16 SOULS

by John J. Nance

  He thought of the lengthy, tear-stained interview he’d just completed, and that thought in turn sparked a moment of panic: what if his recorder had failed? His handwriting was so lousy these days even he couldn’t read the notes he scribbled during interviews, notes taken as he locked eyes with the subject. His traditional steno pads were dwindling in importance. The recordings made him a better writer, but violated one of the orthodoxies of newspaper reportage – that real reporters took notes by hand with the ease of breathing. The tradition would brand him a less professional reporter, and losing an interview tape would mean losing half the information and the very essence of the interview.

  Who cares if I use a recorder? he asked himself. There was no longer a city editor to contend with, or even peers to pressure him.

  Scott reached in his shirt pocket to check the tiny instrument, triggering a few seconds of sound to reassure himself. The woman’s words were clearly audible.

  Martha Resnick had been the daughter’s name. A pretty 14-year old diving into life. Her mother’s post-divorce existence, by contrast, had become more invested in Martha’s teen years than her own re-entry into single life. Amanda the mother struggled not to hover over Martha the precocious daughter, and that one snowy afternoon – to her eternal sorrow – she had succeeded.

  Letting Martha visit her father in Orlando had seemed a reasonable request when the skies were clear, but that afternoon, leaving Denver by air had become a mounting challenge with snow flying in every direction and the planes doing anything but. Martha, however, refused to concede her carefully planned weekend. Seven days in Florida and then back with Mom for Christmas had been programmed into her iPhone for weeks, and she wouldn’t hear of a delay.

  Slowly, Amanda Resnick had narrated Scott through the pain of her “if-only” memories of their snowy race to the airport that December afternoon, and of her decision to cave to her daughter’s desire to go despite the storm. Dedicating oneself to not being the overbearing mom meant a follow through that defied all her cautions and protective instincts. But, after all, it wasn’t irresponsible to let Martha go, was it? Even in horrible weather, airline flying was supposed to be safer than just driving to the airport.

  There had been one hundred fifty-four passengers and crew on Flight 12, and fourteen terrified faces in the windows of the smaller aircraft, every one of them convinced they were going to die.

  How many other lives have been shattered or damaged by proxy, he wondered. With survivors, the torture never ended.

  Every interview had poured more depth and understanding into the human stories, but talking to the passengers was getting more difficult. The captain, in particular, had refused all requests for an interview, and even refused legal help.

  Scott opened his notebook and looked at the schedule once more, anything to get those innocent faces of the little occupants he’d almost killed in the minivan out of his mind.

  Broomfield, 6:30 pm. Lucy Alvarez.

  It was highly unusual, but Alvarez had called him. She’d heard he was researching the tragedy, and she’d been seated on the right side of the 757 and finally wanted to talk – after months of therapy.

  Pulling into her driveway twenty minutes later, Scott grabbed his notebook and recorder and got out, acutely aware his body was still awash in adrenaline. He would have to make a concerted effort to slow down.

  “How much do you know?” Lucy Alvarez asked when they were settled in her living room.

  Scott fingered the aromatic cup of tea she’d prepared for him and returned her intense gaze. She was barely over five feet in height, shoulder-length dark hair worn with bangs and a classically angular face carefully maintained. A naturally lovely forty-something struggling to stay younger, successfully so far, he judged. Her deep green eyes, though, were clearly haunted.

  Scott cleared his throat. “I don’t know enough, definitely, which is why I appreciate so much you calling me.”

  She nodded. “I heard you were a serious journalist.”

  “I know a lot of facts...I’ve interviewed dozens, including the families...”

  “It was snowing,” she began simply, interrupting him, her eyes shifting away to a distant horizon as her mind transported the both of them back to the previous January. “God, how it was snowing! I decided on the trip to Orlando at the very last minute because my fiancé called from New York with the infuriating news that the weekend we’d planned so carefully in Vail had just gone up in smoke. He was coming back from New York on schedule, that night in fact, but going straight on to southwest Colorado to work for a week with a client hospital. Frankly, I was pissed. I got online and found a great give-away, non-refundable fare, and I remember feeling somewhat smug that I’d outfoxed the system. But the moment I got up and pulled the curtains back on the grey skies and snow flurries that morning, there was a...a kind of foreboding. I felt it, but I dismissed it. Regal Airlines has been such a godawful mess of angry people and poor service for the last ten years, but they practically invented airline safety so I wasn’t worried about that. Boiler plate predictability, you know? Flight 12 left at seven-fifteen pm and I was planning to drive to Denver International at around five...it’s only a half-hour in good weather. I didn’t even check on Greg’s flight because I didn’t want to see him. Around three, the snow became a near-blizzard. I should have just cancelled, but I threw my bags together and headed for the airport instead, thinking rancid things about Denver city fathers who’d built an airport practically in Kansas without a rail line. I have four-wheel drive, and I needed it. Finally made it at five-thirty. Got to the gate at six-fifteen, and the first thing I noticed was a clearly upset captain...our captain...talking on the phone at the podium.”

  “Captain Mitchell?”

  “Yes. I only know that from later coverage, of course. I couldn’t see a name tag.”

