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A listener note: Against the Odds uses dramatizations that are based on true events. Some elements, including dialogue, may be invented, but everything is based on research. Gregory Richardson grips his front door handle and takes a deep breath, bracing himself. He's afraid of what he might find when he steps outside. It's around 9:30 a.m. on Monday, August 29, 2005, in New Orleans, Louisiana.
Overnight, the wind howled and rain poured down as Hurricane Katrina made landfall. Richardson huddled inside, convinced the walls of his house were going to rip off. But now that the worst of the storm seems to have passed, he's ready to assess the damage.
Richardson is a successful real estate investor in his late 40s. He grew up in New Orleans' Lower Ninth Ward, a predominantly Black working-class neighborhood. Now he lives just 10 miles from there, but a world away, in a beautiful home with a swimming pool in eastern New Orleans. He's proud of the life he's built here for himself and his family. He loves his home and hopes Katrina didn't damage anything beyond repair. He opens the door.
The wind is stronger than he expected, and some rain is still coming down, so he only ventures as far as the covered porch. A tree branch could still come toppling down, but at first glance, things don't seem too bad. His privacy fence is damaged, but that can be easily fixed. He doesn't see any major pieces of debris in the yard. The rest of his neighborhood, an upper-middle-class subdivision called Lake Barrington, looks okay, too.
Richardson pulls out his cell phone and calls his wife. She and her 90-year-old father evacuated to Atlanta to go stay with her sister. His wife answers on the first ring. I'm so glad to hear your voice. How are you holding up? How are things at the house? The house is fine, and I am too. There were a few moments last night that I wish I was in Atlanta with you. The wind was really shrieking, but I made it through.
He steps off the front porch and down their walkway, describing the minimal damage. The street is draining pretty well, too. All in all, I think we dodged a bullet. Thank God. How's your dad? Richardson's father also chose to stay in New Orleans rather than evacuate. He weathered the storm in Richardson's childhood home in the Lower Ninth Ward. I'm gonna call him as soon as we're done talking. I'm sure he's fine. He's ridden out worse storms than this.
Okay. Sounds like my dad and I will be home soon. Suddenly, Richardson hears a roar in the distance. He pivots his head and his eyes go wide. Uh, honey, I gotta go. A wall of water is surging down the street like a giant tidal wave. It's churning, full of tree branches and pieces of debris. And it's coming straight toward his house.
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Progressive Casualty Insurance Company & Affiliates. Comparison rates not available in all states or situations. Prices vary based on how you buy. From Wondery, I'm Cassie DePeckel, and this is Against the Odds. In August 2005, Hurricane Katrina made landfall in southeastern Louisiana, not far from New Orleans. It was the worst hurricane to hit the city since Betsy in 1965, 40 years earlier.
Storm experts had long predicted that a major hurricane could be devastating to New Orleans, about half of which sits below sea level. And when the city's intricate system of levees and flood walls failed, forecasters' worst fears came true. The storm surge from Katrina filled up New Orleans like a bowl.
leaving 80% of the city underwater. Residents were stranded on rooftops and in attics, desperately awaiting rescue. Then a natural disaster turned into a man-made one when both local and federal officials botched their response. Communication failures and poor leadership left over 100,000 residents stranded for five days with no power, little food and water, and limited medical supplies.
Just under 1,400 people died and hundreds of thousands of homes were destroyed, predominantly in black neighborhoods. This is the story of the residents pushed to their limits, the government officials who did their best against an apathetic bureaucracy, and the ordinary people who became heroes when their government abandoned them. This is Episode 1, Code Grey.
Dr. Kirsta Kurtzberg peels back a gauze bandage on the abdomen of a young man lying in a hospital bed. His stomach rises and falls rapidly as he takes quick, shallow breaths. Under the bandage is a freshly sutured gunshot wound. Kurtzberg examines it carefully. The stitches give it a jagged look, but there's no pus or blood, a good sign that it's not infected.
