Flight Risk

by Cara C. Putman

  When he’d started the article, it had felt . . . well . . . blasé. Everyone knew the wealthy lived by a different standard. Okay, not all of them, but enough that it felt like a truism.

  Secretly, he’d hoped to disprove that.

  But when he landed on Logan Donnelly, a starting pitcher with the Virginia Colonials, a tingly spidey sense told him this was the story. He’d convinced his editor to let him dive deep, and he’d landed in mud. Turned out Logan partied in Asia like it was a job.

  No foul there.

  But when you included young girls in the partying?

  Now this call. It made him wonder what he’d missed, if anything. He’d nailed the details. Those were easy. It was the nuances, those elements on the fringes, that made a story resonate, but they could be elusive.

  The lines of text on his laptop screen represented the interviews he’d conducted plus the new information from this trip to Donnelly’s hometown. The guy should be playing for the Red Sox but found himself south of his stomping grounds.

  In this anybody-can-post-news-online world, people understood others were rarely what they seemed.

  He shifted against the hard vinyl seat.

  He’d had a clear picture of Logan Donnelly. It had been crystal clear. One more spoiled playboy who dropped his restraints when he was on the other side of the world.

  The ballplayer was a cardboard persona. A buzz in Jett’s pocket startled him from his thoughts. He slid his headphones off and glanced at the check-in desk as he shifted to dig out his phone. The uniformed woman standing there was frozen and pale, a growing murmur building in the crowd lined up in front of her.

  Words began to stand out from the jumble.

  . . . how do we get home . . .

  Not again.

  Accident?

  Terrorism . . .

  He put the phone to his ear. “Glover.”

  “We’ve got a rental car for you.” How like Ted to launch into details without common courtesies.

  “Why?”

  “What kind of reporter are you? The plane crash means no flights in and out of National at least for a day.”

  “What about Dulles?”

  “Nope. It’s closed up tight too.”

  Jett felt the stillness, the flashback to 9/11 and sitting in his graduate classroom learning about the attacks with a host of classmates. “They thinking terrorism?”

  Ted snorted. “Too early, you know that. Get back here. You’re on the story, along with everyone else. It’ll be round-the-clock coverage. At least initially.”

  “Any idea who’s on the plane?”

  “Not yet, but I expect big names.”

  “Yeah.” It was DC. Any flight could see key government employees or elected officials filling the plane. On 9/11 Barbara Olson, the political commentator and wife of Solicitor General Ted Olson, had been on the plane that hit the Pentagon.

  “Alice sent the details in an email. Get that car and drive.”

  “It takes seven hours on a perfect day.”

  “Longer if you hit the snow and rush hour in one of the I-95 cities, so get started.”

  “Yes, sir.” As soon as he hung up, Jett opened his email and gathered his carry-on. Good thing he hadn’t checked luggage.

  Chapter Nine

  Bella stood in Savannah’s doorway, a frown on her normally placid face.

  “What do you mean ‘we have a problem’?”

  “Garbot left.”

  “Left?” Savannah hadn’t had time to check his status before getting Addy’s call. “He never came for us.”

  “Stormed out like a man on a mission.” Bella held up the tablet she carried around when she wasn’t at her work station. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing . . . yet. I’ll go see what we can salvage.” As she walked past the doorway of their small conference room, she saw John and Rochelle nose deep in their oversized phones.

  When she reached the larger conference room, Reggie was throwing files in his oversized briefcase, and Mr. Garbot was nowhere to be seen.

  “I need to get back.” The man looked distracted.

  “Where’s Mr. Garbot?”

  “The moment he heard the Western World plane was Flight 2840, he was gone. Said he’d call us to reschedule.”

  “Why?” The man was too professional to leave like this.

  “Said his wife was on that flight. Off to see a new grandchild.”

  Savannah’s stomach bottomed out. “That’s terrible.”

  “Yeah, well, my client’s gone too. We’ll talk and call.” Reggie locked his case and strode from the room with a nod.

  Savannah sank to the nearest chair.

  Garbot’s wife was on the plane?

  The fear must be crippling.

  Bella hurried into the room. “Mr. Nash left.”

  “Yes. Mr. Garbot’s wife is on the plane.”

  Bella’s hand covered her mouth as she inhaled sharply.

  Savannah pushed back to her feet. “The mediation’s postponed. I’ll have to push Mr. Garbot for another date. But not until he knows if his wife is okay.” Or convince Nash to settle. She wasn’t sure how to break that news.

  She wandered back to her clients’ conference room and updated them. They weren’t out of options, but she knew they couldn’t pay her next bill. “Y’all okay?”

  John nodded without glancing up. Rochelle’s face was paler than normal when she met Savannah’s gaze. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “We’ll reschedule.”

  “You think Mr. Nash will negotiate without immediate mediation?” Rochelle set her phone down and leaned toward Savannah.

  “I’ll work to reschedule as quickly as possible.” What her clients didn’t understand was that all of this was a business strategy. If they won, they’d keep her as the company’s primary attorney for years. If not, well, she’d been paid in part. “I’ll call as soon as I hear from the other side.”

