by Mike Farrell
Next we head down to the Lower Ninth Ward, about which we’ve all heard so much. This is the area that was essentially submerged as a result of several breaks in levees and a very badly designed flow channel, resulting in the devastation that provided news footage and stories for months.
Getting down to the Lower Ninth is surprisingly easy, but at the same time very hard. It’s crowded, the streets are narrow, the traffic is heavy and the level of poverty here is deeply depressing. Add to this the fact that the damage to the homes starts long before you come to what is technically the Lower Ninth Ward.
Mule and I note, in nearing the area, that we cross Desire, with nary a streetcar in sight.
The street I was urged to take is closed, so we maneuver our way further south, across a bridge over the now (hopefully) repaired levee, and into ground zero. It’s as though a war was fought here. The homes are—or were—mostly woodframe, but there is a smattering of brick ones as well. And there is plenty of empty ground where no houses exist anymore. There are piles of wooden scraps that people once lived in and hung pictures on and slept beneath. Even the brick houses are mostly empty, boarded up, some of them obviously knocked off their intended footing. And even here, in this no-man’s-land, some of the houses are occupied, with people sitting on the front porch talking, as though everything is normal.
The devastation continues, apparently for miles. Though I can’t find the project that Brad Pitt has done so much for, it’s clear that his type of energy has been emulated and amplified by the efforts of many good people from all over the country—and those who stayed on here—to make things right.
The devastation brings to mind a tour I was given of the post-Katrina damage to the Gulf Coast east of here in Mississippi and Alabama a few months after the storm. Seeing a four-story casino as long as a football field that had once been firmly situated just offshore now resting 100 yards inland atop what were once a group of houses, gives sphincter-tightening evidence of the true power of wind and water.
We drive east as far as St. Bernard Parish, stunned at the size and scope of the damage. Large shopping malls are ruined, boarded up, gone. The fact that the city has had the courage and the fortitude to come back to the degree it has is astounding. The fact that the Bush administration has been such a sorrowful failure in dealing with it appropriately is infuriating.
Chastened, we head back to the safety of the hotel.
At the appointed hour in the evening we make our way to Octavia Books on the western side of town, another in a line of good independent bookstores I’ve been fortunate enough to appear at on this trip. A sizable crowd for a small store, probably fifty or sixty people, listens to my story and asks really smart questions before I’m invited to sign a bunch of books. This group, I find, is peppered with some surprises. The Reverend Joe Doss, founder of Death Penalty Focus, the organization I’ve chaired for the past ten years, is here with his son Andrew. Joe, a retired Episcopal priest, now lives in New Orleans and it’s a wonderful treat to see him. Also here is Sister Maureen Fenellan, who works with Sister Helen Prejean, the author of Dead Man Walking, the book, then movie, then opera, now play, that has done so much to move forward the dialogue on ending the death penalty. Sister Helen, herself probably the single most powerful voice for abolition in this country, caught a late plane from a speaking engagement in New York and can’t introduce me, as had been hoped, but she will meet us at dinner. An Australian émigré named Rose, whose last name I missed, is here. She also works with Sister Helen. And two other people who surprised me by showing up are dear friends and juggernauts for abolition: Scharlette Holdman, a legendary investigator and mitigation specialist; and Denny LeBoeuf, a gorgeous, powerful, indefatigable criminal defense lawyer whose lasersharp mind and indomitable will provide nightmares for prosecutors.
Two people who approach me are transplanted Texans, now living in this city. They’re here because he’s an engineer, brought in to help with the reconstruction. They’re staying beyond the agreed time because they have become emotionally involved in the struggle to rebuild this city. Very quiet, calm, shy, they are the kinds of people whose generous hearts make me know that we’ll succeed in making this country live up to its promise.
Once done with my responsibilities at the bookstore, I follow Rose to a restaurant where Sister Helen, Deni, Maureen, Rose, a woman named Lily and another investigator, “Idaho Joe,” and I enjoy a great dinner and wonderful conversation until I’m stuffed and almost asleep.
