Poisoned

by Alan Bell

  This report galvanized Louise into action. She began barnstorming the neighborhood, giving talks to anyone who would listen, from homeowners’ associations to Bible study groups, attempting to alert the community to the problem. She also joined forces with Mickey Hinton and other residents to petition the Department of Environmental Protection to do further testing. Maddeningly, the test results were always the same: the results were deemed “inconclusive,” with the suggestion that “further testing was needed.”

  Louise attempted to enlist the help of Randy Merchant, the Director of Environmental Health for the Florida Department of Health. She thought he was underplaying the potential health hazards of the site. When Randy met with the residents at her request, he told them they would “need to eat a lot of the dirt” for them to be harmed by contaminants at the site.

  This didn’t go over well. Louise encouraged community members to ask productive and challenging questions to Randy about their concerns.

  In an attempt to break the impasse between Randy and the community, Louise suggested that his department use the health information from the 2000 US Census tracking cancer rates to determine if the area’s rates were elevated. Tracking significant types of cancer wasn’t a perfect approach; “cancer” isn’t always listed as a cause of death on a death certificate if a patient dies of some other ailment, like pneumonia. However, it was her best shot, and this might at least provide them with more accurate information about what was going on.

  Randy agreed to her proposal, then produced a report showing no increase in cancers in the area based on the 2000 Census data. Louise didn’t believe him and asked for the raw data, which he agreed to provide.

  Weeks passed without Louise receiving the information. Fuming, she finally called Merchant and said, “If I don’t get that information, I’m going to call a press conference, and it won’t be pretty.”

  The data arrived a few days later. As she reviewed it, Louise saw major flaws in how the data was analyzed for Lincoln Park and Wingate Road. She sent the information off to Dr. Richard Clapp, a professor at Boston University who had received numerous awards for ethics in science.

  Dr. Clapp’s initial review revealed that the Florida Department of Health hadn’t taken certain variables into account when analyzing their data. Since the toxic region was inhabited mostly by black residents, the study should have compared the incidence of cancers in blacks living in the affected areas to the incidence of cancers in black residents living in different neighborhoods not impacted by the toxic waste site. Instead, the Department of Health had compared cancer rates of blacks in the neighborhood with the rates among whites in the neighborhood. The problem with that approach was the paucity of white residents living in the affected area. In his opinion, the State had used a statistically questionable method deliberately designed to disguise any potential cancer uptick.

  When Dr. Clapp used a different methodology, the results were starkly different. While the Florida Department of Health had reported no difference in the rates of lung and respiratory cancers, Dr. Clapp found that, among blacks living near the former Wingate incinerator site, there was a 7 percent increase in Kaposi’s sarcoma (a soft tissue cancer), a 22 percent increase in kidney cancer, and a 30 percent increase in lung cancer.

  The rise in women’s reproductive illnesses was another issue that became apparent. On many occasions, Louise met with a group of women from the neighborhood, and they’d talk about how they’d played together as kids. Many of these women suffered from reproductive problems; a disproportionate number were undergoing hysterectomies despite being only in their twenties. In fact, by Louise’s estimates, a shocking 85 percent of her Legal Aid clients were women with reproductive issues.

  While at Legal Aid, Louise partnered up with another lawyer, Reggie Klein, who had successfully sued the City of Fort Lauderdale for racial discrimination in employment practices. Klein joined the law firm of Napoli, Bern, Ripka, and Shkolnik, and in 2011 Louise followed him and became managing partner in their Miami office. She was finally in a position to get top-level help in obtaining justice for the residents of Lincoln Park and Wingate Road.

  Louise decided their best chance was to file a claim for continued medical monitoring in the community, as well as diminution in the property value of the residents. Jan and I had considered this same approach years earlier.

  As she continued putting the case together, there were two low points for Louise. The first was in 2009, when she was having trouble with the judge handling the case. He had long-standing ties to the attorneys representing the City of Fort Lauderdale; in Louise’s view, this spelled doom for her case. She worried that the judge would eventually rule against the community of victims as a result of his connections.

