Skyhook

by John J. Nance

  “Miss O’Brien, if that statement is intended to somehow pressure us to broker a settlement of an FAA enforcement action, you’re talking to the wrong guys. You should be filing the appropriate action for review of the license revocation with the FAA. It means nothing to the government whether you sue or don’t sue. In fact, this has been an unnecessary waste of time, though it may have been exciting for you.”

  “What?”

  He laughed. “I know it’s always kind of invigorating, especially to folks who don’t understand the Beltway. I realize that for a young lawyer, running to Washington to argue in the federal courts and sue the United States of America in any form is heady stuff, but it’s seldom effective.”

  Gracie felt herself flushing with anger as her hands migrated to her hips unconsciously. “You think that’s what this is all about? Dilettante law?”

  “Well … these were bordering on frivolous actions, you know.”

  “In a word, sir, bullshit! Perhaps you didn’t read the factual preamble. Instead of some silly little girl lawyer running in here to play with the big boys for the fun of it, I’ve got a devastated senior airline captain back in Washington state as a client who cannot understand why his government has decided to try to professionally assassinate him without evidence, without cause, and without due process.”

  The lead attorney glanced at his fellows and turned back to Gracie. “Look, I don’t know why you took that to be a sexist remark, but I certainly didn’t mean it that way.”

  “The hell you didn’t. And even if I bought your veiled apology, you certainly meant to play the ‘arrogant senior lawyer’ card, though it’s not having any beneficial effect on your job of protecting whatever conspiracy is in progress up there.”

  “Up where?”

  “Alaska. Keep your phone lines open, Counselor,” Gracie snapped. “I’ll be back this afternoon with a new hearing notice, this time for an emergency appeal.”

  One of the other men snickered and the lead attorney shot his junior member a cautionary glance before turning back to Gracie.

  “Miss O’Brien, please don’t get your hopes up that any appellate judge is going to dignify this case with a quick appeal. That’s not the way it works here.”

  Gracie scribbled a note and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?” the government lawyer asked.

  “My cell phone number. When you finally realize the cover-up’s about to be exposed and want to end this in time, call me.” She turned and motioned to April, who’d been listening at a distance, and they headed for the door, pushing through to the foyer and onto the street as fast as possible. Gracie pointed to a Starbucks in the next block and April nodded, following her inside and paying for the two lattés Gracie ordered. They settled into a pair of rickety wire chairs in the corner.

  “You look really angry,” April began.

  “Read that as determined to kick their superior asses,” Gracie replied, immediately softening her voice with a raised hand. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  “Hey, snap away. I knew I was a surrogate just then.”

  “You know what’s tough, April? I knew I could expect a superior attitude from anyone who showed up for the government. I knew it, and yet I still let it get to me.”

  April sipped her latté and said nothing, waiting out the progress of Gracie’s thoughts as she gestured to the nearby courthouse.

  “I really did expect we’d get thrown out today, you know.”

  “So, now what do we do?”

  Gracie leaned over to open her briefcase and pull out a sheaf of legal papers in a folder that she laid before April.

  “Be careful not to get any stains on these.”

  “What are they?”

  “The appeal papers from the order of dismissal. I decided I’d better get them prepared last night.”

  “You mean you worked all night, right?”

  “Yes. Had to. I didn’t figure out the reality that we were going to get dismissed until maybe two A.M. Now I just have to find a sympathetic appeals judge on the Court of Appeals for D.C. Someone who’ll hear this case immediately.”

  “Is that easy?”

  “No. I’ll have to beg and plead and hope, and I may not even get past the clerks.”

  “Are federal appeals court judges men?”

  “Not all of them. But most are.”

  “How about if you wore a thong bikini and giggled a lot?”

  “Yeah, right. That would enhance my image as a serious lawyer.”

  “Okay, I’ll wear the thong and go with you.”

  “What? As a bribe?”

  “It could work.”

  Gracie chuckled. “That’s one hell of an image, Rosencrantz. Agree to hear our appeal, your honor, or April will put on some clothes.”

  “It’s good to hear you laugh,” April said. “That hasn’t happened much in the last two days.”

  Gracie didn’t answer, checking her watch instead. “I’ve got to call the captain, then hit the bricks. There’s only one court to go to, and I need to get over there.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  Gracie smiled and shook her head. “Just pray a little. This is a solo act. The silly little West Coast baby lawyer against the real world full of serious, experienced men ready to pat me on the head and tell me I’m in a dream world if I think I can succeed. But you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I can. Sometimes the good guys do win.”

  April gave her a quick hug and remained at the little table as Gracie shot out the front door and disappeared around the corner in search of a taxi. April pulled out her cell phone and dialed her family’s number in Sequim, puzzled to hear the voice mail message. She dialed the two cell phone numbers, but there was no answer on either one.

  She sat in thought for a few seconds, then checked her PDA for a neighbor’s phone number and dialed it.

  “I don’t know, dear,” the woman replied. “I think I saw them leaving a few hours ago, but I’m not sure.”

