by Alan Bell
However, Jessica was living in Bakersfield, California, close enough that I decided to meet her in person. I also wanted to talk with the other sick tenants in her apartment complex.
Bakersfield is in California’s central valley, just over a hundred miles north of Los Angeles. It’s a flat, featureless landscape with a desert climate. The main industries are oil and agriculture. The population of Bakersfield is extremely diverse, with about 375,000 residents.
During that first visit to the apartment complex, I met Jessica and many other tenants in a community room. The whole place was full. It felt like a town hall meeting, with everyone trying to be heard.
Most of the people in attendance were single mothers with young children. They were hardworking and lived on modest means. Many lived in the apartments under Section 8 housing (legislation that allows tenants to pay only 30 percent of their incomes for rent). In short, they lived in those particular apartments not by choice, necessarily, but because they lacked the resources to go anywhere else, despite their worries about adverse health effects.
The residents told me their stories about respiratory problems, strange flu-like symptoms, and skin lesions. Previously, they had contacted a number of doctors and attorneys in their search for answers and relief, but nobody was willing to take on their case or offer advice. There had been a curious lack of interest in their plight by the city’s doctors. I suspected this was partly because the victims had lousy health insurance, if any.
After my meeting with the residents, I called a certified industrial hygienist and asked him to check for mold in the apartment buildings. My hygienist worked like a crime-solving detective on a TV show, taking swab samples from surfaces inside the apartments, the ventilation systems, and the air to determine what antigens were floating around. He cultured whatever was on the swabs, examined the cultures under a microscope, and had them genetically analyzed.
It didn’t take long for the hygienist to confirm the residents’ fears. He identified the culprit responsible for making these people sick as Stachybotrys chartarum, more commonly known as “black mold,” also called “greenish black mold” by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).
Stachybotrys is a unique kind of mold. There are many kinds of common molds, and they’re everywhere we work and live. Most aren’t pathogenic; ordinary molds may be allergenic and cause you to sneeze and cough, but they won’t cause you to become seriously ill.
Stachybotrys, though, is a different story. It grows only in damp, dark areas where there’s no UV light. This mold lives behind walls, under floors, and above ceilings. Drywall is the perfect food for it because it’s made from cellulose. That’s essentially wood, which serves as food for this kind of pathogenic mold. Stachybotrys commonly grows in buildings that have experienced water damage, excessive humidity, water leaks, water infiltration, or flooding.
In 2004, the Institute of Medicine linked black mold exposure to a host of health problems. Otherwise healthy individuals suffered from upper respiratory tract symptoms, coughs, and wheezing when exposed to this kind of mold. In individuals with asthma or compromised immune systems, this mold exposure triggered pneumonia. The CDC labels Stachybotrys mold as “toxigenic” because this mold produces trichothecene mycotoxin, a mycotoxin that has been shown to cause neurotoxicity and brain inflammation in laboratory animals.
I now had my smoking gun: proof that toxic black mold existed in the apartment complex where Neveah had died and where many others became sick.
The next thing I needed was a reputable physician who could help me prove to a jury that the residents of the apartment complex sustained injuries caused by the bullets fired by that gun.
I contacted one of the leading mold experts in the country, Dr. Eckart Johanning, in Albany, New York. He had trained at Mount Sinai Medical School and was board certified as an environmental and occupational physician, as well as a family practitioner. More importantly, he had already logged twenty years of experience in the field of indoor air pollution and mold.
I told him about the case and asked if he’d be willing to serve as an expert. Dr. Johanning was intrigued enough to fly out to Southern California and examine the residents and the apartment building himself.
The doctor’s visit was like something out of a film. By the time I brought him to Bakersfield, we had seventy mothers and children lined up, waiting to be examined, including Jessica and her two surviving children. Dr. Johanning brought his medical bag and various examination equipment. He sat at a desk and, one by one, thoroughly examined all of the residents. He also carefully looked over the mold-laden apartments they had to call “home.”
Dr. Johanning’s conclusion? The victims’ horrifying symptoms were consistent with exposure to the black mold in their apartments. I now had my expert for a toxic tort case.
Later, the doctor told me that the Bakersfield case reminded him of an investigation he’d made of basement offices at a Boston museum that had experienced periodic flooding. “The sheet rock got wet and retained the moisture for a long time, causing mold growth,” he said, adding that the museum employees had also developed severe health problems.
Black mold was also implicated in a Cleveland case, where several children developed hemorrhagic lung disease—bleeding of the lungs—causing some of them to die. “Stachybotrys was one of the key molds implicated in that outcome,” he said. “Mycotoxins produced by toxic mold can adversely affect the blood and immune system, making people much sicker than your typical allergic reaction.”
As my investigation proceeded, I developed a road map for the judge to follow that linked the mold to the victims’ illnesses. My map began at the point where the deadly mold first developed in the apartment complex and led directly to little Neveah’s tragic death.
On the first floor, the outside sprinklers threw water onto the building. The water then seeped into the wall cavities, allowing the walls to remain damp. In addition, broken pipes and roof leaks caused water to drip into the ceilings and walls of the apartments. Drywall, water, and a dark environment with no UV light made this place the perfect breeding ground for pathogenic black mold.
