Impact (3 page)

“As a result of the president's attitude toward their union, and of the budget cuts he imposed on all levels of government, the ranks of air traffic controllers have thinned to the danger point at a time when the drop in fares has caused traffic to expand beyond the capacities of virtually all airports and air routes. It is not by chance that critical near midairs—when aircraft pass within a hundred feet of each other—have doubled in the past two years, to the extent that one such incident occurs every other day.

“The simple fact is, commercial aviation is skating on the edge of disaster. Consider the following:

“1. Because of administration budget cuts, there were only 1,332 Federal Aviation Administration safety inspectors last year, compared with 2,012 in 1979.

“2. In 1978 the FAA employed eleven thousand computer, radar, and systems-maintenance technicians. Today only fifty-five hundred people perform those functions.

“3. There are three thousand fewer airline mechanics servicing seventeen hundred more aircraft than were in the air five years ago.

“4. Although the average age of aircraft flying today is more than a year older than in 1980—meaning metal fatigue in the frame and skin occurs more frequently—the airlines spend only $69.18 per flight hour on structural maintenance, compared with $76.66 per flight hour in 1980.

“I don't have to tell you the bottom line. In 1985 these forces came together with predictable consequences—more than
two thousand people
lost their lives in air disasters, making it the worst year in aviation history. Fortunately, last year this tragic trend reversed and not one passenger was killed while flying on a major American airline. However, the Aeromexico midair that killed more than eighty persons, including fifteen on the ground, makes the domestic fatality statistic for 1986 less reassuring than it appears.

“As the chairman noted, my specialty is crashes—their causes and their aftermath. Most air disasters can be traced to a specific event, but seldom are the precipitating events the same. In the JAL 747 crash in Japan, the aft bulkhead collapsed because of improper repair work by the manufacturer. In Dallas, a severe wind-shear condition went both undetected and unreported and drove a Delta L1011 TriStar into the ground as it approached the field. Every day, it seems, the papers carry yet another article about a near miss in the skies that threatened a collision like the one that brought down Aeromexico, to the extent that a recent poll of the members of this organization listed a midair collision as their greatest fear.

“But behind the specific causes of these disasters are general problems that can and must be addressed—neglect, cutbacks, layoffs, shortcuts, delayed implementation of technology. I'm here to remind you that commercial pilots play an important role in reversing the trends I've just referred to. The reason is simple. Without you, the planes don't fly.

“Let me make some suggestions. First, you must expand and energize your air safety committee. Second, you must bring pressure to bear, to the point of work stoppage if necessary, to implement the following improvements:

“One thousand additional traffic controllers must be hired and trained immediately, before the system collapses.

“The FAA's withdrawal of the proposal to require wind-shear-detection devices in commercial aircraft and at major airports should be vigorously protested. Wind shear has caused eighteen major accidents since 1972; it is absurd that the IBM corporate fleet carries wind-shear-detection technology but commercial airliners do not.

“General aviation aircraft—
all
planes in the air, no matter how small—must be required to install Mode C transponders that reveal to the traffic controllers not only their position but also their altitude.

“You must demand that the FAA address the many deficiencies in the traffic control system beyond the lack of adequate personnel. Steps must be taken to …”

By the time the soliloquy has ended, no one believes its message more fervently than the man who has delivered it.

Because he lived in Altoona when the land next to the water tower had been occupied by a De Soto dealer instead of a stone-and-steel structure that could have served as a monument to the steam radiator, Keith Tollison thought of the courthouse as new. In terms of years it was, he supposed, but like many of those summoned to its dusky chambers, the building had not taken very good care of itself, had withered prematurely and emitted the subtle stench of age. At the moment, however, the municipal musk was masked by the heady fume of panic emanating from the man who sat beside Tollison hoping his leisure suit was an ice-blue igloo that would shield him from a vengeful world.

Tollison inclined his head and whispered. “It's like I told you this morning, Larry. If I don't win this motion, we'll have to put on a defense. Since we don't have one, that's not a good development. I'll make one last stab at a plea bargain, but since I won't have any leverage if my motion's denied, we'll have to go to the jury. I've tried a hundred of these, Larry, and unless you've bribed one of those people in the box, there's no way they'll find you anything but guilty. Which means you're on your way to jail, given your priors. In other words, Larry, old buddy, I suggest you wish me luck.”

