That Winter in Venice

by Ciji Ware

  He needed an expert’s opinion, on the record.

  Jacques halted and turned to face his nephew. After a long pause, the older man asked, “You still got that danged recorder thing running?”

  “Yep.”

  Jacques nodded and leaned toward his nephew. “Well, the Corps says there’ve been lots of improvements... taller, sturdier floodwalls and levees... better design of the braces and pumping stations.”

  “Okay, okay. But what do you think?”

  “In my professional opinion,” Jacques Durand began, and then heaved an exhausted sigh. “It’s still not a system. It’s still a patchwork quilt, built by the lowest bidder, or somebody’s best buddy, God help us all!”

  “So you don’t think the new system could take a Category Three?”

  After a few seconds’ pause, Jacques shook his head.

  “Is that a ‘no?’” Jack said for the benefit of the palm-sized recorder he held in his hand.

  “It’s at least a ‘maybe not.’ The engines that power the new floodgates might burn up with that much pressure on them, and the water will just keep coming in. It may not be enough. This is only my two cents, mind you.”

  “Wow,” Jack murmured. “But you’re an engineer with years of experience.”

  Jack’s sister Marielle and her husband now lived in Lakeview, fairly near the empty lot on 40th Street. His heart felt like it would be squeezed right out of his chest. He put a hand on Jacques’ sleeve again to be sure he had his attention.

  “And despite all the failures and larceny, is it true that to your knowledge, nobody was fired, or got demoted, no one resigned, and no serious institutional changes were made in the Army Corps, despite the catastrophic failures, am I right?” Jack pressed.

  “Yeah, you’re right!” Jacques exclaimed, bitterness clinging to each word. “The boys really in charge got raises, more funding, promotions, and bigger appropriations. The only thing that happened is that some of us who knew the truth—that the disaster was manmade—got pushed out the door, all nice and legal-like.” He glanced over at Jack, eyes narrowing. “That story you wrote for the T-P before the storm, predicting what might happen? Well, it didn’t help your uncle keep his job, I can tell you that.”

  Jack nodded, acknowledging the truth of his uncle’s statement. Then he said, “I was worried that your bosses figured you were a source. But you weren’t back then, Jacques! You clammed up every time I asked you about the walls and levees before Katrina. Why did they force you out? How did they?”

  “Even though I stayed mum, stayed loyal to a fault, it didn’t make a difference with the higher ups. I was closely related to you, and besides, they knew I knew the truth. They wanted my ass in the wringer from then on. And after the hurricane, it was holy hell in the Corps for me. So, after a couple of years, I made a deal with ’em. I’d keep my mouth shut if they’d let me leave honorably and pay me my pension and health benefits.”

  “So why are you talking to me now?” Jack asked sharply.

  By this time they had reached their car parked near the grassy curb. Jacques Durand leaned against the passenger door and pounded his fist hard against the vehicle’s roof.

  “Because I can’t live with it any more! I know the tenth anniversary’s coming and it’s all going to be stirred up again. I’m tired of lying and dodging bullets coming my way... especially from you.”

  Jack was chagrined to admit to himself that he had never, truly considered how the story he was about to write could leave a member of his own family destitute, stripped of his pension and too old to get other work in his field. He’d only worried about how Serena’s family would be affected. The consequences for Jacques Durand could be equally devastating. Suddenly Jack wished he’d been a general assignment reporter merely covering murder, mayhem, and Mardi Gras.

  “God, Jacques, how did we end up at this spot, on this day, I wonder?”

  “I knew it would all come out one day,” Jacques replied. “Look, I’m willing to stand up in front of you, my own kin, and take responsibility for what I did back then, but I’d be mighty grateful if you don’t have to quote me by name.”

  “As I said before, that will be up to the T-P’s lawyers, not me.” Another thought struck Jack and he asked, “If what you told me today does wind up in my story attributed to you, Jacques, what do you think will happen with your pension?”

  His uncle slid his hands from the car’s roof and allowed them to fall by his side.

