Miles To Go Before I Sleep

by Jackie Nink Pflug

  I didn’t hear him speak, but felt him saying, “You’re still mine. I still gottcha. You can’t get away from me.”

  I’d fight back, saying, “Leave me alone!”

  Shortly before I was scheduled to testify in Malta, I reached a crisis. I was afraid to travel and said I wanted someone to protect me. I was afraid that Rezaq’s buddies might show up and kill some of us who were planning to testify.

  It wasn’t an idle concern. The FBI received a lot of information on the continuing activities of terrorist groups in the region. There was always a concern that Libya or another group might attempt to disrupt the trial. Days before the hijacker was arraigned on charges of murder and attempted murder, a bomb exploded at the Libyan Cultural Institute in Malta, a short distance from the law courts. No injuries were reported, but the blast damaged a library. Nobody claimed responsibility.

  Malta guarded Rezaq around the clock, which took a lot of resources for a country with such a small military and police force. According to FBI sources, the Maltese wanted to be rid of him, but they were caught in a political mess: if they handed him over to the United States, they would anger Egypt, Libya, Greece, and several other countries who wanted to try him. In the end, it was politically expedient for Malta to try him there.

  I called my contact person at the FBI, and she agreed to assign two bodyguards to protect me. They were all set to meet Scott and me at the Minneapolis airport and fly with us to Malta. As the trial date approached, I felt more and more jittery about going to Malta, even for a few days.

  In my head I wanted to go, to make sure justice was done. I wanted to put the guy away. But my body kept saying no. I didn’t want to go back and live through the hijacking all over again. I didn’t want to see or be in the same room with the man who shot me. I didn’t want to look into his eyes.

  I knew it was too soon for me to make the trip back to Malta. I was shaking and scared inside. I was terrified by the mere prospect of getting on a plane again.

  In February 1986, I called my FBI contact in Washington, D.C. I was crying on the phone. “I can’t do it, I just can’t,” I told her. I felt as though I was letting everybody down by not going to tell my story in court.

  “That’s okay, Jackie,” she said, gently.

  I was so glad that she wasn’t mad at me for changing my mind.

  “I’d like to be able to do something to help you put this guy away. Is there any other way I can help? Could I tell my story here in Minnesota?”

  “Sure, we can do something in Minnesota,” she said. “You can testify there. We’ll have someone take your statement.”

  Two FBI agents from the Minneapolis bureau, a man and a woman, came to our apartment and escorted me to the federal courthouse in Minneapolis. A prosecuting attorney from Malta and a court-appointed public defender representing the hijacker also flew to Minnesota to be present during my testimony.

  I was scared when we entered the large, empty courtroom, but the court officials made me feel safe. They ordered the courtroom cleared except for myself, the attorneys, and the FBI agents. They sat me down in the witness stand, and I took the oath.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the clerk asked.

  “I do.”

  The questions began. First, the prosecutor asked me to describe the hijacking step by step—what happened and when. He was a kind man.

  Then it was the defense lawyer’s turn. I’d been terrified by the prospect of facing the man assigned to defend the hijacker who shot me. But the person in front of me was not to be feared. He was a short, bald man with kind eyes. He obviously was sympathetic to me. He was appointed by the court and was there to do his job.

  “Do you remember the man who shot you? Can you describe his physical appearance for the court?” he asked.

  “Well, he had straight hair and very piercing eyes,” I began….

  The lawyers asked me to look at some pictures and see if I could pick out the hijacker who shot me. I did. At the time, however, I wasn’t sure if I’d picked out the right man.

  CHAPTER 7

  CHECK THE ORANGE JUICE

  ABOUT THREE MONTHS AFTER THE HIJACKING, in mid-February 1986, Scott and I moved out of his parents house and into a two-bedroom apartment in Minnetonka, a western suburb of Minneapolis. We decided we needed to get a place of our own. Naively, perhaps, I still expected us to settle down quickly and get back to a “normal” married life—whatever that meant. I did my best to get on with life, but it wasn’t working.

  Scott and I both experienced the frustration of living with a head-injured person. There were plenty of times when we’d be leaving to go somewhere and I’d say, “Wait, I have to brush my teeth”—which I’d just done ten minutes before. One time I told Scott I couldn’t find my coat. I began searching the apartment from top to bottom—until Scott pointed out that I was wearing it.

  Scott was often frustrated with having to repeat things to me all the time. “I just told you that, Jackie!” he often said.

  There were other stresses. The Cairo American College honored our teaching contracts and paid our salaries for the rest of the year, but Scott had trouble finding work in Minnesota. Teaching jobs were scarce, and none of the local school districts needed a physical education teacher. Scott had a letter of reference from U.S. Senator David Durenberger, urging employers to give him an interview and explaining our circumstances, but it didn’t seem to help much. He got some interviews at Pillsbury and, at one point, was offered a management trainee position at a fast-food restaurant, but he wasn’t interested.

  Scott did part-time painting and other odd jobs to help support us, but the work was spotty and low paying. Scott also worked as a caretaker at the Stratford Woods apartment building, which allowed us to live there without paying rent.