A full day.
DAY TWELVE
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
CITY OF ORIGIN: NEW ORLEANS, LA
CITY OF DESTINATION: DECATUR, GA
MILES TRAVELED: 477
VENUE: GEORGIA CENTER FOR THE BOOK/DECATUR ARTS FESTIVAL
EVENT COSPONSOR
Southern Center for Human Rights
Heading out of New Orleans, we have plenty of time to get to Atlanta and a lot to think about. Mule is quiet, which is understandable, given what we saw yesterday. I am too. Heading out on 10E, we see more: the damage extends as far north as this highway, and it soon becomes clear from the hulks remaining that the flooding crossed the highway and destroyed homes and businesses even farther north.
It’s hard to shake these images. We’ve all seen the pictures and heard the stories, but when you’re in the midst of it, it’s just so much more than you had thought. All these lives and dreams and hopes … just gone. I guess it’s especially poignant when you’re able to spend a comfortable night in a great bed—or a garage, in Mule’s case—right down the street from all this horror.
The doorman at the hotel told me that his mother, whose house was completely destroyed, has just gotten the insurance settlement that will allow her to rebuild. Just now, almost three years after the storm. And how about all those whom the insurance companies are screwing with, those in the FEMA camps, living in poisonous trailers, those left without anything? He was philosophical about the fact that the heart of the city, the commercial district, was the initial focus of concern because of the need to bring back revenue, but all those other people …
Thinking of the trailers, I remember reading that some of the FEMA camps are located in the very Cancer Alley we toured those years ago. Talk about insult to injury.
The engineer from Texas at the bookstore last night said he was here to do an assessment right after the hurricane hit. He explained that television simply couldn’t convey the reality of it—the stench of death, of rotting corpses, leaking gas, rotting food. He said they were finding body parts in the wreckage of the houses. It was impossible, he told me, to leave. He had to make the commitment to stay and help.
A bitter irony, when thinking about the failure of the Bush administration to organize a Marshall Plan–type response to this catastrophe, is remembering W.’s instantly “compassionate” response to the destruction of Trent Lott’s Gulf Coast home. Help your friends …
And, let’s not forget, “Heck of a job, Brownie!”
CRACK!
“Ouch!”
Mule takes a rock in the windshield. Made a hell of a noise, must have hurt. No actual crack or pit, but it hit hard. Then there are more, not as loud, but hitting other parts of the front end. It’s a big truck ahead of us in the left lane, evidently carrying a load of rocks and losing some of them, so we pull over as far to the right as possible and speed past him before he buries us.
After a while, we come to an area where a series of coastline bridges are being rebuilt. What looks like a dozen huge cranes stab the sky. The work is necessary, obviously, but what a pain! On the westbound side, they’re down to one lane and there’s a line of cars backed up for half a mile. Sure hope that doesn’t happen on this side. There’s a reception at the library in Decatur, outside Atlanta, that starts at 5:30.
Crossing into Mississippi I note that the highway is new. Must have been badly damaged. I was here a few months after the hurricane and the destruction was incredible. Pass Christian, which we r
ace by without time to go through now, was reportedly completely trashed. In Gulfport, which I did pass through before, a two-story house shows a watermark halfway up its second story to give passersby an idea of the height of the surge.
Thoughts of the dinner last night come to me. What an incredible group around Sister Helen! Their simple humanity is inspiring. Such good people doing such important work. They talked about two cases that stay with me: one having to do with a young woman condemned for the murder of a baby she was caring for. They’re sure it was an accident and have dug up facts unknown to the defense at the time of trial that have stopped the execution and moved the court to order a new hearing. The other case, I presume a death case but don’t know anything about it except for their description of the condemned woman: she’d had three abortions when a young girl, abortions to end pregnancies caused by her father.
SOUTHERN CENTER FOR HUMAN RIGHTS
The Southern Center for Human Rights (SCHR) is a nonprofit public interest law firm based in Atlanta, Georgia. Founded in 1976, SCHR’s mission is to end capital punishment, mass incarceration, and other criminal justice practices that are used to control the lives of poor people, people of color, and other marginalized groups in the southern United States, and to build the power of those communities to transform the criminal justice system.
