Joe nodded, still in deep thought as Mark paused, then continued.
“I sealed the tape in a mailing envelope, which you just saw me open, and here’s the hotel receipt with the call on it, and the Kansas City phone number, and you saw me take that out at the same time. Plus, remember you heard me get the date and time from the hotel operator before I dialed the call.”
The sound of breath being sharply exhaled filled the room.
“Son of a bitch, Mark, you got him all right. I can’t endorse your methods … that may even be illegal, fraudulently representing—”
“I’ll take my chances, Joe. If you want to prosecute, I’ll go willingly. But think about what this proves.”
Joe nodded and sat back in his chair. “It proves, as you said, that the man is trying to rewrite the record. His reaction, Mark, when he finally did hear the CVR tape, tells it all.”
Mark had not heard of Timson’s protests to the NTSB that he had been supplied with a faulty transcript of the CVR tape, or his openly voiced suspicion that someone at the NTSB had monkeyed with it to “get” him. “Andy ended up taking the actual tape to Timson’s house to play it for him before the captain would believe the transcript was legitimate. “We need to talk to Andy about this, but he told me that Timson said he could’ve sworn he said more at the end. Then he and his airline start acting as if the copilot seized control without authority.”
“What are you going to do about it, Joe?”
Another sigh as Joe diverted his gaze to the bookcase, seeing only Timson’s face. “I don’t know. I don’t know if we can crack him … crack his story. But Mark, if the man’s lying, that means he is, as you say, covering up something. Let’s think this through a second. Either he’s covering up the fact that his memory has not returned—which simply means that he cannot guarantee us that he maintained nose-up pressure on the control stick while the airplane was pitching nose down—or, he knows that for some reason he commanded nose down and the airplane’s control system is blameless, which would confirm the Air Force’s story.”
“You think North America knows about this?”
Joe shook his head vigorously. “No way. Look at this.” He pushed the newspaper clipping about North America’s suit against Airbus and their fleet groundings over the desk. “I can’t believe they’d do this if they suspected. Timson’s sold them a bill of goods too.”
Joe felt his thoughts racing up and down with different possibilities, knowing he’d have to reexamine every one before acting … provided there was anything he could do. I can’t present Mark’s tape as evidence, he thought, or can I? How can we use this? How can we let Timson know we’ve got him red-handed, at least as far as this interview goes?
“Joe?”
Mark had seen the investigator drifting, his eyes wide, his mind working and his fingers unconsciously beating a rapid, if syncopated beat on the arm of his chair.
“Mark …,” he said at last, “let me think this through. I don’t know how we’ll use it, but you’re right. It shows Timson is misleading us or out-and-out lying to us. Hell, he is lying. In any event, it proves to me we can’t indict the airplane, or the Air Force, just yet.”
When Mark had left, Joe grabbed his topcoat from the old wooden hat rack he kept in the corner—an antique also furnished by Brenda—and headed for the door, apprehension as well as habit driving him out of his office. Sometimes he could think best just walking.
The clouds overhead were racing to the east before a swift late-autumn breeze, the wind at ground level loud enough to beat the roar of city traffic. There was still a thick covering of snow on the ground, but the sun was out and the temperature had climbed to the upper thirties. It was, in Joe’s estimation, cold and crisp but invigorating and enjoyable. So often D.C. was too hot, too cold, or too rainy for comfort—or for casual walks. He would miss days like today, though, even if they came only once a year. He would miss them if he were no longer at the Board.
He would have to go to Dean Farris about Nick Gardner, knowing Gardner was professionally doomed as a result, and that he, Joe, would be blamed by Farris for letting it happen. Gardner had gone renegade on Joe’s watch. That was all Farris would grasp.
But what to do about Dean Farris himself? The man’s stock dealings created a monstrous, scandalous conflict of interest. He couldn’t survive the disclosure, either. Of course, Joe should wait for confirmation from Jeff Perkins before doing anything overt, just to be sure the stock really did belong to Farris, but its ownership would explain some of Farris’s behavior.
Yet, how could Farris not see the conflict of interest? The man must be too naïve for words! And playing into Caldwell’s slippery hands the way he had. Or was there something more?
Joe stopped in his tracks suddenly, causing a young couple who had been unconsciously keeping pace with him on the walkway to stumble trying to avoid a collision. The thought was too horrific and dark and dishonest, but nothing else ever seemed to really be what it appeared to be in high political office. There was always something different lurking behind the facade. Farris had acted to protect U.S. manufacturers ever since he took over as chairman. Was that tilt an honest one, or could Farris have other motivation? And what if Caldwell was involved?
Conspiracies began cropping up in his mind. Suppose John Phelps had stumbled onto a rat’s nest of intergovernmental corruption? What could he do about it? Protect your backside, John had said. Joe was beginning to regard it as wise advice.
But I’ve done nothing wrong! He reminded himself of that aggressively, knowing full well that even an innocent can be professionally destroyed in the public riptide of indignation which always follows yet another revelation of corruption in high places.
