from returning. A large portion of the city’s black community had been given one-way tickets out of town to places hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away, often with nothing but a garbage bag of belongings. “You had this old-line economic elite reassert their position of dominance the moment the city flooded,” Hill said. “It was like I was watching them revert to their original state.”
4
A FIRST BURST OF OPTIMISM
At 9:00 a.m. on the first Sunday after Katrina, Liberty Bank’s jack-of-all-trades, Russell Labbe, pulled into the parking lot of an International House of Pancakes just outside Baton Rouge. Labbe had driven from Lafayette, one hour to the west, in a brown 2005 Ford pickup truck he had bought a couple of months earlier. At IHOP he met Joe James, who had driven from Abita Springs, one hour to the east. The two men had known each other for years, but if they said ten words by way of greeting on this morning, Labbe would be surprised. “We were anxious to get going,” he said.
James oversaw Liberty’s computer operations and would be going with Labbe into the city. James buckled himself into the passenger seat of Labbe’s truck and the two drove south and east to New Orleans. Water still covered much of the city, but they also both knew that the bank’s odds of survival depended on their picking up the computer tapes and other items they needed to get the bank back on the interbank network.
They made their first stop at a McDonald’s on the other side ofBaton Rouge to meet Arthur Morrell. A black legislator and a friend of the bank’s, he represented the black, middle-class enclave of Gentilly. Morrell would ensure that Labbe and James had no trouble getting through the checkpoints set up around New Orleans. A deputy sheriff rode shotgun next to Morrell. Both were carrying a gun, as was Labbe but not James. “Follow me,” said Morrell, who was towing the boat they would need to reach the bank’s headquarters.
The interstate was quiet. They encountered water on their drive but only when the highway dipped. The first checkpoint they encountered was at the Bonnet Carré Spillway, a dozen miles west of New Orleans. The soldiers had parked their vehicles to pinch traffic to a single lane. Morrell flashed his credentials and explained that the people in the truck behind him were with him. They encountered no trouble at that roadblock or any other along the way.
The first detour came at the split in the highway that would take them to the eastern half of the city. Several feet of water prevented them from taking the turnoff for the East, forcing them to take a circuitous route. They encountered their first long delay a couple of miles east of downtown: the elevated highway was being used as an impromptu landing pad to refuel rescue helicopters. Labbe and Joe James stepped out of the truck, walked to the highway embankment, and looked at the water still covering much of the city. “What’s that over there?” James asked, pointing at the water. A body was floating face down, and then they noticed that the National Guardsmen were fishing bodies out of the water. “They had four or five bodies stacked up and ready to be shipped out,” Labbe said.
Their contingent reached the edge of New Orleans at a little past noon. The police had set up an impromptu marina at the edge of the water, with a small armada of borrowed boats. Morrell knew several of the cops. “Take your pick,” one offered. Abandoning the smaller boat they had towed, the four of them rode in a sixteen- or eighteen-footer piloted by a New Orleans police officer.
The water was as deep as twelve feet, but they still needed to follow the road grid to avoid rooftops and second stories. When they reached Liberty’s headquarters, Labbe navigated them to the back ofthe building. There, a set of metal stairs led to a back door a few feet above the waterline. In different circumstances, Labbe might have tried phoning the man they had
4
A FIRST BURST OF OPTIMISM
At 9:00 a.m. on the first Sunday after Katrina, Liberty Bank’s jack-of-all-trades, Russell Labbe, pulled into the parking lot of an International House of Pancakes just outside Baton Rouge. Labbe had driven from Lafayette, one hour to the west, in a brown 2005 Ford pickup truck he had bought a couple of months earlier. At IHOP he met Joe James, who had driven from Abita Springs, one hour to the east. The two men had known each other for years, but if they said ten words by way of greeting on this morning, Labbe would be surprised. “We were anxious to get going,” he said.
James oversaw Liberty’s computer operations and would be going with Labbe into the city. James buckled himself into the passenger seat of Labbe’s truck and the two drove south and east to New Orleans. Water still covered much of the city, but they also both knew that the bank’s odds of survival depended on their picking up the computer tapes and other items they needed to get the bank back on the interbank network.
They made their first stop at a McDonald’s on the other side ofBaton Rouge to meet Arthur Morrell. A black legislator and a friend of the bank’s, he represented the black, middle-class enclave of Gentilly. Morrell would ensure that Labbe and James had no trouble getting through the checkpoints set up around New Orleans. A deputy sheriff rode shotgun next to Morrell. Both were carrying a gun, as was Labbe but not James. “Follow me,” said Morrell, who was towing the boat they would need to reach the bank’s headquarters.
The interstate was quiet. They encountered water on their drive but only when the highway dipped. The first checkpoint they encountered was at the Bonnet Carré Spillway, a dozen miles west of New Orleans. The soldiers had parked their vehicles to pinch traffic to a single lane. Morrell flashed his credentials and explained that the people in the truck behind him were with him. They encountered no trouble at that roadblock or any other along the way.
The first detour came at the split in the highway that would take them to the eastern half of the city. Several feet of water prevented them from taking the turnoff for the East, forcing them to take a circuitous route. They encountered their first long delay a couple of miles east of downtown: the elevated highway was being used as an impromptu landing pad to refuel rescue helicopters. Labbe and Joe James stepped out of the truck, walked to the highway embankment, and looked at the water still covering much of the city. “What’s that over there?” James asked, pointing at the water. A body was floating face down, and then they noticed that the National Guardsmen were fishing bodies out of the water. “They had four or five bodies stacked up and ready to be shipped out,” Labbe said.
Their contingent reached the edge of New Orleans at a little past noon. The police had set up an impromptu marina at the edge of the water, with a small armada of borrowed boats. Morrell knew several of the cops. “Take your pick,” one offered. Abandoning the smaller boat they had towed, the four of them rode in a sixteen- or eighteen-footer piloted by a New Orleans police officer.
The water was as deep as twelve feet, but they still needed to follow the road grid to avoid rooftops and second stories. When they reached Liberty’s headquarters, Labbe navigated them to the back ofthe building. There, a set of metal stairs led to a back door a few feet above the waterline. In different circumstances, Labbe might have tried phoning the man they had
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