You Only Die Twice (11 page)

“This is no coincidence.”

He grinned, looked innocent, and slid into his seat. “Only so many commercial flights stop at Daytona.
We're both headed there tonight.” He shrugged. “What are the odds?”

“That we would be seated next to each other on a flight with more than a hundred passengers?”

“Damn.” He paused, eyebrow raised. “That's right. You must be stalking me.”

He bought me a drink and we discussed the upcoming hearing, serenaded by a screaming baby several rows back. I asked about Circuit Judge Leon Cowley, who had sentenced R. J. and would preside in the morning.

“Interesting guy, his honor.” Fitzgerald smiled. “A rock-ribbed conservative who transcends mortality, at least in his own mind. Circuit judges do have godlike powers, but Cowley's at the next level. He thinks he
is
God. You know the type.”

I did, although for most Miami jurists it's a mere job. They preside for six or eight hours, take off the black robes, and are just Bob, Paul, or Frank again—probably because they are acutely aware that they themselves might become defendants at any moment. There are always a few in trouble, indicted, or being investigated.

“What's he look like?” Fleecy white clouds raced by our tiny window as I sipped my drink.

“Six foot, stocky, still in good shape, proud he never let himself get soft. Likes bonefishing and a few drinks. Played football for the University of Florida. Got through law school back when it was easy. No intellectual, but very responsive to the people of his district, who want everybody hanged, everybody put away, everybody locked up.”

“So he's tough.”

“The man played smash-mouth football and he's a smash-mouth judge.”

“This case must be giving him second thoughts.”

“Doubt it.” Fitzgerald munched an airline pretzel. “A lotta people up there will never believe Jordan is innocent.”

“How can they not? There's a dead body to prove it.”

“In this age of conspiracy theories,” he said, “there'll always be doubt. Betcha a good thirty to forty percent of the population will swear that the gal who showed up dead in Miami was an imposter, not the real Kaithlin Jordan but a lookalike, maybe even the victim's sister, who had her fingerprints altered and plastic surgery to look like her.”

How odd, I thought. More speculation about a fictional sister. Would it become a popular theory among amateur sleuths? Real life is stranger than fiction. Who could prove without a doubt that Reva Warren, dead for years now, did not give birth to a second child more than three decades ago?

“Nope,” Fitzgerald was saying, “you'll see no contrition from Cowley about sentencing an innocent man to die. He'll be defensive of the jury, the people of his county. Criticize the verdict and you criticize them. Damn.” Fitzgerald squinted disapprovingly over his shoulder at the infant, still howling nonstop. “What a set of lungs on that kid.”

“Well,” I said, “the judge still has to offer R. J. and his family some sort of apology. The guy lost ten years and came within a week of execution.”

Fitzgerald shrugged. “Cowley won't be overly apologetic. Count on it. You'll see tomorrow.”

The
FASTEN SEAT BELT
sign went on, and the flight attendants prepared for landing at Daytona International Airport.

I saw the lights of the runway and the nearby Speed-way, home of the Daytona 500, as we began the final approach. The cabin was brightly lit and full of chatter, passengers preparing for landing amid the wails of the screaming baby.

The crew's intercom dinged four times.

Fitzgerald reacted. “Uh-oh.”

“What?” I said.

He shook his head and watched the chief flight attendant go to the cockpit. She returned moments later, and all four flight attendants convened in the forward galley.

Fitzgerald leaned close and spoke softly in my ear. “Looks like we've got ourselves a problem.”

“What? No.” I twisted in my seat, firmly rejecting the suggestion. Everything looked fine. The flight attendants had returned to their stations, composed but not smiling.

The public address system crackled to life.

“This is your captain.”

I heard Fitzgerald's sharp intake of breath, or was it my own?

“Got a little problem, folks,” the captain said genially. “A cockpit light up here is telling us our landing gear didn't drop and lock. Nine out of ten times that warning light is a false indicator. So we're gonna circle around for a fly-by of the control tower. The folks there will attempt a visual, try to tell us if the landing gear is actually down and the cockpit indicator is malfunctioning. We'll keep you posted.”