  “Thanks.” John squared his shoulders.

  Her clients left, and it was tempting to follow them. Grab a cup of overpriced coffee and clear her head. Instead, she headed to the small kitchenette to make a single cup. She stared at the Keurig as it brewed.

  “Savannah, you all right?” Emilie’s brows were knit with worry as she entered the kitchen.

  Savannah startled. How long had she stood there without seeing a thing while Emilie saw right through her? “Sure.”

  Emilie quirked a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

  “Guess I got lost in my thoughts.”

  “Anything I can do?”

  “Not unless you can salvage my mediation.”

  “Not likely. Need me to gather the girls?” Emilie crossed her arms as she considered Savannah. “I didn’t think the mediation was guaranteed to work, but I thought it might.”

  “I know.” Savannah sighed as she remembered the look of defeat that had glazed Rochelle’s face when she and John left. “But what can we do?”

  “Work hard and leave the rest to God. I’ll see if Hayden is free.”

  A few minutes later the team gathered in the conference room that held the large TV. Savannah had thought it an extravagance when Hayden insisted they add it for conference calls, but today it allowed them to monitor the crash coverage while meeting.

  Bella hurried in with a box of Kleenex and a basket of bottled water. “In case anyone’s thirsty.” Then she sank onto a faux leather chair, the best Savannah could afford at the time. “Those poor people.”

  “William Garbot’s wife was on that flight.” Savannah felt the weight. “We need to pray for him and others waiting for word.”

  “Absolutely.” Emilie shook her head. “It’s awful. So many lives changed in an instant.”

  The news channel had live footage playing next to footage from a similar crash that occurred near the Fourteenth Street Bridge in 1982. The Air Florida flight had taken off with ice on the wings and skidded across the tops of vehicles before crashing into the river.
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  Bella swiped at her eyes. “I’ll never forget that day. Used to drive the bridge to my job at the Department of Agriculture. After that crash it took me months to drive across it without looking for a plane first.”

  “This is probably a tragic accident like that one.” Emilie pushed a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, but her blue eyes belied her concern.

  Hayden ignored the TV as she leaned forward with an intense gaze. “We need to figure out what role your clients have in this mess.”

  Savannah frowned as she focused on Hayden. “What do you mean?”

  “Their company worked on the new black-box technology.”

  “Yes.” Savannah had told them all about the tech when brainstorming the best angle for the case. “So?”

  “Western World Airways is the one that agreed to allow them to test the software.”

  “But not now. The injunction stalled the tests.” Savannah knew the case inside and out but could tell Hayden thought she was missing something.

  “Remember when that brand-new plane model had several high-profile crashes?”

  “Yes.”

  “We won’t know for sure until all the lawsuits settle, but early speculation was the crashes were caused by problems with some of the autopilot codes. Codes very similar to the ones in Mnemosyne’s black-box technology. The plane’s systems overrode pilots. What if that happened here?” Hayden pointed at the screen. “What if something like that was part of today’s crash?”

  Savannah couldn’t shake the feeling that Hayden might be on to something that could cost her clients greatly. Then she shook her head. “The case came with an injunction against further tests. They’ve assured me they’re complying. If that’s accurate, then there’s no way their tech was on Flight 2840.”

  Hayden considered her words. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am.” Savannah called Rochelle’s cell. The moment the woman picked up Savannah asked, “You aren’t running any tests on planes right now, correct?”

  “Of the black-box technology?” Rochelle’s voice sounded bewildered. “No. The injunction suspended it.”

  “And John’s complying as well.”

  “Of course.” Now a flicker of outrage edged into Rochelle’s voice. “We’re a team.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Can you tell me what this is about?” Rochelle huffed. “We followed your advice.”

  “A random thought that could give me nightmares.” Savannah leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Sorry about that.”

  But as she hung up, something niggled at her thoughts. Hayden couldn’t be right.

  * * *

  The thermometer on the rental car steadily dipped as the miles slowly slipped away as Jett drove south. I-95 was an artery that connected the East Coast’s major cities in a steady flow of concrete and traffic. The car was so small that the driver’s seat practically ate the back seat, but it had been the only available choice. He shifted his uncomfortable body. At least he could keep up with the latest on the crash while he drove out of New York City toward Baltimore and eventually the District.

  The phone rang, and he clicked to take the call while keeping his eyes on the fast-moving interstate traffic. “Glover.”

  “Hey, Jett. I’ve got something for you.” Chase Matthews sounded excited, and Jett could picture him bouncing in his desk chair like the recent college grad he was.

  “All right.”

  “It’s the passenger list from 2840. It’s not public yet, but we got a copy from a contact with Western.” The newbie reporter spoke so fast, Jett’s ears struggled to keep up.

  “Anything interesting?”

  “You could say that. The list is what you’d expect for a plane taking off from National. Not all of the names are recognizable, but staff are googling them.” As if Chase wasn’t one of the staff tasked with that.

  “Why’d you call?” Spit it out, kid.

  “There’s a couple you’ll be interested in.”

  “Who?” Get to the point, Chase.

  “Logan Donnelly. Economy class. What happened to private planes?”