In the last thirty years, the Southern Center for Human Rights has:
• REPRESENTED HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE ON DEATH ROW ACROSS THE SOUTH, delaying and derailing sentences of death and exposing the both arbitrary and discriminatory nature of capital punishment. Our work has resulted in countless people being freed from the threat of state execution, and two unanimous United States Supreme Court decisions impacting the administration of the death penalty.
• FORCED COUNTY, STATE, AND FEDERAL GOVERN-MENTS TO MAKE SIGNIFICANT IMPROVEMENTS IN PRISONS AND JAILS ACROSS THE SOUTH—to reduce overcrowding, provide adequate medical and mental health care, and to limit violence and abuse. Some of our largest wins have resulted in: an overhaul of South Carolina’s entire prison system; major renovations in Louisiana’s Angola Prison death row; shutting down Alabama’s Morgan County jail; and improved HIV care in Limestone Prison in Alabama, resulting in an eighty percent drop in AIDS deaths.
• SECURED A STATEWIDE PUBLIC DEFENDER SYS-TEM IN GEORGIA. SCHR’s five-year campaign included six lawsuits, two reports, family organizing, and work with legislators and advocates to push for reforms of Georgia’s indigent defense system. Georgia replaced a broken system of 159 different county-funded indigent defense systems with a comprehensive, statewide public defender system in 2005.
• PUT AN END TO ILLEGAL AND INHUMANE CRIMINAL JUSTICE PRACTICES. Through litigation, organizing, and media advocacy, SCHR has challenged the exploitation of the poor in the criminal justice system, and draconian and ineffective laws targeting pariah groups. In Clinch County, Georgia, the sheriff no longer charges people—including those who are found not guilty or whose charges are dismissed—a room-and-board fee for being incarcerated in the county jail. In 2006, we stopped the forced banishment of over 12,000 people from the state, when a misguided residency restriction law made it illegal for people on the sex offender registry to live in the state (while doing nothing to make our communities safer).
God …
We move into Alabama, which is amazingly green, with trees as far as you can see. We’re headed toward Montgomery where my friend Brian Stevenson runs the Equal Justice Initiative, but we don’t have time to stop. In fact, I now realize, we don’t have time for anything. I’ve spaced on the issue that Atlanta is in a different time zone. We lose an hour on this trip, so it’s going to be damned near impossible to get to the reception on time—and the reception is for me.
Shit! I press Mule as much as I dare; it wouldn’t be a good idea to get stopped for speeding.
Roadwork, traffic, everything you can imagine gets in the way. Finally, I pull into the city and follow the directions to the library, but make a wrong turn and have to stop at a gas station to ask for help. Damn, I’m going to be a half-hour late even if I go straight there, without checking into the hotel and changing into better clothes. So I compromise. Pulling over, I run to the back of the car, get out a clean shirt and change right there on the street. I’m sure I look like a homeless guy who lives in his car—which, in a way, I am—but at least I’ll feel a little more presentable.
They’re waiting for me. All, of course, are dressed to the nines as I walk in wearing scruffy jeans, a T-shirt and a jacket, but they’re all as gracious as can be and act like they understand completely, bless them.
I’m introduced around and explain my tardiness—and Shelley’s absence (they were all looking forward to meeting her)—and get the chance to answer a few questions. When I explain that I haven’t had time to check into the hotel and would have liked to have changed, they all insist it isn’t necessary, but after a bit I ask their indulgence to let me go over there now, since there are a few minutes to spare before I’m to speak to the crowd gathering in the auditorium, and everyone graciously agrees. So I race out, drive the few blocks to the hotel, check in, run upstairs, grab a few things from my bag, make a lightning change of clothing and manage to get back to the library one minute before I’m to go on.
