“Because of what I experienced I have made an effort to avoid the families of the victims. I never wanted to be put in the position of having to lie to them. I especially avoided Captain Herbert's family.” Kurt remained silent for a moment, his mind was racing. The tall man reached toward the fine wooden table that was strewn with papers, Mexican newspaper reports, transcripts, airline documentation. Mr. Lappert grabbed the blue covered ALPA report published three years after the incident. The document was commissioned not as an addition to the official report but as an alternative to the SENEAM report. The American Airline Pilots Association could not accept it with a clear conscience.
“The one hitch I see in this story is what you saw in the cockpit. You've done a fine job in accumulating all this material and I am still amazed that you have the CVR recording. By the way how did you get it?”
“You don't want to know.” The journalist smiled. The sleeves on his white dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows.
“All of this is coming from the flight attendant, not the NTSB or the FAA, but a flight attendant.” Kurt held the ALPA report as he faced the window just as a Boeing 727 was gliding in the distance, descending, seconds from touchdown.
“We need a knowledgeable expert who can verify all that you have told here today.” I chuckled. He was pointing out a vexing dilemma I had experienced from the beginning.
“The man you want is Retired Captain Ron Banner, the man who authored the report that is in your hand.”
“Do you have a contact for him?” I slowly nodded. I left the Sheraton Isabelle with a sense that Kurt Lappert would be able to persuade his superiors in Manhattan to run with the story. I drove away filled with hope and anticipation.
“Dear God, we may actually get this thing done.”
I assumed that the wheels which drove the news magazine back in Manhattan rotated very slowly. Sure, there was a story and certainly great curiosity in digging deeper, seeing what was really there to this bizarre incident. It would be six months at best, I believed, before hearing whether the network would commit itself. A crew would have to be gathered and schedules considered. Then there was the unfinished business with my superiors at the airline. I resigned myself to waiting, being patient.
It was with great surprise I received word that the new airline agreed to continue the flight benefits for both Cristiano and me.
“It could not be that simple.” I hung up the phone fully perplexed. Could there be some deception I was unaware of? The reality was, I was not that important. The task masters did not have the time or desire to deal with me. I was a pesky mosquito that came with the great package they inherited from the beloved airline.
“Eduardo, are you ready to go back to Mexico City?” I remained numb, motionless for a few seconds. Kurt Lappert let it be known that the network was moving swiftly on the story. There would be filming in Los Angeles and LMU as they developed a story line. We only had eighteen minutes of on-air time to explain what seemed like a lifetime.
“We've got Captain Baxter on board with us and I have contacted the Herbert family. They are extremely happy that someone has finally taken an interest in this crash.” The process was in motion and speeding up. I was not used to riding a journey with promise. The vile voices were made mute. I felt loved.
Guilt remained. I supposed the new airline might feel betrayed, me going public so quickly. I was willing to be guided by Kurt Lappert.
The crew and staff from the American Broadcasting Company were stellar. The interviews for Captain Banner and Carl Herbert Jr., the captain's son, who spoke for the family, were done separately. The quality of the investigation was first rate. I was never pressured and all consideration was given respecting my privacy. No! I was never financially compensated in any way for my participation.
“Quires tequila, joven?” The jovial voice of Manuel Rojas rang clear. While filming in Los Angeles I would have the pleasure of treating the crew from New York to a pleasant meal at El Tepeyac. Things were going very right.
The paranoia still lingered and although Carl Lappert informed me that ABC would supply the airline tickets for me to Mexico City, I refused.
“I still have my flight benefits.” I used the new company to ferry me across the Sea of Cortez, desert and mountains of greater Mexico. I wondered what stone might be left unturned and whether we could get anyone to speak to us. After studying Kurt Lappert and the camera crew, I saw that there was a method to his approach. He was patient and with the arrival at Benito Juarez Airport of the Field Reporter, who would present the story to the public, I could see the greater plan. In Mexico I was delighted to find myself once again in the lobby of El Presidente Hotel, Chapultepec. There would be time before filming and I had priorities.
