Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor

by Paul Levine

  Discussion

  First, Atlantica correctly notes that the federal government exclusively regulates matters of air safety and flight operations. This federal regulatory scheme was enacted to ensure the safety of all passengers by centralizing rule-making authority and promulgating uniform federal airline regulations. Atlantica further points out that the 1978 Airline Deregulation Act includes a preemption provision “prohibiting the States from enforcing any law ‘relating to rates, routes, or services’ of any air carrier.” Morales v. Trans World Airlines, Inc., 504 U.S. 374 (1992) (finding that this clause preempted state consumer protection law restricting the advertising of airline fares). Atlantica contends that this action involves questions of airline “services,” which are controlled by the federal law and therefore are outside the scope of state law. The Court agrees. Because federal law does not provide a private cause of action, Plaintiffs have no remedy. Although this result may seem harsh, this Court has no authority to create such a cause of action; it is a matter for Congress to consider and address.

  Moreover, Plaintiffs’ claims against the Airline fail for the additional reason that they have not presented any evidence of negligence. While not conclusive, the evidence of record is that the crash of Flight 640 appears to have been caused by an explosive device planted by unknown third parties. There has been no showing of any error of commission or omission on the part of Atlantica that contributed to the planting of such a bomb. It is Plaintiffs’ burden to demonstrate such evidence.

  Because Plaintiffs have failed to demonstrate a genuine issue of fact as to the essential element of negligence, their claim fails on this ground as well.

  WHEREFORE, the Court grants Atlantica’s motion for summary judgment as to all claims raised in the complaint.

  Norman T. Schenkel, Judge

  CHAPTER 3

  One Giant Step

  LISA FREMONT STIRRED, CRAWLING THROUGH the cobwebs of sleep, grasping at the fragile tendrils of an early morning dream. Through the fog, she saw herself stretched between Max Wanaker and Sam Truitt, who were playing tug-of-war with her.

  “I love you,” Max was saying, pulling at one arm.

  “But I respect you,” Sam Truitt countered, pulling the other arm.

  “I need your help!” Max pleaded.

  “But your loyalty is to the law,” Truitt said.

  I want it all, she thought, waking up with a ferocious headache.

  She had a breakfast of three Tylenol and black coffee. Max was gone, having left early to meet the lawyers for another session at the FAA, contesting a surprise inspection report.

  Lisa had slept restlessly, her mind churning at the prospect of the job interview. She awoke several times, and now another dream came back to her. She and Max were in New York at a Broadway show. While in the office, he was a gruff corporate executive snarling at underlings, but take him to Les Miserables, and he’ll burst into tears the first time Fantine sings, “I Dreamed a Dream.”

  Maybe that’s why I still care for him. But is it love or a mixture of debt, gratitude, and nostalgia?

  Which made her wonder.

  If I’m trying to change, if I’m trying to be different from Max, why do this? I want to believe in ethics and fairness and all the flowery words in all those dusty books. Why don’t I? Why can’t I?

  She’d gone through so many changes that her life, which had once seemed so simple—should I wear the black fishnet stockings with the see-through toreador’s jacket?—had become incredibly complex. Including the really big questions.

  Who am I? What do I believe in?

  She didn’t know.

  Late last night, they’d ordered Thai takeout and watched a movie. Just like being married. They had made love, but her heart wasn’t in it. It had become a mundane duty. A routine parting of the legs and disengagement of mind from body. Really like being married, she supposed.

  Lisa wanted more. She wanted a man she would long for when they were apart, cherish when they were together. Sure, it sounded like soap opera stuff, but she’d had it once, oh so briefly, with Tony.

  Lisa proceeded to get dressed, or rather to get dressed and undressed several times. She began with the double-breasted navy blazer. Three of them, actually, spread across her bed. One had natural shoulders and white buttons, the second padded shoulders and gold buttons, both with three-inch lapels, while the third was collarless.

  After modeling them all in the bedroom mirror, she chose the one with gold buttons, a nautical flair.

  If he hires me, I’ll probably get all the damned admiralty cases. And if he doesn’t, I will have let Max down, something he never did to me.

