Sept 11 2001

Who is Morgan Francis Pillsbury? 
             Morgan, born Carolyn Anne Barteaux, is the daughter of Melinda Pillsbury-Foster, born Mary Linda Pillsbury.  Morgan was born July 5, 1967 in Santa Monica, CA.  She is a 4th generation Californian.  
            On September 11th, 2001, her own, personal story, was becoming enmeshed in the ongoing conspiracy to profit through the violation of trust, which is at the foundation of today's meltdown.  Dan Moldea, a prominent investigative journalist, told Morgan in December, 2002, "they would destroy her. " The full weight of dirty tricks was brought against her and her mother, who was helping her.  But it was not enough.  They survived.
           Today she is married to Jay E. Gell and the mother of two little boys, Jacob and Gabriel.  Today, the truth will come out and with it the evidence needed to force accountability. 

She had fallen asleep on the couch watching TV at their apartment in Jersey City. Normally, she slept in the bedroom though John snores horribly but that night she was watching the news and sort of dozed off. John was already asleep. She could hear the long roll of ZZZZZZZZZZs emanating from the room.

Google map of the building.

John was already up when her eyes opened, around 6:30. She got up and made coffee, the smell felt wonderful that morning, permeating all of her sinuses, clearing away the fog. The day before she had thought about how wonderful New York is during the fall, and fall was coming, you could feel it.

John and she had been living together for just over a month. Already things were going wrong.

When he had come in the night before John was upset that he had, again, lost his Citibank card. This meant she would be heading out to Citibank to replace it for the sixth time in just a few weeks. But John wouldn't tell her where he was going that week. They argued. She suspected there was something he was not telling her and refused to go with him.

John came out of the bathroom, dressed in clean clothes. His hair needed brushing, as usual. She got the bottle and rubbed in the Rogaine, as usual.

The bank was in the Twin Towers, a place Morgan loved. The Godiva's Chocolates on the first story was one of her favorite destinations. Instead of going with John that morning she went back to the now empty bed in her clothes, curling into the blankets.

When she had moved in the bedroom had taken a lot of her attention and time. It had been piled with dirty clothes, papers, and suitcases, so much so you had to wade, raising your feet high, to reach the bed. She had never seen anything like it. Now, it was clean and tidy, with the clothes hanging up in neat rows in the closets filling one side of the room, past the chaste french doors.

The walls in the bedroom were dark cream. John said they would paint soon, but Morgan knew she would be doing it herself. John talked; she did.

The elderly landlord and his wife had been delighted to know normal maintenance had begun. When she and John talked about the clean up and their plans, their wrinkled faces brightened. When Morgan gave them bags and bags of John's older clothes for their charity they had beamed. Shakes of the head and clucks of concern had accompanied their few ventures past John's front door before Morgan arrived. Now, it was not gleaming, but it was no longer a health hazard. The landlord's wife told Morgan they had been trying to get John to get rid of stuff for years.

At one time the sheets on the bed must have been buttercup yellow. Now, they were so thin you could see through them and the color was off white. John had only the one pair. Those were probably a gift from his Mom. Morgan was going to get new sheets when there was money, John was always waiting for the money to come in. The need to fix the place up was what moved Morgan to see if she could get the checks honored she found in the debris when she cleaned the apartment. There were $30,000 in checks John had never deposited, most several years old. With persistence, Morgan got them cashed.

The television was off. She heard the city sounds outside, normal and comforting. Laying there, Morgan wondered what John was not telling her, remembering the excitement of buying the furniture.

The bed was in the left corner of the room. Next to it on the back wall, was the dresser Morgan bought from Ikea, so there would be enough storage for her clothes. That dresser was three drawers across and three down. Next to it was the matching desk. She set it up for John's papers so he could have an office away from the Wall Street Journal. In her mind, Morgan could see him there, working after dinner. It would be homey and nice for them, she thought.

The tall boy she bought and assembled for John was against the wall with the door. It was to the right as you walked in. It also matched. Each piece was light, pine-colored, traditional American with a touch of Shaker. At one time the building was an abby, so it had lots of character.

The building was old brick, with worn stone steps climbing up the front. Walking into the big old lobby you felt how time was for the stones. The mailboxes were to the right, also old metal. there for a long time, the key holes slightly brighter with usage. Opposite the mailboxes was a bulletin board where residents put up notices. It was light cork colored. Morgan had looked at it occasionally, never suspecting how different it would soon seem to her.

You walked to the apartment through the door next to the mailboxes. The door lead to steps down and over the old carpet to a landing. Ahead of you was the door leading to the washer and dryer room. The building smelled like long forgotten sins. Looking back, this now seems right to Morgan.

You made a left at the washer and dryer room and the second door on the right was their apartment. There were three or four basement apartments. Theirs was one of those.

The door of the apartment was brown and solid. Sometimes Morgan wondered about the monks who once lived and died there.

The apartment had been a shock when she first entered. John had warned her but her imagination had not grasped what he meant. Now, it was clean and neat, the product of much work and thought.

As you walked in there was a tiny, tiny entry way. The ceiling was a little lower there. To your left was the kitchen. As you walked into the kitchen you saw, to the left, the row of cupboards, above and below with the sink in the middle, the counters topped by what looked like yellow linoleum. The back of the sink was plain wall, Morgan wanted to change that. Above the sink and her head were more cupboards. There was lots of storage for an apartment this size.

