Impact (14 page)

“If you don't get him in the next two minutes, I'll go looking for him myself. And I'll find him. Believe me.”

It was a demand of a sort Tollison had never heard her utter. Even the nurse recognized its value and surrendered. “I'll have him paged. It may take some time. Meanwhile, please wait in the visitors' area.” She gestured toward a couch next to the exit and started to turn away.

“No.”

The nurse raised a brow. “I beg your pardon?”

Laura Donahue had become colossal. “I want to see my husband. I don't need to talk to him or touch him or even go into the room, but I want to
see
him. If you won't show me where he is, I'll search every room on this floor until I find him. And I'll scream bloody murder if anyone interferes.”

What she saw in Laura's eyes caused the nurse to look up and down the hall, then melt. “Come with me. I'll open the door, but you will remain in the hallway. You will not speak or make a sound. Is that understood? No matter what you see or hear, you will keep silent. Do I have your word?”

When Laura nodded, the nurse led them around a corner and down a narrow hall. A moment later they stopped before the door to 414. “I mean it,” she cautioned. “No sound at all.” She opened the door, peered into the room, then stepped away.

Laura replaced the nurse in the doorway, blocking the view. When she didn't give him space to join her, Tollison put his hand on her shoulder and moved to where he could see for himself.

It was merely a mound of white, a drift of bandages and plaster that was plugged into machines, pricked with needles, pierced with tubes, suspended in traction, bolstered with sand bags, strangled with a cervical collar, strapped to a bed. Unidentifiable as anything but suffering, if it was alive it was only at the behest of elixirs and electrons. Above the stolid mound, machines were perversely jolly.

Tollison looked from Jack to his wife, back and forth, as though he had become a monitor himself. Finally fixing on Laura, he waited until she blinked and backed away.

The nurse led them back to the waiting area. Laura sank to the couch and awaited instructions, her expression unreadable. People came and went, rendering them routine. Tollison sat by her side and took her hand. “He'll be fine. They perform all kinds of miracles these days.”

The words insulted her. “Machines are doing everything for him, Keith.”

As Tollison struggled to respond, the doctor appeared, tall, thin, and bald, dressed in surgeon's greens.

Tollison stood up. After they shook hands, the man looked down at Laura. “I'm Dr. Ryan. Your husband has been through a terrible event, as you know. I've seen some of the other casualties, and if you're so inclined you can regard it as a miracle that Mr. Donahue is still alive.”

Laura's mouth rumpled. “Is that what he is?”

The doctor blinked uncomfortably, as though her response had raised a moral issue. “Nurse told me you've seen him.”

Laura nodded.

“Then you know his condition is grave. But he is not
in extremis
. His vital signs are stronger than might be expected, given his ordeal.”

“What's wrong with him, exactly?”

The doctor searched her face for guidance, then looked at Tollison. Events far past his logic, Tollison could only shrug.

“Your husband has lots of problems,” Dr. Ryan said, finally at ease in detail. “Broken bones. Burns and lacerations. Lung damage.” He hesitated.

“What else?”

The doctor glanced once more at Tollison, who did nothing to encourage or deter him. “Mr. Donahue has experienced significant intracranial injury, perhaps at more than one location. We have relieved the subdural hematoma and extracted the invasive object, but the degree of insult has not yet been assessed.”

“Is he conscious?”

“No.”

“So he may be in a coma for a long time?”

The doctor looked at her as though she had become a block of X-ray film that offered a diagnostic puzzle. “He may be in a coma for quite some time, yes. Or he may regain consciousness momentarily. We are dealing with a major injury to your husband's brain, which means prognosis is entirely speculative.”

Laura's eyes squinted against the bright light overhead. “What are you trying to tell me, Doctor?”

The tall man sighed, reached for her hand, then knelt beside her on a single knee. “To put it simply, a definite likelihood is that as a result of trauma to his cerebral cortex and elsewhere, Mr. Donahue will be unable to move all or a portion of his body, quite possibly for the rest of his life.” He looked at the floor. “And given the extent of the injury, that may be the least of his problems.”