And what of the North America investigation itself? There was a rising apprehension in his gut about that. Usually he proceeded like a detective against mechanical or operational culprits, chasing them resolutely through technological tunnels, through manuals and hearing testimony and reconstructed wreckage. This one, though, had been unique. He had felt sorry for Dick Timson, but Timson had broken the code and misled an investigation, and to Joe, that was a crime by itself.
The queasy feeling gnawing at him ever since Mark Weiss’s visit was the simple frustration of an aeronautical sleuth confronting a cunning new foe. Whatever happened, he had to nail Timson. He had to, but could he? In other words, Joe thought in clear terms distilled from a kaleidoscope of thoughts and considerations, will he get away with it?
Joe realized he was pacing around on the grass to the north of the National Air and Space Museum, located just across Independence Avenue from the FAA building. He pushed through the main entry then, losing himself among the displays for a while, seeing nothing but the images of his own thoughts.
Should he take all of it to Susan? She and the other Board members would be in a meeting with Farris by now. No, better leave her out of this for the moment.
Joe paused beneath the Mercury 7 capsule in which John Glenn had orbited the earth, the first American to do so, but the second human, beaten by Yuri Gagarin of the Soviet Union. It took a lot of courage to climb into that garbage-can-sized capsule on top of a marginally proven rocket full of explosive fuel. Glenn had gone on to become a U.S. senator. In fact, there were quite a few aviation-knowledgeable senators now, many of them pilots.
Kell Martinson came to mind, as did his exhortations to Joe to have enough courage to take a professional risk and help him. Martinson had warned he couldn’t protect Joe with complete certainty. Helping might accomplish nothing and lose him the only job he cared about. Why on earth should he agree to such a gamble? What would it accomplish?
Yet how could he handle what was now in his lap. It was way beyond his level. Way above his pay grade, as military friends would describe it.
Joe sat down on a bench in the main hall, totally oblivious to the throng of people coming and going just in front of him. The lighthearted feeling which had enveloped him since Susan sailed o
ut of a snowstorm and into his life—and his bedroom—had been replaced with fear. And on top of everything else, if he played this wrong and ended up fired, he might lose Susan as well.
The logical choices all began to converge on one course of action—the only course of action—and in response Joe left the museum and hailed a cab at the corner, giving the Hart Senate Office Building as the destination, showing up ten minutes later in Kell Martinson’s outer office totally unannounced, which led to some negotiating before the senator’s administrative assistant emerged.
“Mr. Wallingford? I’m Cynthia Collins. What can I do for you?”
“I need to see the senator as quickly as possible. He’ll understand.”
“He’s on the Senate floor at the moment in a vote. But I expect him momentarily. Unfortunately, his calendar is crammed.”
“Please, let’s talk privately.”
She looked him over thoughtfully, then nodded, and Joe followed her to an inner conference room with traditional leather chairs and bookcases full of ancient, leather-bound tomes which no one there had probably ever read.
Joe explained his position at the NTSB and his investigation of the North America crash, leaving out for the moment Farris’s dismissal of him as IIC.
Cindy Collins nodded. “I know that crash only too well, Mr. Wallingford.” She was sitting next to him, her legs crossed, a beautiful young lady in every way. “You had no way of knowing, but I was booked on that flight. Except for last-minute changes in my schedule, I would have died in that crash.” The statement startled Joe, but one thing was clear. This was the friend Kell Martinson had been waiting for the night of the accident.
“I’m certainly glad you missed it.”
“Me too!” she said with a laugh.
“Has the senator mentioned me, by any chance?”
“Absolutely. We try to keep track of where he is, and he’s been spending an awful lot of time with you folks lately. Frankly, we need him back here on the job.”
She left Joe then to check on the progress of the vote, and returned in a few minutes with the senator in tow.
“Joe. A pleasant surprise, sir. Come into my office. You’ve met Cynthia then?”
“Yes. She told me your schedule was crammed, and I’m sorry to barge in, but it is urgent.”
Senator Martinson ushered Joe toward the couch in the sitting area of his office, indicating Cindy should close the door and join them, which she did.
He laid it all out. Mark Weiss’s visit, John Phelps’s information on Caldwell, the FBI report on Farris’s stock holdings, and his dismissal from the North America investigation.
“I guess this is self-serving to a fault, Kell, but I promised you I’d think over your request for my help, and if you’ll help me figure out what to do with all these scary pieces to the puzzle, I’m your man. What I’ve got in my lap is far above my ability to handle.”
“On the crash, and as a lawyer, Joe, I’d say North America’s going to be hung out to dry on this. Gross negligence will not be too difficult to prove, I would think.”
“Of course, as an accident investigator, I have no interest in that aspect,” Joe replied.
“I understand. But the observation was begging to be made.”
Joe then launched into the Miami Air crash, Kell’s eyes watching him intently as he told him everything, including John Phelps’s name.