And after all the craziness, it turns out to be a great evening. First, I’m honored beyond words to be introduced by Steve Bright, the Executive Director of the Southern Center for Human Rights and a personal hero of mine. Steve is one of the brightest, most articulate, most dedicated and most effective opponents of the death system in this country. A man who could be getting wealthy in any other field of law, he has dedicated himself to this work and has become, due to his talent and selfless dedication, one of the most admired men in the country.
After an introduction by Steve, how can I miss? The auditorium is filled with what must be about 200 people and the exchange is lively and fun. Afterward, they actually sell out of books and I have more time to chat and answer questions as I’m signing them. I’m thrilled to learn that one of the people in the audience is Dr. Dean Wilcox of Emory University. Dean was on one of the trips I took to the Middle East and, now that I think about it, he was the one who raised the question tonight about how to resolve the Israeli/Palestinian dilemma. He may be surprised to find that he’s in the book. A terrific man.
Because of the time difference, I am able to get back to the hotel in time to catch most of the first game of the Lakers/Spurs match-up and cheer my team on to recover from a twenty-point deficit halfway through the third quarter and pull off a win!
What a day—and night.
DAY THIRTEEN
Thursday, May 22, 2008
CITY OF ORIGIN: DECATUR, GA
CITY OF DESTINATION: ASHEVILLE, NC
MILES TRAVELED: 203
VENUE: MALAPROP’S BOOKSTORE/CAFÉ
EVENT COSPONSORS
People of Faith Against the Death Penalty, Veterans for Peace Chapter 099, Buncombe Green Party
The day starts with a yelp from Mule.
The dashboard is yelling a message at me—well, it’s not yelling, but it feels that way because it’s scaring me. MAINTENANCE REQUIRED, it says.
What the hell could that be? Could Mule be suffering a delayed reaction from that bang on the head? Unlikely. Is there a serious malfunction in the very confusing power train? Of course that could be it, and I’d not have the faintest idea what to do about it. I can’t even understand the diagram on the damned dashboard. But I’ve got to go to a television interview this morning and she seems to be running all right. It’s just unnerving having that sign yelling at me.
I’ve already checked out of the hotel, so we head for the TV station, following the directions carefully laid out for me by Johanna Ingalls from Akashic Books, my guardian angel. Have you ever tried to follow the directions printed out from Google Maps or MapQuest or whatever? They’re very clear, in that they tell you every turn and every distance down to the tenth of
a mile, but they’re confusing as hell because they also tell you EVERYTHING the signs say, particularly when you’re on a highway or freeway. And when you’re without a navigator—mine being at home healing a broken hip—you can get yourself killed trying to read them, understand them and follow them—particularly when you’re going a thousand miles an hour.
And imagine trying to follow these directions in Atlanta, Georgia. It’s not possible! This is one of the most confusing cities I’ve ever driven in, outside of Dublin, London, and Washington, DC. Like the first two, the streets keep changing their names as you’re going down them. Unlike the first two, these streets loop and roll around curves and go up and down hills.
Anyway, as I’m driving I realize—from the fact that I’m squinting— that I’ve left my sunglasses back at the hotel. And I also realize that I’m in denial about dealing with MAINTENANCE REQUIRED. What do I do? I guess I have to call Hertz, but that will probably mean taking Mule in for some kind of inspection and repair and I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THAT! I have to do this interview, then I want to stop and see Steve Bright’s outfit, and I have to drive to Asheville, North Carolina—TODAY!
And besides, I’m afraid that if there’s something wrong with Mule they’ll take her away from me. And I can’t stand the thought of that. Like the song says, I’ve become accustomed to her face.
So what to do? There’s only one thing to do in this kind of situation. I call Johanna. As always, she’s Johanna-on-the-spot, right there and ready to fix things. She’ll call Hertz and call me back. Then, while I’m in the calling business, I phone the hotel and ask the guy to check my (former) room and see if my sunglasses are there. He’ll call me back. So I keep wending my way through the confusing streets of … well, it’s actually Decatur, Georgia, but it seems to be part of greater Atlanta … toward the television station.