Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “Tell us Diego, about the crash.” My Mexican friend took a deep breath, put down his Bohemia. He rose to grab the back of my head and to my great surprise gave me a big kiss on my cheek.

  “You must know mi amigo, you are one lucky S.O.B.” With a lock of my hair tightly in his grasp he continuously shook my head in a rhythmic beat. He grinned wildly. Suddenly he released his hold, fell back into his chair and became somber once again. “Everything got so crazy, bodies were everywhere. One was given here and another one there.” Tommy and I looked at each other as the revelation threw us into disarray. Diego was feeling no pain and seemed determined to free his soul of all sins, real or imagined. “There was no effort made in the beginning to screen the families effectively when they came to claim their loved one. There was this Norte Americano on the plane, tall man.”

  “Yes, I remember!” A vision of the image described filled my head clearly. Diego was in deep thought. “Anyway, so many families were coming to the morgue area, all of them in shock, out of control, not wanting to believe their wife or child was in pieces. They were clamoring forward screaming, swearing in the name of God that the bodies with the least injuries had to be their loved one. The imbecile initially assigned to handle this delicate matter ran the facility like un rastro...how you say?” Tommy quickly interjected.

  “A flea market.” Diego nodded.

  “Yes, yes, a damn flea market. Senor McKay was there when a man came looking for his deceased brother. The tall Americano I spoke of earlier had supposedly already been claimed by the dental expert sent by his family in Vermont or somewhere up there, old money, they had it.” Diego's eyes jumped skyward emphasizing his remark. “But I believe another body was bagged by mistake because after many days we still had this tall cadaver.” Acoba and I were enthralled. Diego stopped briefly to take another shot of Centenario, savoring the tequila. Reflecting a bit of confusion he struggled to remember where his conversation left off. “Here was this gentleman who stated that none of the bodies still procurable were his dead brother. When we asked how he could be so sure, especially because of the condition of the bodies, he stated that his brother was an avowed homosexual and that his genitals attested to his lifestyle.

  “WHAT???” Tommy and I responded at the same time. The young aristocrat kept shaking his head denoting that his facts were true.

  “Please don’t ask me for details regarding his lifestyle” The Deputy Minister shook his right hand in an action reflecting lunacy. “It’s just that all the remaining corpses all had their genitals intact and he was convinced none were his brother. This did not sit well with his Excellency the Minister, who informed the man that his claim for $70,000 in compensation, as is the law in Mexico, could not be paid without a body. The wise minister suggested that the distressed sibling claim the larger remains and have a closed casket ceremony. Senior McKay subsequently informed his excellency that he sounded like some used car salesman. The brother's initial reaction was to be offended but settled down and started to evaluate his circumstances. Apparently the brothers had three sisters and the man was concerned about the effects upon the women if he was to be discovered pulling off a stunt like the one the Minister had suggested. He needed time to contemplate his options and promised to return. Three days later he did return and took the body of the tall cadaver choosing a closed casket funeral on the pretense that his brothers body was too mangled by the crash. Soon after the man was paid his settlement.”

  “And the Mexican body?” I inquired. The Mexican official shook his head.

  “Resting in peace up in Vermont, I presume.” Tommy and I could barely believe what we were hearing. I took a deep breath sat back and began to contemplate the whole affair. Airplane crashes are not supposed to be like this. The experts arrive upon the scene, everything is conducted in the most professional manner, and within a period of time a final report is issued and all the victims are accounted for. The more I delved into the specifics of this affair the more chaotic it became.

  “Don Diego,” I respectfully said in a calm voice. “Was it pilot error?” The minister's face became serious and perplexed. His conscience, character and social status required him to tell me the truth.

  “I don't know my friend.” He glanced across the table with a look of uncertainty.

  “Listening to that tape is not the most pleasant thing you want to do.” He had a point. “What facts are to be found? Who's to say?”