The young mother across the aisle straightened in her seat, eyes alert, her fingers resting lightly on her little girl's hair. The cabin chatter continued.

“So, we get to spend a little more time together.” Fitzgerald smiled.

I enjoyed his company but yearned for a bed, the TV news, and a good night's sleep. I fretted, annoyed, as we swung back over the airport.

“Okay, folks,” the captain said. “Unfortunately the control tower confirms that our cockpit indicator is correct. Our landing gear has not come down. So we're gonna fly out over the Atlantic for a while to use up some fuel while we try to correct the problem.”

Impatient groans swept the cabin as we soared into a silken sky over dark water. A passenger who'd probably already imbibed too much asked loudly for a drink. The flight attendant declined, saying she couldn't block the aisle with the cart.

He exploded angrily. “I didn't ask for the damn cart, just one goddamn drink!”

“How long do you think this will take?” I asked Fitzgerald uneasily.

He shrugged. “They'll probably try to lower it manually.”

“What if they can't?”

“These guys are good; they know what they're doing,” he said.

I had my doubts as the co-pilot emerged from the cockpit. Carrying a flashlight, he stopped midway down the aisle to check something at the emergency exit over the wings.

This would make interesting dinner conversation
back home, I thought, as the man returned to the cockpit. It was thrilling in a superficial way. I hate delay but there are worse things than being stalled in the sky with a handsome man.

“Okay, folks, keeping you posted as I promised. This aircraft is equipped with a crank-down system that can manually lower the landing gear. So far, our attempts to do so have been unsuccessful. The gear is apparently jammed, so we're gonna exert some pressure on the aircraft, up and down, to try to jostle it loose. Please remain in your seats, seat belts fastened. We'll try this, then fly by the tower again for another look-see.”

Nervous laughter swept the cabin. The pilot's voice resonated with confidence, but that's what he was trained to project. Suddenly I found it difficult to swallow. What if…?

“Hope you like roller coasters.” Fitzgerald sounded nonchalant. He took my hand in both of his.

The plane climbed, then suddenly dropped. I caught my breath as my stomach rose, the way it does during rapid descent in an express elevator.

“It's the g force.” He squeezed my fingers. “Hold your breath as we go up. When he pulls back and climbs, positive g's force you down in your seat. On the way down, your body becomes lighter because there is less g force. Like a roller coaster.”

The young mother across the aisle had protective arms around her daughter. Her other little girl, in front of us, laughed aloud, unafraid and giddy at the ride.

While she enjoyed herself, I relived plane crashes I had covered. I bitterly blamed the
News
for this devel
opment and vowed to charge a lavish room-service meal to my expense account if I reached the hotel alive. If I was killed or severely maimed, they would publish my photograph. They'd use the humiliating one on my ID card, when the camera caught me in mid-sneeze. That was not how I wanted to be remembered.

Stomach churning as the plane lurched and bounced, I asked silent forgiveness from everyone I'd ever hurt. Who would adopt Bitsy and Billy Boots if this flight was doomed? Who would love them? I wondered. How unfair for Bitsy, that dear little dog, to be orphaned again.

“Everything's okay,” Fitzgerald murmured.

Not reassured, I imagined my mother alone, like Reva Warren, and cringed at the thought. In the sudden rush of departure, I hadn't called her. My mother didn't even know I was flying. Too late now. The attendant said no in-flight phones were in service. I wanted to scribble a note, but what note would survive a crash I didn't?

One small consolation. If we don't make it, I thought, I don't have to be in Angel's wedding. But now I didn't want to miss it. I didn't want to miss anything.

The roller-coaster ride smoothed out and we circled Daytona airport again. The chief flight attendant revisited the cockpit, followed by another huddle in the front galley.

“What do you think?” I asked Fitzgerald.

“I believe,” he said, eyes alert, “that he's gonna bring us down without it.”

“We'll be okay?”

“They'll follow all the emergency procedures,” he said calmly.