  Then, in 2010, Louise lost a good friend. She had become close to Mickey Hinton’s daughter, Gale Martin, who was every bit as passionate a community activist as her father had been. Gale developed breast cancer twice and then uterine cancer; she died in January of that year.

  Gale was close to the chief investigative television reporter for the local CBS affiliate, Michele Gilen. Michele produced eleven pieces on Lincoln Park. One of these, a three-part series entitled Secrets of the Soil, included Gale getting back in touch with a childhood friend who had moved away from the area, but who also suffered from health problems, including a brain tumor that kept returning despite eleven surgeries to remove it. The series won an Emmy award; Michele gave the Emmy to Gale before she died.

  Louise told me that, on the day of Gale’s funeral, she was feeling despondent both about the loss of her friend and about the judge she expected to dismiss the case. Michele took Louise aside that day and led her to an elevated area above Lincoln Park. From there, they had a view of a local housing unit, the Olive Garden Apartments, and the house where Gale had grown up with Mickey and Joan Hinton.

  Michele encouraged Louise not to give up, as they observed two little girls playing on the jungle gym in front of the apartment building. The girls were hanging on the monkey bars; every so often, they’d drop to the dirt (contaminated with lead and arsenic), brush off their hands, and start climbing the bars again.

  Louise told me that was the moment she felt a renewed determination to fight for the people in her community. They had to keep fighting to clean up this neighborhood, Louise said, because these victims lacked the resources to fight for their own health. I imagine she felt something similar to what I experienced with Ashlee at the top of Mount Lemmon.

  She intends to keep fighting for this neighborhood until she wins compensation for the people who have been poisoned by the City’s negligence. The battle continues.

  Louise is an inspiration for me, as she should be for all of us. As I’ve seen time and again, the justice system is flawed, but that shouldn’t stop us from storming the courtrooms and shouting from rooftops to make people aware of the danger they’re in every day. We can’t depend on our government to keep us safe and healthy.

  You and I have important work to do if we’re going to protect ourselves and our families.

  EPILOGUE: NOW WHAT?

  “HOW’S YOUR HEALTH NOW, ALAN?” people often ask after hearing my story.

  I use the word stable as my standard answer, even though that isn’t completely true. The reality is that I’m still on the Neurontin, though I’ve managed to taper the dose down, and I do have relapses. A couple of them have been serious—one in 2008 and the other in 2014.

  What happens when I relapse? My chemical sensitivity becomes worse, and I experience extreme pain and flu-like symptoms. My brain once again misfires.

  These relapses scare me. As I fall down that same black rabbit hole again, I can’t help worrying that the Neurontin might have stopped working.

  I’ve found that the best treatment in the case of a serious relapse is to rein in my activities, rest, and go for hyperbaric oxygen chamber treatments. These treatments involve lying in a sealed chamber where the air is pressurized up to three t
imes higher than normal, or the equivalent of diving fifty feet below the ocean’s surface. In the chamber, I’m breathing 100 percent oxygen, which infuses oxygen deep into the tissues of my body, allowing healing to occur at a cellular level. I’m healthy enough now to follow a daily exercise routine of walking, swimming, and doing core exercises at a gym. I can eat out at health restaurants, see concerts, and conquer increasingly difficult challenges.

  As I have resumed a more normal life, I’m happy to report that Ashlee took her old man’s advice about pursuing higher education. She did well in high school, became a class leader, and spoke at graduation. I was proud and grateful to be there, wiping my eyes along with the rest of the proud parents.

  Ashlee was then accepted into the University of Southern California. I was filled with joy on her first day, as I helped her move into her dormitory. When she joined a sorority, they held a father-daughter event, which I enthusiastically attended. I also showed up for events arranged for mothers and daughters, since I was playing both roles in her life.

