“Valenciana! Valenciana!” A short Mexican man with glasses had found his way to the box room back at El Centro where I sat. “Ramon Gutierrez,” stated the man, extending a hand I was too shock to grab. Suddenly, a small crew of workmen hurried in carrying a small wooden desk, chairs, lamp and typewriter. I was instructed by Senor Gutierrez to sit in front of the desk. As quick as it had all started, they were gone. A woman dressed in business attire soon entered and occupied the seat at the desk. Her dark hair was worn up, crimson framed glasses sat on the bridge of her nose. Her makeup seemed over done but I was in no position to make any suggestions to my hostess. In a stern business-like attitude she proceeded to speak rapidly in Spanish totally ignoring me at first, setting the tone of her authority. Other people began to enter; the sinister comandante was not among them. The chamber became a cauldron of motion and of speech with everything happening so fast, I could not keep up.
Primitivo once again appeared but totally ignored me. For an instant I felt scorned as he approached the business woman and engaged in soft talk. In the rapid exchange of dialogue I was able to determine that she was from some ministry department and had arrived to make “a damage report.” Once the two were in agreement the room grew quiet and this ministry woman took charge.
“Senor Valenciana, I am Lupe Ortiz Hildalgo,” she addressed me in English. “I have come here to make a brief report. Once completed we can then have you back on your way back to Los Estados Unidos." The hours were taking their toll and fatigue was becoming a big problem. I tried to show a face of cooperation since the alternative would surely put me back into the hands of my dear friend the comandante.
“What would you like to know?” I politely asked.
“What happened?” My eyes focused on the two metal bobby pins that prevented her rich brown hair from falling into her face.
“I’m cut and bruised.” I sighed as I ran my stiff hand across my lip, releasing a flake of caked blood.
“No, no, the accidente,” the woman insisted never raising her eyes from the small typewriter she began pounding.
“Look, I'm pretty beat up and extremely thirsty.” The lady became annoyed by my answer and gazed at Chavez who then motioned to Cardosa. The solidly built cohort left the room and returned with a bottle of soda water. I was presented with someone's handkerchief and I tried to clean some of the caked up slime off my face as Chavez and his men once again left the room. This was my opportunity. I would enact basic stupidity, give the impression that perhaps I had finally gone insane-deep shock, at least. I proceeded without any gauge as to the real purpose of our conversation.
“The accident? The accident?” I looked about the room at the ever-growing movement of different faces, people coming and going. “Didn’t the airplane crash?” I sheepishly inquired wanting my words to express diminished mental stability. Why not? I hoped no one would deny me the privilege of being deranged since everyone in the room was by now familiar with the scenes being televised from the airport. Deep down they expected a lunatic. Lupe Ortiz Hildalgo, the determined ministry woman, continued to type.
“How did el avion crash?” Like a first grader, I used my scorched hand as an aircraft stiffening it into a plane, gliding it upon the air. Suddenly my palm dropped, demonstrating the demise of the DC-10, and then I fell silent. All at once I noticed a newsman entering the room. He set up his cameras and lights just feet from where I sat. I began to realize the danger of giving even a hint of solid knowledge that could be twisted to their advantage.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know. I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” I became spooked and began to ramble. No matter, everyone was waiting for the magic statement that would aid their inability to crisply define the devastation at the airport. The ministry-woman became frustrated. I turned to see the menacing figure of Chavez enter the room once again, the hunter seeking his quarry. He walked straight up to me.
“Perhaps you would like to visit el bano my Chicano friend?” His politeness was unexpected. He motioned to his henchmen to assist me. “Llevalo si es necesario,” he ordered. The snake’s elegant manner threw me for a loop as I struggled to stand. My legs were so painful. Cardosa stepped forward to offer more assistance as I placed my sore arms over one shoulder. Being lifted and extracted from the room, I noticed that the hallway was now filled. People were everywhere, talking, pushing, walking briskly to undetermined destinations. The area had an aura of a central hub. The press by now had assembled en mass: television crews with all their equipment and radiomen with shoulder slung tape recorders. All raced about in an incessant pursuit of any shred of data concerning the crash of my DC-10.
Once in the lavatory, the two henchmen would not allow me the privacy of shutting the door to my toilet stall. The junior cadets, as I started referring to them, did not speak English and I was not about to reveal any knowledge of the Spanish tongue. I struggled to undo my pants, or what was left of them, as I found a quiet moment to rest. Suddenly, I heard a door open and the sound of quick steps as an American entered the lavatory and pushed his way through Chavez’s henchmen straight into my stall. With a glow of excitement in his bright blue eyes, he identified himself as “John Smith” of UPI. He was tall and carried himself with assurance, his blond hair being a contrast to all the people I had dealt with this day.
“What happened, Valenciana? Why did the plane crash?” Surprised and momentarily confused, the comandante's henchmen stood and stared in wonder. Sitting on the toilet with some idiot wanting to question the survivor of this horrible incident irritated me greatly.