“You've seen it done?”

“Sure. During the Gulf War, we had a B-Fifty-two come in with a jammed gear. Two of our choppers trailed it right down the runway, moving in fast to rescue survivors. The plane slowed down so much that the crew was able to jump out onto the foamed runway before the plane ran off it, skidded onto the tarmac, and exploded. They all survived. But both choppers got sucked into the flames. Those guys didn't make it.”

“Thank you very much,” I whispered sharply. “As if I needed to hear that story.”

“You asked,” he said mildly.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the pilot said, “our maneuvers were not able to shake the gear loose. Please listen carefully to your flight attendants. They will instruct you on preparations for an emergency landing.”

Shit, I thought. This is happening. It's really happening.

“Don't worry,” Fitzgerald said. But I saw the fear in his eyes.

“I'm okay,” I lied. Sure. As our lives spun totally out of control, in the hands of strangers, dependent on a malfunctioning machine.

“If we do go down,” he muttered out the corner of his mouth, “I'm glad that screaming brat goes with us.”

He wanted me to smile, but I was too busy fighting panic.

“If this works out,” I swore aloud, “I will rent a car and drive back to Miami. Nothing will ever get me on another plane.”

“Statistically,” he said, “it's more dangerous to drive.”

“Yeah,” I said, “but you can always park and walk.”

The scenario was surreal, as we were instructed to remove and stow high heels and loose objects, even big earrings, and shown how to assume the position: head between the legs, hands on the back of the head, fingers locked, or as Lottie always described it: “put your head between your legs and kiss your ass goodbye.”

The lights will go out, the attendant said. Take nothing with you. Follow the emergency lighting system in the floor. Evacuate fast. We needed to be out in ninety seconds.

We were warned not to use the overwing emergency exits, only the front and back.

“Why?” I whispered aloud.

“Because if there's fire, that's where it'll be,” Fitzgerald muttered.

“Why don't they just tell us that?”

“They don't use the F word,” he said quietly. “If anybody panicked, things could get out of control fast.”

In a sudden revelation, I realized I should have married Josh, my college sweetheart. My mother would have had a grandchild, a child already ten years old. A week ago, I had wondered if I ever wanted to marry and have children. Now I lamented that I never did.

Belts were checked, infants secured in baby seats.

Our flight attendant stopped and spoke so softly in Fitzgerald's ear that I scarcely heard her words.

“We have some handicapped, unescorted minors, and other passengers who may need assistance.” Her eyes moved toward the mother, her two little girls, and the young woman with her foot in a cast. “Are you available to help?”

“You've got it,” he said. “I'm a police officer, former military, familiar with the procedure.”

The attendant spoke quietly to the young mother, who looked wary, pale, and terrified, then informed the woman in the cast, who now clung to the other child. Fitzgerald nodded reassuringly as each made eye contact.

The captain's voice interrupted my silent prayers. “Just wanted to warn you folks about the screeching sound you'll hear. That'll be the bottom of the aircraft on the runway. We have an experienced crew up here and we expect to be able to control the aircraft to some degree. We plan to set down on foam, on the center line of a ten-thousand-foot runway. Emergency vehicles are standing by. Your flight attendants will assist you.”

“Okay,” Fitzgerald said calmly. “I'll be outa your way as soon as we're down. You go straight to the exit, hit the slide as quick as you can, and don't hesitate at the bottom. Get away fast, so you're not rammed by the next guy coming down. Run from the plane, as far as you can. I'll find you after we get the others out.”

“I can help with the kids,” I said. “You take the mother and the little one. I'll take the one on this side. Then we can help the woman with the cast.”

He hesitated. “You're sure?”

“Yeah.” I nodded, beyond scared as the plane swung into its final approach.

“Hear that?” I croaked, clinging to Fitzgerald as we began our descent.

“What?” he said, face tight.

“The screaming baby. It stopped.”

We hugged as close as our seat belts allowed; even our legs were intertwined.

“It'll be okay,” he promised. His face, color drained, belied his words.