But he's not out of the woods yet. There are several other bullet holes scattered across his body that she also needs to check. It's the morning of Saturday, August 27th, 2005. Kurtzberg has just started her shift at Charity Hospital in downtown New Orleans. It will be a long weekend on call, but she doesn't mind. She loves her job.
She's in her mid-30s, with wavy blonde hair and big blue eyes. She was born in the Midwest and moved to New Orleans to attend medical school. There, she fell in love with the city. When she finished her residency, the only place she wanted to work was Charity Hospital. She helps patients recovering from traumatic brain injuries and spinal cord damage. ♪
She finishes checking each of the young man's wounds. He looks up at her with worried eyes. She rubs his arm reassuringly. Most of your wounds look good. The one on your neck looks like it might be starting to get infected, but we'll monitor you closely and see how it develops. She replaces his bandages and steps into the hallway. The walls are a little dingy and the lights flicker, but for Kurtzberg, that's part of the hospital's character.
Some people consider Charity a subpar hospital, a big step down from the private two-lane hospital across the street. But Kurtzberg is proud of the medicine practiced at Charity. It's a public institution and never turns anyone away, no matter their ability to pay. They provide good care to everyone, from women delivering babies to stroke victims to patients in the prison ward on the fourth floor.
A lot of doctors at Charity are lifers, addicted to the fast pace of working at a large public hospital. Kurtzberg envisions herself following that same path. In the hallway, she passes a maintenance worker, hooking up a television set. She's not sure why, so she flags down a colleague. Hey, what's going on? The hospital's gone code gray. What's that mean? Severe weather emergency, you know, because of the hurricane.
Kurtzberg has been so focused on her patients, she practically forgot about the hurricane that's currently somewhere in the Gulf of Mexico. Last she heard, it was going to be hitting Alabama or the Florida Panhandle in a day or two.
She didn't know the term Code Grey, but she knows some of the emergency protocols. They'll discharge the strongest patients, but the most critical cases will remain. They'll shelter in place with the doctors and nurses. The hospital has generators if the city loses power. Most of her patients here in the rehabilitation wing aren't strong enough to move, so it will be her job to stay put at Charity and get her patients through the storm, no matter what happens.
But as Kurtzberg continues down the hallway to visit her next patient, she isn't worried. Charity Hospital occupies a sturdy Art Deco building that's over 60 years old. Its concrete walls have withstood a lot of hurricanes. She's confident that everything is going to be fine. Gregory Richardson hurries into the main bedroom of his house, carrying a black metal flashlight.
His wife stands at the foot of the bed, packing a small suitcase. Richardson holds up the flashlight. Do you remember where we keep the extra batteries? You check that drawer in the garage? It's late afternoon on Saturday, August 27th, in the Lake Barrington subdivision of eastern New Orleans. With Hurricane Katrina approaching, Mayor Ray Nagin has issued a voluntary evacuation order.
Richardson's wife and her father have decided to go to Atlanta to stay with her sister. But Richardson is opting to stay behind, and he's making preparations. Flashlight and batteries if the power goes out. Important documents secured in a waterproof container. It's all part of life on the Gulf Coast during hurricane season, which runs from June through November. Though most of the time, the storm's path shifts, and nothing much comes of it.
Richardson turns to go to the garage, but his wife stops him. It's not too late for you to change your mind and come with us. Someone's got to stay behind and protect the house. Richardson worked too hard for this house. He's not going to leave it unattended. What if the windows blow out or looters come by? What if the gas line ruptures and a fire starts? He crosses behind his wife and wraps his arms around her.
Besides, remember last month when everyone panicked over Hurricane Dennis? They claimed it was a Category 4 storm headed right for us. It was supposed to be this big thing, a legendary storm. And what happened? I know, I know. It turned east and hit Florida instead. Exactly.
His father lives about 10 miles away, in the Lower Ninth Ward, in the same house Richardson grew up in. And Richardson wants to stay nearby in case his dad needs help. The Lower Ninth Ward is one of the lowest-line neighborhoods in the city. If the storm really is bad, it could be hit hard by flooding.