“Can’t you see I’m taking a crap?” I stated in a calm and relaxed voice. I was face to face with the intimidation I had been dreading since leaving the airport facility, the press discovering my identity and hounding me. The reporter continued pressing without consideration, as though we were seated in a lounge area or a cafe. I was barely clad in the charred rags, some still embedded in my scorched skin. I became disgusted and felt nothing but contempt for this “fellow American.” I signaled the befuddled henchman, raising an arm for their assistance.
“Alto, alto!!” The two stooges finally came to their senses, figuring out what was happening, they became angry and chased the reporter out of the lavatory.
“Was the flight normal?” The American screamed as he was physically thrown out of el bano.
The international media reached and reached to find one piece of dung to banner the next day. Revolted, I decided that all questions would be met with exceedingly soft answers. I recognized blood sucking for what it was and ignored the attempted rape of what sanity remained in my battered mind. I would remain silent through most of this awful ordeal and put aside for the moment what I really wanted to say.
“I am all alone.” The reality of my circumstance made my burdened headache. “Be my own best friend, fend for myself.” The fact that the ambulance driver had made an instantaneous decision to change hospital destinations because of the festivities of Halloween suddenly took on importance. Once returned to the interrogation room I began to understand the significance of being in the wrong place as far as the airline was concerned. There was absolutely no way I could get word to them.[3]
The whirlwind of activity continued around me as I sat motionless and silent. I caught sight of the rugged features of Senor Chavez. For the first time, that Aztec face broke into a smile as he caught the gaze of my weary eyes. This vile serpent would be patient, bide his time. He would have his chance at slowly breaking me down; for exhaustion and fear were quickly draining whatever strength remained.
Alone and lost in the most populous metropolis in the world, I was scared and began to feel the ravages of time. I had been up all night, survived a major airplane crash, was in a foreign country where if the officials felt it necessary, they could do potentially do whatever they wished to me. I was in no physical condition to resist. I tried to gather my cunning, perhaps I could outsmart my adversaries. I began to play with the idea of giving them “a story
.” I pulled into myself and became very protective, trusting no one. I sensed Chavez's plan was to infiltrate me, weaken me and eventually break me.
“I do not speak Spanish. I do not speak Spanish.” Panic-stricken, I repeated the words over and over, hoping to convince myself to cling to the one possible advantage I felt I still had.
Continually popping their heads into the room, the press recognized me in my tattered uniform and with my identity confirmed, the lights, camera and microphone quickly converged upon me. Now I would be abused once more with the relentless demand for information, far more than I possessed. The bulk of the questions were the same but each reporter asked them as if his inquiries were a novel, insightful request. The din was intense and I soon became unable to focus on any particular person. In an instant, I mentally withdrew from the situation and became an observer, making no effort to tackle any of the questions as their faces and microphones all pushed in on me.
The majority in this cauldron of chaos refused to believe my claim that I had little if any knowledge of the Spanish language. Certainly with a name like Eduardo Valenciana, as it had been recorded on the official manifest of Flight 2605, it was assumed that I must speak Spanish. Primitivo Chavez decided that he would toy with his prisoner for the delight of the press, determined to unveil the farce right before their eyes. The strong willed comandante ordered the crowd back with ease, pausing to light another one of those atrocious cigarettes. Suddenly the officer began to cough in a heavy raspy exhalation which brought a sly smile to my sore face. Gathering his composure he approached me and softly began to speak to me in Spanish, first in a whisper than louder so the others could hear. I began to shake.
“Que paso con su amigos en el avión.?” (What happened to your friends?) No reaction; instantly Chavez returned to English.
“Let us see, there was Senores Rollings, Stillwell, y tambien, las senoritas Karen Smitt, y Cary Diller,” his eyes rolled up as he counted on his fingers. The shock registered in me as the sinister demon played me to perfection.
“Ah, my young Chicano friend, I may have forgotten one senorita whose body was found mangled in the wreckage, just pieces that now lie in the morgue. Que paso con Señorita Torres?”
Chavez placed his face close to my ear.
“I know everything.”
The snake returned to speaking Spanish.
“Why didn’t you save her when she cried out in pain? Why didn’t you help her when you had the opportunity? You let her die! You failed and you’ll never be good enough to make it right again.” No one moved a muscle or said a single word, not the ministry woman, not the newsmen not the onlookers who had stumbled upon the scene and watched with great curiosity. Intimidated by his presence, they all allowed the comandante to complete his interrogation. The added advantage of his atrocious behavior for the media was that I just might release the information they so desperately wanted.
My reaction was to remain perfectly still. My battered body was sore so I used that as an excuse and deterrent. I also became overcome by a tremendous ringing in my ears. I was struggling to refocus my eyes, awkwardly trying to appear normal.
The sound of the ministry woman's continuing pounding on the keys increased the discomfort in my head. She removed the finished paper and handed it to the impatient Comandante. The sly snake picked up right where he had left off, taking the freshly completed piece of paper and placing it on my lap. I gazed down at the document and discovered that this new declaration was also written in Spanish. I sat motionless which displeased the federal policeman who occupied center stage. With a nod from the comandante his goons lifted me and off we went once again right out of the room. Senor Valenciana needed to visit the men's room again, or so it was explained to the newsman and all who lingered.