At his side, his client bowed his head and closed his eyes, a caricature of contrition that was by now so familiar it was infuriating. Tollison shook his head with a disgust he hoped was disguised as pity and got to his feet.

“Yes, Mr. Tollison?” His body as weary as his inflection, the trial judge was virtually horizontal, his robe more a shroud than a cloak, his chair more a catafalque than a high-backed throne.

“The defense moves for a directed verdict of acquittal on all charges in the indictment,” Tollison said crisply.

“Grounds?”

Tollison strolled to the front of the counsel table, then leaned against it and stuffed his left hand in his jacket pocket, where it came across a half-eaten roll of life Savers. As he began to speak, he pried forth a wheel of cherry candy, which, like its manipulator, felt old and slightly soiled.

“I've listened closely to Mr. Dawkins's witnesses, Your Honor, and what I heard them say is this. On November fifteenth last, Officer Abernathy was driving north on Oak Street in his black-and-white at approximately two-fifteen
A
.
M
., when he saw a blue Plymouth sedan in his rearview mirror. The Plymouth was crossing Oak on Jefferson, moving west to east, and was being driven, as Officer Abernathy so emphatically termed it, erratically. Officer Abernathy made a U-turn, hit his lights and siren, and set off in pursuit. The sedan slowed momentarily, then increased its speed and disappeared.

“The unexpected acceleration caused Officer Abernathy to fall some distance behind the sedan. By the time he rounded the corner, what he saw was the blue sedan at rest against a Norwegian maple in Andy Palko's yard, hood up, smoke pouring from the radiator, doors open, windshield shattered, and a man later determined to be Larry Mitchell sitting on the ground beside the car, moaning and holding his head. Officer Abernathy approached, ascertained that Mr. Mitchell was neither armed nor seriously injured, advised him of his rights, and put him under arrest. When he asked Mr. Mitchell what happened, Mr. Mitchell mumbled, and I quote, ‘Too drunk; too fucking drunk.' A subsequent test revealed the alcohol content of Mr. Mitchell's blood to be point one eight, well in excess of the presumptive level of intoxication in this state. I—”

“I'm aware of the testimony, Mr. Tollison,” the judge grumbled, still substantially supine. “What is your point?”

Taking advantage of the hiatus, Tollison gobbled the Life Saver. “My point is simply this. Larry Mitchell is charged with operating a vehicle while under the influence of intoxicants. Now, certainly he was under the influence of demon rum that evening, Your Honor. But as far as I can tell, there's no evidence that Mr. Mitchell was
driving that car.”

Struggling toward a more august position, the judge looked to his left. “Mr. Dawkins? Have you some thoughts on the matter?”

The young prosecutor's words tumbled across the room like dice across a crap table. “There is
ample
circumstantial evidence that Mr. Mitchell was operating that vehicle, Your Honor. The Plymouth was registered to him. No one else was at the scene. His head was bleeding, doubtless from impact with the windshield, which was shattered. Mr. Mitchell told the officer he was ‘too drunk,' clearly meaning he was too intoxicated to be
driving
. Furthermore, there was no one else who
could
have been—”

The judge coughed and snorted. “I don't think it's enough.”

“Neither do I, Your Honor,” Tollison offered affably. “Particularly in light of the fact that no car keys were found either on Mr. Mitchell's person or in the vehicle itself.”

The judge hauled himself erect; the gavel banged an ultimatum. “Case dismissed.”

“Your Honor,
please
. Mr. Mitchell is a multiple offender, a menace to every man, woman, and child in this city.”

“Move for a mistrial, Your Honor,” Tollison boomed as amazement and uncertainty puckered the faces in the jury box.

“Please
, judge. Allow me to reopen. I—”

“Sorry, Mr. Dawkins. Better luck next time.”

The gavel banged again, and the judge rolled out of his chair and left the bench. Tollison put his arm around his client Larry Mitchell's face, momentarily pink with pleasure, dimmed with puzzlement then folded in pain as Tollison tightened his grip on the man's right shoulder.

