by Peter Parken
The agent crossed his legs, too, and leaned back in his chair. “If it’s declared sabotage, the insurance companies won’t be obligated to pay. And we need to have the families of the victims compensated. We can’t allow any hint of sabotage. In Virginia, as well as in many other States, we have what is known within insurance law as ‘Strict Liability.’ There is no need for the plaintiffs to prove negligence—all they have to show is that something caused injury or death. In this case, it’s clear that a rollercoaster caused death. So, it doesn’t even matter whether or not we announce there was a faulty weld—the object caused death. Period. Ergo, the insurers will pay up. And we as the government will be happy that the victims’ families are well taken care of.”
John nodded. “I understand the principle of Strict Liability. But that hangs Flying Machines Inc. out to dry. The reputation of the company and its owners will be ruined forever—when they did nothing wrong.”
“Yes. Probably. As I said, this is a national security issue, and when that’s involved we have to worry about the greater good instead of individual harm.”
John rubbed his forehead. “This could lead to a charge of criminal negligence against the CEO, Nathan Morrell.”
“No, I can promise you that we won’t let that happen. We do have influence with the courts, of course, and we would ensure that no Grand Jury would indict him. That’s the least we can do for Mr. Morrell. We’re not monsters.”
John coughed at that remark. “Okay, I’m with you. Where do we go from here?”
The agent passed him a sheet of paper. “We want the Black Mamba dismantled completely within the next two days. We’ll send our own crew to do that. We want your cooperation in arranging for as many tractor-trailer units as you estimate will be needed. Every piece, and I mean every single piece, of the track, superstructure, and the train itself will need to be covered and transported to the address on that sheet of paper.”
John looked at the sheet. “This is way down in Key West, Florida.”
“Yes, that’s the Florida Keys Transfer Station. From there, the debris will be loaded onto a ship within a few days and dumped at sea.”
John looked down at his hands and shook his head sadly. “I don’t know what in hell is going on here, and maybe I really don’t want to know. But what you’re proposing is the taking and destroying of evidence and property that the owner and the insurance companies are entitled to see and have. It’s their property.”
The agent sighed in exasperation. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the terminology, ‘Eminent Domain.’ In simple terms, the Constitution allows governments to confiscate whatever it deems necessary for the greater good.”
John protested. “Eminent Domain was never intended for something like this—that was established for essential utilities, precious resources, etc. Not for taking damaged property, property that the owner and the insurance company are entitled to the salvage of. And…the Constitution permits Eminent Domain, yes, but it also states quite clearly that the owners of the property are to be compensated.”
“Then they’ll be compensated. What’s a wreck of a rollercoaster worth, John? You tell me, huh?”
John raised his head slowly and looked into the agent’s eyes. “This was sabotage. We can’t just let this go—we have to know who did this and why. It could be an act of terrorism and it could happen again. Shouldn’t we alert other amusement parks—like, subtly, quietly?
The agent shook his head. “No, we already have some leads on this, and trust me, we’ll prosecute this in our own way. We won’t let this go unpunished. And we know enough already to know that this won’t recur with another park. You’ll have to trust me on that, too.”
John found it hard to hide his smirk. Trust me. Yeah, right. Tell that to Edward Snowden.
Gary and the agent stood and started toward the door, but not before the agent picked up the photos and John’s report. At the door, he turned to face John. “Within a few minutes one of our people will be here to clean your hard drive. You’ll be asked to sign a confidentiality agreement about all of this, and swear out an avadavat that you have not told anyone else about your findings. Also, John, did you make copies of the photos?”
“No.”
“Do you or your wife own a laptop?”
“No,” John lied.
“You’ll have to hand over your mobile phone to our man as well, okay? I’m sure the NTSB will get you a new one. Don’t use it during the next few minutes until he gets here, for any phone calls, texts, or emails. Trust me, we’ll know if you do.”
John coughed once more. There was that ‘trust’ word again.
Chapter 11
It was another bright and sunny day. Kind of a waste going to a lawyer’s office on a day like this, but it was her day off and she had to get this first visit over with eventually. So, today was as good a day as any.
Shelby hopped into her spiffy red Hyundai Elantra and headed south on S. Van Doron, then connected with the Capitol Beltway eastbound. This was the route she took whenever she wanted to have a jaunt over to Washington, D.C—the Beltway turned into the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge which would take her across the Potomac River right into the Capitol. Once in a while she did that—not too often. It was far more pleasant right there in Alexandria, away from all the noise, crime and congestion that Washington was known for.
She had everything in Alexandria that she needed, right at her fingertips. Washington was fun once in a while though—for some of the museums, and whenever there was a public political event like an inauguration. For a woman, Shelby was a bit unusual—she did enjoy politics and was fascinated with the power plays that dominated the workings of government. The constant bickering between Democrats and Republicans annoyed most Americans, but to Shelby it was just an interesting study of human nature and massive egos at work. She thought it was funny most of the time—they were like big kids in a playground.
She would just love to be a fly on the wall in the Oval Office, to be able to hear what was really talked about before the perfectly sanitized versions reached the ears of the American people.