Richardson's wife nods and turns to kiss his cheek. "I understand. You're a good son." Richardson kisses her back, then heads for the garage to search for those batteries. Riding out hurricanes is practically a New Orleans tradition. He doesn't see why this one should be any different. In his rental car, Marty Bamonde pulls away from the Louis Armstrong International Airport toward Highway 61.
The air conditioning blasts, working hard to cut through the hot, muggy air outside. It's the evening of Saturday, August 27th, and Bob Munday has just landed in New Orleans. The road in front of him is practically empty, but traffic heading into the airport is bumper to bumper. Cars packed with residents, all scrambling to evacuate the city. He's not sure how successful they'll be,
He overheard an announcement that Delta is halting all flights. Driving past a gas station, he notices a makeshift sign: "Closed. Out of gas." Drivers must have filled up on their way out of town. There was a time in his life when he would have been scared by these signs of impending catastrophe.
But now, it all feels normal, routine. For 12 years, he's been rushing toward natural disasters rather than fleeing from them. A car passes him, music blaring. There's a Weber grill tied to the roof. The car honks, and a young man in a tank top leans his head out the window. "Hurricane!" Bahamandeh shakes his head. Clearly, not everyone is frightened by the forecast.
He flashes back to his first experience with a tropical storm. He was about the same age as the passenger in that car. He was living in Guam in the Pacific, working as the sports anchor on the local television station. That summer, the island was hit by several typhoons, the same weather phenomenon as a hurricane. Fifteen people died.
and thousands of homes were destroyed. Officials from the Federal Emergency Management Agency, or FEMA, arrived soon after to coordinate the relief effort. Watching FEMA in action changed Bamande's life.
He gave up his sportscasting career and applied for a job with FEMA. Now, 12 years later, he's an advanced man, one of the first FEMA officials on site for any big natural disaster — earthquakes, floods, tornadoes, and hurricanes. It's his job to report back to his boss, FEMA Director Mike Brown, about what's happening on the ground.
Bah Munday pulls off the highway and into the parking lot of his hotel. As he's parking, he sees taped Xs on the glass doors leading to the lobby to prevent them from shattering. He sighs and shakes his head. Hurricane Katrina is currently ranked as a Category 3 storm, meaning its winds are blowing up to 129 miles per hour. Duct tape in the shape of an X isn't going to protect the glass from those winds.
Bah Munday hops out of the car and grabs a small duffel bag from the back seat. The hot, humid air clings to him. There's no breeze at all. It's hard to imagine a one mile per hour wind, let alone a hurricane. Katrina could still change its path and miss New Orleans, which would make Bah Munday's job a lot easier. The city is uniquely vulnerable to a hurricane. It's partially below sea level and surrounded by water on three sides.
There's Lake Pontchartrain to the north and swampy wetlands to the east and south. The city's saving grace is a system of pumps, flood walls, and levees, man-made embankments that run parallel to the rivers, canals, lakes, and bayous that surround the city. Those levees provide crucial protection to the city in the event of a flood or major storm surge, which a hurricane like Katrina can bring.
But Bah Munday has to assume that Katrina will hit New Orleans. He walks across the parking lot to the lobby, ticking through the mental checklist of what he needs to do in the roughly 24 hours he has before the hurricane is supposed to make landfall. He's going to contact local officials to make sure they know how to work with FEMA.
Like every federal agency, FEMA's rules and procedures can be confusing. And it's Bob Munday's job to make sure the New Orleans officials know how to navigate them. He also needs to report back on preparations and local resources to his bosses so they can make plans informed by what's happening on the ground. If all goes well, he'll be able to give New Orleans residents the same sense of hope and gratitude that he felt after the typhoon hit in Guam.