  After graduating with a bachelor’s degree in communications, Ashlee went on to earn her MBA from Pepperdine University. I had the honor of sitting there and cheering for her during yet another graduation. And then, astoundingly, I had the opportunity to applaud her at one more ceremony, as Ashlee graduated from flight school with her wings, pursuing her dream of traveling the world as a flight attendant for a major airline.

  My legal advocacy for victims of environmental poisoning continues to motivate Ashlee to support our fight. She understands the plight of victims who have been poisoned by the environment better than most, having helped save me as I struggled to survive.

  • • •

  I hope my shared journey highlights how essential it is to count our blessings. We are all mere humans, fragile and vulnerable, and our existence on this earth is a temporary radiance. We should all strive to leave our planet a better place than when we first arrived.

  Escaping my bubble taught me that being alive is a gift. We honor that gift by loving our families, and by finding purpose and meaning in making a difference in the lives of others. Learning how to embrace moments of joy and wonder by walking barefoot on a beach, marveling at clouds racing across the sky, is far more valuable than growing the size of your house or bank account.

  A number of people have had near-death experiences and written about them. They describe what it’s like to “see the light,” go to heaven, and come back. My situation was the reverse: I went to hell and was lucky enough to return to this sunlit heaven we all live in.

  • • •

  I’m grateful for the second chance I was given to move forward in my life. First on my wish list was to return to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, where I became a prosecutor and learned how to fight for justice while making so many friends among my colleagues. It’s where I fell in love, got married, bought my first house, and had my daughter. Returning to Fort Lauderdale, specifically to the places where I’d spent my young adulthood, was my way of reclaiming who I was back then, and merging that young man with the older, wiser man I am today.

  Most important, I wanted to confront my nemesis, 110 Tower. That building represents my own Ground Zero. Like many victims of violent crimes, I was determined to revisit the site where I was injured and conquer my fears by reminding myself that I’m a survivor.

  My first stop in Fort Lauderdale was the house in Coral Springs, where Susan and I were living when Ashlee was born. Ashlee and I stopped by and introduced ourselves to the residents, who were nice enough to invite us inside. I showed Ashlee her bedroom and the living room where we’d taken videos of her as a baby.

  Next, I went to the Broward County Courthouse. I hesitated on the steps before going inside, thinking about the nineteen current and former employees of the Broward County Courthouse who ended up suing the County, claiming the building made them sick because it was infested with toxic mold. In addition, they alleged that tiny asbestos fibers were floating through the air, exposing them to further health risks.

  In court documents, the County denied the presence of floating asbestos fibers and toxic mold, and argued that Florida’s sovereign immunity law—the same law I ran up against in the incinerator case—protects the government from hefty damages. The County also rejected allegations that it was negligent in failing to test for the toxins and not warning its occupants properly. The government falsely assured employees and the public that the mold and flooding problems were being addressed as they occurred.

  The ninth floor—where Circuit Judge Cheryl Aleman, who died of an aggressive form of lung cancer, had her courtroom—was stripped and the ceiling tiles were ripped out. Other offices had also been redone after various flooding incidents.

  Finally, in October 2013, the first employee lawsuit was settled, with a $166,500 out-of-court settlement to a former prosecutor who claimed the facility caused her severe sinus damage. In Stefanie Krathen Ginnis’s case, a tissue sample taken during sinus surgery revealed that the mold in her nose was identical to mold spores found in the courthouse, where she worked from 2003 to 2010. This was the first solid proof the building posed health hazards to the public.

  A few years ago, the County agreed to replace the half-century-old courthouse with a new $328 million building and parking complex. They never tore the whole courthouse down, just the old part of the building that was deemed toxic, and they didn’t do that until they’d added on the new part of the building. Meanwhile, clerks, lawyers, judges, and other staff were working—and being poisoned—there every day.

  I was already extremely sick before I learned about any of this. And, although I felt vindicated in some way by the lawsuits finally being filed, I felt extremely sorry for the people who had to suffer before county officials finally owned up and took responsibility.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I walked inside and visited courtrooms where I’d spent many hours as a young lawyer. I saw judges whose campaigns I’d managed, too; some of them hadn’t seen me in years, and they were shocked when I suddenly appeared.

