‘I didn’t work on 702, you know that, Rory,’ she said, opening her sandwich to inspect the contents.
‘I know, I know. And I also know that there isn’t a single thing that happens in the industry that you’re not aware of.’
‘This is true.’
Rory took a bite of a pickle. Projecting nonchalance in a situation like this was key. Any hint of desperation always threw you on the back foot and that was the last thing he needed right now. He was in a race against time.
‘I’m putting together a class action.’ As, no doubt, was just about every other aviation law firm. He needed to lock down his clients fast.
‘Against the airline or plane manufacturers?’
‘Maybe both. Right now, I’m not sure where culpability lies.’
‘There’s no indication that it was down to manufacturer error.’ Renee paused. ‘I’ve got to say this. This is bigger than anything you’ve done before. Not even close. Are you sure—’
Rory held his arms wide, the pickle waggling between his fingers. ‘Am I sure I’m up to it? Renee! This is me!’
‘You’re not chasing low-level passenger litigation cases here, Rory. This is the big leagues.’
‘I’m ready. I’ve been building towards this.’
And if he didn’t do it now, with the state of his reputation, it was probably game over. The stink of garbage for the rest of his life. He felt his stomach twist at the prospect, but he showed that winning grin without a flicker of doubt.
Renee sighed, unconvinced, but he didn’t care. All he needed was a chance to show everyone what he could do.
‘Everyone I’ve spoken to,’ she began, ‘in the Air Accident Investigation Branch and the National Transportation Safety Board is … perplexed, shall we say. Perplexed at the NTSB’s official statement – their unprecedented statement – of the bird-strike theory.’
‘I knew it!’ Rory clapped his left hand down on the table and his plate jumped. ‘Sorry. Passion gets the better of me sometimes.’
Renee raised an eyebrow but chose to ignore him.
‘It just doesn’t add up. On any level.’
‘So, you think there’s a cover-up?’
‘I think there are still a lot of questions to answer. Which, for reasons undiscovered, are not being answered. Or even looked into.’
‘Cautious answer, Renee, good. Political, perhaps. That kind of argument works before a judge. But you know that.’ Rory chewed on his pickle for a moment, thinking. ‘OK. Human error?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Pilot fatigue?’
Renee twitched her nose, unconvinced.
‘Improper procedures?’
‘No evidence.’
‘Decision errors?’ He hesitated, then: ‘Or the plane was brought down deliberately by the crew?’
‘We know that’s happened in the past.’
‘That would explain Atlantic’s rush to judgement. It’s definitely not good for business if your passengers think they might be ditched in the ocean every time they board.’
‘I’ll tell you what I know.’ Renee dissected her sandwich with a careful stroke. ‘The captain had a reputation for being erratic. He didn’t always follow mandatory pre-flight checks.’
‘That hasn’t come out!’ Rory felt that familiar tingle of excitement in his belly. He knew he’d been right to call Renee.
‘The first officer switched out at the last moment. Claimed he was ill, but he had a history of conflict with the captain. And …’ She paused, deep in thought. ‘Not sure I should go here. But, in the spirit of leaving no stone unturned … The investigators uncovered a link between the first officer’s replacement and a radical Islamic group.’
‘I see your point. Cultural bias? Or significant? We can’t know for sure unless someone digs into it.’
‘There are red flags all over. Why did the captain try to send out a cell phone message minutes before the plane lost contact? It would suggest he no longer had access to the communications system.’
‘Renee, you’re a lifesaver. There’s a lot of red meat here – plenty I can use when I’m persuading the families to join me in this journey.’
‘Glad to be of help. All right, Rory. Now, you fill me in on your catastrophic private life. Which ex-wife is going for your jugular this time?’ She grasped her sandwich, ready to take a big bite. ‘This is better than Netflix.’
Rory swept into his apartment, tossed his briefcase to one side and flicked open his laptop on the coffee table in front of the sofa. The buzz from lunch with Renee still hadn’t faded. If anything, he felt more energised than he had done in years. The old Rory was back.
He punched a key and settled back to listen:
Hi, Mr Murray. You’ve been leaving messages on my phone. Listen, buddy, if you keep phoning someone and they don’t pick up, maybe, just maybe, they don’t want to talk to you. Just a tip to help you out. I’m not interested in your services. I already have legal representation. Now, fuck the hell off and leave me and my family alone.
‘OK. That’s a maybe.’ Rory scribbled a note on his yellow pad.
The next message played and he sighed when he heard the voice of ex-wife number two, Eloise.
Rory, the clinic called to say the bill hasn’t been settled. This is your daughter, Rory, your flesh and blood. And you know what? I don’t appreciate having to be the one who always—
Rory tapped the trackpad and jumped forwards to the next recording. This time it was the voice of his investigator and his shoulders loosened a little.