Bah Munday pushes open the duct tape door and steps inside the lobby, eager to get to work. Sally Foreman reaches into the bucket on her lap and pulls out a handful of hot buttered popcorn. She leans back and stretches her feet out onto the seat in front of her. It's not the kind of thing she'd usually do in a public place, but except for her and her husband Ron, this movie theater is practically empty. It's a little before 8 p.m. on Saturday, August 27th.
Foreman is the communications director for Ray Nagin, the mayor of New Orleans. She's 43 years old, with blonde hair and brown eyes. She spent the entire day rushing back and forth between her house and City Hall, preparing for the hurricane. It's been a long day, and she needs to unwind. So when Ron suggested they go to a movie, she readily agreed. Foreman reaches for more popcorn, but her husband lightly slaps her hand.
Hey, you're going to eat it all before the movie even starts. I've earned it. Was it really tense between Ray and the governor? Earlier today, Mayor Nagin met with Louisiana Governor Kathleen Blanco. Nagin endorsed Blanco's challenger in the last election, so they haven't always had the best relationship. Foreman wiggles her hand back and forth to say so-so. They work together pretty well for the most part, but...
The biggest tension was around whether or not to order a mandatory evacuation. She explains how the governor wanted a mandatory evacuation, but Nagin was resistant. A mandatory evacuation has never been ordered in all of New Orleans history. If they did order one, there would be major logistical issues. How could they evacuate the roughly 100,000 residents who don't have access to a car?
Ultimately, Nagin decided a voluntary evacuation was the way to go. The movie starts, and for a while, Foreman forgets about the stress of the day. She grew up in New Orleans. The rhythm of hurricane season is nothing new to her. Halfway through the movie, her Blackberry buzzes. It's an email from the mayor. Foreman scans it, then grabs her purse from the seat next to her. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.
Ron's eyes go wide. Foreman doesn't have to explain what that means. A surge of that size would easily top the levees. Entire neighborhoods could flood. There could be a massive number of casualties.
Foreman needs to go straight to City Hall to help the mayor craft his statement to the residents. People need to understand that they have to leave the city. Their lives depend on it.
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It's Sunday morning, August 28th, 2005, in the Lower Ninth Ward. Petrina, or Trina as everyone calls her, lets herself into her parents' apartment. Three generations live in this house, which is called a camelback because of its structure. Trina and her two children live in the upstairs apartment, which forms the hump of the camel.
Downstairs, there are two units. Her parents and her brother live in one, and the widow of a second brother occupies the other. Trina has lived in this house, in a neighborhood full of extended family members, for most of her life. In the living room, Trina finds her mom June on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. As Trina predicted, it's tuned to the news. Trina's mom turns to her with a frown. You hit us?
Now they're saying the storm surge could be 20 feet high with category 5 winds. Trina shakes her head. She's 43 years old and small in stature, but large in personality. She once worked as a janitor at Xavier University, and she still wears her hair tied back tightly from her custodial days. But a string of medical conditions drove her out of the workforce six years ago. Her mom looks back at the TV screen.
They saying it could be bigger than Betsy back in 65. Trina was just three years old when Hurricane Betsy hit, but she remembers evacuating before the whole neighborhood flooded. Later, she heard stories about her uncle who stayed behind and helped rescue people from their rooftops. June taps the television remote against her hand, emphasizing her point. I didn't ride out Betsy and I'm not riding out Katrina.
Your father and I have discussed it. We're going to my sister's place. You should come too. You do what you gotta do, Mama, but I'm staying.
To Trina, the idea of evacuating feels overwhelming. It's a long drive to St. John Parish, where her aunt lives, and the traffic is likely to be at a crawl as thousands of residents flee. Besides, she has other plans. All week, she's been looking forward to making a big Sunday dinner for her kids, Damond, her 14-year-old son, and Dakiya, her 24-year-old daughter. Everything is already purchased, and she doesn't want all that food to go to waste.
But even though she trusts that God will see her through the storm, she decides not to take any chances with her baby boy. You know what, though? Take Demond with you. Kia can stay and keep me company. June looks at her in disbelief. You sure? I told you they're saying it could be Category 5, right? They don't come bigger than that. Wind's over 156 miles per hour. Can you even imagine?