“You were lucky, Larry,” Tollison said. “Dawkins is so new his briefcase still shines. Next time he won't make that mistake. I just want to make it clear that this is where I get off. This is the second one I've walked you away from, and you've got two priors before that. If you're busted again, I'm not going to be the one who puts you back behind the wheel.”

“But I won't, Mr. Tollison. I swear.”

“Get some help with the booze, Larry. Somehow you got yourself a nice wife and a great kid. Give up the sauce, or buy some term insurance and next time hit the tree hard enough to do them both a favor.”

Tollison released his client and looked away from Larry Mitchell's smarmy bluster toward the flags that flanked the judge's vacant chair. His outburst was another in a long list of words he shouldn't have uttered, thoughts he shouldn't have voiced, a list that was lengthening rapidly of late.

“I'll quit,” Mitchell was promising. “I'll kick it this time, you can count on it, Keith. I mean, Mr. Tollison.”

“Don't
tell
me about it, Larry. Just do it.”

“I will. I really will. Thanks, Mr. Tollison. You're great. Really. The greatest.”

Tollison ignored the praise. “Where'd you learn about the keys?”

Mitchell's glance ricocheted around the room as cunning occupied his eyes. “My brother-in-law works for this lawyer in LA. Runs errands and serves process and stuff? Anyway, his boss told Lyle that if he ever had a wreck while he was driving drunk, he should take the keys and throw them as far into the boonies as he could, then get out of the car and sit down on the ground and wait for the cops to come.” Mitchell's face blossomed with pleasure. “I didn't know what he was talking about then, but I sure as hell do now.”

“It won't work next time, Larry.”

“Why not?”

Tollison was about to tell him when a band of Mitchell's cohorts shoved their way through the bar of the court and escorted their comrade off the field of battle, triumph clearly as potent as Mitchell's normal brew, which was a daily gallon of T. J. Swann.

The courtroom slowly cleared. When they were the last two remaining beneath its inadequately soundproofed ceiling, Rex Dawkins walked to Tollison's table and sat on it gingerly. “I just wanted to say you'll never catch me short on the elements of an offense again. I've learned my lesson.”

Tollison smiled. “I learned the same one in roughly the same way. You ran into an honest cop.”

“Well, I wouldn't put it quite that—”

Tollison laughed. “Five cops in this town will testify exactly the way you want them to even if you forget to tell them what that is. Three won't remember what you want them to say no matter how often you remind them, and two won't say anything but the truth no matter how hard you push them otherwise.”

“And Abernathy's one of the two.” Dawkins's grin was sheepish. “I guess I should be glad he's such a paragon, but right now I just wish he'd said he'd seen Mitchell behind the wheel of that Plymouth before he set out in pursuit.”

“Don't let it get you down. In this business you learn more by losing than winning. And you'll get another shot at Mitchell before long.”

“I hope so. There's a lot of heat to get guys like him off the roads.” Dawkins paused. “The boys in the office told me to expect something like this. They say you're the best trial lawyer north of San Francisco.”

“That's not quite the way they put it, as I remember.”

Dawkins reddened. “What they say is you could be if you wanted to be,” he amended carefully.

“They still don't have it quite right.”

“Then what is it, if you don't mind my asking?” Dawkins's stare was empty of all but innocence. “What I don't understand is, if you're as good as they say you are, why are you still doing … this?” His gesture encompassed the court and the cause and the client.

Suppressing annoyance at the young man's gall, Tollison considered his response. There was no reason at all to be candid, no reason to pick at his past, except that no one else had ever asked him the question, which happened to be one he had asked himself a thousand times.

Dawkins was a comer, the D.A. had said the last time they'd shared a meal. Reminded the D.A. a little of the young Keith Tollison. But comer or not, young Dawkins had screwed up, because he was a little cocky and a little lazy, but mostly because in the beginning they're never thorough enough, because they don't believe it can possibly be as tough as it is to convict someone of a crime. From sentiments that were part professional and part paternal, Tollison found himself about to voice an assessment he had uttered only once before—to a woman who had been and still was the wife of another man.