I’ve got something for you, but er … You’d better pay me this time. And don’t be late, or I won’t be working with you again, OK? So, I have one lead – the bereavement officer at Atlantic Airlines. Jennifer Wong. Obviously, she wasn’t talking, but now she’s quit her job and set up as an independent therapist. Might be more open. Here are her details …
Rory slipped his digital recorder into his jacket pocket so no one would know it was on. When Jennifer Wong ushered him into the small meeting room in her new office, he exclaimed, ‘Hey, Jennifer! Great to meet you face to face, finally. Surprised Atlantic Airlines allowed someone of your experience to get away.’
‘The airline cut back on that particular service budget when the investigation into 702 ended. Take a seat.’
Rory pulled up a chair.
‘It was time to move on, anyway,’ Jennifer continued. ‘So, you said you had some questions you wanted to share with me.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘And you are legal counsel for … one of the families?’
‘For several, yes. We’re gathering information.’
‘Against the airline? I’m not sure I’m allowed to say anything that—’
‘Not against the airline. We’re just representing the families’ interests, to make sure they get what they’re due.’
‘Can I ask you which families you represent?’
‘You can, but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose their details at this stage,’ he replied with a broad smile.
‘I see. How many families?’
‘Again—’
‘You’re not at liberty to say. So, is this evidence-gathering? I just want to be clear on what this is actually about.’
‘Well, everything is useful. Anything you can tell me about the conversations between the airline and families.’
‘I was there to help with their emotional needs.’
‘I know. And from what I hear, you did an amazing job under extremely challenging circumstances.’
‘Thank you. Have you ever lost someone, Rory?’
‘Yes. Yes, I have.’
‘Someone who went before their time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know yourself. Everyone deals with loss in their own unique way. It’s especially hard for people when they hang on to the hope that their loved one might still be alive. But, in the case of Flight 702, we knew within the first few hours that that wasn’t the
case. There was very little trust. A lot of anger. A lot of theories. But whatever happened on that plane, we knew there were no survivors and my job was to be that bearer of bad news.’
‘To the relatives?’
‘Yes. To convey that information to them as clearly and compassionately and professionally as I could. That was my job. Details of one-to-one counselling sessions are obviously off-limits.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Client confidentiality.’
‘You wouldn’t be breaking any confidences if you were to introduce me to some of the relatives – as someone they can talk to. In confidence. If they wish. Because, after events like this, people do sometimes disappear.’
‘Usually because they don’t want to be bothered by lawyers like you.’
‘I want to help them.’
‘OK. Whatever.’
Rory glanced down at his notepad, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Jennifer was stonewalling as much as she had when he’d phoned her across the weeks after the plane vanished. But there was a way through, there had to be.
‘So, generally speaking, your role was to help the relatives come to terms with—’
‘To give them certainty.’
‘Yes.’
‘The bird-strike theory. Your job was to push that line.’
‘That was the information we had at the time.’
Finally. A chink: at the time.
‘You’re not working for the airline any more. You can—’
‘I can’t do anything. No.’ Jennifer peered into the corner of the room as if she might find something of interest there. ‘I don’t want to get caught up in this.’
Rory pounced. ‘Is that because you think there is something to hide? Did you feel the airline wasn’t being honest, Jennifer?’
Jennifer stood. ‘I have a meeting at two. If there’s nothing else …’
Continuing to sit, Rory ignored the therapist’s mounting frustration. ‘Did the airline use you to get the families to sign an NDA and not talk to the press about their concerns?’
‘I really have to go.’
‘Do you keep in touch with any of them?’ he pressed.
‘They have my new details. They know they can come to me whenever they need to.’
‘I’ve tracked a few down. Some are very hard to reach.’
‘If you want names, there’s a Facebook page. You probably know about it, right? It’s run by some woman who’s pretty plugged in. Kaitlin Le, a relative of one of the victims. If you want to reach out to any of them, you can try there. I’ve got to go. Good luck with it all.’
7
The Atlantic wind blasted across the mudflats and stirred the browning rushes in the gleaming wetlands. A storm petrel wheeled across the silver sky, its trilling a warning of bad weather to come. The shore of Long Island Sound had already lost its summer appeal and Kaitlin shivered as she hurried away from the waterfront towards the white-painted clapboard house.
One breakthrough, that was all she needed. Thank God she had Dylan steering her. The Facebook page and the hotline were now jammed with trolls and messages from some ambulance-chasing lawyer, looking to make a fast buck out of the grief of the families. Clearly, it was Dylan or nothing.
As she climbed the steps, the door swung open to reveal a broad-shouldered woman with short blonde hair, one eyebrow cocked and a confident look that suggested she wouldn’t take any shit.
‘So, you’re my good friend who called the State Department for me because I was too grief-stricken?’ Beatrice LaPeer asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘I am so sorry, Ms LaPeer. I can explain.’
‘Relax, relax. Call me B. Come on in. I guess we have a lot to talk about.’
Kaitlin stepped into the warmth of an airy lounge, the scent of baking cookies drifting from the kitchen. Beatrice waved a hand for Kaitlin to sit on the sofa.
‘So, Martin Dobbs called me from the State Department. Said that a young woman was asking about my parents.’
‘It was just a white lie,’ Kaitlin explained. ‘I didn’t realise they’d call you to follow up. I guess that was stupid on my part.’