  “Diego, if a more thorough investigation had been done, perhaps one could say.” The career diplomat looked up and seemed to be thinking out loud. “You understand that there was much that would be jeopardized if it looked like the Mexican Government had contributed to this terrible incident.”

  “That is why they kept trying to get me to sign a false affidavit stating I had served liquor to the pilots.” I became stern and reflected my hurt.

  “You recall the explanation of the Minister himself,” I nodded my head in agreement. “Did you know that your airline was buying its fuel from Mexico, PREMEX?” The change in direction of conversation caught me by surprise. I struggled to recall the process of a Mexico City flight.

  “I know that we have three flights a day to Mexico City from the West Coast, DC-10s.”

  “Yes,” Diego quickly interceded. “And those flights along with all the others make the journey with just a sufficient amount of fuel to safely complete the journey. You should thank your creator,” he lectured me then turned to take another swig from the bottle of Bohemia. “Can you imagine the fireball and carnage had the tanks been full?” I flashed back to the morning of October 31 and I could smell the jet fuel. It instantly became overbearing. The flames on each of the piles of wreckage danced a jig for Death. People screamed and cried and died. “That jumbo jet was scheduled to be fueled and sent back north. When payment was arranged, those that are unscrupulous can find a hundred different ways to skim off the top.”

  “WHAT?” Acoba and I both reacted in unison again. “Send the money through Panama and deposit it in European accounts.” My intoxicated amigo was venting and getting a lot off his chest. I admired him but sympathized for I recognized the pain. “There are many powerful individuals on both sides of the border who have their hand in that cookie jar.” I looked over at Tommy as we both were dumbfounded. “There are a multitude of reasons why, for all concerned, a more thorough investigation is not a good idea and that goes for you my Chicano friend. Even that dog Chavez gets his cut of the booty.”

  “I recalled the day I departed Mexico City there was a delay regarding the fueling of the aircraft.” The memory was vivid. “Once up in the air we had to divert to ACA and get fuel there.” My confusion of this matter was not complicated to Diego.

  “Your accident provided an opportunity for the union of the fuelers.” I did not understand his meaning. Diego raised his eyes, adjusting his posture to simplify the statement for me. “You see, the union gets its cut from the price of the jet fuel, so if your airline wants the fuel at that moment at that time, then they must agree or delay their journey. In this particular circumstance because the airline was experiencing some difficult situations, the union bosses decided to go on a timely strike. The game is played with all the airlines. It was due to the quick thinking of Senor Valenzuela to call Acapulco and see what they would settle for to fuel the jet. The boss there underbid el Distrito Federal.”

  “A toast to the cookie jar,” Tommy stated as he raised his shot glass.” The laughter warmed the room and brought us back to happier times.

  “Diego, I must listen to that tape.” Suddenly, Felipe entered the room seeking his boss. Spotting Diego the young assistant approached, leaned and whispered something in his superior's ear. The official shook his head and thanked the faithful underling who was soon off again. Don Diego put on a serious face as he looked at his two dinner guests.

  “Tell me my friends, did you inform anyone that you were coming to the Federal District” Both Acoba and I seemed confused by the ques
tion.

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “Well, your old friend Comandante Chavez knows you are here.” The words sent a chill down my spine. I totally lost it and began to panic.

  “What? Hey, I’m a private citizen on holiday. I haven’t done anything.” I tried to convince myself of half-truths. Tommy put the picture into perspective.

  “Wise up Eddy, you of all people should know better than that.” Diego agreed.

  “Your compadre is wise. Primitivo doesn’t need to justify himself to anyone. Tell me my friend, are you still sure you want to listen to that hideous tape?

  “Of course I do.” My wise Mexican friend leaned closer to me and reached over to grab my hand.

