“Do you believe he would be harmful to your son?”
“Yes, ever since our son was born, that’s when the chaos started. He might steal our son.” The judge seemed shocked by her statement and intervened.
“Why? Has he ever threatened to take the boy?”
“No, but he might.”
“Has he ever done anything that would indicate that the boy would be in peril while in his care?”
“He acts weird.” The entire court went silent.
“You're honor,” Stiles rose. “I would like to introduce a photo into evidence. I cringed in terror when I realized that it was a copy of “the wild jungle man of the Na Pali” taken when I had come upon the three hikers. Stiles approached the bench, handing the glossy print to the curious judge. To make matters worse, once he had examined the photo he held his arm high above to reveal the glorious colors of the print for all to view.
“Your honor, that photo is the personal property of my client and was obtained without his permission.” David confronted the legitimacy of presenting the photo into evidence.
“Oh, I don’t think a little look will hurt anybody.” He allowed David to approach and examine the print.
“This is no proof of anything,” David explained. “Your Honor, what madman poses for a photo?” The wise judge seemed to have come to a similar conclusion.
“You do this out on some island in the Pacific?” The direct question caught me off guard as every eye in the room was upon me.
“Ah, yes I do, yes Sir.” Judge Stifler raised an eyebrow and scratched the base of his broad chin.
“Huh, it looks like fun,” he stated to the surprise of my paranoia.
“Oh my,” I murmured as my head fell forward. With the judge's dismissal of the jungle man as a threat, the supposed damaging tool was made null and void. I felt like a wreck at this point and was ready for the proceedings to be concluded for now the courtroom was filled with the curious.
I spotted Muerto's image among those entering the courtroom. I envisioned a woman in the face of a darling calavera, wide eyed and smiling with dark black lines bordering many vivid colors. The carnival had arrived and it was time to take another ride on the runaway roller coaster as the crowd demanded to hear more details. The judge also wanted to know the juicy facts… this case was a feast of wonder and I would have to pay the check.
“She believes he will kidnap the boy.” Sofia's brother was now on the stand. I leaned over toward David who was taking some notes on his yellow legal pad.
“You got to do something, I am being skinned” Once again, the wise counselor dismissed me with a movement of his hand. I gazed up at the clock then at the wide probing stares of those in attendance.
“Globos, rojo, azul, y amarillo.” (Balloons, red, blue and yellow.) The Mexican vendors now plied their wares in the courtroom when an object flew passed me. Across the room a young teen caught it then dangled it with great delight.
“Es su novia,” (It's your girlfriend's) he chuckled. I looked deeper and recognized it as a severed hand. The circus was complete. Death sat across the room some rows back and followed the testimony with interest.
“He seemed to leave the load of the work to Sofia.” I once more concentrated on brother-in-law's testimony.
“That will be all Your Honor.” The petitioners seemed satisfied with their effort.
“He chewed you up like you deserve,” the voices now joined the chorus. David J. Brooks did not rise, he simply placed his right hand up onto his temple and thought. The judge just stared at him indicating that it was his turn. Would there being a questioning of this witness? I sat queasily for I was completely helpless in these formalities, helpless with regard to my future with my son.
“Sir.” David hesitated once more then looked straight at the man. “Is Eddy a good father?” A short, direct approach caught Sofia's brother off guard. David leaped at the chance. “Is Eddy a good father, yes or no?” The honest man turned and stiffened his spine.
“Yes.”
“I have no more questions, Your Honor.” My illegal brass-knuckled weapon could not have cut any more sharply as David Brook's skills as an attorney. He once again directed the case back to the focal point: what would be in the best interest of the child. Over a series of court-ordered dates, David was able to eliminate the court's concerns. Doctor Ramljak, Timothy Cardinal Manning and Barry Lane were all steadfast in their support on my behalf, submitting letters to the court vouching for my character. Muerto left the final proceedings disappointed.
Now, I could continue on my adventures with Cris as my flying partner. Up there in the skies, inside a DC-10, we would not have to deal with the distrust of the world below. Once Cris would be returned to his mother and I was alone in my beach home, demons would come forth.
“Get her up Carl, you're banking.” I once again listened to the CVR Recording. On the recording, First Officer Dieter Reimann's attitude changed quickly once our aircraft hit the dump truck on runway 23 Left. It's funny how one can go from disliking an individual to cheering for him in a split second when one's ass is on the line. It also became apparent to me that with all the commands and screaming that went on in those final moments, their gruesome panic was loud enough to be heard by the crew and passengers in first class. I recalled being able to understand some conversation coming out of the cockpit on certain flights while strapped to the jumpseat at station 1L or 1R. I tried to take solace in the fact that most of the passengers would have been asleep. Yet, I was certain the flight attendants up front, Gary and Karen, would have been wide awake, especially after the jolt when striking the truck.
“It should have been you.” The whispers tormented me. “You should have been seated at 1R.” In the darkness, when the doors and windows were firmly locked, I found myself very alone and the night belonged to Muerto. Death spun his web of blackness in a never-ending attempt to entrap my spirit. If I were to close my eyes I knew I would have to face Javier's pleas as he was consumed by the flesh-eating flames.