Beatrice folded her arms. ‘Don’t get me wrong: I was fucking pissed. But then I saw your group online and … I guess it made more sense.’ Her face softened. ‘I’m sorry about your brother.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You must have been close. To be going to all this trouble.’
‘We used to be, yeah. We’re … he was my twin.’
‘Oh my God. That must be even harder.’
‘Yeah. We kinda took different paths after high school. I went to college and Conor got a job in London – he was always a bit of a super-brain. And, you know … noble.’ She felt her words dry up. It was still hard to talk about him.
Beatrice seemed to sense the weight of emotion and moved to the kitchen to give Kaitlin some space. She returned with a coffee pot and two mugs, which she set on a low table in front of the sofa.
‘And now you’ve dropped everything because you don’t believe the bird-strike story,’ she said, back to a more businesslike approach.
‘A woman reached out to me. She was at the airport before 702 departed. She said your mom was sick.’
Beatrice sat in an armchair and poured cream into her coffee.
‘My dad called me from Heathrow. I had no idea they were even coming home. I remember thinking, shit, are they gonna want me to pick them up from the airport, ’cause that’s, you know, a whole thing. But then he said Mom wasn’t feeling very well and they just wanted to get home.’
‘Do you know what was wrong with her?’
‘No, but I figured she must have been pretty wrecked, ’cause my dad doesn’t call me. It’s always my mom who calls, then she gives him the phone and we have awkward small talk. He never, ever calls of his own accord. He has much better things to focus his energy on, like being the colonial overlord of the Congo.’
Kaitlin showed a blank face, but she could sense the strain behind Beatrice’s comment.
‘So, their organisation – they built schools in Kinshasa?’
Beatrice snorted. ‘That’s one way of describing it. I mean, yes, they definitely built schools. But they went there to convert people.’
‘Doesn’t the State Department prohibit NGOs from spreading religion?’
Beatrice smiled. ‘A lot of volunteers who go over there are religious. They used to pay for the trips with Church bake sales and fundraisers, and then they found out it’s a lot easier to get State Department funding and just keep the religion thing on the DL.’ Beatrice motioned for Kaitlin not to forget her coffee. ‘Lately, the Department has been like a chicken with its head cut off and so it’s been a free-for-all. At least that’s what my mom said.’
‘So, they were doing missionary work in Kinshasa, but no one at the State Department was supposed to know, or they’d lose their funding?’ Kaitlin blew on her coffee, but her mind was racing. If these evangelists were involved in deception from the very beginning, how far would they go to hide things?
‘Basically, yeah, but Kinshasa’s all Christian. The Catholics and the Mormons got to them ages ago.’
‘Then where did they go?’
‘Up the Congo River.’
‘Up north? In the jungle?’
Beatrice nodded. ‘They’d go with their students, back to their parents’ villages. The Jesus sell works a lot better when you have an insider.’
‘Do you know anyone they worked with over there?’
Beatrice thought for a moment. ‘There was another couple. Unitarians, I think, from Connecticut, but I don’t remember their names. I guess I could have asked more about what they were up to. But I don’t know, I just never thought … I never thought that they could disappear.’
And there was the thing that drew so many disparate people together. ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Kaitlin said.
Beatrice showed some photos of her parents and Kaitlin pol
itely listened to a few reminiscences, but she was already running through ways she might be able to track down the couple from Connecticut.
She was back out in that bitter Atlantic breeze fifteen minutes later, skimming through searches on her phone. As she did, she noticed she had a bunch of missed calls and voicemails. Amelia. Her mom, three times. Amelia again.
Everyone was worried about her. She felt bad for ignoring them. They meant well, of course they did, but most of the time she felt she didn’t have enough left inside her to give back, to reassure them she was OK. And anyway, that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? She wasn’t OK. She hadn’t been for a long time.
That morning, she’d had a weird sensation when she’d looked in the bathroom mirror and wondered who it was looking back at her. She remembered what it was like when she smiled all the time, when she’d had that carefree nature that gave people an inner glow.
Grief had hollowed her out. The very shape of her features had changed, with the sagging of the muscles and too many nights spent sobbing.
As she made her way back towards the waterfront, she wondered if the old Kaitlin might be gone for good.
Chuck was a big guy with a belly that rippled every time he laughed, which was a lot. Kaitlin couldn’t help but grin as she sat opposite him in the neat lounge of his New Haven home in Connecticut. Amid all the hardship, his good humour was infectious and probably what she needed right now.
‘How did you find us? We’ve only been back in the States for two weeks,’ Chuck said. He was in his late forties, hair already silvering fast.
‘I saw you tagged on the LaPeers’ Instagram page. They mentioned they were travelling with a couple from Connecticut.’
‘Oh, wow. Miracles of technology.’ A woman appeared at the door, scrubbed face, no make-up, also beaming.
‘This is my wife, Madge,’ Chuck boomed.
‘Hello,’ Kaitlin said.
‘Hi! It’s so nice to meet you,’ Madge said. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’
Passenger List Page 6
