by Paul Levine
She focused a businesslike smile on Sam Truitt. In the past two hours, she thought, they had learned all about each other. Or had they? She’d already known him. And he only thought he knew her. For a moment, looking into his blue-gray eyes, she thought there was a glimmer of recognition, that he saw through the gaps in her resume and in her life, that somehow he glimpsed the abyss that separated who she had been from who she had become. But if he had sensed anything wrong, why had he hired her?
She broke eye contact, and he released her hands. “Thank you, Judge. I’ll try to live up to your expectations.”
“You and me both,” he said, laughing, giving her a warm smile. Then his voice dropped nearly to a whisper and his brow furrowed. “Lisa, we have a chance to do wonderful work here. Not just to resolve individual disputes, but to set the tone for civilization, to draw boundaries for conduct, to define fundamental rights and responsibilities, and to right wrongs. We’re the conscience of society and the buffer between the government and the governed, striking the balance between the state and the individual. We protect against anarchy on the one hand and dictatorship on the other. Our job is to breathe life into that glorious two-hundred-year-old document they keep under glass a few blocks west of here. God help me, I hope we’re both up to the task.”
Lisa stood in stunned silence. What could she say? Oh, I’m sure you’ll combine the wisdom of Solomon with the compassion of Gandhi and the strength of Zeus. And I’ll be right there beside you … corrupting the process, violating everything you believe in.
She had never known anyone like Sam Truitt. He was truly afraid of falling short, of failing to live up to his own standards and those who came before him. Here was a Galahad whose greatest fear was that he could not attain the Holy Grail.
She admired and respected this man who was honest and devoted to principles, not to the accumulation of power and personal wealth. He was everything Max Wanaker wasn’t. What a sad irony that she had to betray Sam Truitt’s trust and tarnish his beloved bronze statues. For a moment, she felt such shame that she could not look him in the eyes.
He guided her toward the door, grabbing his coat for the walk down the corridor to the chief’s chambers. “Wait!” he said at the last moment, and she tensed.
What is it? Has he seen through me? Maybe he’s the mind reader!
“I’ve completely failed to ask what substantive areas of the law interest you,” he said.
With the self-discipline and poise that had brought her so far, she chased away the guilt and the fear. “Aviation law has always fascinated me,” Lisa Fremont said.
* * *
IN THE
SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES
GLORIA LAUBACH,
individually and as
representative of the
Estate of Howard J. Laubach,
deceased, et al.
Petitioners,
vs.
ATLANTICA AIRLINES, INC.,
Respondent.
ON PETITION FOR A WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE ELEVENTH CIRCUIT
PETITION FOR A WRIT OF CERTIORARI
QUESTIONS PRESENTED
Whether the 1978 Airline Deregulation Act bars Petitioner’s claims under the Florida Wrongful Death Act for the death of her husband in the crash of a commercial aircraft, and if there is no such federal remedy, leaves Petitioner without the right to sue for money damages?
Whether Petitioner presented sufficient evidence as to Respondent’s negligence so as to preclude the entry of summary judgment and to permit jury consideration of that issue?
* * *
REASON FOR GRANTING THE WRIT
The decision below (a) radically departs from established case law; (b) subverts the intention of Congress; and (c) immunizes the tortfeasor from liability, thus permitting a wrong without a remedy, an abhorrent result in a case involving the deaths of nearly three hundred persons.
Respectfully submitted,
Albert M. Goldman, Esq.
CHAPTER 5
Reservoir Dog
LISA DROVE AROUND FOR HOURS before heading back to the apartment. She passed the Washington Monument, the circle of American flags crackling in the autumn breeze. She drove by
the elm trees and the Reflecting Pool, and just as the lights came on, she curled behind the Lincoln Memorial with its distinctive Doric columns resembling the Parthenon. She slowed the car and fought the urge to join the tourists and walk up to old Abe—now dramatically backlit—and soak up all that corn-pone Americana. Thinking about it, she felt like a character in a black-and-white movie, Ms. Fremont Goes to Washington.
What she was feeling now was every bit as hokey as the old Frank Capra tearjerker. A vague disquiet settled over her as she considered notions of justice and honor and the young Scrap Truitt sweating on the football field in a noble but losing effort.
How could I do it? How could I sit there and smile and wow him with my intellect, all the time planning to sabotage his treasured work? How low can I go?
She crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge and headed to the national cemetery, parking the car and sitting there in the enveloping darkness. Scattershot thoughts raced through her mind, but one kept returning, kept nagging at her.
“Tell me about Lisa Fremont, the person.”
No. You wouldn’t like Lisa Fremont, the person. But I can change. I want to believe all the flowery phrases about duty and justice and principle. Sam, I want to be like you!
She didn’t want to be like Max. She was angry with him for manipulating her.
“After all I’ve done for you, don’t you think you owe me this?”
No! Not this.
She believed there was a time in a person’s life when one decision affects everything else. You head down that crooked side road one mile too far, and you’ll never get back on the highway. But it wasn’t too late to play it straight, and this time, there was nothing Max could say that would change her mind. When she got back to the apartment, she’d tell him. Not only wouldn’t she try to sway Justice Truitt’s vote on the Atlantica case, she’d recuse herself from even preparing the bench memo.