  “Be careful what you ask for.” My personal pain outweighed his advice. Diego looked deeply into my eyes and witnessed my determination. “I suppose you, more than anyone, have earned the right to make that decision. Senor Acoba will go with Felipe who will return him to your hotel to gather all of your belongings. He will be transported to Benito Juarez.” Diego turned to Tommy. “Eduardo will meet you at the airport in a couple of hours so the two of you can catch the first flight back to Los Angeles.” Don Diego raised the tequila glass and offered up one last toast. “To the black box-may it be the key that opens the door to the peace that you seek.” We finished our drinks and left Restaurante Boneparte. I was surprised to find two cars waiting outside as Don Diego directed Tommy to one of them.

  “I better see you at the airport or I’ll come looking for you and beat your ass myself,” my loyal companion warned. He left, still holding a bottle of Bohemia in the vehicle chauffeured by Felipe. I watched as the black American suburban sped away into the darkness of the early morning. A chill enveloped me which I hoped was a result of the high altitude's cool air, but in retrospect I wondered what I was getting myself into.

  Chapter XVI

  In another corner of the world’s densely populated metropolis, a confident and amused officer of La Policia Federal sat at a large table, lecturing two underlings. The imposing figure smoked the most rancid of tobacco products and carried a white handkerchief to place upon his mouth. He coughed heavily which was now the norm as a result of his four-pack-a-day habit. Sensing the possibility of having another shot at making me shiver, he felt in good spirits.

  “So the mouse has come back for the cheese? I must admire el pocho’s efforts. When all have been willing to forget and sweep this mess under a rug that little Chicano es como una pulga.” The career policeman turned to face his young assistants who stood at his beck and call.

  “You have to keep an eye on these Norte Americanos. You can never trust them. Como los investigadores that came soon after the crash, wanting to see everything, know everything: here to assist us. When has Los Estados Unidos ever assisted?” The cunning lawman slowly rose to answer his own question. “Dominate! Take over is more like it. Those so-called investigators, mentidosos, looking down at our agents from La Navegación en el Espacio Aéreo Mexicano. They believed their agency the F.A.A. should be in charge. ES MEXICO!!” The wild comandante screamed with rage and misguided pride. “We’re no two-bit banana republic they can push around.” The chief was becoming extremely agitated which frightened his two young officers. All in his service were well aware of “el jefe’s” reputation.

  The comandante rambled on. “Los inteligentes in Washington, they know the truth. Los Norte Americanos need our petroleum, natural gas, and with that Mexico is once again important to them. They're not going to let a little thing like this silly plane crash be an obstacle to the agreement Presidente Portillo negotiated on our behalf. Unfortunately, for those poor souls in la aerolinea, it was simply a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Chavez realized he was being digressive. He returned to reality. He grabbed his sport coat and carefully put it on. He took a few extra seconds to adjust his tie, the deceitful perfectionist. “Vamanos caballeros, we have a mouse to catch.” Primitivo Chavez de Leon and his foot soldiers hastened out into the cool morning air onto the streets of the federal district. Suddenly a subordinate came running out of the police precinct looking for him.

  “Jefe, por favor, telefono.” The young officer informed his commander that it was a high-ranking official on the line. The two young assistants waited outside, smoking those filthy cigarettes. Soon, the previously agitated comandante exited much more subdued.

  “I’ll reveal the evidence you so desperately wish for,” Diego stated to me. The official and I sat in the rear of a small black and yellow taxi that Julio (the reliable manager of Restaurante Bonaparte) had summoned for us. I began to become fearful, for weren't we on our way to some location where I could listen to the CVR Recording once or possibly twice? Don Diego had a more mysterious agenda. I sat silent and tried to take in every word regarding our dicey adventure. “Most likely, El Gato would have used up all nine lives.” Diego smiled. “You’ll be fresh meat for that dog Chavez.” He chuckled. Was he kidding? This drive with Diego was distinctly different than what I had anticipated. The driver darted in and out through the streets of Mexico City. I gazed out at the urban landscape, my thoughts reverting back to that day.