She turned off the Beltway onto S. Washington Street and went north. It then changed to N. Washington Street and she kept driving until she saw King Street—the lawyer said his office was on the northwest corner of N. Washington Street and King Street. Shelby pulled into a municipal parking lot, paid for her ticket and dropped it onto the dashboard.
Shelby took the elevator up to the fourth floor, gave her name to the receptionist and then took a seat in the opulent lobby. She waited for the short, fat and balding lawyer, whom she’d also formed an early opinion of—the man was obnoxious as hell. Accustomed to pushing his way into situations without asking permission. Without being respectful. His behavior that day last week in the hospital was despicable as far as she was concerned. But…she guessed he was in that category of lawyer that was referred to as ‘ambulance chasers.’ He was the guy who’d jumped first on the Class Action suit and had already received preliminary approval for registration of the action. So, she had to deal with him if she wanted to be a part of it.
She gazed around as she waited. The lobby furniture was all supple leather illuminated by the softest lighting she had ever seen in an office. The floors were marble, leading to a berber-type burgundy carpet down the hallways. Straining her neck a bit, she could see an entire line of offices stretching as far as her eyes would take her.
The tornado burst through a side conference room door. He rushed over and motioned for her to follow him. “Hello, Ms. Sutcliffe. I’m pressed for time today, so just follow me to my office and we’ll make this quick.”
They passed the reception desk on the way to the hallway—there was a large sign carved out of wood hanging on the wall behind the half-moon desk: ‘Feinstein & Sons.’
She pulled the man’s card out of her purse, to remind herself that his name was Dwayne Feinstein. He still hadn’t been polite enough to formally introduce himself, not her
e and not at the hospital either.
She called out to him as they passed a line of small offices. “So, are you ‘the’ Feinstein, or are you one of the sons?”
He was rudely rushing ahead of her, demonstrating that he had absolutely no idea what the term ‘gentleman’ meant. Dwayne laughed in kind of a cackling way and turned his head to look back at her as he walked. “I hardly look like I could be the father, do I, Ms. Sutcliffe? Of course I’m one of the sons.”
Shelby was completely turned off by the guy and their meeting hadn’t even started yet. “Well, to be frank with you—and no offense intended—I have a tough time judging age with bald men.” She couldn’t resist.
He ignored her comment and led her into a large corner office, adorned even more lushly than the lobby. She didn’t see one file or even a piece of paper on his desk. Just a computer and a phone.
Shelby couldn’t resist again and gestured with her hand over his empty desktop. “You say you’re busy. Doesn’t look like it to me.”
He ignored her again and plunked down in his executive leather chair. Shelby sat in one of the guest chairs and noticed that he was suddenly taller than her. He must have a pedestal floor installed underneath the desk. “Funny, now I’m looking up at you and a second ago I was looking down at you.”
“Shelly, you seem to take some joy in making wisecracks.”
“It’s ‘Shelby.’”
“What?”
“My name’s ‘Shelby,’ not ‘Shelly.’”
Dwayne opened a drawer, pulled out a file and flipped it open. He scrolled with his finger, then pulled a pen out of his pocket and made a notation. “So it is.”
“You had to check your file to verify my name? My word wasn’t good enough?”
The fat little man scratched his forehead and winced. “I think we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here. Let’s start again, okay?”
“Fine by me. What do you want with me?”
“Well, it’s more like what I can do for you.” He pulled a piece of paper out of the file and slid it over to her. “Just sign this document here, I’ll witness it, and you’re in.”
“In on what?”
“Well, the Class Action lawsuit, of course.”
Shelby crossed her legs and sighed. “Don’t you intend to tell me how it works? What I have to do?”
Dwayne coughed into his fist. “It’s simple. I represent you and all the families of the deceased victims. You’ll be our main witness, being that you’re the sole survivor.”
“What if I prefer to have my own lawyer represent me?”
“You can certainly do that, but you still have to sign on to my Class Action. I’m the only lawyer who’s been given the right of action. You can pay him yourself out of your own pocket—he won’t have a contingent fee coming out of the proceeds of the lawsuit.”
“Who gets the proceeds?”
“Well, you and the families, of course.”
“And you.”
“Of course ‘me.’ I have to be paid.”
Shelby leaned forward in her chair. “What do you get?”
“The standard in Class Actions is forty percent.”
Shelby laughed. “Are you serious?”
The lawyer rested his chin on his fists. “Yes, and it will be well earned.”
“How much is the lawsuit for?”
He opened his file again. “I’m filing for 500 million. The suit will name both Flying Machines Inc. and Adventureland. That’s fairly normal, to name the most obvious parties involved—the courts may decide to drop one of the names off and then the suit will be just against one. And I think that one will end up being Flying Machines Inc. I see no evidence indicating that Adventureland had any part to play in this accident.”
Shelby whistled. “So you’ll get a cool 200 million if the court awards 500?”
“Yes.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “So the balance of 300 million will be divided between me and the twenty-five families of the deceased?”