Pier 32, The Embarcadero

San Francisco, CA 94105

Attorneys for Petitioner

UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT

NORTHERN DISTRICT OF

CALIFORNIA

PETITION PURSUANT TO

FEDERAL RULE OF

CIVIL PROCEDURE 27(a)

Petitioner, WALTER J. WARREN, intends to bring a civil action against the United States of America, pursuant to Title 28 United States Code, Secs. 1346(b) and 2671 et seq., to recover damages sustained in the crash of a commercial aircraft near San Francisco International Airport on March 23, 1987. The action cannot be commenced at this time because of the provisions of 28 USC Sec. 2675, which prohibit such actions until after a claim submitted to the governmental agency involved has been finally denied or until six months after the claim is presented.

Petitioner, WALTER J. WARREN, is the surviving spouse and father of two victims of the aforementioned crash of SurfAir flight 617, which crash was a result in whole or in part of the actions and omissions of employees of the United States (including but not limited to air traffic controllers and National Weather Service forecasters).

Petitioner seeks to have the following tapes, records, and documents produced and preserved in undamaged and unaltered condition until six months after petitioner's administrative claim is acted upon, since such items are relevant and material evidence as to the crash which occurred on March 23, 1987:

1. Voice recorder tapes for all air traffic control positions in San Francisco International Airport Control Tower and TRACOM from 6:15
P
.
M
. through 6:45
P
.
M
. on March 23, 1987.

2. All tapes and corresponding printouts from Automated Radar Terminal Systems computer which contain processed data on all aircraft during said period.

3. Manual of Operation and Standard Operating Procedures Manual for SF International Tower and TRACOM.

4. Position Binder and Position Log for all traffic control positions in SF International Airport Tower.

5. Reading Binder for SF International Airport Tower.

6. Watch Supervisor's Log for SF International Tower.

7. Current Orders and Directives issued by Tower Chief at SF International in effect on March 23, 1987.

8. Such other material as may lead to the discovery of evidence relevant to the crash of SurfAir flight 617.

DATED: April 6, 1987

Respectfully submitted,

Law Offices of Alec Hawthorne

Attorney for Petitioner

FIVE

Martha appears in the doorway. When Alec Hawthorne nods, she steps into his office and leans against the doorjamb, coffee cup in hand, indicating her message is brief. Her hair is slick with mousse, her earrings are silver daggers, her heels lift her toward the beams that once held up the pier the office rests on and now support its ceiling. In muslin jerkin and leather knee britches, Martha seems capable of sadism, knows it, and is pleased.

“Your son,” she says, without inflection. “Line two. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Of course I want to talk to him.”

“You don't always,” she reminds.

He reddens. “How does he sound?”

“Straight. And scared.”

“God. After everything we've been through, I hate to think what might have
scared
him.”

Martha shrugs, then looks at her watch. “You said you wanted to go to the airport an hour earlier than usual. If that still holds, you should leave in fifteen minutes. Do you want me to drive you or shall I call a limo?”

“A limo will be fine.”

Martha nods. “Fifteen minutes,” she repeats, “and that's cutting it close.” She makes certain he has heard her, then disappears.

Hawthorne looks thoughtfully at the picture within the antique silver frame that sits on the corner of his desk. It has taken him twenty years to learn that when it comes to his son, caution does not pay and prayers are seldom answered. He can only jump in willy-nilly and hope that for once reality does not outstrip his fears.

He picks up the phone. “What's the trouble?”

“It's no catastrophe or anything, I …”

Over Jason's hesitation, Hawthorne hears the hum of long distance. “Where are you?” he asks.

“Rio Nido. Up at the Russian River.”

Hawthorne can recall no previous reference to the place, from Jason or from anyone else. It is difficult, in fact, to recall the last time he spoke to Jason about anything.

“What happened?” Unintended, his timbre presumes the worst.