Not to mention the storm surge. Child, that water could come right over the levees. Trina nods. Kia and I will be fine. We're way upstairs, safe from any flooding. In truth, Trina is looking forward to some quality mother-daughter time with Kia. Her daughter is about to graduate college and will be moving out soon. Peters envisions the two of them eating the roast she'll make, playing cards and talking.
It could be a really nice night riding out the hurricane together. Marty Bamunde aims his digital camera at the line of people waiting to enter the Superdome. The line snakes all the way around the huge stadium. He estimates there may be as many as 10,000 people here. There's no way he can fit all of them into his shot.
Bah Munday checks his photos on the digital camera's small screen. He'll send them to Mike Brown and other FEMA officials so they can see how big the crowd is and how vulnerable. In the line, there are people in wheelchairs and others rolling portable oxygen tanks. Many of these people probably had no means of evacuating, even if they had wanted to. He wants to make sure FEMA gets them the help they need. It's late afternoon on Sunday, August 28th.
Bah Munday heads inside the Dome, a fully enclosed football stadium that looks like a giant flying saucer. He needs to find a spot to sit down and transfer the photos to his Blackberry so he can email them to Brown. Inside, rows of cots have been lined up on the artificial turf. Bah Munday estimates there are already 2,000 people inside. Seeing them crowding onto the field makes him feel uneasy.
The stadium has a capacity of 83,000, but hosting fans for a football game is completely different than sheltering 10,000 people through a major storm event, possibly for several days. An official walks past Bamande speaking into his radio. I need you to find every last scrap of toilet paper in City Hall and bring it to the Superdome now.
I'm not going to sugarcoat it.
Things aren't great. We're already down to our last two hours of supplemental oxygen for people with respiratory issues. After that, I don't know what we're supposed to do. We're looking everywhere for alternative sources. Bah Munday feels a knot forming in his stomach. This could be a disaster, even before the hurricane hits.
He whips out his Blackberry and fires off an email to his bosses. If they don't get emergency supplies into the Superdome in the next few hours, they might have to wait until Tuesday, once any flooding has subsided. And that could be too late. To his relief, a FEMA official quickly responds. A disaster medical assistance team is on the way, along with trucks carrying food and water. They should arrive in a couple of hours.
Bamande breathes a sigh of relief, but he can't fully shake the uneasy feeling washing over him. These people should have been put on buses and taken to safety. Instead, they're going to be crammed inside this stadium, directly in the path of the storm. Sally Foreman rolls onto her side, trying to get comfortable on the thin carpet.
She's stretched out in a sleeping bag on the floor of a conference room at the Hyatt Hotel in downtown New Orleans. Her husband, Ron, lies nearby, along with her two teenage children. Dozens of other city officials and their families are spread around the room. If not for the howling wind, it would feel like a slumber party. Around 6:00 p.m., the winds and rain really started picking up. At that point, Foreman felt pretty good.
She'd gotten reports that about 80% of residents had made it out of the city. Not bad considering the evacuation order was given on such short notice. She and her family ate dinner in the hotel restaurant, then returned to their room and watched TV before turning in for the night.
At midnight, an alarm blared, and all the guests were told to leave their rooms and move to the interior of the building, away from windows. Now Foreman hears a window shatter and realizes she's not going back to sleep tonight. She kicks off her sleeping bag and checks the time, 4.30 a.m. She tiptoes out of the conference room, careful not to wake anyone who's managing to sleep through the storm.
She pads down the hall to the room where the mayor has set up his temporary headquarters. She finds him, the police chief, and a few other city staffers huddled together. She nods to them as she walks in. What's the latest? The mayor shifts in his seat. He's a bald African-American in his late 40s, wearing a rumpled blue dress shirt. The eye of the storm is expected to pass over Burris around 6 a.m. They're saying it's a Category 3 storm.