To the right from the entryway was a french door leading to a large closet. Books, clothes and junk had been crammed in there when she first arrived. She had cleaned that out, too. Now you could see the back.

The coffee made it hard to sleep. Morgan dozed on that morning.

She had assembled the three pieces of furniture herself. It was sort of complicated so she accidentally put the kick board on the back at first. Oops. But she changed it, standing back to admire her work.

John had been so delighted when he walked in. He told her he was in New Hampshire, doing a story. He glowed with praise for all she had accomplished. It felt wonderful. Later, she found out he was conducting an affair with Leslie George, but that was later.

In the living room, on the left, was a cheap, brown dining room table that could accommodate 4 chairs in a pinch. Straight ahead was the door into the parking lot. That door was closer to the grocery store, Morgan learned.

The bathroom was to the right in the living room as you walking past the door to the bedroom. It was sort of strange, but alright if you were just one couple. The bathroom was tiny with a combo bath and shower, and tiny sink. It was much too full. John had stuffed it full of samples from every place on earth and never bought shampoo or anything else he could get for free. Later, Morgan learned he viewed conferences and conventions as an opportunity to renew his supplies.

The phone rang at around 8:40am. John's voice was strained. “There's been an accident. Turn on the television,” he had heard the first plane hit. He told Morgan he was going to a floor where there was a window. Once there, he called again and told her it looked like a ticker tape parade, papers falling from the sky. Then he said he would call her back. Morgan told him to come home, begged him, because she was worried. When the call ended the silence was frightening. Morgan called her old friend, Arthur Prager, who lived at Washington Square. He was asleep and groggy. Morgan told him to get up and turn on the television.

As they sat there watching the same images unfold the second plane hit. Arthur said, “oh my God, it is terrorism” As Morgan hung up her friend Eric Babbles called and said it was chemical warfare.

Hanging up from the call, Morgan ran out for food at the tiny grocery store across the parking lot, around the corner, and down a block. Coming back, the New Jersey Fire Department flew by, headed for the Tunnel and the City. At the time Morgan did not realize how many of the men, eyes ahead, would not be coming home.

The Cheerios and white and glazed doughnuts, baked at the tiny little grocery store she bought, later seemed far less than appropriate emergency food. But the doughnuts were at least fresh.

As she arrived back at the building the landlord and his wife met her. They talked, asking her to go with them up to the roof. Just as they got there the Tower No 2, the second to be hit, came down.

Later she would hear that Rick Rescorla died then, trying to ensure that everyone got out. Rescorla, was in the movie, We Were Soldiers. This thread of life would weave into her future in an unexpected way. Rescorla, she later learned, had warned his employers at Morgan and Stanley this could happen. He feared a terrorist attack as head of security. He had said to someone a few days before he was afraid he would die in a boring way. He wanted to go out with a bang.

Morgan spent the next hours between the roof and the television. Her front door, and those of the neighbors, were left open. Everyone was walking in, watching, talking, coming together. All of a sudden they knew each other.

John called from Liberty State Park. Morgan felt a rush of relief. They had gotten out and were in New Jersey; he was calling home. Others had also called. Clint Bolick, a friend, had checked in asking about John. Kay Bailey Hutchinson called, asking in a tight voice after John, too. Morgan tried to reassure her. Many messages from friends and family filled the machine, which blinked red.

“He is alright, he got out.” He just called me. Bolick asked her to have John call when he got in. Morgan said she would, if the phones were working. That was a question that weighed on everyone the whole afternoon. The rumors of disaster came in waves and no one knew what was true.

The Supreme Count had been hit. The White House was in flames. No one knew.

Then, the door opened. In walked John and two security guards from his building, covered in white dust. Ignoring the dust, Morgan grabbed John, who hugged her back. By that point she was numb with relief.

The Cheerios and glazed doughnuts disappeared into large appetites.

Kay Bailey Hutchinson called back, hysterical to talk to John. Morgan answered. “I want to talk to John,” Hutchinson said. Morgan put her on. “They are saying that it was Barbara's plane that hit the Pentagon.” “If that is true,” John said, “then I am sorry, but she is gone,”

The shocks continued.

Morgan had met Barbara while she was with Eugene Volokh, her former boy friend. Morgan sat there, stunned.

In the days that followed Morgan turned her head away from the bulletin board in the lobby. Too many people who worked in the Towers had lived in her building. The notices and pictures of people who were missing kept appearing. Thinking about it was unbearable. And her own problems, intimate and also terrifying, were too immediate. 

We thought we knew -

We thought all we had to fear was foreign terrorists. We were wrong.

We thought we could trust our government and those elected to lead us. We were wrong.

We thought we knew who was in charge of our government. We were wrong about that, too.

We thought war was a thing of the past. Wrong.

We thought America would never go into an unjust war. Wrong.

In 2005, afraid for her life, Morgan fled New York. On February 14, 2005 she married Jay Gell, the only son of Jack Gell.

We thought we could rely on those we knew to do the right thing. We were wrong.

Today America, and the world, needs transparency in all things. When we know the truth we can do the right thing ourselves.

Today remember 9/11 and stand up for the vision that is still America in our hearts. Our children need us to make that vision real.

Rick Rescorla had served with Jay's father in Vietnam and was there when he died, as depicted in We Were Soldiers. Now, the character she had glimpsed in a movie was her son's grandfather. Children, all children, are the future.

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