Jason hesitates, as always trying to be as careful in what he says to his father as his father is careful of what he says to a jury. “It's the car.”

Hawthorne imagines a Camaro crushed to the size of a beer keg. “What happened to it?”

“It got trashed. Maxed out, basically.”

“How?”

“It went down an embankment.”

“You mean it went off a cliff.”

“Kind of. Yeah.”

Hawthorne finds that he has made a fist. “Are you all right?”

“Sure.”

“Was anyone else injured?”

“Naw. No problem.”

The brisk assurance leaves Hawthorne more dubious than ever. He imagines gigantic judgments, colossal medical bills, extensive therapies, rapacious attorneys like himself materializing on behalf of victims of his son's endless irresponsibility. “Were you driving, Jason?”

Pause. “Not exactly.”

He should have known. Jason utilizes virtually nothing as he floats through life, compulsively bestows his possessions on persons who are no more than acquaintances. His only apparent reason for existence is to redistribute his father's wealth. “Who was driving, Jason?”

“Storm.”

“I don't care about the weather, I asked you who was driving.”

“Storm. He's this dude I know up here.”

“Were you in the car with him?”

“Naw. Just Storm.”

Hawthorne's fist relaxes. Surely nothing of consequence could happen to persons who refer to themselves meteorologically. “Was he hurt?”

“Naw, but the cops up here have just been
looking
for a reason to bust him, so they're holding him on a dope thing.”

“Dope? There were drugs in the car?”

“That's what the fuzz claims. If there
was
anything there, they planted it.”

“Let me guess,” Hawthorne says. “The car is impounded on the drug charge?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

“And Storm is in jail?”

“Yeah.”

“If you want me to bail him out, I have to tell you—”

“Naw, Storm's got tons of … I mean, he's got the bail, no problem, but he's staying stout till the arraignment, then he'll nail them for false arrest.”

Hawthorne slumps at the suggestion of Storm's net worth, imagines hoards of contraband and piles of cash, the spoils of drug deals and international arms transactions.

“It'll really be fresh,” Jason is saying. “See, Storm went to law school till he realized there was no reason to wait three years before churning out the bucks. He figures he'll mash them for a hundred grand, easy. Storm's hard, Dad—you should talk to him sometime.”

“I look forward to the pleasure. In the meantime, what exactly do you want from me?”

“Coin. Just enough to get me out of here. I got some people coming to see me in Berkeley tomorrow, so if you could just send me bus fare, wire it Western Union maybe, there's this place down the street that does that, and—”

“How much?”

“A hundred? The hound to the city is forty-five, then BART to Berkeley, and I got to eat and stuff.”

“Are you charged with anything, Jason? Did they arrest you?”

“Naw. They may file later on, though, this one cop told me. Since they found stuff in my trunk.”

“Stuff?”

“Just some powder they think is blow but is really unbleached flour. These dweebs are so out of it—the bust is completely bogus, Dad. The fucking road was washed out, was the problem, so the county's the one at fault, not us. You ought to sue the bastards; I mean, the infrastructure up here is totally lame. Punitive damages and everything, I bet.”

“Right.”

The phone suddenly seems too heavy to hold. His son's mind has regressed to that of infancy, where truth and fantasy were equally plausible. He wonders if it is the leavings of a decade of illegal drugs, remembers that the first time he discovered his son was stoned, Jason was twelve years old.

“Where are you, exactly?” Hawthorne asks wearily. “I'll have Martha make the arrangements.”

Jason gives his location and tells his father to hurry, the bus leaves in an hour.

“Is your mother still living in Kenwood?” he asks, a last gasp of paternalism.

“I guess. I haven't seen her for a while. Me and number four don't get along. He's a Nazi, basically.”

Which meant he didn't allow Jason and his friends to invade the premises, raid the pantry, trash the living quarters, and depart without a word. Hawthorne laughs inwardly. Perhaps wife number two has done all right for herself. Not that Hawthorne would know. He hasn't spoken to her in years.