followed her into Poirrier’s, which was jammed shoulder-to-shoulder. The listless wooden fans hanging on long metal poles from the high ceiling did nothing to cool the place down or disperse the haze of smoke that hung in layers.
We found a spot at a small table in the back of the room, but no matter where Taylor was, she couldn’t avoid being the center of attention. She invited it. The men at the adjacent bar ogled her in her skin-tight jeans and the form-fitting denim shirt that accentuated her athletic figure.
As I put cash down on the bar and grabbed a couple of beers, a man’s head appeared above the crowd at the front of the room. He was standing on the stage, but no one paid any attention to him.
The man put his fingers to his mouth and blew a piercing whistle into the mic, causing the speakers to scream with feedback.
The barroom chatter ceased.
“Now,” the man said, with a thick Cajun accent, “I got a treat for y’all t’night. It’s what y’all been waiting for.”
Dozens of boots pounded approval on the wooden floor.
“Y’all may be waitin’ for beer. We got plenty ‘a dat. And y’all may be waitin’ for food. We got plenty ‘a dat too. Don’t forget ‘bout our specials, ya’ hear? We got dem fried oysters, dem fried catfish, and dem soft-shell crab. We even got da last ‘a da soft- shell crawfish in the back. So, if y’all are hungry, order ya’ some ‘a dem critters now.” The beer bottles clanked in response. Get on with it.
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