Foreman nods, relieved. Buris is roughly 50 miles away. Close by, but it won't be a direct hit on the city. And as a Category 3 storm, it's weaker than the worst-case scenarios. This qualifies as good news. She jumps as the sound of glass cracking echoes through the building. Was that the atrium? It sounds like it.
Mama?
What was that? It's 5 a.m. in the Lower Ninth Ward, and Trina is beginning to second-guess her decision to ride out the storm. A little while ago, the wind really started howling. That's when Kia came into Trina's room and asked if she could sleep next to her. But neither of them could really sleep. They just laid there, listening to the wind get louder. Then, that explosion...
A horrifying thought enters Trina's mind. They just blew up the canal. The flood in the Lower Ninth to protect the rich white neighborhoods to the west. You really think they would do that? They did it during the flood in 1927. It's true. The city really did dynamite a levee back in 1927 to divert floodwaters away from downtown and into a poorer neighborhood.
Trina has no doubt they'd do it again. A second explosion rips through the night. Trina grabs her cell phone off her nightstand and stumbles out of bed, heart racing with fear. Quick, the closet! Acting on instinct, Trina and Kia climb into the closet and shut the door. With shaking fingers, Trina dials her mother June's number, praying that the call goes through. Hello? Trina!
Talking with June helps Trina calm down. After a few minutes, she says goodbye and hangs up.
Then, Chi and Kia venture out of the closet and begin gathering some clothes and a few essential items. Trina realizes they made a mistake by staying home. Stories of her uncle rescuing people from their rooftops during Hurricane Betsy fill her mind. As she's packing a small suitcase, she hears Kia calling from the kitchen. "Mama, come see all this water." Trina comes and looks out the window, and her jaw drops.
Just below their second floor window, a wall of water is rushing past their house. It looks like they're in the middle of Lake Pontchartrain. Not sure what else to do, Trina calls 911. 911, what's your emergency? Trina quickly gives the dispatcher her address and explains that they're trapped by floodwaters. You need to get to the highest part of your house. We're in the highest part. We're on the second floor. Then all I can tell you to do is stay put.
We can't send out any services until the hurricane has passed. Why are you even still here? You should have listened to the mayor and evacuated. The dispatcher abruptly clicks off. The line goes dead. Trina holds the phone for a moment, stunned. Then, the whole house shakes again. Mama, look! The wall of their kitchen is gone. The raging floodwaters must have torn off the whole side of their house.
Outside, Trina can see the water rising and the trees bending in the wind. With no help coming, she's certain that both she and her daughter are going to drown. This season, Instacart has your back-to-school. As in, they've got your back-to-school lunch favorites, like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back-to-school supplies, like backpacks, binders, and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.
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Rain blows into her face, mingling with the tears running down her cheeks. Her heart pounds against her ribcage as she looks at the churning water below. It must be eight or nine feet deep, almost up to the eaves of the front lower roof. She's got to climb through the window and onto that roof, but she's terrified. It's just after dawn on Monday, August 29th.
Trina and her daughter, Kia, are trying to get to the highest ground possible. The roof above Trina's second floor apartment, the so-called camelback of the house. But it's steep, and Trina's not sure she'll be able to climb up there. Kia is already out on the roof, along with the mattress from Trina's bed. In a worst-case scenario, they're hoping the mattress will float, serving as a makeshift life raft. Kia calls to her. Come on, Mom. You've got this.
We need to get over to the neighbor's roof. It's higher up and not so steep. We'll be more stable there.
Were their houses always so close together and she just never noticed? With all her strength, she and Kia hurl the mattress onto the neighbor's roof. Then they jump across and collapse into each other's arms. Trina looks down at the swirling brown water below. It's at least four or five feet below where they're sitting. Maybe they'll be safe here.
Then, the neighbor's house lurches beneath them. Trina looks up and sees their own house getting farther away. For a moment, she's confused. Then she realizes their neighbor's house wasn't that close to theirs. The flood must have knocked it off its foundation, and now it's floating at the mercy of the current. Oh, Lord have mercy. We're gonna die.