  Meanwhile, my medical bills were still skyrocketing. How were we going to pay them, plus our regular expenses? The crushing financial pressure was hard to bear.

  A few months later, a friend of mine in Baytown, Texas, gave us the name of a lawyer at Kreindler and Kreindler, a New York law firm specializing in personal injury lawsuits for people injured or hurt in airplane crashes, accidents, or hijackings involving airplanes. Frank Fleming, a lawyer at the firm, offered to file a lawsuit against EgyptAir to try and recover some damages to help pay for my hospital bills and compensate us for the pain and suffering I’d gone through.

  Fleming took a personal interest in the case. He hoped to change the international treaty covering personal injury cases, which he said was hopelessly outdated. For example, the most a passenger could recover from a plane crash under the Warsaw Pact Treaty, signed in the 1930s, was less than fifteen thousand dollars.

  Scott laughed when he heard how low the amount was. “You get almost as much for your luggage and belongings as you do for your life,” he said.

  Neither of us had much interest in filing a lawsuit, but if we could get some money to pay medical bills and help change the law, it seemed important to pursue.

  The endless days of being caged in a small apartment were a special form of torture to me. I’d been out exploring the world, living my great adventure. Now I was trapped within these four walls. And nothing was within walking distance. I was bored and restless. I was supposed to heal, but I continued to wonder, What did that mean?

  As a child, I’d always been the outgoing, adventurous type. I was curious, upbeat, and active. I loved slipping away to touch and taste the world for myself. I tried to see only the good in people and situations, the possibilities. I was intensely curious about everyone and everything. I wanted to meet and talk to different people and get to know them. I wanted to find out about things. I wanted to break out and have great adventures.

  My playful antics in our neighborhood were a continual source of frustration and concern for my mother. It wasn’t easy to keep me out of trouble. I started riding a bicycle—without training wheels—when I was four years old. I loved my
new mobility and freedom. Though my mom had warned me not to ride in the street, I did anyway.

  I rode my bike up and down the sidewalk, flashing a big smile and greeting anyone who crossed my path. Often, I wasn’t paying close enough attention to avoid the dangers in my path.

  One afternoon, I ventured into the street to talk to a new friend. I was so focused on the other person that I crashed my bike into a parked car. I was shaken up pretty bad, but the very next day I was back on my bike, speeding around as usual.

  My uncle used to tell me, “Jackie, I believe you’d fall down in the middle of a desert.” Now, it felt as if my uncle’s prophecy had come true. I’d fallen down and was now marooned in this strange suburban landscape, a prisoner of circumstances beyond my control. My ability to explore and experience the world for myself, my most precious possession, had been stolen from me.

  One day, Scott came home with a surprise to ease some of my loneliness—a dog! To me, this was such a wonderful expression of Scott’s love for me. It was a little white poodle and I immediately fell in love with him. I hadn’t had a dog since I was a little girl. The one I had then was a dachshund named Tammy.

  What should we call our new pet? Scott had a great idea and, in a moment of perverse good humor, suggested “Spike.” I liked it too. So we named our little poodle Spike.

  At least I had a new friend to keep me company. Yet, most of the time, I had to face my problems on my own.

  For a while, I felt a new sense of hopefulness. I was willing to work hard to get the old Jackie back. If I was now like one of my learning disabled students, so be it. I’d use every technique I’d learned as a special education teacher to train myself to read and remember. I’d do my part.

  As a special education teacher, I knew that learning disabled kids learned best when their lessons were in the form of a game. When they lost themselves in the fun of the game, their anxiety was lowered and they were better able to learn. Also, they came to see learning as something fun—and not to be feared.

  I made up lots of little memory games to train my mind to remember things. Turning simple household activities into games was a way to compensate for my learning disability and short-term memory deficit. These games were the mental equivalent of tying a string around my finger. By “loading” information into my long-term memory files, I slowly taught my brain to compensate for its memory and perception problems.

  My short-term memory was so bad that I couldn’t remember simple things like how many scoops of coffee I put in the coffeemaker. I’d forget what number I was on right after I dumped some inside. So I got creative. I’d ask someone else to count the scoops for me, or I’d record a hash mark on a notepad after each scoop.

  I played the “orange juice game” every morning. Scott and I both drank orange juice every day and stored it in a green pitcher in our refrigerator. Before pouring a glass, I’d look at the pitcher and ask myself, “Okay, how full is this pitcher?”

  I’d try to remember the liquid line from the previous day. “Okay it’s three-quarters full.”

  Then I’d pour myself a glass and study the container again, noting where the liquid line was. I’d hide the pitcher in the back of the refrigerator so I wouldn’t cheat and look during the day.

  The next morning, I’d walk into the kitchen and see a little sign on the refrigerator door: “Check the orange juice.” Without the sign, I would have forgotten the game entirely. My memory was that weak.

  Sometimes, I guessed right. Sometimes not.

  When the orange juice game became too easy, I made up harder ones. One thing I did was to get more serious about people-watching. I didn’t just look at people, I studied them.