During one of my visits to Bakersfield, I asked Ashlee to accompany me. I wanted her to see how I built a legal case. I also thought it would be good for her to observe firsthand that not everyone is fortunate enough to live as we do. She was extremely quiet as we walked around the apartments, talking to the tenants and inspecting the mold.
As we were leaving, Ashlee finally spoke up. “How can they let people live like that, Dad? Everything in the buildings is broken and leaking.”
I wished there were a better reason to give her than pure greed, but I couldn’t think of one.
• • •
As the investigation progressed, I discovered that many of the tenants at this apartment complex had moved from a different apartment complex, The Village at Bakersfield, after complaints of mold infestation. That complex was also the subject of a wrongful death claim brought by the family of Steven Raina, claiming he died as a result of a fungal infection caused by conditions in their building. Both apartment complexes were managed by the same company.
Luckily, a woman who had formerly worked for that company as a property manager, Marlene Medina, had kept a daily journal of tenants’ complaints about maintenance problems and her correspondence with the company’s top officials. The complaints and concerns she passed along were largely ignored. Marlene became so frustrated by her employer’s negligence, she eventually quit her job. She became a whistle-blower and one of our key witnesses.
“Look,” she told me. “The management company knew what was going on. I told them all these people were sick, but all they did was tell me to cover it up.”
The deeper I dug into my investigation, the more rot I uncovered and the more incensed I became. In my mind, the death of two-year-old Neveah Lair was nothing less than a homicide.
Although Neveah died in 2004, my team found evidence th
at the management company had known about the mold problem since 1999. We found evidence of toxic mold in sixteen of the eighteen apartments. We also learned that whenever a family requested a move to a safe apartment because one or more family members fell ill, the management company moved them, but then stuck a brand-new family into the same toxic apartment that had just been vacated without telling the unsuspecting incoming family anything.
By February 2005, we filed the lawsuit.
There were a lot of moving parts to this complex case. We had to communicate with all of the doctors who’d examined Neveah and the other tenants, then review the necessary medical records and all hospitalizations. Most importantly, we needed to prove the presence of mold in Neveah’s lung tissue in order to positively link the cause of her illness with its effect—her tragic death.
The tissues were being held by the coroner who had performed the autopsy on Neveah. He refused to willingly turn over the samples for testing, so we had to subpoena him. When Dr. Johanning finally was able to test the lung samples, he confirmed that they matched positive to the same black mold found inside Neveah’s apartment.
Meanwhile, the defense—composed of the management company and the owners of the apartment complex—pushed back. The attorneys for their insurance companies were determined to bury us in paperwork. They get paid by the hour, so for them cases like this can be a legal bonanza.
The defendants deposed every single one of our victims and doctors—a process that took months. They put up roadblocks at every turn. One common tactic was to make their witnesses unavailable for deposition, which delayed the entire process. They also asked for extensions of time to turn over documents we requested and resisted showing them to us. They sought continuances of hearings on motions, and asked for postponements of the trial date. The longer it took to go to court, the longer the management company kept its money. That was their game.
In response, we launched a media campaign. I was ready to play hardball. On the courthouse steps at a press conference, we spoke about our lawsuit and answered media questions. We attracted coverage not only by local newspapers but also by CBS’s Early Show, a national weekly television program. The program highlighted Neveah Lair’s death as a clear demonstration of black mold’s global danger. The piece aired on the CBS Evening News as well.
Jennifer Lair made a powerful TV presence, weeping and wiping her eyes as she told her story on camera. Then I took my turn, calling black mold “an insidious cancer that grew from within this complex.”
The end of the broadcast must have made it difficult for anyone with a heart to ignore what had happened. The reporter mentioned that the Lair family had to live in a hotel because they’d moved to a different apartment in the same complex only to have the mold reappear. Now, Jessica’s youngest child was seriously ill. He also suffered from severe respiratory problems; he was on albuterol sulfate, an inhaled drug that treats and prevents the bronchial spasms experienced by asthma sufferers, and prednisone, a powerful anti-inflammatory drug prescribed to treat inflamed lungs, sinuses, and systemic inflammation. Respiratory inflammation is often caused by exposure to environmental toxins and allergies.
“A week and a half ago, my son turned completely blue—stopped breathing,” Lair said into the television camera. The reporter then talked about how Lair’s family’s contaminated possessions remained inside the mold-infested apartment; they included the urn with Neveah’s ashes.
• • •
The media coverage was successful in pressuring the defendants to settle. They wanted the case to go away without facing a jury. Now it was a question of how much money the “bad guys” were going to pay.
With multiple defendants, they’re all responsible for kicking in a piece of the pie. The costs were massive in this case. Both sides had hired many experts and doctors disputing the amount of damages sustained by the plaintiffs.
Our legal team representing the fifteen families argued against counsel for the apartment complex and the management company. Finally, on May 26, 2006, the case was settled.
At that time, it was the largest settlement in the county for the wrongful death of a child. But had justice been done? Jessica Lair had walked into Neveah’s room and found the child dead. This case didn’t bring her little girl back.
