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Authors: Richard Herman
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him in combat and was damn lucky to have survived.” He read the disbelief on the inspector’s face. “He never lost situational awareness yesterday.”
“How can you be sure of that?” the inspector asked.
“Because there was no fire. I looked inside the wreckage when I retrieved the videotape from his HUD. Johar had turned off the ignition and the fuel selector valve before impacting the ground. He knew he was going to crash and never gave up.”
The inspector closed his notebook and gathered up the tapes. “Well, we have a lot of work to do.” He paused. “General Pontowski, I’m going to have to ask you for your logbook.”
Pontowski shook his head. “I’ll send you a certified copy.”
“Please, don’t play games with me.”
The two men looked at each other, neither wanting to get into an argument. But they were staking out the boundaries of the investigation. Pontowski almost said the FAA was not the Gestapo but was saved when the door opened and a man and a woman carrying briefcases marched in. Both were dressed in dark business suits. The man snapped out a business card and handed it to Bender because helooked like he was in charge. “Jonathan Slater from Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube.” The woman sat down and clicked open her slim briefcase. Bender read the card, frowned, and handed it to the FAA inspector. Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube was a high-powered law firm with offices in every major city in the United States. Just to get them to answer the telephone required a yearly retainer fee of $50,000. “We represent Mr. Beason’s family,” Slater announced as if he spoke for an ecclesiastical power.
The woman handed the FAA inspector a subpoena. “We’re filing a wrongful-death action against all parties for the death of Samuel Beason, and subpoenaing all relevant documents.” She reached for the tapes.
The FAA inspector slapped her hand. “Don’t get grabby,” he told her. He unfolded the subpoena and started to read.
A cell phone buzzed and all five reached for their phones. It was for Bender. He flipped it open. “Bender here.” Even in that simple greeting, there was authority. He listened to the summons from the White House. No emotion crossed his face. He broke the connection and waited for the inspector to finish reading the subpoena.
“You had better get a federal judge involved,” the inspector told the lawyers.
“This is a court order,” the man said. “Are you defying it?”
The inspector shook his head in disgust at the legal gimmicks lawyers would try, even very high-priced ones when they were out of ideas. “Wrong court.” A little smile crossed his face. “We’ll provide you copies at the proper time.”
The two lawyers exchanged glances. “We’re sorry you’ve chosen not to cooperate,” the woman said. The smile never left the inspector’s face as the two lawyers retreated, slamming the door behind them.
“Eat shit,” the inspector muttered. “They want to bury the tapes.”
Pontowski decided he liked the man. “You’ll have my logbook as soon as I can find a Xerox and make a copy for myself.”
“Thank you.”
“I have to get back to Washington ASAP,” Bender told the two men. “There’s a plane waiting for me at Sky Harbor.” Sky Harbor was Phoenix’s international airport twenty-six miles away. But to get there through traffic and into the terminal could take more than an hour.
“I can fly you there in the Mentor,” Pontowski offered. It was quickly arranged.
“I hope you’re coming back,” the inspector said.
“Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse?” Pontowski asked.
“Well, we’ve still got three Marchettis that are good to go and since Fine, Schlossmaker, and Trouble want to gather evidence, maybe we can model the accident for them.” Pontowski didn’t reply, but the idea of reflying the accident appealed to him. “Perhaps,” the inspector continued, his face solemn but his eyes giving him away, “we
“How can you be sure of that?” the inspector asked.
“Because there was no fire. I looked inside the wreckage when I retrieved the videotape from his HUD. Johar had turned off the ignition and the fuel selector valve before impacting the ground. He knew he was going to crash and never gave up.”
The inspector closed his notebook and gathered up the tapes. “Well, we have a lot of work to do.” He paused. “General Pontowski, I’m going to have to ask you for your logbook.”
Pontowski shook his head. “I’ll send you a certified copy.”
“Please, don’t play games with me.”
The two men looked at each other, neither wanting to get into an argument. But they were staking out the boundaries of the investigation. Pontowski almost said the FAA was not the Gestapo but was saved when the door opened and a man and a woman carrying briefcases marched in. Both were dressed in dark business suits. The man snapped out a business card and handed it to Bender because helooked like he was in charge. “Jonathan Slater from Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube.” The woman sat down and clicked open her slim briefcase. Bender read the card, frowned, and handed it to the FAA inspector. Fine, Schlossmaker, and Traube was a high-powered law firm with offices in every major city in the United States. Just to get them to answer the telephone required a yearly retainer fee of $50,000. “We represent Mr. Beason’s family,” Slater announced as if he spoke for an ecclesiastical power.
The woman handed the FAA inspector a subpoena. “We’re filing a wrongful-death action against all parties for the death of Samuel Beason, and subpoenaing all relevant documents.” She reached for the tapes.
The FAA inspector slapped her hand. “Don’t get grabby,” he told her. He unfolded the subpoena and started to read.
A cell phone buzzed and all five reached for their phones. It was for Bender. He flipped it open. “Bender here.” Even in that simple greeting, there was authority. He listened to the summons from the White House. No emotion crossed his face. He broke the connection and waited for the inspector to finish reading the subpoena.
“You had better get a federal judge involved,” the inspector told the lawyers.
“This is a court order,” the man said. “Are you defying it?”
The inspector shook his head in disgust at the legal gimmicks lawyers would try, even very high-priced ones when they were out of ideas. “Wrong court.” A little smile crossed his face. “We’ll provide you copies at the proper time.”
The two lawyers exchanged glances. “We’re sorry you’ve chosen not to cooperate,” the woman said. The smile never left the inspector’s face as the two lawyers retreated, slamming the door behind them.
“Eat shit,” the inspector muttered. “They want to bury the tapes.”
Pontowski decided he liked the man. “You’ll have my logbook as soon as I can find a Xerox and make a copy for myself.”
“Thank you.”
“I have to get back to Washington ASAP,” Bender told the two men. “There’s a plane waiting for me at Sky Harbor.” Sky Harbor was Phoenix’s international airport twenty-six miles away. But to get there through traffic and into the terminal could take more than an hour.
“I can fly you there in the Mentor,” Pontowski offered. It was quickly arranged.
“I hope you’re coming back,” the inspector said.
“Are you making me an offer I can’t refuse?” Pontowski asked.
“Well, we’ve still got three Marchettis that are good to go and since Fine, Schlossmaker, and Trouble want to gather evidence, maybe we can model the accident for them.” Pontowski didn’t reply, but the idea of reflying the accident appealed to him. “Perhaps,” the inspector continued, his face solemn but his eyes giving him away, “we
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