  When one of Scott’s friends came over, I’d focus on his clothes—the type of pants, socks, and shoes he was wearing. The next time we got together, I’d tell him what he wore on his last visit. I did the same thing with my women friends, concentrating on their dresses, jewelry, shoes, and perfume. I’d say, “You wore those earrings when I saw you on Monday.”

  I played Ping-Pong and did other sports to try and improve my motor coordination and visual ability. Ping-Pong was good because I could do it anytime. I knew how to play it before the hijacking and was pretty good at it. That helped.

  I trained my eye to see half of the ball and connect it with the part of my paddle I could see. Early on, when I played I saw a white line coming toward me—a trail of white—when someone hit the ball to my side of the table. I played with Scott and Scott’s friend, Brian, who had a Ping-Pong table in the basement of his house.

  Since I seemed to be making such progress in getting my life together, Scott figured it was time to get his life going too. He saw an ad for a job opening at the Northwest Racquet, Swim & Health Club in the paper.

  “That one sounds neat,” I said.

  Scott applied for the job, got an interview, and was hired on the spot. He came home, all pumped up and excited, carrying some new warm-up clothes and suits with the logo on them.

  “I got the job, Jackie!”

  I looked at Scott and started to cry. The job would require him to work late evenings and weekends. “Why didn’t you tell me before you said yes?” I asked. “What am I going to do all night?”

  I was angry that Scott and I didn’t discuss the job beforehand, that we hadn’t sat down and tried to work something out that would take both of our needs into account. I was also afraid that Scott was going to move on with his life and leave me behind. I was afraid he’d meet new people, stay out late, and leave me all alone.

  Scott felt really hurt. He was trying to help out by getting a job, but my negative reaction convinced him that he needed to stay home and take care of me.

  “We talked about me getting a job, Jackie. Don’t you remember? I was only doing what you wanted. That’s all I ever do.”

  Scott called the health club and told the man who hired him that he couldn’t take the job and would return the clothes the next day.

  It was the first time I knew Scott felt really angry about the hijacking’s effect on him.

  For quite a while, Scott didn’t work much at all. I think he was scared of what my reaction would be.

  I felt angry and bitter about my many losses. I hated the hijackers for what they had done to me, to Scarlett, and to the children who died during the hijacking.

  I spent a lot of time feeling sad about leaving my job in Egypt. I’d finally found my niche in teaching overseas. I was doing exactly what I wanted to do and was having a blast. I felt a strong connection with the people in Egypt and my students there. Yet I’d never gotten a chance to say good-bye to the people and place I loved so much.

  People would say, “Oh, you just have to get over that.”

  They didn’t get it.

  Most people see the Middle East as a backwards, dangerous place. How could I prefer living there to living here? Wasn’t I glad to be away from all the danger of that region? The answer was no. I felt no danger. I chose to live in the Middle East, and I liked living there. I didn’t get a lot of sympathy for my loss.

  Nobody from the U.S. government—or any state or federal agency—stepped forward and offered to help out Scott and me after the hijacking. Once Scott and I landed in Minneapolis, we were completely on our own as far as official Washington was concerned. Even though I’d been shot for being a U.S. citizen, the American government seemed eager to wash its hands of the whole affair.

  The eyes of the world were focused on me while I lay dying on the airport tarmac. But now that I was alive and the photographers and television reporters had all gone home, nobody cared how I was doing. I was just another nobody with a problem. Apparently, my pain wasn’t real anymore. I felt angry and betrayed that nobody stepped forward to help us put our lives back together.

  I was also angry at how the U.S. government treated Scarlett Rogencamp, the only American to die in the hijacking, and her family. Initially, the U.S. Army awarded Scarlett, a civilian employee of the Air Force
, the Purple Heart. But then Air Force officials changed their minds, stating that the honor was reserved for persons killed in action defending their country. I thought this was incredibly insensitive. As far as I was concerned, once they gave someone a medal, that took care of it. Taking it back seemed incredibly insensitive to Scarlett’s memory and the feelings of her family.

  I remember sitting in our apartment in February 1986, reading an article about Barbara Mandrell, the country-western singer. The article described her comeback from a head injury she sustained in a near-fatal car accident. She, and the son she was pregnant with at the time, almost died. In her long recovery, she talked about cussing at her husband and then, minutes later, forgetting that she had. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

  There were times when I had fits of anger. I’d leave the house, slamming the door on my way out, completely oblivious as to where I was going. Then I’d stop and look around and wonder, Where am I? What happened? What led me to be here?

  During Mandrell’s recovery, the article noted, President Ronald Reagan wrote to see how she was doing. He told her to let him know if there was anything she needed.

  Anything she needed! I thought. I was so angry! Though I was targeted solely for being a U.S. citizen, the U.S. government hadn’t asked about my needs. My health insurance covered 80 percent of my medical bills, but the 20 percent I was responsible for amounted to a lot of money. Ronald Reagan hadn’t called or written me.

  Reagan had gone to Andrews Air Force base to personally welcome home survivors of the TWA Flight 847 hijacking. But I never heard so much as a word from him—and I’d been shot in the head!

  I wasn’t a celebrity, but I sure needed his help.

  I decided to ask for it. I got the White House phone number from information and dialed. A White House operator answered.