  “If you say in your article that’s how silence was guaranteed—by threatening to fire the younger engineers without any benefits or recourse—I don’t think anyone who knows about these kinds of deals to get rid of potential whistleblowers like me will dare pull the rug out from me, personally, at this point, ’cause they know the T-P will be watching for it. And even if they try, I’ll sue the bastards!”

  Hearing the first hint of a fighting spirit in his uncle’s words, Jack stood by his car as Jacques reached for the passenger door handle and then paused.

  “You know, don’t you, Jack, that in 2008, the U.S. District Court placed responsibility for the floodwall failure on the Corps, but also said that the agency is protected from financial liability by the Flood Control Act of 1928.”

  “Which means they could screw up again and not be accountable?” asked Jack, the leaden feeling in his chest growing heavier.

  “You got it, son. Now, let’s go get that drink.”

  The two men climbed into their car and sped off. Glancing straight ahead through the windshield as the new 17th Street Canal wall disappeared from view, Jack knew his first concern should be about the repercussions for his own family, given what Jacques had confirmed this day.

  Yet all he could think of was that the lawyers for the Times-Picayune would be the ones to decide his future with Serena. And even if the attorneys said Jacques Durand could remain an anonymous source in Jack’s story, living with the truth and not telling the woman he loved about the murderous twists of fate that connected their two families would be high price he’d always pay for loving her so deeply, and wanting her to be his wife.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Aren’t we supposed to say ‘Break a leg,’ or something?” King asked.

  “I’m praying your joke still means ‘Good luck,’” groused Corlis, “since I’m going to need it modeling my costume wearing those stiletto heels. That raised runway they’ve got us on feels like a death trap!”

  The TV newswoman, her husband, and Serena entered the elegant lobby of the Hotel Monteleone on Royal Street and prepared to part company.

  Back-stage on long clothing racks, Antonelli’s latest costume creations awaited the models that would strut their stuff as part of the finale of the hot-ticket seated dinner and fashion show to follow at the hospital gala fundraiser for New Orleans’s critically-ill, indigent children.

  Corlis frowned at Serena who pointed toward the door where King would enter the ballroom and the two women would proceed backstage. “What if my heel gets caught again in that mermaid gown you’ve put me in?”

  “You’ll be fine,” Serena assured her. “After rehearsal, yesterday, I sewed a little handle on the fish tail so you can hold it up and keep it clear of your feet.”

  King gave his wife’s shoulders a squeeze.

  “A sexy mermaid, are you? I can’t wait.” Answering a ping on his cellphone, he fished it out of his pocket and pointed to the screen. “Jack has texted me to hold his seat. He’s just finishing up at the lawyers’ office at the paper.” To Serena he added with a wink, “Says he wants you not to worry. He’ll be here on time.”

  Serena’s heart gave an excited lurch. Despite Jack’s newest warnings he would mostly be out of touch during these last weeks in May, he had continued to communicate with her by text or phone every day, letting her know where he was, even if he didn’t tell her anything about how his reporting of the Katrina anniversary story was going.

  “Okay, then,” Serena said with a happy smile. “Her
e’s where we leave you. Clap loud, will you guys?”

  “Will do,” King promised, bending low to kiss his wife goodbye. “See ya later, Ms. Mermaid,” he added, giving Corlis’ derrière a friendly pat.

  Into his briefcase Jack stashed his copious notes, his tape recorder, and audiocassettes he’d guarded with his life—and snapped the lid shut.

  His editor, John Reynolds, pulled out a cloth handkerchief and patted his brow in mock relief. He gestured toward the exiting lawyers in gray suits and smiled at the perky court reporter. The young woman had been brought in at the insistence both of the T-P house attorney and the outside law firm engaged to vet the anniversary coverage. She’d been hired to take verbatim notes on her special device. During the entire session just completed they’d combed through Part 1 of Jack’s Katrina story, line by line, for liability, slander, and libel issues.