  April folded the cell phone, feeling off balance. There were a hundred innocent explanations for Arlie and Rachel to be out of contact, including the one they had embarrassed her with too many times regarding the sanctity of their bedroom and the theory that unmuted telephones were effective contraceptives.

  But for the first time in years, the thought brought no smile to her face. The strong feeling that something was very wrong persisted.

  She got to her feet and headed for the door, almost missing the buzz of the phone’s vibrator and fumbling to open the device.

  “Hello?”

  “April? Jenny White, your parents’ neighbor?”

  “Yes, Mrs. White.”

  “I decided to come over here and have a look. April, I didn’t go in, but looking through the windows, the house is empty, your father’s car is gone, and … oh dear.”

  “What?”

  “You know how neat your mom keeps things? April, it almost looks like someone has ransacked the house. I think I’d better call the sheriff.”

  FORTY SIX

  TUESDAY, DAY 9 THE WILLARD HOTEL WASHINGTON, D.C. 5:46 P.M.

  “General MacAdams? Laura Busby here at FAA.”

  “Madam Administrator. How are you?”

  “Reasonably responsive to external stimuli, as I like to say.”

  “That’s the best comeback I’ve heard to that question.”

  “We try to amuse. I’m calling about your mission to see me yesterday.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, it seems your. Captain Rosen has sent a lawyer to town to file suit against the FAA, and although the first round was thrown out of court this morning here in the District, he’s appealing that. So, bottom line, I really can do nothing about this situation while there’s litigation pending.”

  Mac shifted the phone to his other hand. “Forgive me for countering you, Administrator Busby, but if I understand it correctly, litigation wouldn’t bar you from reversing
an emergency revocation unless a court specifically enjoined you from reversing course, right?”

  “It’s our policy, General, and it’s a good one. When legal challenges are pending, I absolutely will not intervene. Too bad they did this. There might have been some wiggle room.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” Mac replied, mouthing the appropriate niceties as they ended the call.

  7:45 P.M.

  Five blocks from the Willard Hotel in a small café catering to the Internet trade, Gracie plunked herself down at a computer terminal and pulled out a small steno pad and pen as she sipped a cup of coffee and nibbled a bagel. She dreaded having to tell April that all her attempts to speak directly to any of the appeals court judges had failed, even though the appeal itself had been filed. For some reason, the rebuff hadn’t fazed her. Or perhaps, she thought, she was already so numb that all blows, however serious, were deflected from her psyche.

  She signed into the computer with the customer code purchased from the cashier and called up several phone directory sites, checking them one by one for the home addresses and phone numbers of the various judges. For security reasons, most federal judges carefully concealed their public accessibility behind initials or unlisted numbers, but there was still enough in their biographical sketches to piece together what she needed, and one by one she found the home numbers.

  Gracie took a deep breath and dialed the first judge, getting only voice mail. She disconnected and tried the second listing with the same result.

  The third number yielded a suspicious wife who finally called her husband to the phone.

  “Judge Summers? I am an attorney from Washington state in desperate need of an emergency hearing before your court in an appeal I filed this afternoon with the clerk. Could I please meet with you this evening and explain why this needs to be heard almost immediately?”

  “What was your name again?”

  She repeated the vital information, including her Washington bar card number.

  “Very well. No, Miss O’Brien, you may not come to my home after hours or at any other time without invitation. I intend to complain to your bar about this ex parte contact. How dare you call me at home rather than use normal procedure?”

  “Your Honor, this is a case in equity, and—”

  The line had gone dead simultaneously with the returning memory of Ben Janssen warning her not to embarrass the firm.

  She crossed off his name and tried to memorize the next number long enough to punch it in the dial pad, but the worry over the reaction she’d just received kept blanking her memory.

  Gracie placed the cell phone on the surface of the steno pad and dialed the numbers one by one.

  Once more a voice mail recording greeted her, and once more she abandoned the call without leaving a message.

  There was one number remaining, and she punched it in, listening to it ring eight times before a woman’s voice answered.

  “Excuse me, please, but this is Gracie O’Brien, an attorney, and I need to get in touch with Judge Williamson.”

  “The judge is out for the evening, ma’am. May I take a message?”

  “Oh, boy. He wouldn’t be working in his chambers this evening would he?”

  “No, ma’am. The judge is at the Mayflower Hotel speaking at a black-tie dinner.”

  “The Mayflower.”

  “Yes. You certain I can’t take a message for him?”

  “No, thank you.” Gracie ended the call and sat in thought. The Mayflower was less than five blocks away. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed her briefcase, then sat back down and retrieved an Internet biography file on Judge Sander Williamson.

  Longest sitting judge on the D.C. appellate court … age seventy-six … a maverick considered too unpredictable to have ever been in the running for the Supreme Court … raconteur, single … and where’s his picture? She launched another search and found a Washington Post article with his picture, enlarged the image and studied it. Williamson’s face had a sharply angular look, his features Lincolnesque without the beard.

  The phone rang with April on the other end.

  “Gracie, something’s very wrong at home!” She relayed the sequence of calls.

  “You say the sheriff found the rear door open?”