Yes, I had shown these tenants that somebody would stand up and fight for them, and yes, they had been financially compensated. But the question of justice is deeper than simply getting insurance companies to write checks to injured people.
This case touched me deeply, not only because a parent had lost her little girl and I was the father of a daughter, but because it brought me face-to-face with evil. The real estate management company knew about the mold. They knew it had possibly caused the death of Steven Reina in 2002, two whole years before Neveah died. They also knew a number of tenants were getting ill. Yet they did nothing.
Back when I was hunting down criminals in Florida, I prosecuted some horrific crimes, including murders among family members. But somehow this case seems even worse, because it illustrates how corporations can poison unsuspecting victims with invisible toxins for financial gain. And, if they are caught, the wrongdoers simply move on with a different name and commit similar crimes again and again.
I had to wonder if our willful blindness to the deadly consequences of these poisons would eventually spell the end of humanity. Or would science and humanity right itself by acknowledging our mistakes and choosing a better path?
I still have no idea. The jury’s still out on that one.
17 • PESTICIDES POISON A POSTAL WORKER
DURING MY VISUALIZATION SESSIONS WITH Dan Baker in Arizona, one of my fantasies had been to attend a national championship football game if the University of Miami ever played the University of Nebraska. On January 3, 2002, my wish came true when the Cornhuskers faced off against the Hurricanes in the 88th Rose Bowl Game in Pasadena, California.
I rented a limo and, accompanied by Dan; Ashlee; my brother, Bobby; and my high school friend Tiny, I fulfilled that long-ago, impossible-seeming fantasy: I sat in a stadium with about ninety-three thousand other fans and watched the University of Miami pummel the University of Nebraska, winning the national championship.
If this were a Hollywood movie, that might make a great end to my story. It was a day I will truly never forget. In truth, though, my real healing was only beginning.
• • •
The next case that touched my heart involved Judilyn Knight, a woman who loved her job for the postal service. She delivered mail to the rural parts of Cumberland County, North Carolina, an area of about 660 square miles that is home to Fort Bragg and the Pope Army Air Field.
Originally settled between 1729 and 1736 by Highland Scots, much of this fertile green land is devoted to agriculture, with farms devoted to corn, cotton, tobacco, and soybean crops. There are a number of large lakes, rivers, and creeks in this area, making boating a popular recreational pastime.
Judilyn delivered mail using her own car. She loved driving along the rural roads, often stopping to say hello and chat with people she knew along her route. She had a solid work record and was innovative, too, often coming up with routes that made more sense than those assigned by some distant bureaucrat. She was married, with a young daughter in elementary school, and often worked as a parent volunteer in her class.
On the morning of October 18, 2002, Judilyn was delivering mail along Bethel Road, one of her regular routes. She wasn’t surprised to hear the sound of a crop duster buzzing over the fields. It was humid that morning, and Judilyn had her windows rolled down to enjoy the breeze as she drove. There were no other vehicles on this quiet road at the time, just Judilyn in her car and, above her, the plane flown by Edward L. Owens Jr.
Judilyn spotted the plane flying toward her and saw immediately that Owens was still releasing chemicals, even though he wasn’t over any crop fields. Surely he knew that, she thought, as he flew over her. The pesticide hit the windshie
ld and front of her car.
She tried to roll up her windows in time, but failed. Judilyn instantly smelled the chemical fumes and felt the spray settle on her arm and on the lower parts of her legs, which were exposed in shorts. She also drew the fumes in through her nostrils and tasted the spray in her mouth. She didn’t know it at the time, of course, but the crop duster’s spray contained three chemicals that day: tribufos, a cotton defoliant; ethephon, an organophosphate; and carentrazone, an herbicide.
Within thirty minutes, Judilyn’s skin on her arms and legs began itching and burning. She immediately drove to the farm where the crop duster had just sprayed and told the farmers about the incident. They assured her that the pesticides wouldn’t hurt her.
As Judilyn continued working that day, however, she developed a cough. Her throat swelled and she began producing mucus and running a fever. Over the next few days, she experienced additional health problems. She often felt nauseous and suffered from diarrhea and piercing headaches. Acute pain in her neck and abdomen sometimes made her double over in agony.
Judilyn filed a complaint with the North Carolina Department of Agriculture. The claim was investigated five days after the incident by a State pesticide investigator who took six swabs from Judilyn’s car and from the road where the spray hit. Based on these swabs, the State concluded that Owens, the pilot, had unlawfully sprayed the area and charged him with a violation. This claim was settled on April 10, 2003, and Owens agreed to pay a $1,500 fine.
During the next few months, Judilyn continued to suffer flulike symptoms. She was also having increasing difficulties with her concentration. Then, on August 16, 2003, less than ten months after her first exposure, Judilyn was delivering mail on Highway 401 when once again she spotted a crop duster flying overhead.
It was Owens again, and this time he was spraying a mixture of the insecticide Mustang Max (zeta-cypermethrin) and Mepex (mepiquat chloride), a plant growth regulator. The moment Judilyn saw the crop duster approaching, she tried to quickly roll up her windows and close the car’s vents.