  “I’m glad we got an early start with the lawyers on Part One,” Reynolds pronounced, heaving a relieved sigh. “It’s only late May for our August pub date, but this is dicey stuff. So far, so good.” He gazed at his reporter and lowered his voice. “And I think you dodged a bullet about not having to name Jacques Durand, other than as an informed source that declined to be identified.”

  “Yeah... a major relief, as far as I’m concerned,” Jack agreed. Silently, he thanked the fates that he’d be granted that favor, at least.

  “I didn’t think old Chambordeau would go for it,” his editor said with a chuckle, “but I guess he and the outside lawyers feel you have enough other supporting documentation and quoted sources to just leave it as an anonymous interviewee.”

  “Actually, I was amazed, too, but the point is, we do have all the other documentation. Besides, the story’s aim is to have our readers understand what kind of pressures are put on good, decent public servants like my uncle working within government agencies to come up with answers that the special interests want—even if those answers aren’t honest. The readers need to know how these decisions get made not to do the job right—and then demand a change so these cities won’t literally disappear underwater over the next half century or so!”

  “Well, good luck with that,” Reynolds said with a sour expression.

  “All this is so fascinating,” offered the freelance court reporter moonlighting from her day job. “It’s way more interesting than sitting all day in divorce court.”

  By this time, she had packed up her equipment and cast an “I’m available for a cocktail” smile in Jack’s direction.

  Reynolds shot her a hard look.

  “And, just so you know, Judy, nothing about what you heard here leaves this room, right?” the editor said gruffly, in response to which the woman merely ducked her head and nodded.

  “And that reminds me,” Jack said, grabbing his briefcase with its precious cargo and handing it to Reynolds. “Can you store this in the vault? I’ve got to change into my tuxedo in the men’s room. I’m due at the Monteleone for that children’s benefit in half an hour,” he added for the enlightenment of his audience of two. “A couple of friends of mine are involved and I promised I’d show up.”

  “Oh... right,” said the young woman who’d been chastised by his boss. Her slight pout at not being invited out for a drink had morphed into a speculative look. “I got an invitation for that event, too, but the tickets were too pricey for my budget.” She picked up the case containing her court-reporting device, turned abruptly, and headed for the door, calling over her shoulder, “Have fun, tonight, y’hear?”

  Twenty minutes later, Jack slipped into his seat next to King and ordered a Bourbon Old Fashioned. He was feeling a tremendous sense of relief that Part 1 of his story was pretty much buttoned down and could run in August without publicly naming or shaming his uncle. Jacques’ anonymous story, however, helped lay out the reasons—learned in the subsequent ten years since the storm—why the walls of the 17th Street Canal and some others were virtually programmed to fail. The retired engineer had done his duty to come clean, and Jack had done his by being straight with his editor and the lawyers about his personal connections to his crucial “source.”

  But no sooner had their drinks been served then Jack’s spirits took an immediate nosedive. Out of the corner of one eye, he spotted none other than Dr. Lauren Hilbert. Her blond, shoulder-length hair was pulled off her forehead with her signature velvet headband. She had on ice white stiletto heels that must have cost five hundred dollars a pair, and a lemon yellow suit which had “Mardi Gras Madness in May” written all over it. The hem of its pencil-thin skirt skimmed just at her knees, showing off her shapely calves to good effect. She’d make a dandy lawyer’s wife, Jack thought, or perhaps the spouse of a hedge fund guy... but surely she could no longer imagine herself married to a lowly reporter?

  Thank God she’s not my problem anymore.

  In the next moment, he was not so sure. Her program in hand, Lauren turned and scanned the ballroom, her gaze eventually resting on their table. He watched her take in the sight of King and him sitting with empty seats on either side of them. For a dreaded moment, Jack thought she was going to approach, but blessedly, she moved on in the direction of the premium tables for high rollers positioned at the front of the room.

  “Dodged two bullets today,” he muttered under his breath.

  King, who had seen everything, shook his head.

  “Don’t bet on it,” he replied. “It’s Lauren, remember.”

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “I remember. Hail that waiter over there, will you? I need another drink.”