  “What is your mother’s name? What is your father’s name?” Primitivo's raspy voice demanded my attention. I was losing my nerve. Maybe I was pressing too far? The experienced diplomat turned and studied my face. He placed his hand firmly on my thigh, a gesture in an effort to fortify my backbone. “You're not afraid?” I tried to muster my courage, display a posture of confidence but it was a poor endeavor so I lied

  “No!” I shouted.

  “Maybe you should be,” the deputy warned. “Do you have faith in God?” The question caught me off guard.

  “I did...once.”

  “Well, maybe it is time you reconsider?” The taxicab approached the airport and Diego directed the vehicle to the gate of the ministry grounds. The lone security officer on duty at this early hour seemed surprised while admitting us onto the grounds.

  As Diego and I entered the offices I was taken back by the dark, cold chambers. Don Diego hurriedly hastened to his office as I remained nearly frozen in the corridor, glancing from side to side through the empty hallways. I flashed back to the morning I was summoned by the Minister of Mexico himself. The reporters lined these very walls as they pressed to get a sliver of information from me.

  “Valenciana, Valenciana, did you serve the pilots liquor?” I grabbed my head as the wretched voices returned.

  “You're worthless. You are the one who deserves to be dead.” I slowly turned and viewed a small shadow of a figure at the end of the corridor I became very confused.

  “Will I ever be good enough?” I recognized the voice as Javier's. I stared in disbelief.

  “Eduardo?!” I turned to see Don Diego at the entrance to his office staring at me in bewilderment. I turned again to see the boy but was met with a now-empty corridor. The apparition was gone. The seasoned diplomat became concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I'm fine, just got carried away in thought.” How do I try to explain the inexplicable? I followed Diego into the ministry office. He quickly started gathering and examining documents in assorted envelopes. He would spend a few seconds viewing the contents of one paper then place it in a relevant cardboard box. It was only after some time that I began to realize that these important records were intended for me. Were we going to sit and listen to the CVR Recording? All at once the cunning official held up a large beige envelope and partially removed its content for my benefit. I could see a medium size recording reel with a masking tape label that read “2605.”

  “This is for you.” He placed the envelope into the box with the other documents. “Take this material and get your ass out of Mexico. Felipe has taken care of the specifics for your passage and that of Senor Acoba. Your friend will be awaiting you on the aircraft. Get on the plane and do not disclose to anyone what transpired. I am taking a big gamble Eduardo, but maybe it is the least I ca
n do on behalf of those poor souls who perished.” I fumbled clumsily as he handed me the box. As my benefactor locked up his office, I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew.

  We descended the few stairs out onto the compound where I was surprised and relieved to find a faithful Felipe awaiting us. Felipe informed Diego that some of Comandante Chavez's cronies were indeed seen in front of Benito Juarez Airport, lap dogs performing their master's bidding. Diego chuckled and seemed to take pleasure in pulling one over on his sadistic adversary.

  “Felipe will drive us directly to your gate through the back entrance.” As we entered the government vehicle I intentionally forced myself not to consider the contents of the box, focusing instead on the important matter at hand: getting out of the federal district in one piece. The tall, lean assistant drove the official vehicle along the airport tarmac turning his head once to smile and give a nod of assurance that all was well. I spotted the company DC-10 in the distance. The gleaming white jumbo jet with the distinct red logo never looked so good. Felipe slowed the car as we approached the craft. Suddenly I noticed a lone figure at the bottom of the stairs who seemed to be awaiting our arrival. My heart leapt with great joy as I recognized the tall figure dressed in the company uniform. The sedan was still moving as I swung the door open and rushed onto the tarmac.

  “Hugo! Mi amigo.” I jumped to bear hug my good, dear friend. He smiled and continually shook his head as he patted my back in our embrace. “Hugo Garcia, what a wonderful name.” He smiled broadly. Senor Hugo, a simple man with simple desires who carried a wealth of goodwill in his heart and soul.