  “Yes. He’s not sure whether the house has been ransacked, or if Mom and Dad just threw things around and left hurriedly. But I’m calling everywhere.”

  “Keep me posted, but let me go for now. I’ll explain later.” Gracie grabbed her briefcase again and headed out the door, covering the short distance to the Mayflower in less than five minutes.

  From the hotel’s grand lobby she moved eastward down the large hallway, aware of the restaurant on her right and the grand ballroom. Through an open door she could see the head table and a room full of men in tuxedos accompanied by women in stunning evening gowns, all of them listening intently to a speaker who was in mid-cry, a man she instantly recognized as Williamson.

  Gracie picked the rearmost door to the ballroom and had moved inside when a large male hand landed gently on her shoulder, pulling her back into the foyer.

  “I need to inspect your briefcase and see your invitation, Miss,” he said.

  Gracie handed over the case and pretended to search her purse for the invitation. “You know, I’m late getting here from court, and I’ll bet my senior partner is already in there at Judge Williamson’s table.”

  “I’ll need an invitation,” the plainclothes officer repeated.

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that I think my senior partner has my invitation, because we passed it over the desk today in some confusion, and I think …”

  “He ended up with it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a list. Give me your name.”

  A blur of movement caught her attention just as she prepared to answer. Jim Riggs, the senior government lawyer she’d barked at that morning, was moving through the same portal unchallenged, with no invitation in sight.

  She reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “There you are!”

  Riggs stopped in his tracks as he recognized her. “Well! Miss O’Brien.”

  Gracie gestured to the security guard. “Would you be so kind as to confirm to this gentleman that I am, indeed, supposed to be here?”

  The lawyer glanced at the security man, then back at Gracie and smiled.

  “Why, of course,” he said, turning to the officer. “Miss O’Brien does indeed belong here, and on top of that, she’s sitting with me, where I can keep tight control of her.”

  The guard smiled and nodded as he handed over Gracie’s briefcase and stepped back to allow her to pass.

  Riggs gestured for Gracie to precede him into the ballroom, and she did so, suddenly feeling very conspicuous as she realized how underdressed she was for such an elegant crowd. He motioned her to an empty chair at one of the tables and sat down beside her, whispering a few words to the woman on his left before leaning toward Gracie and extending his hand.

  “By the way, I’m Jim Riggs, Miss O’Brien, the arrogant senior sexist lawyer. Please call me Jim.”

  “Thank you, Jim. Call me Gracie. And thanks for helping me get in here.”

  “You were pretty bold to think I would do it.”

  “I took you for more of a chauvinist than a sexist.”

  “And the difference is?”

  “You like girls, but you want to control them.”

  “I know what you’re doing here, you know,” he said.

  Gracie looked at him, trying not to appear as startled as she felt.

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “I know you filed the appeal this afternoon. And I know you’re here to catch Judge Williamson’s sleeve.”

  “My, you are observant,” Gracie said, her heart sinking. He was, after all, lead counsel for the opposition. “Are you worried I’ll succeed?” she said, faking a smile.

  He shook his head. “No, but I’m not going to let you get very far. You may not realiz
e how improper it is to approach an appeals court judge outside of his office.”

  “And your point would be what?” Gracie asked. “That the Secret Service will arrest me if I try?”

  “No, but if you must embarrass yourself, I’ll tag along to watch,” Riggs said, smiling. “Maybe I can convince him not to throw you in jail.”

  Ten minutes later, when the speech was over and the applause had subsided, Judge Williamson left the platform and Gracie got to her feet and moved in his direction, her eyes darting back over her shoulder to track Riggs who was indeed shadowing her.

  “Judge Williamson?” Gracie said when she reached the senior jurist’s side. “May I have a word with you, sir?”

  The judge turned and looked at her carefully as he extended his hand.

  “Certainly. And you are?”

  She identified herself, aware that Riggs was standing beside her now. He could see a knowing smile on the lawyer’s face.

  “Jim, how are you?” the judge said as he glanced at Riggs. “What brings you to Washington, Miss O’Brien?”

  “An extremely urgent legal matter against the government, Judge, which is why I’m asking the court to review a decision of the district court today denying a series of temporary restraining orders.”

  “Judge,” Jim Riggs broke in. “I’m opposing counsel for the government, and for the record, we firmly oppose acceleration to the status of an emergency review.”

  The judge glanced at Riggs and nodded, returning his eyes to Gracie.

  “So, you want me to hold a review right here, right now? I’m not about to do that.” Gracie could see a flash of irritation flicker across his face.

  “No, Your Honor!” Gracie replied. “I’m petitioning you to grant us an expedited emergency review in the next two days.”

  The judge studied both of them for a few seconds, then nodded. “I have people I need to talk to about other matters right now. But if you two can wait a few minutes, I’ll come back and entertain the motion.”

  When the ballroom was nearly empty, Judge Williamson came to where Gracie and Jim Riggs were sitting and pulled out a chair. His kindly demeanor, combined with the intellectual numbness she already felt, made a succinct explanation easy, and after Jim Riggs had given an equally short summation of the government’s position, they both fell silent.