  Rumors had been circulating, some of them suggesting that I had died; a few people looked at me as if I were a ghost. One judge rapped his gavel on the bench at the sight of me and asked for a brief adjournment of the case he was hearing, calling me into chambers to look me over and hear my story.

  “Want your old job back?” asked my former prosecuting chief, only half joking.

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m fighting a bigger crime,” I said, and explained my situation.

  For my part, however, the dragon I really needed to slay wasn’t the courthouse, since that’s not where I got sick—I didn’t work long in the mold-infested part of the old building. It was 110 Tower. That was my nemesis: I needed to walk into that building and prove to myself that I had survived against all odds.

  As I hesitated in front of the doors of 110 Tower, I was flooded with conflicting feelings. This was the building where I had, in my youth, felt at the height of my physical, professional, and intellectual abilities.

  Yet this building almost destroyed me, and in doing so, 110 Tower altered my life’s journey forever. I entered its doors, nearly holding my breath as I waited for my body to react to this familiar—and once nearly lethal—environment.

  I inhaled cautiously in the lobby. Ironically, I knew instantly that whatever had been in this building and made me sick was now gone.

  I felt nothing. The toxic building materials had finished outgassing and the ventilation system must have been redone.

  I went everywhere in 110 Tower that day. I rode the elevators and visited the suite of offices where I’d experienced vertigo and blurred vision, aches, and fevers. I went to the fitness center and the shops, and hung out in the lobby. Still, no symptoms.

  I wasn’t surprised by this. As the new material odors—which we may perceive as pleasant dissipated over time, the building became safer.

  Finally, almost a decade later, I had returned to 110
Tower, slayed the dragon, and walked out a free man. I had fought my way back. I was a survivor.

  • • •

  As good as my life is now, I have not given up on my mission to alert mankind to the dangerous chemicals poisoning us all in our workplaces, homes, schools, and neighborhoods. I have lost track of the countless victims I’ve encountered whose lives have been permanently damaged or lost to this silent epidemic.

  I’ve worked with residents in Naples, Florida, where a real estate developer was doing shoddy work; when it rained, all of his buildings leaked. Water intruded into their homes and the residents got sick from the mold. I’ve also counseled nurses made ill by mold in their hospitals and teachers made ill in their schools—along with their students. Through the years, I’ve helped factory workers who became sick while working on assembly lines. I’ve helped flight attendants poisoned by toxic air on planes, and people whose breathing has been forever compromised due to air pollution caused by oil refineries built near their homes. I’ve worked with 9/11 survivors and Gulf War vets.

  In Long Beach, California, I consulted with workers who cleaned up an oil spill at a refinery without properly suiting up to protect themselves against the chemicals they were wading in—up to their chests. I’ve comforted women whose breast cancers were linked to their silicone implants, and victims of sick building syndrome.

  The point is this: You can be an athletic guy like Dan Allen, coaching an elite college football team, or you can be a little girl whose family lives in Section 8 housing, like Neveah. You can be living in a neighborhood with a toxic site your city refuses to clean up, like the residents of Lincoln Park and Wingate Road in Fort Lauderdale; you can also be a postal worker doing her job in a rural area, like Judilyn Knight; or a guy like me, thinking he’s on the fast track to success.

  It doesn’t matter who you are, where you work, or how you live. No one is immune. Wrongdoing is widespread, manifesting in people, governmental organizations, and corporations that are seemingly bland and harmless—just as Ted Bundy hid his evil beneath a thin veneer of “normal.” Some corporate entities are truly evil, knowingly exposing victims for profit. Other companies choose to look the other way, rather than face the harmful consequences caused by their negligence. In either scenario, wrongdoers should be held accountable for their actions, because it’s the only way to help protect victims and curtail this irresponsible behavior.