Trina and Kia cling to each other as the house rocks and spins under them, bobbing in the water like a cork. But then suddenly, it stops. Trina looks up and sees that the house has lodged against a huge old pecan tree. She remembers playing under that tree when she was a little girl. Now, it's saved their lives.
Trina looks out over the neighborhood that her family has called home for generations. She can barely recognize it. Trees have toppled over. Branches float in the water. Several houses float by, unmoored from their foundations. The roofs of other houses have been completely ripped off. Water is everywhere and still rising. And the wind is blowing harder than ever. To Trina, it sounds like a freight train.
She wraps her arms around Kia, who hides her face in her mother's shoulder. What do we do now, Mama? Honestly, baby girl, I don't know. Why don't we sing? Trina begins singing a hymn, "Come by here, my lord." Tentatively, Kia joins in. They can barely hear themselves over the roar of the wind, but they keep singing.
All those stories Trina heard about Hurricane Betsy growing up, and now she's the one stranded on the roof. She has no idea how she or Kia are going to survive. Dr. Kirsta Kurtzberg walks down the hallway of the fifth floor of Charity Hospital. Mats are laid out on the floor, where staff had spent the night. Outside, it's still dark.
But she knows this reprieve is likely just the eye of the storm passing over. The wind and rain will return at any moment. It's a little after six in the morning. Time for rounds. Kurtzberg steps into the room of her patient with multiple gunshot wounds. His bed has been pushed next to the bathroom, as far from the windows as possible. Kurtzberg grabs his chart from the end of the bed. So, how was your night?
Kurtzberg laughs. That's an understatement. Last night's winds were the strongest she'd ever experienced. The windows on the 14th floor shattered, letting the rain pour in. Kurtzberg found an industrial broom and spent much of the night pushing water out onto the fire escape.
Her arms still ache from the effort. At least she doesn't have to worry about her husband. Yesterday, he called to say a friend had convinced him to evacuate to Baton Rouge with their dog, Titus. Kurtzberg glances down at her patient's chart. Things are mostly looking good. Your heart rate is a little elevated, probably just a result of the stress. But we'll keep an eye on it.
She checks over his wounds. The ones on his arms and torso continue to look good, but the one on his neck is still bleeding and the skin around it is warm to the touch. I think this one might be getting infected. I'm going to start you on antibiotics. And I'll start walking soon? Well, let's let the hurricane pass. But eventually, yeah. The patient's face falls in disappointment. Hey, what's up?
The storm's halfway over, right? Kurtzberg writes the order for the antibiotics and replaces his chart, then continues on her morning rounds. She hopes the worst of the storm has passed and that it hasn't done too much damage to the city. With any luck, she can go home tomorrow. Gregory Richardson looks down his street and sees a wall of water coming straight at him. He clutches his cell phone to his ear and shouts to his wife,
Honey, I gotta go. Gregory, is everything all right? Richardson doesn't have time to respond. He hangs up, trying to think fast. He knows that he needs to get to the attic. The water rushing down the street will soon fill the lower levels of his house. But if the water keeps rising, he could get stuck in the attic with no way out.
There are tools in his truck, parked about 20 feet away in the driveway. If he can get them, he'll be able to break his way out onto the roof if he needs to. He looks at the water and then at his truck. He has to try. So he takes off running as fast as he can. Rain lashes against his face. His feet make a splatting noise as he runs over the waterlogged grass.
He reaches the truck, throws open the door to the cab, and grabs what he can from his tool box: a hammer, a few chisels, a pry bar, and a screwdriver. Then he dashes back to his house. Water is already flowing into the first floor. It's up to his knees as he runs to the kitchen and snatches a loaf of bread and a bottle of water. It's not much, but it's something. He runs up the stairs and pulls open the trap door to the attic.
