Salon has the stories from the street and they sound like something from another century. A diabetic, begging for insulin from passersby, while cops who took over a luxury hotel with a swimming pool are grilling sausage.
People dying from the heat and lack of water, and cops are having a cookout. Unfuckingbelievable.
We walk half a block down Royal Street from the Eighth District headquarters and come upon Brennan’s Restaurant, one of New Orleans’ most venerable dining institutions. The Brennans are a high-profile family of restaurateurs and run several of the highest-end eateries in town. Jimmy Brennan and a crew of his relatives are holing up in the restaurant along with the chef, Lazone Randolph. They are sleeping on air mattresses, drinking Cheval Blanc, and feasting on the restaurant’s reserves of haute Creole food.
The atmosphere in the French Quarter, while relatively quiet, is decidedly tense, but Brennan isn’t worried. “We’re not too concerned. The police let us go over to the Royal Omni, to take a shower, freshen up, and we cooked them some prime rib. We take care of them, they take care of us,” says Randolph. Two Brennan emissaries whisk past, bearing multilayer chocolate cakes, headed toward the precinct. “This has been working out real well for us,” says Jimmy Brennan.
Jesus.
Anybody who’s lived in NOLA, or SE Louisiana, knows about the NOPD—it’s legendarily corrupt, self-dealing, and brutal. I don’t doubt that there are cops who have acquitted themselves heroically down there: but I don’t doubt, either—as this report makes clear—that there are cops who are playing by the rules they’ve always played by. Something to be considered when winger jackasses start going on about looters and shooting on sight.