Her cellular phone rang, startling her. It was Max, wondering when she’d get home. She told him she’d gotten the job; she left for later the rest of the day’s news.
Max didn’t congratulate her, just mumbled uh-huh, like it was no big deal.
Like every day a poor girl from Bodega Bay, a teenage runaway, an underage stripper with no future, gets to be a law clerk on the Supreme Court of the United States.
Now, she had prospects. Entree into the biggest and best law firms. Before taking the clerking job on the D.C. Circuit, she’d been interviewed by a Chicago firm with offices in London, Paris, Moscow, and Rome. Hadn’t the managing partner told her to keep in touch, to call him when her clerkship was over? Well, a year from now, she could waltz right in there. Law firms fall all over one another competing for young lawyers who have sat at the foot of the throne.
Hey, Max, guess what. A leopard can change her spots.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said on the cellular. “We have to talk.”
“Yeah, we do,” he said.
* * *
Two men in suits were waiting inside Lisa’s apartment. Max Wanaker was sleek in his jet black Armani with a thin pinstripe. Theodore Shakanian wore a baggy charcoal gray Wal-Mart special and brown shoes. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and Lisa shot him an angry look. She didn’t let Max or anyone else smoke in her apartment. Lisa knew little about Shakanian, other than the fact that his office was adjacent to Max’s in Atlantica’s Miami headquarters and he was an ex-cop from New York. Ever since the crash in the Everglades, the two men seemed to be spending a lot of time together.
Max looked grim, his face drawn. “I think you know Shank,” he said, gesturing toward Atlantica’s head of security, a lanky man with three days of black stubble sprouting from an acne-scarred face.
“I do,” she said. “I just don’t recall inviting him over.”
Max forced a laugh and smiled apologetically at Shank. “Lisa’s always been territorial. Like a cat.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Put your briefcase down and relax,” Max said. “Shank will explain it.”
She tossed the briefcase at Max, who caught it just before it clipped him in the forehead. He gently placed it on a sofa of white Haitian cotton.
“Congratulations on getting your new job,” Shank said, his voice gravelly, like tires crunching loose stones.
“Thank you,” she said without enthusiasm. “What’s going on?”
Why the hell was Max spreading the news?
She’d seen Shank several times in the last few years but had never exchanged more than a casual greeting. A sullen, homely man, he stood perhaps an inch above six feet and had a Sergeant Joe Friday flattop that was so out-of-date it had come back into style. He looked to be between forty and fifty, there was no way to tell. Either he owned only one suit, or he had a closet full of the gray ones, which he always wore with a white shirt and a gray and black tie. She had only seen him once without the suit, in Max’s hotel suite in Paris at the annual air show. He was speaking on the phone in a combination of English and what sounded like Japanese and was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Lisa had been surprised at the size of his arms. In a suit, he looked rangy, even underweight. In the snug, short-sleeve shirt, she could see thick wrists and powerful, cabled forearms. On one forearm was the tattoo of a knife slicing a heart down the middle.
“Right now, you’ve got the most important job of anybody at the airline,” Shank said, exhaling a plume of smoke, “and your enterprise falls under my jurisdiction.”
Lisa wheeled toward Max, the anger building. This was supposed to be between the two of them. Now it was an enterprise. A phrase came back to her from criminal law class: the RICO statute and “racketeering enterprises.” She pictured the FBI, the U.S. attorney task force, and a grand jury all probing into their little enterprise.
“Damnit, Max, I thought I was doing a personal favor for you. Now, it’s a corporate job? Who else knows? Did you put it in the shareholders’ report?”
“Calm down, Lisa,” Max said. “Let me fix you a drink.” He walked to the liquor cabinet and tossed some vodka over ice, pouring in bottled orange juice from the minirefrigerator below the wet bar. Then he poured another for himself, his hands trembling. He wouldn’t look her in the eyes.
“I don’t want a drink,” she said angrily. “I want you out of my apartment.”
Max shrugged, chugged one of the screwdrivers, and appropriated the other, carrying it to the sofa where he sat down, apparently content to sit out the dance.
“Your apartment is paid for by Atlantica,” Shank said with a sneer, “so I tend to look at it as corporate property and you, Ms. Fremont, as a corporate asset.”
Lisa fought to control her rage. She had worked so hard to be independent, to be free of anyone else’s control, that she felt violated by the man’s presence in her home. “You can’t invade my privacy like this! You can’t take over my life.”
Shank didn’t move. He looked amused, watching her as a fleck of ash fell from his cigarette to the red and gold Persian rug.
Lisa wheeled toward Max, waiting for an explanation, for something that would make sense. After a long pull of the screwdriver, he said, “A matter as sensitive as this, I had to bring in Shank.”
“And who else?”
“The general counsel, but no one else.”
“You told Flaherty! Why not just take an ad in the Post?”
