Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “Yes, it's your buddy, Edmundo,” I murmured to myself. I slowly walked to the side of my advocate, at the head of the table. The smiling faces gave me their full attention. And so I began.

  “You all know me because of the terrible tragedy that occurred in Mexico City on October 31, 1979.” I paused because I sensed an unholy presence enter the room. I imagined Muerto taking the exact same seat I had previously occupied. I lost my perspective. “Oh damn it, screw protocol, Suzette, you represent the flight attendants right?” My question caught her by surprise but she quickly nodded. “Remember when Ackley promised us at the company meetings that vital details regarding the accident would be forthcoming? It was all bullshit, a straight-out lie. It never was nor ever would be. Imagine, several of the F/A’s that perished on that fiery tarmac were so junior, still in their probationary period and not covered by the flight attendant insurance plan. Their families were initially offered zero compensation along with no response to their inquiries as to why such a tragedy happened. It was not until these families lawyered-up did they discover that, by law, they would be limited to what workers' compensation offered. In their desperation some of the despondent mothers reached out to me for help, but what was I supposed to do? Why was it my responsibility to have to deal with such delicate issues?” I stopped then began to walk about the room and the heads turned to follow.

  “Just hang up on her. That was the suggestion from the company's lawyer when a grieving mother called me seeking answers.” I cringed at the recollection. I lost focus and jumped to another matter.

  “Gary Rollings. That man took so much pride in that 2605 was his initial flight serving as the senior F/A. His shoes were polished liked glass.” I gazed to my side and saw that Mr. Lane's face revealed a look of deep concern. He remained silent, keeping to his promise of letting me have my say. “Do any of you know that right after the crash as people screamed and burned and died, others were engaged in stealing the left landing gear of the destroyed jumbo jet?” A soft gasp could be heard as some of the faces at the table reacted with surprise to this revelation. “Yeah, that is how chaotic the situation was. This is how demented my mind becomes each time I have to remember such obtuse occurrences and believe me there were many, many more in the evolution of this incident.”

  I slowly removed a small piece of paper from my dress pants and continued my oration.

  “Did any of you happen to know that the company actually made a profit off the demise of the flight? The scrap metal, minus the left landing gear, was sold and the net income from the sale was described in the yearly report in the following manner, quote 'an involuntary adaptation of a DC-10.'” One female board member's swelled with tears but I needed to continue.

  “Did the company bother to tell you how all the bodies were stripped and their belongings looted of valuables?” Other members' faces revealed they were no longer amused by my presence. Like an uncontrolled spasm dispensing vomit, the filth within me came pouring out. “Then there are the pilots,” I stated with sarcasm. The atmosphere became tense. “I was in the cockpit, right there in the middle, witnessing the unthinkable” I reached into my coat's inner pocket and removed a condensed copy of the disciplinary review of Dieter Reimann. I tossed the folded papers onto the center of the table. “Proof is in the documentation. Carl had officially written up Dieter earlier in the month of October. Most of the aviators based in LAX are well aware that friction rode jumpseat that night. What was the company's solution for such a lethal situation? It was simply to have one good old boy conversing with another and verbally assuring each other that all was well. Despite the obvious differences the two men had, management decided things would be just fine. Was this disciplinary review and subsequent decision to let them continue to fly together made weeks or days prior? No, the entire procedure and final determination was conducted just hours before the departure of the ill-fated flight.” I perceived this contempt between the pilots was carried onto the aircraft. If you doubt me, listen to the CVR recording of 2605 yourself.” Reaching into the left pocket of my pants I removed a cassette tape and lightly tossed it also onto the middle of the polished table.

  “Listen to it if you have the stomach. It's ugly! I have it constantly playing in my head.” Finally as I looked at the faces around the room I realized that I was beating up the wrong people. These were individuals who could help me but my anger had shielded me from realizing it. The need to speak my mind was greater. “Forgive me my friends but there were a whole lot of rotten people on both sides of the border who created by design a gross defamation and cover-up of what are the true facts. This was done because economics determined what was in the best interest of the countries, the airline, and the industry. My crew and the other victims were the payment and their families are left clueless.” My voice rose in pitch.