  “And he was…”

  “Worried. You could see the worry in his eyes. And you could barely even see our airplane through the windows behind him even though it was right there at the gate. The snow was literally blowing sideways, one of those really intense storms. I figured, no way is this going to work because it’s coming down too heavily, but the flight information screens were showing only a handful of cancelled flights, so I kind of got as close as I could to hear what the pilot was saying and figured I’d wait it out.”

  “Was the snow sticking?”

  “Not really. More like a powder, and great if you’re skiing. I had heard snow like that just blows off the wings, although I also heard they would have to spray some sort of de-icing liquid on the plane before we could go.”

  “Were you worried?”

  She shrugged. “Not about safety, just about getting to Orlando somewhere close to schedule. Or, I guess I should say, I wasn’t thinking about safety until I heard the captain say something really strange to whomever was on the other end.”

  “What was that?”

  “He said, ‘We’re pressing the margins here, you know that, don’t you?’ I never knew who he was speaking to, but that twanged me...worried me. Pressing the margins? I didn’t want to press the margins if it had to do with being safe. But this guy...”

  “The captain?”

  “Yes. Captain Mitchell. Just to look at him inspired confidence. Like he came out of some Hollywood casting company, you know? Square shoulders, tall and trim, chiseled facial features. Salt and pepper hair, very neatly cropped. That deep, rumbling, authoritative pilot voice. I figured he was in his mid-fifties and probably former military. He just looked like Air Force or Navy. Maybe it’s a female thing, but...if a guy like that is willing to fly, I’ll be his passenger any day.”

  “What do you think he meant by that phrase, ‘pressing the margins’?”

  “You’d have to ask him. But I couldn’t help wonder if he sensed something, too. I mean, something beyo
nd the obvious.”

  “Please forgive the directness of this question, Lucy, but, I have to ask.”

  She nodded, all traces of a smile vanishing. “Go ahead.”

  “You survived, without injury, correct?”

  “Not really. I haven’t told you the rest of the story.”

  “You were injured?”

  “Not physically.” She placed her cup on the table and got up suddenly, walking to the bay window and staring at nothing.

  “Psychologically you mean?” he said, cringing at the ‘captain obvious’ question.

  She stood there in silence for an uncomfortable beat before nodding, slowly, her eyes on a distant, ghostly memory.

  “I…will never be able to un-see it…what I went through…or forget the captain on the PA explaining the choice he had to make. It was beyond surreal.”

  “I can imagine,” he replied prompting her to turn.

  “No, you can’t,” she said, an edge in her voice that did not invite challenge.

  “But, you’ll recover with time, right?”

  Her eyes went down to the carpet and she stood motionless for what seemed a very long time before meeting his gaze again, shaking her head slowly.

  “No.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Boulder, Colorado–August 14th, 6:00 pm

  The four lane leading from Broomfield to Boulder was nearly at a standstill, the GPS reporting an accident miles ahead. Judith quietly chafed at the delay as she reviewed the irritating sequence that had delivered Marty Mitchell to her legal care in the first place.

  She recalled clearly closing the door to her designer-wrought office that day three months ago and pacing around irately, grateful there were no inside windows to broadcast her agitation to the three other lawyers who shared the downtown Boulder office.

  A glance at the elaborate brass wall clock had confirmed she had a half hour before the client she did not want to represent walked in. If he was anywhere near as uncooperative and distant as he’d been on their only phone call, this was going to be a struggle.

  Whatever aggravation she felt paled, however, in comparison to the combination of embarrassment and upset over the judicial clash that had made a mistake on her part far worse. Never in her years as a lawyer had she crossed swords so directly – or been insulted so thoroughly – by a sitting judge. The raw memory of dealing with Judge Gonzales came back in high definition clarity, churning her stomach with a toxic cocktail of mortification along with an unmistakable whiff of victimization.

  Her supreme effort to maintain lawyerly restraint had failed. She’d expected a quick explanation to the judge would spring her from her obviously misguided acceptance of what had turned out to be a major criminal defense case, an assignment to a corporate lawyer cynically engineered by her firm’s senior partner. But Judge Gonzales, it seemed, had for some reason developed an affinity for the idea of a big corporate lawyer playing defense counsel, and had decided not to release her. Originally, Judith had asked the district attorney to join her in a hearing in Gonzales’ chambers, explaining that she wanted off the case. But when Grant Richardson had refused, she requested an ex parte hearing anyway, and was surprised when the judge granted the request. Now a rising tide of panic was building as Judith realized the judge was actually enjoying her discomfort, and worse, was absolutely delighted at the prospect that the poised and polished female attorney before him might actually lose control. Within the calculating side of her mind she knew an explosion would play right into his hands, but uncharacteristically the emotional side had seized control.

  “Judge Gonzalez,” Judith had begun, her words metered through gritted teeth.

  He cut her off, his voice dripping with feigned concern.

  “You have something more to say, Counselor?” The bushy eyebrows arched up in false surprise. “I was very appreciative that you offered your services as a pro bono lawyer, and I accepted, and I do not see any reasonable grounds for releasing you from this obligation.”