With great humility and simplicity I was honored to greet two gentlemen to whom I will always be grateful, Hugo and Diego. The three of us sat in the plush cocktail area of the respected hotel, frosty glasses of Bohemia before us. At first, we remained silent. Both Hugo Garcia and Don Diego Suárez de la Vega had aged some. Words seemed unnecessary to express the joy of this reunion. We just stared with a sly smile on each of our faces.
“Hugo Garcia, that's a good name.” I remembered the day, as they ushered me into the back of the ambulance.
“You know he's gone now.” It was Diego. The well dressed diplomat was trying to tell me something.
“He's gone? Who?”
“Primitivo, he's gone.” My eyes widened and a chill went down my spine with just the mentioning of his name. I stiffened and gazed over at Hugo.
“Lung cancer, such a terrible death.”
“When?”
“About three months ago, I believe,” Diego said looking over at Hugo for confirmation. I gazed up at the vast wall of the hotel. Suddenly, I saw the comandante. He was standing, leaning on a bar counter. He stared down, looking at a pack of those vile cigarettes he held in his hands. Removing and placing one in his mouth he frantically searched his pockets for a light. I noticed he was once again dressed impeccably. A large shadow approached from behind. The familiar dark figure stood beside Chavez and ignited a flame with the snap of his bone fingers. He graciously offered it to the federal officer.
“Gracias mi amigo,” the fatigued comandante stated and began to cough heavily.
“It is my pleasure,” Death replied. Muerto chuckled in delight as the two walked away into a black void.
“Eduardo, you okay?”
“What? Oh, yeah.” I laughed and I was fine. I recognized it was simply a daydream. Yet, I wondered? Perhaps Muerto had finally captured the soul he sought.
I ventured away from Chapultepec in the late afternoon while the television crew was out. It was mid December and the air at the high altitude was chilly. The city was alive with colorful lights and decorations commemorating the season. A shop's showcases once filled with the dispiriting figures of El Dia de Los Muertos were replaced with the three wise men, various versions of the nativity and archangels.
“Una para la senora,” a butcher in a blood-stained white apron offered as ladies pressed tightly against his glass case. Each woman eyed their personal choice, looking to get just the right cut of meat for their holiday meal. On the streets, the children played and ran about, some stopping to view gifts displayed in one store then another. A slim young boy focused on controlling his soccer ball upon his foot. He balanced the sphere masterfully, kicking it up then again with his knee and finally sending it to a comrade with a perfect header.
I worked my way through the crowd. There were no grand marionettes of the sinister Muerto being manipulated, leering down upon the streets. All about was the essence of life and a spirit of promise. Although not abundant in possessions, the people of the city were indeed rich in love, respect and family. I thought about Cristiano and hoped that my collaboration with the 20/20 crew would allow me to step upon a path that emphasized those same virtues.
With the episode “in the can,” I returned to Los Angeles to w
ait and prepare to deal with the outcome, one way or the other.
“What Happened to Flight 2605?” would be presented to the nation on the evening of January 15, 1988. That morning I awoke, showered and dressed nicely. I pinned my flight wings onto my flight jacket and headed inland of the basin. I drove up the wide asphalt road of Rose Hills Memorial Gardens, lined by beautifully green pastures. I arrived at my destination. Marking the site was now a strong young tree.
“I desire to be a part of life once more in another form,” were Reina's words. It stood guard over her with a sense of tenderness.
Like a door that suddenly is slammed and instantly paralyzes, so it was with the 20/20 episode. It left no doubt.
“The first process in healing is to grieve.” Dr. Joe's words rang clear. He understood my dilemma. In over eight years I had not grieved.
“Cascadas de su alma,” (Cascading falls of your soul) my mother stated. I wept for months. When I regained my strength and composure I retreated to the cascading falls of the Garden Isle. Soon, I would be joined by Cristiano on a permanent basis.
“Will I ever be good enough?” Most likely not, but it really didn't matter because with time, the deep-rooted pain in my soul was lifted by the Grace of God.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 64