  She stood in front of the mirror, holding the jacket under her chin. The strong, dark color suited her fair complexion and blue eyes. Okay, so they weren’t really blue. They just took on whatever color framed her face. They became emeralds if she was dressed in her Sherwood Forest aerobics outfit, as she called the kelly green tights and leotard. They looked like the shallow, turquoise water off St. Kitts if she wore the light blue silk scarf knotted at her neck. In the mustard business suit she bought on sale at Saks, an instantly regretted purchase, her eyes assumed a hazel cast.

  She held up two blouses, both silk and pearly white, one with a mandarin collar, the other a V-neck. She had a good neck, so why not show it. Of course, under that theory, she should also show her ass.

  She tossed the clothing onto the bed, the silk blouse sliding to the floor, the blazer joining a jumble of suits, dresses, and jackets already modeled, critiqued, and discarded. Now she was naked, studying herself in the mirror. It had been ten years. Strange, she looked younger now than she had as an underage dancer —“never say stripper, you’re an exotic dancer”—in her black garter belts, matching thong, and that awful red satin bolero jacket. And the makeup! Thick eyeliner on top and bottom lids, smeared upward to give a catlike look of sexual ferocity, her lips painted a deep crimson.

  Who was I then? Who am I now?

  “I’m Lisa Fremont,” she said to the mirror, extending her right hand to an imaginary interviewer.

  “Ah yes, Ms. Fremont,” dropping her voice to a masculine timbre. “I’ve reviewed your curriculum vitae, and I must say, you have an impressive background.”

  She laughed. “You don’t know the half of it, Justice Truitt.”

  She gave good interview—top of the class, a first-rate law review note on the right of privacy, and street-smarts that her Ivy League competitors couldn’t match—so why was she so nervous? Another interview came back to her. In her last semester at Stanford, she had applied to one of San Francisco’s largest and stuffiest law firms. She’d gone to lunch with the senior partner and two young male associates—all suspenders, cuff links, and pearly California teeth. They were at the Big Four, a mahogany mausoleum honoring four railroad tycoons, a place so masculine that testosterone replaces the vermouth in the martinis. The old coot was rambling on about the glory of representing insurance companies, banks, and manufacturers with an unfortunate predilection—his lawyerly term—for producing exploding tires, collapsing ladders, and toxic pharmaceuticals. She listened politely, ignoring the two boy-toy lawyers whose leers suggested they couldn’t wait to bend her over a stack of Corpus Juris Secundum. She wasn’t halfway through her Dungeness crab cocktail when the boss patted his worsted wool suit pocket and turned to her apologetically. “It appears I’ve left your curriculum vitae in the office. Could you orally refresh me?”

  The two associates snorted vichyssoise up their nasal cavities, faces turning the same color as their power burgundy ties.

  “No,” Lisa answered, politely, “but I have a couple of girlfriends who’d love to.”

  She didn’t want the job, anyway. Or rather, Max didn’t want her to have the job. He was already talking about the court of appeals job, a great stepping stone to clerking for the Supremes.

  Lisa Fremont, clerk on the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia. That had seemed
like the top of the world. But now, this …

  After a year clerking on the appeals court, she applied for a job with Samuel Adams Truitt, the newest Justice on the Supreme Court, whose vote Max’s lawyers said they needed if they were to win. Neither Max nor his deep-carpet mouthpieces could help her now. To be a law clerk on the Supreme Court of the United States, you had to earn it.

  She studied herself in the mirror. She had long legs with more than a hint of muscle in the calves, a legacy of the dancing. Her stomach was flat and her bottom tight, countess squats in the gym compensating for sitting on her ass the last twelve months in the chambers of Judge Mary Alice O’Brien, a sixty-six-year-old Reagan appointee who sipped bourbon during recess.

  Still looking in the mirror, Lisa arched her back and stood, hip shot, an old pose from the club. Her firm, high breasts were too small for her prior line of work, Lisa had thought, until Sheila, the mother hen and oldest stripper, told her, “It ain’t what you got, honey, it’s what you do with what you got.”

  From the Tiki Club to the Supreme Court. One small step for a woman, one giant leap for a stripper.