  “I and my firm made a mistake, sir! I should never have volunteered.”

  “So, why did you?”

  “Because my senior partner thought it was the appropriate thing to do and I really didn’t understand the scope of this criminal case.”

  “Well, now you do. And I need you.”

  “Judge, I’m not competent to try a criminal case!”

  “Colorado does not agree with you. You passed the same bar exam as all the criminal defense attorneys in the state, and you raised your right hand and took the lawyer’s oath, right?”

  “Yes, of course…but I’m trained primarily in corporate law.”

  “And in Colorado, a lawyer is a lawyer and every one of us is expected to either have the expertise, or be able to study and acquire the expertise. No, you volunteered and I am not letting you off the hook.”

  “I can’t do this, Your Honor.”

  “Are we having a failure to communicate? Or didn’t they teach you about your pro bono responsibilities for this sort of thing at Yale Law?”

  She forced herself to ignore the reverse snobbery. “This...this is a murder case!”

  “Yes. I believe we’ve established that. Is there some point you’re trying to get to? I’m a busy man.”

  Judith took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the overstuffed contents of the judge’s office. The thought of insulting this condescending toad was almost seductive, but she dismissed it. Having her defend a crazy airline captain who’d made a stupid decision that resulted in a loss of life would have been bad enough, but running it up into a criminal charge of second degree murder and expecting her to defend him – she was in no way competent to try such a case. Conviction would be a foregone conclusion. And that without even considering the massive disruption in her corporate practice. Her partners would be furious. Her other partners, she reminded herself.

  “Judge,” she began again, only slightly more controlled. “You’re charged by state law with trying to assist the accused, not condemn him! Your DA is trying to convict this airline captain of second degree murder and send him away for a very long time.”

  “That’s right, but it’s only second degree, counselor. You needn’t worry about the death penalty.”

  “Your honor, please…”

  “Okay, hold it! This defendant is wobbling close to the precipice of diminished capacity. He’s fired or refused every lawyer his pilot union buddies have hired, and while the law says he can do so, the self-destructive nature of this is something I can’t ignore. I’ve already allowed two dismissals of counsel, and agreed that since his airline has him on unpaid suspension, he’s indigent, and lo and behold I ask for a pro bono lawyer and I get one of the best. What better solution could there be than to have the best from Walters, Wilson, and Crandall, PC, ask for the job? How could anyone object to having an AV rated lawyer like you?” His tone was unctuous, as if he had no idea why she was objecting. “After all, you were a prosecutor in Denver once. Correct?”

  “A long, long time ago for less than six months! And I was assigned to white collar crime. I never handled anything big like murder.”

  He’s obscenely enjoying this! she thought, powerless to stop the play. She was sliding inexorably, helplessly into his trap.

  “Goddammit, Judge!”

  “Watch your tongue, Counselor.”

  “I say again, regardless of the legal theory that we’re all competent to represent anyone for anything, you know I’m not even remotely qualified to defend this case. For God’s sake, I probably couldn’t even defend myself on a traffic ticket! I’m a corporate lawyer, and not even a regular litigator in civil practice, and you...you...want to inflict me on this man as some sort of ridiculous farce of a public defender?”

  Gonzalez was leaning forward now, obviously out of pat
ience.

  “It’s not your choice any longer, Ms. Winston. And in fact you have only two options. One, refuse to serve, in which case I will immediately file a complaint with our Attorney Regulation Counsel – OARC, for violating rules Rule 1.16, Rule 1.1, and Rule 1.3, or two, take this case precisely as you volunteered to do and do a competent job of being a lawyer, which...oh, by the way...includes being an officer of the court, which includes being competent to represent a criminal defendant.”

  “I would think as many times as that attitude has been struck down in this country, it would be judicial misconduct to appoint an unqualified lawyer!”

  “Thank you for accusing me of judicial misconduct! But guess what? I’m the judge, and this judge can, and will, throw your posterior in jail on contempt if you sass me like that one more time.”

  She couldn’t keep her jaw from dropping slightly. “My...posterior? Did you say…”

  “You’re in my chambers, Winston, you’re pissing me off big time, and we’re off the record. I can say anything to you I decide to say. But relax. I’m just a common street judge retained by the people. Worse, I’m not a member of your waspy, yuppie club. You, on the other hand, are legal royalty, aren’t you? The chosen one? The Ivy League lawyer pulling in a half million a year helping corporate fat cats screw those same unwashed and sometimes undocumented people who keep me on the bench? No wonder you don’t want to take three or four months out to try a criminal case and get your hands dirty.”

  “Good Lord, is that what this is about? Some sort of class discrimination?”

  “No, Winston, it’s about public service. Pro bono publico. Not about attending some annual auction for the untouchables and buying a case of Chardonnay for Christ. You know what? Newsflash, lady. You take the same oath the criminal bar takes, and yet you shoulder few, if any of the criminal defense responsibilities. I, for one, have had enough of it!” He was rising from his oversized chair now, his squat frame and overabundant girth failing to provide the towering image that was playing in his head – the omnipotent state district judge about to put the entirety of the fancy corporate lawyers in their place.