There was little regard for my comfort in moving me to a more private environment. I discovered that the black wooden milk box was now moved to the middle of the bathroom. One of the loyal followers stood by the doorway to insure we would not be disturbed. Cardosa was given instructions and promptly left the room. I was now all alone with my inquisitor, left to consider my plight. Once again he handed me the newly printed letter as I clumsily fumbled with the sheet trying to rest it upon my lap. Exhaustion blurred my vision and I strained to read the bold print.
“”Eduardo Valenciana declares the following to be the truth.” The words jumped out and hit me hard. I also noticed that the efficient Sra. Ortiz Hildalgo had also prepared a space at the bottom of the declaration for my signature. Weakened, I went back in time to flight Attendant training, Regulation 8.12.8.
“Do not say anything that might imply that the company is admitting liability for injury or damage.” I wondered if this asshole Chavez would back off his vicious interrogation if I began to recite the flight attendant regulation that prohibits me from admitting anything? It was an amusing thought that brought a hint of a smile to my weary face. The reality of handling these situations was never fully explained in training and there would be no company force deployed to come to my rescue. Alone, I continued to decipher the rest of the proclamation.
“During the flight, alcoholic drinks were served to the on-duty pilots in the cockpit.” My ability to read Spanish was somewhat limited but there was no denying what was staring me in the face. In an instant, it all became very clear. Mexico’s plan of denunciation rested on getting the surviving flight attendant to say that the pilots were drinking, hence they were responsible for the demise of Flight 2605. It was important for me to continually be aware that I was no longer in the United States, no civil liberties association was going to arrive.
Don't say anything, you have rights! No, the only rights I currently had were whatever the sinister Primitivo wished to bestow upon me. At that moment the proud officer's body was once again besieged by uncontrollable spasms of rancid coughing. I thought it futile to remind him that those awful little cigarettes might be bad for his health. I sat on the box on the floor of a lavatory of El Central Hospital in Mexico City on Halloween, totally lost and defeated. Finally, I concluded there was only one solution: I needed to get my bruised ass out of that place as quickly as possible.
I refused to admit Comandante Chavez had me cold. If not fluent in the native tongue of his country, he probably suspected I had some understanding of the language. After composing himself once again he retrieved the sheet of paper I had refused to sign. The henchmen returned and I was taken from the lavatory to the boxed room which to my surprised was now empty of spectators. I supposed the show was over so the audience left or so it seemed.
I was back upon the milk box but was surprised to find my escorts leaving. Smoke break? The last to exit, Chavez shut the door so I would not be able to eavesdrop on their conversation. Now totally alone I studied the four walls that constituted my holding cell: concrete blocks. The stucco and cracks were found on similar walls throughout the Mexican capital. The office desk that had been carried in for use by Sra, Ortiz Hildalgo remained in front of me. I noticed a thin beige cord that extended from the desk and out a slit in the floor. The discovery gave me a surge of strength as I slowly rose, taking a moment in an effort to stretch my sore body. I tracked the cord to a bottom desk drawer. Inside I discovered a telephone resting nicely inside its bay. Filled with excitement and fear I lifted the receiver. With my stomach muscles in a spasm I heard the sound of a dial tone.
What number do I call? My panic was rising. What number would be the key to an outside line, to an international line? I struggled to recall what magic number allowed me to make calls on recent layovers, while in the Federal District. I anxiously tried a “9” then an “8.” I worked my scorched fingers down the numerical line till I finally tried “0-1.”
“Bingo!” I instructed the international operator to request a collect call and recited the number of Flight Attendant Scheduling in Los Angeles. The Mexican operator told me to hang up and she would ring back when the charges were confirmed and the line connected. I hung up and was
overcome with such distress, I shook with fright. What if Primitivo Chavez returned before I had a chance to complete the call? More vital was what excuse could I give the ill-tempered Mexican officer for not signing the declaration? The phone rang as I swiftly grabbed the receiver hoping the others in the hallway did not hear it.
“Eduardo?” questioned the voice. “Where are you?” The anxiety in my gut rose to a fever pitch.
“Get me the hell out of here,” I whispered in a panic. To the best of my clouded recollection, I explained to the female scheduler where this administrative section of the hospital might be.
“In the hospital in the heart of the city.” Assurance was given that everything in the company’s power would be done to secure my safety as I hung up the phone. For the first time since this mad ordeal began I felt revived, if only for a moment, by a sense of accomplishment. My hope was quickly deflated as I realized that company headquarters might be under the impression that I had been taken to the British-American Hospital. I had failed to inform the scheduler of the blunder in being taken to the Hospital El Centro. Help would be on the way to the wrong location. All seemed lost once again, I became extremely depressed and truly felt on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“Why wouldn’t they think I was just a step from becoming a madman?” This revelation grew as I gazed upon the declaration the policeman had left on the desk. I could hear the sound of footsteps approaching. The comandante opened the door and seemed a bit mystified to see me passively sitting upon my little black box, my mouth stuffed and in the process of eating the federal officer’s prized declaration. “Do you have any beer to wash down this tasty paper? I would prefer Bohemia.” The words had come so easily.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 18