  Now, she put on her makeup, a light foundation that covered the sprinkling of freckles across her narrow nose. Her cheekbones, already strong, took on new contours with a light dusting of blush. An almost invisible application of mauve eye shadow and a coral lipstick followed. She’d already blow-dried her short, reddish blonde hair that, like her eyes, changed color in different surroundings, taking on golden red highlights at times, becoming a flaming forest fire in direct sunlight. She’d gone through law school and her one-year clerkship with a shoulder-length layered shag. She cut her hair after her visit last spring to Harvard, a week after Professor Sam Truitt’s appointment but before his grueling confirmation hearings. She’d sat in the back of the lecture hall, listening and watching … and learning. Not about natural law versus positive law—she’d already read Truitt’s articles—but about the man.

  The hall had been packed. No Socratic inquiry this day. It was a straight lecture, or rather a performance. The tall, handsome, broad-shouldered professor, a youthful, sandy-haired forty-six—as different from his faculty colleagues as she was from her fellow students bounded across the stage, taking the class on a trip, dramatically tracing the history of the law, the entire range of rights and responsibilities from the Code of Hammurabi to modern teenage curfews. Playing several roles, Sam Truitt became Madison and Hamilton

  tackling federalism, Zola shouting “J’accuse!,” John Marshall Harlan dissenting against segregation, and Clarence Darrow pleading for the lives of Leopold and Loeb: “Why did they kill little Bobby Franks? They killed him because they were made that way, and that calls not for hate but for kindness.”

  Affecting a Boston accent, standing ramrod straight, he became Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr., the magnificent Yankee: “When the people want to do something and I can’t find anything in the Constitution expressly forbidding them, I say, whether I like it or not, Goddamn it let ‘em do it!”

  He drew raucous laughter as Dickens’s Mr. Bumble, who, having been told that the law presumes a man to control his wife’s actions, responded, “If the law supposes that, the law is an ass, an idiot!”

  Near the end, he became Willy Loman, telling his boss, “I put thirty-four years into this firm, Howard, and now I can’t pay my insurance. You can’t eat the orange and throw the peel away.” Then he asked his students to consider the moral and legal issues of Willy’s suicide and whether the life insurance company should pay his widow. Before anyone could think it through, he was George in Of Mice and Men, shooting Lennie to spare him from a lifetime of imprisonment, asking what George should be charged with, and what are the moral differences between his actions and those of Dr. Kevorkian?

  Cooking a stew of history and law, morality and philosophy, fact and fiction, Truitt mesmerized the students. Here was a professor who was witty and entertaining, profane and profound, charismatic and charming. It was a breathtaking performance, and afterward, the students stood and applauded for several minutes, whistling their approval, stomping their feet, crowding around him, peppering him with questions. Many of the women—Lisa included—desired him. She had to remind herself that this was a job, that Sam Truitt was her mark, and what she had to sell was herself instead of a seventy-five-dollar bottle of carbonated champagne in the Tiki VIP room.

  But he was so damned smart and so damned sexy. What a powerful combination. In the tepid tea of academe, Truitt was a bracing shot of vodka on the rocks. Law professor as rock star.

  She allowed herself a small fantasy. She was in the library of the Supreme Court, deep in the tall stacks, searching for some obscure precedent among the dusty volumes. She stood on tiptoes and stretched to pull down a volume, but it was too high. Standing behind her, Sam Truitt reached up and plucked the book from the shelf. Their bodies touched. She turned, and his arms slipped around her waist, pulling her close. She rubbed against him, an affectionate cat, and they kissed, a magical kiss that swept her away. Away from her past, from Max … from reality. She even tried out the name, Lisa Truitt, repeating it silently, then chasing the thought away. How juvenile! Sam Truitt was one of the elite. What would he see in her? Besides, dummy, he’s married.

  The day after the lecture, Lisa hung around the student lounge, where several female students were sipping coffee when one gestured toward a tall, short-haired blonde with pouty lips who breezed in, sat down, crossed her long legs, and pulled a cellular phone from her briefcase.

