Corrections or additions?
This article was prepared for the April 9, 2003 edition of U.S. 1 Newspaper. All rights reserved.
Excerpt: `Killer Strain’
Marilyn W. Thompson’s book on the anthrax attacks for
which central New Jersey residents had front row seats reads like
a fast-paced novel. But “The Killer Strain” (HarperCollins
Publishers) is a true story, centered around Leroy “Rich”
Richmond, a worker assigned to Washington’s Brentwood postal center.
The book opens with a look at an already-sick Richmond preparing to
leave for the 53-mile commute to his job. Readers soon learn that
Richmond’s wife is a postal worker also, and that their combined wages
are not enough to allow for repairs on his car radio. Richmond, with
no radio news to listen to during his long commute, is not even aware
of the anthrax scare.
The book is filled with such poignant details, including a look at
Richmond’s stoicism as he works in an enormous, cacophonous building
nicknamed “the field,” because nearly all of its workers are
black, and nearly all of the supervisors are white. In this setting,
Richmond, a 34-year, $13-an-hour employee, who had long ago learned
the futility of asking for favors, was loathe to make a fuss as he
became acutely ill. Unable to get a supervisor to pay attention when
he asked for a note to see the facility’s nurse, Richmond stole into
an office and made out his own pink slip, only to be told to take
a Tylenol.
Meanwhile, Thompson tells us, staffers on Capitol Hill were being
given blood tests and doses of Cipro just in case they might have
been infected.
At last, Richmond was hospitalized in critical condition, and nearly
died. Here is an excerpt from Thompson’s book that talks a about Richmond’s
history with the post office and his ordeal in the hospital:
A DAY BEFORE HE (Richmond) was to join the diplomatic service,a USPS recruiter made an irresistible offer: a job paying $1.08 morean hour than the State Department. He grabbed the opportunity.He started work at the old mail distribution center on North CapitolStreet, Brentwood’s predecessor. He had never forgotten the stressof that day, and it came back in his fitful sleep.”It was like hell breaking loose.You didn’t stay on one assignmentlonger than ten minutes. You were herded around like cattle,”he recalled.Zip-code school demanded quick, flawless memorization. “BecauseI was dealing basically with airmail, I had to learn all the areasof the zip codes of New York,” he said. He studied for three months,but when the time came to take the exam, his bosses abruptly movedhim to carrier detail.For almost a year, Rich carried mail through the streets of Marylandand Virginia. His supervisors would lay out a route, drop him off,and give him bus tokens to get back to the office.”I learned how to carry the mail, and they said, `No, now we wantyou to learn Friendship Heights,”’ an upscale Washington, D.C.,neighborhood. He went back to school for thirty more days, only toget a new assignment soon after.Brentwood pounded twenty-four hours a day with the sounds of thirtychurning machines, each manned by four workers. When one employeetook a break, another took over, feeding thousands of letters intoequipment that made the whole building smell of warm paper.The noiseblended into a smooth cacophony, and then a warning bell would jangle.”Move over there!” a supervisor would bark.Rich had made it thirty-four years, finally pulling in $13 an hourand an extra $300 each week in overtime. After all this, it was telling,he thought, that he should contract anthrax not doing his regularjob but following instructions to leave his post and clean up behindJoseph Curseen’s machine.He remembered seeing the cleaning man approach Machine No. 17, wearinga face mask and carrying pressurized air. In keeping with the regularroutine, the man opened the nozzle and sprayed.The air went everywhere. A hot blast punched Rich in the face. Later,the Brentwood managers concluded that the cleaning had sprayed anthraxspores throughout the building and caused them to settle deep in Rich’slungs.From his hospital bed, the whirring sounds of Brentwood’s machineryhad been replaced by clanking noises from construction outside hisroom. When Rich had checked in, he peered out his window at an eight-storyparking tower surrounded by demolition equipment.The next time he mustered the strength to look outside, the parkinggarage was gone.When Susan (Richmond’s wife) led Quentin (their son) by the hand tovisit Rich Saturday morning around 9:30 a.m., she was stopped at thedoor.”The FBI’s in there,” a nurse cautioned, partially blockingthe doorway.”You need to move out of my way!” Susan growled, pushing herway inside. Two agents from the Washington field office sat by Rich’sbedside. The Brentwood facility, they told him, was now part of acriminal investigation, and they needed facts: Where did he thinkhe came into contact with the anthrax? With whom did he work? Whatwas his work history? She listened with building irritation as shewatched her husband gasping for breath, struggling to respond.”He can’t answer you. He can’t even talk,” she finally exploded.Barely audibly he whispered, “It’s okay dear.”The others who came to interview Rich were no more sympathetic. TheCDC doctors asked so many questions about his health history and thesudden onset of the illness that Rich felt as if they were tryingto disprove his anthrax diagnosis. His grown daughter, Alicia, whopractically lived by his hospital bedside, finally ordered the fedsout of the room so he could get some rest.Susan had been afraid to allow Quentin to see his ailing father amongthe tubes and machines, but the child was just happy to see his dad.Leroy was the one who broke down. “He was like, `Oh my God, mybaby’s seeing me sick!’” Susan recalled.Throughout the morning, Susan persisted in her efforts to alert Brentwoodto the dangers employees were facing. Finally, she reached one ofRich’s supervisors.”You need to get out of there!” she almost screamed. “Thebuilding’s contaminated, and you all need to shut it down!”The building stayed open. She got through to a girlfriend from Brentwood,who spread the word.Still, the production lines churned, the warning dismissed. Someonescoffed that Susie Richmond, a believer in long coffee breaks andchatty lunch hours, was just trying to find a way to stay home fromwork.Susan was livid. “If I just want to be home, why would I lie andsay he’s got inhalation anthrax?”By Sunday, postal officials shut down the plant and workers linedup for free antibiotics. Susan was among them. Similar lines had formedin New Jersey near the Hamilton plant, although workers there hadgrown increasingly distrustful of anything the government doctorsor postal management told them to do. When doctors decided to switchthe recommended antibiotic from Cipro to Doxycycline because of itslower cost and reduced side effects, incensed Hamilton workers, whocomplained that they were being used as “guinea pigs” in agovernment experiment.Back at the hospital, Rich’s health declined rapidly. His skin turnedgray, and he had grown progressively weaker. His chest was filledwith bloody mucus, which he often spat into a tissue with a deep rackingcough.On Monday, as Susan made her way back to visit him, a Brentwood friendcalled her to express condolences. The television news had reportedthe death of an unnamed Brentwood worker; many assumed it was Rich.Susan broke down and wept, then called the hospital and asked to speakto Carl Asper, an intensive care nurse. The doctors had given hera code word, “cake,” which she could use to get immediateattention.”This is Mrs. Richmond, and the code word is `cake’,” shesaid, trying to control her sobs. “How’s my baby doing?”The nurse reported that he was fine. The television account had beenabout the death of Brentwood coworker Mo Morris of Suitland, Maryland,who had fallen ill over the weekend. Meanwhile, in southern Maryland,the family of Joseph Curseen, the Brentwood Bible-study leader, hadrushed to his hospital bedside. Machine No. 17, the same piece ofequipment that left his friend Rich struggling for life, had infectedCurseen. (Richmond recovered, but Curseen did not.Corrections or additions?This page is published by PrincetonInfo.com— the web site for U.S. 1 Newspaper in Princeton, New Jersey.