  “Hell, it was not my responsibility to be the bearer of information regarding this calamity. I went through the damn fire, what the hell more do you want? This company dropped the ball on this matter. Do you want to know what a phone call from a grieving mother does to a person when she is begging for a bit of the truth?” I witnessed troubled emotions.

  “And what did our company gain with our reluctant resistance and our deafening silence, not challenging the official report by the Mexican Government? Some perceive it a real blessing that our newly restructured airline is now the only U.S. carrier to receive landing rights into three of the most lucrative vacation destinations on the Mexican Riviera.” I was now becoming emotionally exhausted.

  “I am glad I survived but my new life also came with an impending debt.” I had come to a conclusion. I turned slowly and gazed down at an obviously stressed Barry Lane. The stoic leader of our airline sat recognizing that although the experience was not pleasant, he supported my right to be here, to tell it. This would contribute to a healing process he knew I badly needed.

  “This man is the only one who has been honest with me. His personal support beats all the free flights this airline can offer me. This man gave me hope.”

  From the side of the room Muerto had heard enough. He rose and quickly walked out the door.

  “How am I going to get out of this maze?” I softly asked. I became confused as I seemed to be engulfed in an awful chill. The faces at the table…..concerned.

  “Will I ever be good enough?” I shook my head as no one moved. I heard a female weeping as I became overwhelmed. I had enough. I turned and briskly left the room, hurrying down the hallway with its fine marble floors. I just needed to leave the company grounds, quickly. My vehicle made a swift exit out of the employee parking lot and headed down the Pacific Coast Highway. I met Tommy at a well known watering hole overlooking the Manhattan Beach Pier. We drank and sang America the Beautiful as the sun disappeared into the Pacific, then we drank some more.

  Barry Lane's generosity in allowing me to purge my demons before the board of directors was incredibly unique in the industry. The action spoke more about the character of the man that was now leading our fragile company. He believed in my ability to overcome the complexity of my wounds more than I did. There was some satisfaction after my meeting with the board but the jubilation quickly faded. Returning from a three-day assignment I was informed that there was a message for me to call Mr. Lane's office-Grace, his secretary, to be exact.

  “Eduardo, Mr. Lane wanted me to advise you that along with your continued therapy with Doctor Ramljak, the company would like to extend the same type of assistance to your wife Sofia with a therapist of her choice.” I could only shake my head for there was no limit to the CEOs decency. For the first time I felt that there could be an avenue of escape from this explosive situation. Perhaps Sofia and I could overcome the large gorge that had developed in our relationship. I returned home filled with excitement. My optimism was totally shattered for Sofia and Cristiano were nowhere to be found. Soon I would discover that Sofia had decided to make her own exit from the minefield.

  “Eduardo Valenciana?�
�� a finely dressed young man stood at my door.

  “Yes.” I opened the screen door as he presented me with a very legal looking envelope.

  “Sir, you have been served.” He turned and slowly walked away. I remained frozen.

  Sofia's desire to dissolve the marriage was painful but did not come as a surprise. What astounded me as I reviewed the legal papers was that she was petitioning the court to grant her full legal and physical custody of our son. Muerto was playing his trump card as the hatred in my heart returned with a vengeance. This dormant God must have been fully amused by the buffoon of flight 2605. Whatever seeds of hope that had been planted by the graciousness of Barry Lane, were razed by the finely worded legal document. The full horror of possibilities struck full force that awful morning.

  Gripped by uncontrollable grief I found myself wandering the halls of the company on Avion Drive. My instincts led me to the Flight Attendant Training offices where a surprised staff tried to console me.

  “Oh Eddy, I am so sorry.” My tears flowed. My dear friend Tim Blackman was a new addition to the training staff.