  “Guess who’s cutting Truitt’s con law seminar,” said one of the women, the apparent leader of the group.

  “Teacher’s pet,” another answered, a plump young woman in round glasses. “God, he likes that Eurotrash, just-back-from-Monaco look. Remember the research assistant last year. Another shorthaired blonde.”

  “Why go to class,” the first one said, “if you can get briefed up close and personal?”

  “He does like that lean and hungry look,” an Asian woman agreed.

  “I’m having fantasies about Sam Bam Truitt,” the first woman said, “and they don’t have anything to do with the due process clause.”

  The other women giggled.

  She turned toward Lisa. “We’re going to play the desert island game. Are you in?”

  “Sure. What are the rules?”

  “We determine the world’s sexiest man by the process of elimination. We start with two men, and you have to choose who you’d rather be stranded with on a desert island. We eliminate the other one and keep going. I’ll begin. John F. Kennedy Jr. and Sam Truitt.”

  “Ooh, tough one,” the plump one said. “Does Truitt get a bonus for passing the bar the first time?”

  “Up to you. It’s your fantasy.”

  “I’ll take Sam Truitt,” Lisa broke in. “He reminds me of a cross between Harrison Ford and Jeff Bridges.”

  “No, he’s more wicked,” another said. “Like Nick Nolte.”

  “Yeah,” the plump one said, “and most of the profs look like Pee-Wee Herman.”

  More laughter, and Lisa moved on. The day she returned home from Cambridge, she went to a trendy Georgetown salon, Curl Up and Dye, and had her hair cut into a shorter, layered “Princess Di.” She did it partly to look more professional, like a network television anchor, and partly to appeal to Sam Bam Truitt’s tastes.

  If he’s attracted to me, it will be easier.

  But she was also attracted to him and wondered if that would make what she had to do even more difficult.

  Now Lisa finished dressing, putting on the white silk blouse, then a taupe-colored skirt, a below-the-knee number with four darts that clung to her waist and flattered her shape. She tucked the blouse under the narrow waistband of the skirt, then stepped into closed Ferragamo pumps with three inch-heels, maybe just a touch higher than necessary.

  She lifted her chin and draped a double strand of South Sea pearls around her neck—a gift from Max—latching the chain carefu
lly, then put on the matching earrings, a tasteful single pearl on a solid gold post. She slipped into the blazer and placed a silk pocket square in the breast pocket, smoothing it with her hand. She put two extra copies of her curriculum vitae in a soft-sided burgundy briefcase, imagining it stuffed with certiorari petitions, legal pads, and weighty briefs.

  “I’m going to get this job,” she sang out, putting a tune to it. She was heading for the door when the phone rang.

  “I need a baby-sitter,” said the male voice.

  “Greg!”

  “Just called to wish you luck. Today’s the day, right?”

  “In twenty minutes.”

  “Go get ‘em. You’re the best.”

  “Thanks, kid.”

  In her mind’s eye, she still saw little Greg Kingston in the Giants cap pounding his first baseman’s mitt, asking her for a game of catch because Dad was away, stationed in Germany or Florida or somewhere that sounded a million miles from Bodega Bay. She pictured the white clapboard house up the hill, gray smoke swirling from the chimney, Greg’s grandmother in the kitchen baking fruit pies.

  She remembered running out of her own house one night, her drunken father diving for her legs as she flew off the porch, his calloused fisherman’s hands clawing at her. She stumbled and scraped a knee, then scampered up the hill where Greg’s grandmother took her in and dribbled iodine on the wound. For a time, at least, she’d found a haven from fear, a place where she could close her eyes without fear of what she would see upon awakening.

  At twelve years old, she was Greg’s baby-sitter but soon became part of the family. Greg’s mother had long since taken off, and Tony was still on active duty, so the skinny eight-year-old boy with the hair falling in his eyes became the little brother she never had. Although he was now a handsome, lanky twenty-three-old with a mischievous grin, he would always be the kid wanting to play catch.

  When she was in law school and had broken off with Max, Lisa returned home to visit Greg and found Tony there. He was nineteen years her senior, though still slightly younger than Max. She caught Tony’s look when they said hello.