“So what it comes down to,” Joe told him at last, “is an out-of-control NTSB chairman who may have a massive conflict of interest or worse, a man appointed by the president, who is from your party, and the FAA’s second-in-command is playing games with the rules for suspicious reasons. You see why I feel like a mouse at a cat convention?” Joe said.
“I can indeed.” Kell fell silent almost instantly, staring at the small glass coffee table in front of the sofa while obviously deep in thought. He looked up at Joe suddenly. “As you well know, this is a very serious situation. Part of what you’ve told me may involve federal criminal violations—the Miami Air stuff. As for your man Farris … good Lord, he’s either horribly naïve or loves taking chances. Does anyone on the White House staff know any of this?”
“I doubt it, but I have no way of knowing. You don’t think they’d tolerate it?”
“I would certainly hope not. Look, I think I’ve got an idea.” He sat on the edge of his chair with his hands folded under his chin, elbows on his knees, looking at Joe for a few seconds before speaking. “If I handed you a legislative paintbrush with which to paint a new NTSB, if you could rebuild it just the way you, with your experience, know it should be structured, how would you do it?”
“I don’t understand.”
Kell’s hands came down and he sat back. “What I mean is this: I could help get rid of Farris, but without a change in the way chairmen of the NTSB are picked, the next chairman could be worse. So, we need a more permanent fix. We need, in other words, to concentrate on how we could fix the structure of the NTSB so this sort of thing would be impossible, or at least much less likely, in the future.”
“All right. Yes. But how … you mean a bill of some sort?”
“That’s the starting point, Joe. A bill to restructure the NTSB. That would be controversial in my party because we’re in control of the White House, and why rock the boat? But, it gives us two major advantages. One, we get people up here on the Hill focused on what’s wrong, even if they’re not willing to vote to change it; and two, we get a license to hold hearings, through which all this nefarious skulking around can be hauled into the sunshine, perhaps on national TV.”
Joe looked at the senator with a mixture of admiration and concern. This had started out as a cry for help. Suddenly the man was talking about national television. Alarm bells were sounding in Joe’s head.
Martinson chuckled and held up his hand. “Don’t panic, Joe, I see the look on your face. Let me take this step by step.”
Kell explained what it would take politically to get the chairman of his Senate committee, which was above Kell’s subcommittee, to approve expedited hearings on a bill to restructure the NTSB. “To a certain extent it could be the fishing expedition we would need to expose these immediate problems, but it could also do a lot of good in sending a warning to others that any future attempt to influence an investigation will blow up in their faces.” Kell turned slightly toward Cindy, watching for any cautionary reaction. There was none, and he continued. “We could even get the chief pilot here to testify, and perhaps pull the truth out of him. Sometimes it’s far more difficult to lie to Congress than to a governmental agency such as yours. Now, if I can pull the right levers, so to speak, we could set this up just after the New Year, a little less than a month from now. Cynthia? What do you think?”
She thought about that for a moment while checking a notebook on her lap. “Difficult, but not impossible. I think we could do it.”
Kell turned back to Joe. “We’d give no warning to your chairman, of course. We’d let him walk into the crossfire thinking this was a routine matter. That would be far more effective than giving him time to prepare explanations and circle his wagons.”
“I don’t follow you there,” Joe said.
“I mean we’ll want to ask him on the record and in public just who he’s been talking to about NTSB investigations, and how those conversations might have influenced those investigations. We’ll also want to ask him about his stock ownership—provided, as you cautioned, that tip is accurate. But that follows naturally, don’t you see, from our stated purpose of examining how well today’s structure works in isolating the board politically, as we tried to do with the Independent Safety Board Act of 1974. You remember that bill, by the way?”
Joe nodded. “Sure do. A good friend of mine blew the whistle on the Nixon gang’s efforts to influence the Board, and that led to passage of the bill. He was effectively forced off the NTSB staff as a result.”
“I just read a summary of the story, Joe.” Kell tapped the folder he had retrieved
from his credenza. “You remember I told you just yesterday that I’ve been wanting to do this for quite a while. This is the ideal time. And for me, politically, this is an important issue.”
“Really? Why?”
“The inability of the field offices to do more than a two- or three-day investigation—without additional support, mind you—into general aviation crashes. I come from a general aviation manufacturing state, as you know, and some of the accidents the NTSB field people have ascribed to mechanical and structural failure have probably in truth been human failures. I’ve got manufacturers in my state who’ve literally been put out of the small-airplane business because of soaring liability costs, and poor-quality accident investigation only makes that problem worse.”
“I’m impressed,” Joe said.
“I saw one, firsthand, involving a Beech light twin which crashed for no apparent reason on an evening approach. Single pilot operation. Your man came out, did his best, couldn’t find a cause, couldn’t get Washington’s authorization to probe further or do extensive lab tests or probe the pilot’s life-style and background, and he just had to close the book. It took a safety consultant nearly six months to uncover the cause, which was chronic fatigue of the pilot.”
Final Approach Page 38
