Into Indian Country

While it won’t resonate through the years like Princess Leia’s, “Help us Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re our only hope,” John Albano’s desperate plea for rescue will remain embedded in my memories forever.

On September 1, 2005 at about 8:30 p.m. I got a disturbing voice mail from a family friend stuck in New Orleans. “Jeff…It’s John. Please come and get us! We are at East Jefferson Hospital and the situation is becoming really desperate.” Now, it is one thing to confront a murderer in court and try to convince a group of 12 strangers to send him to Angola for the rest of his life. Armed with a sharp mind and quick wit I can move comfortably and with confidence toward completing my very important mission. It is completely different to venture into “Indian Country” with only those same quick wits and an SUV at my disposal.

After telling my dad about the call, he looked at me and said, “What are we going to do?” My dad had evacuated before the storm hit and was grateful to have escaped the city of New Orleans which had slowly devolved into hell as the days passed. I finished tying my boots and looked up at him and said, “we’re going to go get them.”

We hopped into his SUV and made our way down to New Orleans.

All sorts of things were going thru my head at the time. All the reports out of the city painted a grim picture bordering on anarchy. For the last three and one half years I had seen the worst of humanity that Baton Rouge had to offer. As murderers, rapists, thieves, pedophiles and the other undesirables of our community made their way thru my courtroom, I did my best to protect the innocent and prosecute the guilty. But every encounter was a home game for me. We were on my turf and we played by my rules. The bad guys came in the courtroom in shackles. Deputies maintained control and provided me and other court personnel with a sense of security.

My dad and I had none of that as we made the lonely trip into New Orleans. My anxiety grew as the miles passed. For those unfamiliar with the trip between Baton Rouge and New Orleans, it is a long stretch thru the woods, marsh and swampland. There were only a few vehicles on the road. About half way to New Orleans a military convoy of Humvees slowly passed us. Were we going home to the city I grew up in, or some post apocalyptic war zone?

We arrived at the base of the spillway and slowed to a stop at the State Police checkpoint. I got my credentials out as my dad looked over at me and said, “You’re doing all the talking.” I had to smile as I rolled down the window and was greeted by a pretty female State Trooper. I was a little nervous. Were they going to let us in? Was it even a good idea to let us in?

She stepped forward as I showed her my credentials. “We’re heading to East Jefferson Hospital to scoop up 6 guys,” I quickly blurted out. She smiled and said, “good luck,” and waived us thru.

At that point it hit me, we are actually going in there. Holy crap. My dad sped up as we made our way across the spillway. While you could usually see the city completely lit up while on the spillway at night, this evening was unlike any anyone could remember. My anxiety level kept rising. Were there roving bands of gangs on the interstate? Did the police have control of the situation?

We made it into Metairie fairly quickly. It was eerie to say the least. For most of the trip into New Orleans, our only illumination was our own headlights. The Kenner police station was lit up bright as day, but that was the exception. Looking off the interstate was pointless. The neighborhoods of Kenner and Metairie were swallowed up by the darkness. We made it to the Clearview exit without incident where we were greeted by another set of State Troopers. I told them our plans and they quickly waived us thru. We rode down a few side streets before finding the hospital which was well lit. We drove up to the front entrance and I hopped out and walked up to an armed security guard displaying my credentials in front of me. I told him about the six people we were here to pick up. At that same moment, four National Guardsmen walked up. They were fully dressed in fatigues and all were armed with machine guns in the ready position. They pointed me to the “six civilians” and I hopped back into the SUV as we moved to another location at the hospital.

We rounded the corner and made our way to the emergency entrance. Bingo. I saw our six refugees sitting out on the sidewalk with a shotgun toting Sheriff’s Deputy standing guard. We pulled up and discovered we were rescuing four men, two women, three big dogs and a cat. I greeted John with an outstreched hand. He grabbed my dad and I in a big bear hug as he fought back tears. “Thank God you made it.”

Amazingly we were able to pile everyone into the back of the SUV. As the loading was in progress, my dad gathered what information he could from the Sheriff’s Deputy. He told us to get out of town ASAP. Don’t slow down for anyone. Our guests smelled wretched. We rolled down the windows to air out the stench.

As we left the hospital I advocated heading back to the interstate along the exact same route. I was out voted and we tried to make it back by a more direct route. We were doing fine until a huge tree blocked the entire street and forced us to back track. I wanted to be in harm’s way for a little as possible and driving around trying to find a new route out didn’t fit with my plans so I again urged an exact back track of our path. This time I won out and we were on the interstate on ramp in minutes. As we made the slow turn on the ramp, I spotted the first natives out in the night. They triad flagging us down but my dad gunned the SUV and we swung wide, hoping that none of them had guns.

We broke free and headed to safety, all hands present and accounted for.

Mission Accomplished.

PS…I want to give credit to a dear friend who we affectionately call “O.M.A.C.” for giving me the idea for the title. As a former Coast Guard chopper pilot we all owe a debt of gratitude to him for his years of dedicated service.