“Why couldn't I save him?” I downed another Bohemia.
I found myself becoming complacent in my duties on flights. Although I was aware of the ramifications of the unthinkable I now felt secure being locked in the tubular aircraft. At 35,000' I was protected from the people I despised on the ground. Although I had found some contentment in my “presentation” to the company's board of directors, I soon fell back into a shallow pool of resentment. Sure, other associates could and did sympathize but I was the one who was expected to retain the secrets, the true nature of what had unfolded in the affairs of this horrible ordeal.
“Get on with your life” was the consensus. Initially it sounded like a good idea but as Dr. Joe realized early on, it was a nearly impossible task. He indicated that my salvation from this plague lie in the ability to purge my subconscious, which, held a treasure trove of self-destructive memories. I found myself more willing to express specific details of the incident when I was continually cornered and questioned by the curious. It was usually fellow crew-members who were eager to learn something that might benefit their own survival.
The aviators of the airline, in particular, would always invite me to visit the cockpit to enjoy the view. They had been one of the few elite to be told specifics.
“Many of the F/A's were so junior, their families were not eligible for any financial compensation.”
“Are you shitting me?” One senior pilot listened to the realities that warped my mind and concluded, “I would have got me a fine lawyer.”
“It would not have done any good. The appellate court shot down their claims because of workman's compensation.” It seemed useless and taxing to my spirit to detail the fruitless laws which hindered those ill-fated families in their quest for justice. No matter how many diminutive facts I would release to my fellow crew-mates, the reaction was always the same: a cringing of the facial muscles, a look of disbelief, then a sobering moment of contemplation.
“Plea
se tell me what you can Eddy,” some sincerely asked. Others who perhaps wanted the whole affair buried forever simply avoided me at all cost. Either way, my continued presence on the flight line took a toll on me.
“2605, expect an approach to Runway 23 Left,” so said the Mexican Air Traffic Controller. The hours I spent listening to the CVR Recording drained me in many ways, yet it also educated me. If I was indeed suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder as Doctor Joe had indicated, I had to be sure about what I believed truly happened, clear on the facts I was relating to those who were interested.
After a familiar horrid night of visits from the dead, I was awakened in the early morning hours by a phone call.
“I am a Senior Producer of the Oprah Winfrey television show,” she indicated. “I would like to extend an invitation to be part of a panel of “Whistle Blowers” on a show based on that subject.”
“My God, I can finally dump this crap on the side of the road,” I thought. As the producer spoke, I envisioned myself speaking to the general public across the country. “You want to know what these ass##### are responsible for?” My face bore a rare smile. Why shouldn't I? But the producer's words suddenly rang through.
“You will be part of a panel.” I would have just a few minutes to make my case.
“Who is he?” they would say. I was no aviation investigator. Once on the air the broadcast would only reveal a regular flight attendant, a disgruntled one at that. The details of this affair were complicated. My explanations to the people would only be taken seriously if supported by an expert pilot.
“We would like to send the limo tomorrow morning to take you to the airport where transportation to Chicago will be arranged.”
“Go ahead, make a bigger joke of yourself than you already are.” The Fallen Angels chimed in. My mind raced as I became confused. Oprah would certainly not be airing the ghastly screams of the black box. What harm would I be doing to my airline? A swift emotional explanation was not the solution to ridding me of my plague. What a disappointment I would be to Barry Lane who had worked endlessly and who was seeing positive results in the resurrection of the company. Another problem was the show's subject.
“Excuse me, I am not a whistleblower. I am a survivor.” I had to think this process through. “Please relate my gratitude to Oprah but my story just requires a different format.” As I hung up the phone I repositioned the yoke around my neck and continued the self abuse.
“Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads became a theme song for my shameful expeditions. Antimundo loved the tune. If there was a dim cave, darkened tunnel or hollow spot under a rusted bridge, in any town, he sought to be there. If there was a down-trodden bar, he found it. If he mingled with the self-condemned who inhabited these domiciles of despair, he embraced it. If through the implementation of these action there happened to be misfortune for the fools and bloodsuckers, so be it. Late one night I returned from a SEA layover, heading to my car. A seizure overtook me. I fell to the ground and tried to deal with the spasms. My head lurched forward as I went into convulsions. In the past there would be vomit or just dry heaves. Now the distinct color of red accompanied my last meal in Seattle, now on the pavement.
“Stop!” This was the message I related to Flight Attendant Scheduling. “I am not going to work another assigned flight. I don't care who knows, I'm not doing it.” I was taken off the flight line. It would be foolish to think that none of my fellow crew members never suspected me of strange behavior on layovers. I no longer cared.
Time passed as I sat alone, isolated in the beach house. Periodically I was filled with tremendous joy as Cris would arrive for our arranged time together but his inevitable departure always reopened the door to the chasm where I would merely exist. The company continued without me, emerging from near bankruptcy to financial strength under the new management team.