“Flaherty had to know. He’s the one who ran the projections. All the judges’ opinions were run through the computer and stacked up against the facts of our case. The vote came out four-four. Truitt’s new. He’s the swing vote. If we get him, we win. If we don’t, we lose.”
She walked toward the faux fireplace, turning away from both men to gather her thoughts. “Then you’re in a lot of trouble. Has Flaherty read Truitt’s law review articles, his speeches? Does he know Truitt was a card-carrying member of the ACLU when he was a young professor? That he did a stint in the Peace Corps? Does he know that every Thanksgiving he still dishes out sweet potatoes at a homeless shelter? In a dispute between corporate executives and widows and orphans, which way do you think he’ll vote?”
“Everyone has his price!’ Max said.
“Wrong! Everyone you know has his price, but you don’t know Sam Truitt. He really believes the stuff that’s carved into the marble, the basic decency of people, the rule of law. Trust me. He’s not the kind of man you can buy.”
Shank cleared his throat. “That’s exactly why you’re so important, Lisa.”
It was the first time he’d ever called her by her given name, and for a reason she couldn’t articulate, she didn’t like the familiarity.
“We’re counting on you to persuade your boss that Atlantica should win,” Shank said. “Simple as that.”
“When two hundred eighty-eight people die in a plane crash, it’s not so simple.” She was growing even more furious.
“The trial court ruled for us,” Shank said, smirking, “and so did the appeals court. It’s not Atlantica’s fault if some crazy Cubans bombed the plane.”
“Shank’s right,” Max piped up. “The trial judge found we weren’t negligent.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, do you? You don’t need my help.”
Shank smiled, or at least, he bared his teeth, small and jagged like eroded slivers of rock. “Maybe not, but we like to think we’ve bought some insurance.”
“Sorry, I’m not for sale.”
Shank’s teeth vanished, and little vertical furrows appeared on his sloping forehead. “Max led me to believe you’d already been paid for.”
Damn him!
“Max,” she said, casting him a murderous glance, “is behind the times. Here’s a news flash. I didn’t go to law school to join some conspiracy that could put me in jail. I don’t work for Atlantica, and I don’t work for Max. As of today, I’m an employee of the United States government, and I’m not going to prostitute myself for you or anyone else.”
“What!” Max was staring at her, wide-eyed. “Lisa. Lisa, darling, I thought we had a deal.”
“There are no more deals, and there never will be. Now, you two are conspiring to obstruct justice, and I want you out of here.”
Shank’s laugh crackled like dead leaves underfoot. “Hey, Max. Call a cop. We’re obstructing justice here.”
Looking worried, not laughing at all, Max hurriedly stood and walked toward Lisa, who stiffened and folded her arms across her chest.
“Lisa, just hear Shank out,” Max said, agitated. “Please. For me.”
She’d never seen him this way, so nervous and unsure. There was i a shift of power going on here, but why?
Jesus, Max. You’re his boss. Why are you deferring to this glorified security guard?
“You’ve got five minutes,” she said, “and then the two of you can get out of here.”
Max nodded thankfully and returned to the sofa and his drink.
Shank ground out his cigarette in a crystal bowl on the coffee ! table and said, “We need you to use whatever legal mumbo jumbo you can come up with to win the case.”
Mumbo jumbo? Oh, that’s clever. Try to fool the guy who’s maybe the smartest legal mind in America.
“But if you can’t persuade him with the law,” Shank continued, “we have a backup plan.”
“Really? And what would that be?”
His smile was a leer. “Max showed me your bedroom, all frilly and smelling of powders and perfumes.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Lisa exploded. “What do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” Shank said. “What do you think you are?”
She was so astonished by his tone, by the insinuation, that she was momentarily speechless. Who was this thu
g to insult the boss’s girlfriend, to throw his weight around with Max standing right there? Jesus, she didn’t have to take this. Incensed, she turned to Max. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that?”
Max looked as if he might have a stroke. “Lisa, please—”
“It’s not enough that you’re planting an agent on the Court you want me to seduce Truitt, too.”
“We’re just counting on you to do what you do best Lisa,” Shank said.
“And what would that be?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “Say it!”
Shank moved closer, drilling her with his dark eyes. His face was just above hers, invading her space, making her skin crawl, as if she’d just walked into a cobweb. She fought the urge to flinch and turn away.
Max, how could you let this lowlife bully me?
When Shank was close enough for Lisa to see every acne crater and smell his sour breath, when he filled her entire range of vision, . when she felt both a distinct revulsion and a palpable fear, he spoke in a snarl, “You’ll fuck him, Lisa. You’ll fuck him real good.”
“Bastard!” She whirled toward Max. “Did you hear that? This has gotten way out of hand. Since when am I taking orders from your rent-a-cop flunky?”
Shank laughed again, the sound of a rottweiler barking. “Is that what you told her, Max, that I’m your flunky?”
“Now see here, Shank … ,” Max said, making a jerky gesture with his arm and spilling his drink, his voice trailing off.
Lisa looked at Max in astonishment.
“Now see here?” Like some effete character in a tux straight out of Noel Fucking Coward.
“Get the hell out of my apartment, both of you!” Lisa shouted.