The folding staircase rattles down and snaps into position. He scrambles up, cradling the food and tools in his hands. The attic is hot and stuffy, but it's dry. He drops his emergency supplies and pulls his phone out of his pocket, then punches in his dad's number. "Dad, get up to your attic right now. It's flooding badly." "I know, son. Where do you think I am?" Richardson breathes a sigh of relief.
At least both he and his dad are safe from the floodwaters. For now. Sally Foreman walks down Loyola Avenue in downtown New Orleans. Her feet splash through puddles and crunch over broken glass. She looks up at the Hyatt, the hotel where she and her family spent a harrowing night. Almost all the windows are blown out. To her, it looks like a bomb hit the building.
It's early afternoon. The storm finally stopped around noon. Now it's quiet. The wind has died down and the streets are deserted. Most of the residents who remained in the city are still hungered down.
Foreman is out exploring to report back to Mayor Nagin on the damage. What she sees is pretty much what she expected. Business signs and tree branches are in the road, and many buildings are missing windows or even whole walls. But there doesn't seem to be any flooding, at least not in downtown. Police communications went down during the night, and cell phone service has been sporadic at best.
The mayor's team hasn't been able to get any reports on how the most low-lying neighborhoods are faring. But so far, things are looking good. Up ahead, she sees the fire chief walking towards her. He looks deeply concerned. Charles, what's wrong? I just heard from two of my guys. They were in a tall building by the Lakeview neighborhood. They said they saw a levee in the 17th Street Canal split open. They think it was about a 200-foot rupture.
Foreman's mouth goes dry. The 17th Street Canal is the largest in New Orleans. Its levees were built by the Army Corps of Engineers. She knew there was some danger the storm surge might overtop them, but it had never occurred to her that the levees might break. Water is already pouring into Lakeview and spreading fast. We need to tell the mayor about this right away. Moments ago, Foreman had been feeling cautiously optimistic.
But now, she fears they're in for an unprecedented disaster.
This is episode one of our four-part series, Hurricane Katrina. A quick note about our scenes. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but everything is based on historical research. If you'd like to learn more about this story, we recommend Breach of Faith, Hurricane Katrina, and the Near Death of a Great American City by Jed Horn. The Great Deluge, Hurricane Katrina, New Orleans, and the Mississippi Gulf Coast by Douglas Brinkley.
Disaster, Hurricane Katrina and the Failure of Homeland Security by Christopher Cooper and Robert Block. And Eye of the Storm, Inside City Hall During Katrina by Sally Foreman.
I'm your host, Cassie DePeckel. Austin Rackless wrote this episode. Our editor is Alyssa Adams. Script consulting by Jed Horn. Additional story consulting by Petrina Peters. Voice acting by Ace Anderson and Kat Peebles. Sound design and Dolby Atmos mix by Othouse Audio. Audio engineer is Sergio Enriquez. Coordinating producers are Christian Banas and Desi Blaylock. Produced by Alita Rozanski, Olivia Richard, and Emily Frost.
Managing Producer is Matt Gant. Senior Managing Producer is Ryan Lohr. Senior Producer is Andy Herman. Executive Producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marsha Louis. For Wondery. My name is Georgia King, and I am thrilled to be the host of And Away We Go, a brand new travel podcast on Wondery+, where we'll be whisked away on immersive adventures all around the world. Where we go, what we do, what we eat,
drink and listen to will all be up to my very special guests. We've got Ben Schwartz taking us on a whirlwind trip around Disneyland. We'll eat a bowl of life-changing pasta with Jimmy O. Yang in Tuscany, Italy. And how do you
feel about a spot of sugaring off with Emily Hampshire in Montreal. And Away We Go will immerse you in some of the wonders of the world. We're going to be seeing some yellows and vibrant oranges. And the shoes clicking against the cobblestone. If you're looking to get somebody in the mood, have a look at the Chicago skyline. You can listen to And Away We Go exclusively with Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.
Georgia, do you know what joy sounds like? I think I'm hearing it right now.