My basic needs continued to be met. What did not change was the deep-rooted guilt and resentment. One morning I was again summoned to the executive offices. It was a mentally worn and physically beaten down flight attendant who faced CEO Barry Lane.
“Learned Helplessness,” I sighed.
“What?”
“Doctor Ramljak told me I am in a state of learned helplessness, like a rat running on a spinning wheel. I am going nowhere but must continue to run.”
“Perhaps we could find an alternative solution,” Mr. Lane suggested.
My kind mentor rose from his desk, grabbed a chair and sat beside me.
“What do you want to do with your future, Eddy?” His inquiry caught me off guard.
“I suppose if I had the opportunity, I would like to return to school. There is power to be found in education.”
“And the possibility of healing also.” He jumped on my words. “So why don’t you do it?” Mr. Lane was serious. My spine stiffened and I sat more erect.
“Do you know how much it costs for college tuition these days?” I began to chuckle.
“That is exactly what I am talking about.” Barry Lane responded seriously. It went clear over my head.
“What?”
“Listen Ed, the board has recently allotted funds to aid employees who are victims of a crash and I believe you qualify in that category. The airline is on a much better financial plateau and I believe you have earned this opportunity” Mr. Lane rose and slowly escorted me to the door. “Do some research and determine what you would like to study and where. The airline will continue to see to your financial needs and when you come back, I am sure we can come to an understanding.” Like a devoted father, he placed his hand upon my shoulder as we walked past his smiling secretary. “Thank you for coming by today, Ed, and I expect to hear from you soon.” All at once I found myself standing alone in the hallway, my mind derelict from self abuse. I tried to process the information, filled with a rush of adrenaline.
“Yes!” I screamed in a rare moment of joy. I drove out the employee parking structure with precarious haste for I could hardly contain myself as I pondered the possibilities. The voices were not so trusting.
“It's just a ploy to get you away from the workplace and those associates who simply want to know the truth. Get it all on paper.” My heart began to harden but then I reflected on Barry Lane, whose character was beyond reproach. He was a truthful soul who was going out of his way to personally help me when he didn't have to. His guidance was a true blessing but the voices had a point. It made sense to have all the proceedings legally documented.
Chapter XX
Dr. Judy Bishop PhD. was Director of Continuing Education at Loyola-Marymount University, just a few miles from LAX. She had worked endlessly to establish a program for women who had been absent from higher education for at least ten years. The prestigious private Catholic institution certainly would be met with great approval by my family and the location was ideal. Cris, my home and the gates at Terminal 5 were all but minutes away. I needed a good reason for the Jesuit institution to admit me and Judy needed a reason to expand her program. I met all the requirements regarding the continuing education syllabus with the exception of one, I was male.
I was soon back in the executive offices with a plan for my continued education. Barry Lane seemed quite pleased that I had approached his suggestions with eager endeavor. He was supportive of my selection.
“With this agreement, your career as a flight attendant will be terminated.” The finality struck home for the first time. I would be designated as a full time employee with all such benefits and privileges, with the title “Assistant to the CEO.” I had no office, no work station nor would I be expected to appear at the company headquarters on Avion Dr. My only assignment was to attend school on a full time basis and continue my therapy with Doctor Ramljak. Any advisement or rescheduling of said company duties would be at the discretion of Doctor Joe and Barry Lane.
Forfeiting my flight attendant certifications would be a personal difficulty after all that had occurred. The airline offered me one last flight assignment, a
farewell trip, with an extended layover in HNL. For once my mind was crystal clear on the matter; my flying career had truly ended the morning of October 31, 1979 amidst the terror, screams and walls of flames. Everything since had been a forced pantomime, an effort at evading the pain of rebirth.
I embraced the airline's generous offer and tried to embrace my new career as a college student. At the beginning of the school year I strolled tentatively on the clean concrete sidewalk along the neatly trimmed lawns that sprawled across the campus. There were new changes to be mastered. The obvious was that the students were a good 10 to 15 years younger. There was the selection and scheduling of classes. The all boys Catholic High school I had attended equipped me well with the preparation process. Gone were the tailored flight uniforms and regulation accessories. The sleek, tubular lines of the DC-10 were now replaced by the aged structures of an institution with a highly accredited past.
I realized the majority of friends and relationships I had developed at the airline were now gone. It seemed as though I was just plucked out of the flight line, never to be seen again. I saw familiar faces only when Cris and I flew off to some exotic destination. There was always Tommy and David but there was no longer a workplace environment of people my own age. I had to adjust, adopt my surroundings and remain physically and mentally healthy.
I spotted a campus bulletin board post inviting any student interested in trying out for the university crew team to meet the next evening. Rowing was a sport I never envisioned doing, yet the challenge and training intrigued me. A man is his early thirties certainly would not be considered for a collegiate sport.
“They're not looking for an old man.” The menaces in my mind accompanied me to school. I sat with all the young jocks in the auditorium. I appeared the following morning at the LMU boat house in Marina Del Rey, energetic and determined; maybe my strength gave me an advantage. The coach, who seemed to be about twenty-two years of age, used my age to his benefit.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 55