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But the avoidance of federal money and control is small consolation to people who do not share in the general prosperity. Just upriver from the Freeport Sulphur Co., amid signs advertising bail bondsmen and flood insurance, are the offices of white Attorney Joseph Defley, a former FBI agent who 14 years ago married the sheriff of Plaquemines' daughter and moved down from Chicago. One of his clients is Merlis Broussard, 45, a barrel-chested black construction worker who once helped dig a crayfish pond behind Chalin Perez's new home. They have just won a federal court suit to end the parish's method of selecting council members, which has long kept blacks from exercising political power.
Broussard knows better than anyone the problems of being black in Plaquemines. He was born and still lives in Ironton, an all-black town of 200 nestled against the levee. Ironton has no running water; instead, the parish delivers wat^r by truck to each home once or twice a week. Broussard's wife developed a serious kidney ailment eight years ago, probably from drinking cistern-stored water. Two or three times a week he had to drive her to Charity Hospital in New Orleans. "They lent me a dialysis machine, but I had no water to hook it up. It had to run off my old wooden cistern. Each night I would ride to Lake Hermitage [now Lake Judge Perez] to get water to keep it running. The doctors at Charity tried to get parish officials to help me find a place to live with running water, but none of them lifted a hand." Within a year, the doctors personally raised enough money to buy him a bigger tank and a pump. The day they were to be delivered, his wife died.
Parish officials, who point out that two white towns also lack running water, say it would cost $200,000 to bring pipes to Ironton. But they recently bought a golf course in a corner of the parish. Asked about these priorities, Chalin Perez replied: "That golf course provides recreation for many people. It's a question of judgment for elected officials to make."
Recently, Plaquemines has had a new minority to deal with. An old wooden shrimp boat, billowing black smoke, pulls into an isolated bayou near the mouth of the river. Laughingly pushing his cousin aside, Phuoc Nguyen, 11, grabs the tie line and loops two half hitches around a stake on the bank. Phuoc, who has picked up English in the three years he has been in the U.S., translates for his uncle as a white-haired mechanic explains the problem with the carburetor. "How much we owe you?" asks the boy. The mechanic shakes his head, refusing payment. Like many others, he is embarrassed by the way the Vietnamese refugees are being chased out of the parish.
The Vietnamese in Louisiana have taken jobs in shipyards and seafood plants, working as many as 80 hours a week. Some have pooled their money to buy old boats and hoped to make Plaquemines their base. Their welcome has been mixed, partly because they have docked illegally, unable to rent proper space, and failed to follow safety procedures. The fishermen in Plaquemines are naturally protective of their territory. Said one: "It's like having an apple. You'd rather split it four ways than six."