  “I can't continue on.” Despair and self pity molded an unsavory figure. Tim urged me to fight to reclaim my backbone which had obviously been discarded upon the training room floor. After some time he insisted I accompany him for lunch at a nearby restaurant, an effort at changing the dark atmosphere.

  “This is when your son will need you more than ever,” Tim began. “You have come so far and you will get through this mess, also.” I did not respond but merely jabbed at the paper casing of a straw that had come with our soft drinks. “Look at yourself, Eddy. Look at what all of this is doing to you.” I ceased my anxious behavior and glanced up at my friend.

  “What? What did you say?” Tim became very concerned.

  “My dear El Gato, you are wasting your nine lives very quickly.” He was right.

  There was one glimmer of promise for saving my relationship with my son, the services of attorney David J. Brooks.

  In her effort to escape one complicated situation, Sofia inadvertently thrust herself onto another. This was made more distressing by her insistence that I have nothing to do with our son. The few initial court-supervised conversations Sofia and I did have proved fruitless. She was adamant about cutting me out of the picture completely.

  “You deserve this.” The vicious voices were relentless. Enduring the break up of our marriage amplified the degree of my illness. It was benign when met with my resolve in retaining my relationship with Cristiano. My young son was living proof of Muerto's failure. My love for the boy denied Death that last remaining victory, my subsequent demise.

  I would be lying if I claimed that at this point I had strengthened myself for the battle to come, The opposite was true. I had received the deposition for family court at the end of September, right about the time retail stores began decorating for the Halloween season. I retreated into the locked seclusion and darkness of my beach home, and began to listen once again to the CVR recording.

  “Oh Jesus Christ! Oh fuck!”

  “Get her up Carl!”

  “I can't!” The screaming ensued. I downed another bottle of Bohemia.

  “Scream all you want Carl those ass##### suckered you in and now they all just want to wash their hands of the matter.”

  Then, once again the abnormal sound revealed itself in the final seconds of the recording. It was distinct and perplexing. This unison of many voices' rising in pitch and then instantly terminated. I listened to the strange sound over and over until I passed out.

  “Why didn't you help me?” Young Javier pleaded his case again as he stood in the burning wreckage, fully engulfed in flames. Suddenly there was a loud pounding at my front door.

  “Eddy! Hey, Eddy, open up!”

  “Go away!” I commanded. I was in no condition to see anyone. The pounding continued. “Whoever you are, go away!”

  “Hey Papa!” That distinct greeting meant it could only be my friend Jean Pierre Donici, a flight attendant with Pan American Airways who was based in London. With reluctance I finally opened the door. J.P. as we called him, was dismayed at my condition.

  “You want a beer?” I offered in my intoxicated state. J.P. was taken aback, having never witnessed me in such a state.

  “No, no, no Papa, you have had enough, we need to get you cleaned up. This is not good for you.” In my stupidity I resisted and became arrogant.

  “Hey, you want to listen to the CVR recording? You want to hear them all screaming bloody murder? Come on, let's have some beer and listen to people dying. It's okay, nobody else seems to care anyway. Hey, a whole bunch of people made a lot of money from it, didn't you know?” J.P. dragged me into the shower and forced me to consume cups of black coffee. He got me semi-sober and dressed, then finally left for his hotel.

  “This is not going to end well for you, Papa. You need to change direction.” J.P.'s parting words did little to tame my arrogance. I finally healed up just in time for my next assignment from Scheduling and the whole cycle of despair and self abuse began once more in a city far away.

  I would later learn that my words to the board of directors contributed to a positive break from industry protocol. For the first time ever, a major airline voted to instill a financial reserve separate of any union agreement, available for the assistance of any crew-member on an aircraft that “went down.” Barry Lane had attended all the funerals, I also spotted him at some of the post-service gatherings. He had met with Mrs. Torres. Mr. Lane knew the young F/As who were still in their probationary period. I believed it ate at his soul, what the system dealt out to those grieving families. I wondered if that was his plan all along when he allowed me access to the board of directors? It did not matter because what was voted by the new board was a very good thing and I hoped that such funds would never have to be accessed. The details of the plan were of no interest to me. I was glad for the program but was sorry, for it was all done too late to help me.