“Yes, but your share of course will be the smallest. You’re alive and, unless you have any continuing crippling ailments, or mental deficiencies that you can prove were caused by the accident, you’ll be low woman on the totem pole—you’ll probably get a couple of million for your injuries and mental anguish.”
“So, you get 200 million for my accident, and I get two million?”
“Yes—that’s the way it would work.”
Shelby shook her head.
“Look, Shelly, this is just the way it works.”
“Shelby!”
The lawyer flinched. “What?”
“My name is Shelby!”
“Yes, yes…sorry.”
Shelby stood. “Look, I just want to leave. Give me that sheet to take with me and I’ll study it.”
“No, you’ll have to read it here.”
Shelby grabbed it off the desk and started scanning it. Then she stopped reading and looked up. “This is a statement that you’ve already prepared. You haven’t even asked me to describe what happened.”
Dwayne sighed. “It’s just a statement—you’ll note it says ‘preliminary.’ There will be a deposition and you can tell your story then.”
“No! I want to tell it now! And I want you to get it down right the first time!”
The lawyer held out his hand in a calming gesture. “Sit down…Shelby. Let me explain something to you.”
Shelby sat and continued scanning the document in her hand.
“This lawsuit will be a slam-dunk. You could be a chimpanzee as a witness—it won’t make a difference. What happened two weeks ago is a perfect example of why ‘Strict Liability’ is largely the law of the land. All I have to do is show that a rollercoaster caused death and injury. That there was no intervening cause—such as, say, an earthquake or tornado, or some other cause that made the tragedy happen other than just the fact that it was a faulty rollercoaster. I don’t have to even prove negligence—I just have to show that this machine caused the horrible tragedy and that nothing else was involved. So…as I said…a slam dunk.”
Shelby looked up from the document. “This will probably bankrupt Flying Machines Inc.”
“Well, that depends on how much liability insurance they have. But…yes…even after the insurance pays, the company will probably drop into a graveyard. Their reputation will be shot.”
“You haven’t even asked me how I’m doing. How my injuries have healed, or how my mental state is.”
Dwayne shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter to me. I’m suing for 500 million collectively—how the plaintiffs’ 300 million share gets divided is not really my concern. You can tell your story to the judge and jury—they might decide to apportion more to you based on that. But—none of that changes the total amount that I’m suing for.”
Shelby frowned at him. “Why do you even need me?”
“As a witness, with your testimony, it will drive home the horror of it all—describing what you went through makes the horror real for the jury. The point is, with Strict Liability we’re not going to be arguing ‘fault.’ The only thing that will be debated in court is ‘quantum;’ in other words, just the amount that will have to be paid. Strict Liability makes the lawsuit a sure thing—but not a sure thing as far as the amount is concerned. That’s where I…the families…need you. Your story will sufficiently horrify everyone, which will jack up the amount that they decide to award. It’ll sensationalize it; know what I mean? We’re suing for both compensatory and punitive damages in this case. The compensatory damages are easy to ascertain: the loss of an income that would have been earned to the families; the future care needed for the families; college educations for their kids, etc. But it’s the punitive damages part where the case needs you—those kinds of damages are intended to punish. They have nothing to do with anything specific such as lost earnings—they have everything to do with the horror value and how much the judge or jury feels that Flying Machines Inc. needs to be pun
ished.”
“But, isn’t it just the insurance company that really gets punished?”
“Well, yes…as long as Flying Machines has enough liability insurance. If they don’t, the company has to pay out of their own capital.”
Shelby shook her head in disbelief and continued reading. Then she stopped. “Hey, this isn’t right. Where did you get this information?”
“What?”
“This document says that once the coaster hit the split in the track the lap bars unlocked from the shock of the impact of the front car buckling.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not right. I discovered that my lap bar was unlocked before we even reached the top of the second hill. I remember being afraid that once we careened over the top of the hill that my body would simply lift out of the train. The hill was so steep there was no way that lap bar would have kept me in. In fact, regardless of the split in the track we were all dead the minute those lap bars unlocked. The track didn’t need to split in half to kill us. Luckily, I lifted myself up, out, and away from the doomed train as soon as it hit the split in the track. But no one else did. My seatmate Cheryl Sanders was gone the moment the train buckled—she got thrown, I guess, and I noticed her bar was in the ‘up’ position.”
The lawyer scratched his chin. “You must be mistaken.”
Shelby slapped the document onto the lawyer’s desk. “I am NOT mistaken! I know what happened! Those bars were already useless before we even reached the top of the hill. I can’t sign this document. And when we reach court, I will tell the correct version of this story.”
“You’re mistaken, Shelly.”
Shelby smacked the palm of her hand down on his desk. “If I have to correct my name with you one more time I’m going to scream!”
Dwayne sheepishly started shuffling through his file again, until he found what he wanted. He waved the piece of paper at her. “This is the preliminary report from the NTSB—it states clearly that their investigation shows that the lap bars were crippled from the violent impact of the front car with the broken track—that it jackknifed, causing the lap bar ratchet locks to fail electronically.”