  “He keeps a low profile here.” It was part of what had made the private flights to Asia so noteworthy.

  The kid snickered. “Yeah. And get this, his pilot had a seat near him.”

  That tidbit had Jett shifting in the confined space. “Dustin Tate?”

  “Yep.”

  “Have a casualty list yet?”

  “No. From the video feed we know some survived, but no way everyone did. And it’s hard to identify people from the grainy videos.” He paused, then rushed on. “Check out CNN for footage. Coast Guard helicopter’s there pulling people from the water. I’ll get you more details as they’re released.”

  “How many on the passenger list?”

  “One hundred eighty-five.”

  “Okay. Anyone else interesting on the list?”

  “Off the top of my head an undersecretary of state and a chief of staff for the ranking member of the Senate Armed Services Committee.”

  Jett let out a whistle. “And that’s early?”

  “It’s a flight out of National. It’ll be a who’s-who list, but I thought you’d want to know about Donnelly and Tate.”

  “You were right. Thanks.” Jett was finally nearing Baltimore. He’d be in DC in a couple of hours, and then he could assess what Ted needed him to do. Sounded like Chase and others were already doing the important groundwork.

  As he continued through Baltimore gridlock, Jett ran through what he knew.

  After his stint in the military, Dustin Tate had shifted to commercial piloting with Western World Airways. Logan seemed to be his only private client, probably due to their friendship. Evan Spencer’s relationship with Logan had made the three easy to identify. It was the fourth that remained elusive. The plane tickets and hotel information had been useless, the fake name too common to trace. If he didn’t have the paperwork and a few photos with a shadowy fourth figure, he’d wonder if this person was real or some sort of smokescreen.

  He’d done his job well. He did every time. It was too important to not do everything he could to track down the truth.

  When Jett’s father died, the blame lay at the feet of the reporter who had published a groundless article that smeared his father. The reporter had alleged Jett’s father was the mastermind behind a scheme to defraud his company and its pension fund of millions. The company collapsed, putting hundreds out of work, and as a result of that and ensuing articles, his father had been unable to defend himself. It was only weeks after his death that the truth came out. His father had been framed by the CEO and CFO, the real masterminds. After his mother sued the reporter and paper and won, Jett determined he’d become a reporter, a Clark Kent fighting for truth and justice. He’d used his portion of the settlement to pay for a master’s in journalism at Columbia.

  He approached his job like a calling, understanding how much harm could be wielded by the pen or keystroke. He had vowed to protect the innocent, which is exactly what this story did.

  The first step in protecting was revealing those who had evil intent.

  Logan Donnelly was one more two-faced individual to expose.

  Interestingly, not one ballplayer or agent associated with the article had denied a thing or expressed outrage. The silence was deafening.

  As Jett drove through the north side of the Maryland suburbs, he plotted out next calls, his energy for the story recharged. He’d start by finding out if Tate and Donnelly were still alive.

  Chapter Ten

  That evening Savannah swung by her town house in Cherry Blossom Estates long enough to change. Then she wound her way along King Street to Bailey’s Crossroads and her sister’s small apartment. The bag of takeout sub sandwiches didn’t seem like a great offering to bring Addy, but it was the best she could do after an exhausting day. Somewhere with the passage of years, her gourmet cooking had yielded to takeout bags. It wasn’t worth the ef
fort to grocery shop for one. Her snug clothes let her know how much those seemingly simple choices impacted her. Another thing to attack when life let up.

  She pulled into a visitor spot at Stasi’s apartment but stayed behind the wheel.

  She didn’t want to go in.

  Savannah had worked hard to find a safe place that Stasi could afford, but still her sister lingered one month from default on her payments. If she didn’t stop drinking, she and Addy Jo could find themselves homeless, which meant they’d end up with Savannah. While she didn’t want to facilitate Stasi’s addiction, she couldn’t let Addy Jo’s life spiral into further chaos. That’s why Savannah kept a bedroom for Addy at her townhome, but not for Stasi. Her sister had already taken too much from her.

  God, help me be there for Addy, and continue to heal my relationship with Stasi. She sighed. Who was she kidding? They didn’t have much in the way of relationship. Lord, I’ll keep forgiving her—every day, even—but it’s a miracle only You can complete. I don’t have the strength. Or the will.

  She cringed at those last words. She wanted to be stronger and better than this. But she couldn’t. Not in her own strength. However, she’d keep showing up because that’s what Addy Jo needed, and Savannah didn’t quit.

  A curtain moved at the third-floor apartment’s window. She’d been spotted.

  Savannah grabbed her purse and bag of sandwiches as she climbed from the car. She used her copy of the apartment key to enter the building, then trudged up the stairs. Another day without time to go to the gym meant she’d take every stair in front of her. At least her watch told her those steps mattered. A light had gone out on the landing, making the hall dimmer and shadow filled. A small wreath with a polka-dot-painted D hung on Stasi’s door. Savannah had one just like it.

  She knocked once before letting herself in. With two bedrooms, one bath, and an open living area and kitchen, the place was tiny yet adequate. It met the small family’s needs while also keeping them in a relatively safe neighborhood with access to decent schools.