  The dates and times, monies and possessions regarding temporary sharing of Cristiano were set up and arrangements for a court hearing were established. Sofia was not happy. I began to care less about her feelings once I had been served with the divorce papers. The rules and playing field had changed drastically. In my eyes it was now all about Cristiano.

  I paid strict attention to the regulations as I entered the courtroom. “Every other weekend and one day mid-week” were new terms presented to me which demanded the reorganization of my life. On the court-appointed days of custody with Cris my house was swept of Muerto's stench, and the relentless voices were banned with the boy's arrival. I had him all to myself and with our flight benefits we had limitless boundaries for a playground. Cris became my flying partner. I am a strong believer that travel is an education. The boy was radiant as my fellow crew-members showered him with attention.

  Once, after a Utah ski adventure, my joyful three year old was invited into the cockpit of the soaring jet by the friendly captain.

  “You want to sit in the Captain's chair and fly the plane?” Cris could hardly contain himself. Still in his ski bibs, he was lifted onto the left seat and his small hands gripped the controls, He turned back revealing the greatest of grins. The jumbo jet was on autopilot but the gesture spoke volumes of crew camaraderie and of a different time in the industry.

  As the time came closer for the court proceedings I straightened myself out physically and intellectually. This was far too important to leave anything to chance. I forced myself to memorize one phrase and I repeated it over and over.

  “The judge has the last word.”

  While in the gym or strapped in my jumpseat I spoke it like a silent prayer. “The judge has the last word.” I became overwhelmed by the specifics of the case. I was determined to see this journey to a favorable end which was simply to have the court award Sofia and me joint legal and physical custody.

  The tall, glass windows of the Torrance Municipal Courthouse rose high into
the ceiling. This is where “Edmundo” had been summoned to just “look pretty and keep his mouth closed” according to David Brooks. I was smart enough to let David take control.

  “The judge has the final word,” I repeated one more time and so it began.

  A smiling white-haired magistrate entered. The near empty room was divided only by the opposing sides and a confident David turned to me and nodded.

  “So Mrs. Valenciana, I see that in your petition for divorce you do not wish to agree to a legal joint custody of your son with your husband, is that correct?” Judge Robert Maxwell Stifler asked. Caught off guard Sofia hesitated.

  “Yes,” she responded weakly.

  “Do you know what that means?” inquired the judge.

  “We have expressed our desires in our petition your honor,” her counselor interjected himself quickly.

  “All right,” the magistrate cleared his throat. “Why are you so adamant about not sharing physical custody of the boy with your husband?”

  “Your honor, that man has not been the same nor will he ever be the same since his accident.” Sofia gave me a stern glance. The magistrate looked confused.

  “What accident? Was he in some type of automobile accident?”

  “No, No. He’s a flight attendant. He was involved in a plane crash.” I immediately put my hands to my face as I leaned over and whispered to David.

  “Wasn't this supposed to be just about the marriage and the custody of Cris?” My attorney simply raised his hand, dismissing my concerns for he was on top of the matter.

  “I don’t quite understand, Mrs. Valenciana. Does he have a private plane that he crashed?”

  “No, he was on a DC-10 that smacked into a couple of buildings,” Sofia calmly stated. She smiled broadly as she related the now familiar story. At that moment her soft long hair and sweet looks had me convinced of her presumed intentions, protecting her son from a supposed madman. The judge slowly pulled his glasses down to stare at me as I was twisting in my seat. I began to notice more people continually filtering into the courtroom. I recognized no one as yet the room slowly began to fill up. Mr. Stiles, Sofia's attorney, continued his questioning with more vigor.