  Backstage, two-dozen women were chatting excitedly as the fashion coordinator called for silence and climbed on a chair to give them final instructions. Corlis and Serena stood in their ornate costumes at the end of the long line of other models dressed in outfits from top women’s retailers in town. The climax of the show would be the spectacular creations that Serena had invented in which the designer and five of the best known on-camera women in New Orleans would prance down the runway with the Storyville Stompers Brass Band leading the way.

  The show’s producer, Patsy Jo Sullivan, had just completed her final pep talk to the amateur models when Corlis emitted a low groan, startling Serena, who looked at her with alarm. The broadcaster’s slender form was encased in an unforgivingly skin-tight mermaid gown, every inch covered in bright green sequins. A headpiece with royal blue and green ostrich feathers perched on the WJAZ anchor’s upswept brunette hair.

  “What’s wrong?” Serena asked anxiously. “Is the corset too tight? Can you breath?”

  “No... no, that’s not it,” hissed Corlis who suddenly had plastered an inane smile on her face as an attractive, well-coiffed young blond woman drew near.

  “Well, aren’t you just a sight,” the stranger said.

  “Well, hello,” replied Corlis. “Yes, aren’t I, just? All in the name of good works, right?”

  “Well, bless your heart. And as a member of the board, I can’t thank you enough for participating in the fashion show and for King’s sponsoring a table, and all,” she said, oozing insincerity in a tone that only a true magnolia could summon at will. She waved her program while eyeing Serena in her figure-hugging copy of Allegra’s equally arresting Seas of Venice sage-green, organza gown. “I saw all your names in the program when I came in. You must be Serena Antonelli of Antonelli Costume Company. Corlis’s great, new friend, I hear, who just got back from Venice, am I right?”

  “I’ve been back a couple of months,” Serena replied.

  Who was this woman, and why was she shooting daggers at her as well as at Corlis?

  The young woman, dressed in a “look-at-me” bright yellow ensemble, opened the program in question and read aloud in a voice that took on a shrill, singsong tone that dripped with sarcasm.

  “‘Serena Antonelli studied under a celebrated Venetian costume designer and only recently returned from Italy.’” The intruder paused and gazed icicles at Serena over the top of the program. “I suppose that’s wher
e you met Jack Durand, the man I thought was going to be my husband—that is until he went off to that conference in Venice and ran into you!”

  Corlis took command of the conversation and said in a brisk tone, “You’re quite the little sleuth, Lauren. I figured you’d seen the story on Serena I did for WJAZ.”

  “I guess I missed that,” Lauren snapped. “I prefer to watch your competition.”

  Corlis put a hand on Serena’s arm and announced, “Meet Doctor Lauren Hilbert, who’s a spanking, new plastic surgeon, which is probably a wise choice in medical specialties since business will undoubtedly be brisk with all the new people from Texas and California buying up the French Quarter.”

  Serena could only stare and try to keep her jaw from dropping. Meanwhile, Corlis turned to address Lauren again.

  “Yes, this is Serena Antonelli whose company has been generous enough to provide these fabulous costumes for your event.”

  “I already know that, Corlis,” Lauren retorted, and then her honeyed tone returned as she faced Serena. “As I said, I serve on the board of the charity sponsoring Mardi Gras Madness in May,” she announced, her mouth in a tight smile as fake as the one still plastered on Corlis’ lips. “I’m also doing reconstructive surgery on children who’ve been scarred in accidents, as well as face lifts on people like you and Corlis.”

  Serena inhaled deeply and tried to steady her nerves. So this was the woman that Jack had kept company with for years.

  “Now, Lauren, let’s not all turn into scratchy cats, okay?” Corlis shot back, clearly bristling with annoyance.

  Ignoring her, Lauren took a step even closer to Serena and hissed under her breath, “Last I heard, your Daddy’s company was about to go bankrupt... but I guess you had enough money to go gallivanting off to Venice, didn’t you? I suppose you think you can use our charity to try to drum up more business and save your pathetic family’s sorry ass?”