Solomon And Lord Drop Anchor Part 22

"That was him. And you're right. It's the only time I'll quote the b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Truitt glanced at his watch. "Whoa. We've been at it for nearly two hours."

Sensing that was her cue, Lisa said, "I want to thank you so much for your time, Justice Truitt."

"I've enjoyed this. I really have," Truitt said. He paused a moment, as if she shouldn't leave just yet.

Sam Truitt couldn't pinpoint the moment he changed his mind about Lisa Fremont, couldn't even say exactly why he had. She was smart and savvy, and they seemed to have great synergy, and he was tired of interviewing candidates. There was such a relaxed nature to their conversation, he felt as if he had known her forever. So without ever actually consciously deciding, Truitt reached the conclusion that she'd be perfect. He would hire her despite her great looks, though he didn't think his wife would buy that for a second.

What is he thinking? Lisa wondered. Am I overstaying my welcome? Should I curtsy and head for the door?

"Once the session begins," Truitt said, breaking the silence, "I'm afraid there won't be time for what Elly would call 'high-falutin' gabfests.'"

As if I already had the job.

"And from now on," he continued, "it's just plain 'Judge.' That's what Vic and Jerry call me. Ask Elly for the forms you'll need to fill out, then get ready to roll up your sleeves."

OmiG.o.d! What did he say?

"You mean I'm hired?"

"Didn't I say that? No, I guess I didn't. I must have thought you could read my mind."

"That would be a pretty good attribute for a law clerk," she said, beaming. "I'll work on it."

"Along with about a thousand cert pet.i.tions." He stood and extended a hand. "Welcome aboard."

For the second time that day, Lisa Fremont shook his hand, and their eyes locked. This time his expression seemed to come from a deeper place, and for a moment, she felt he was trying to look deep inside her. At the same time, he clasped both hands over hers. There was nothing inappropriate about it, nothing s.e.xual, overt or otherwise. It seemed to be a gesture of comradeship, a recognition that they were about to spend the next year together embarked on a great adventure.

Wow! I did it. I'm a clerk on the Supreme Court of the United States. Me! Lisa Anne Fremont from Bodega Bay. And Max didn't do it for me.

She allowed herself just a few seconds of elation. Then the realization set in. She wasn't just Sam Truitt's law clerk. She was also working for Max Wanaker and Atlantica Airlines, pet.i.tioner in one of the biggest cases of the new term. In legal jargon, she had a major conflict of interest. Her job was to subvert justice, not to achieve it. She tried not to think about the cruel paradox, which threatened to ruin the moment.

She focused a businesslike smile on Sam Truitt. In the past two hours, she thought, they had learned all about each other. Or had they? She'd already known him. And he only thought he knew her. For a moment, looking into his blue-gray eyes, she thought there was a glimmer of recognition, that he saw through the gaps in her resume and in her life, that somehow he glimpsed the abyss that separated who she had been from who she had become. But if he had sensed anything wrong, why had he hired her?

She broke eye contact, and he released her hands. "Thank you, Judge. I'll try to live up to your expectations."

"You and me both," he said, laughing, giving her a warm smile. Then his voice dropped nearly to a whisper and his brow furrowed. "Lisa, we have a chance to do wonderful work here. Not just to resolve individual disputes, but to set the tone for civilization, to draw boundaries for conduct, to define fundamental rights and responsibilities, and to right wrongs. We're the conscience of society and the buffer between the government and the governed, striking the balance between the state and the individual. We protect against anarchy on the one hand and dictatorship on the other. Our job is to breathe life into that glorious two-hundred-year-old doc.u.ment they keep under gla.s.s a few blocks west of here. G.o.d help me, I hope we're both up to the task."

Lisa stood in stunned silence. What could she say? Oh, I'm sure you'll combine the wisdom of Solomon with the compa.s.sion of Gandhi and the strength of Zeus. And I'll be right there beside you ... corrupting the process, violating everything you believe in.

She had never known anyone like Sam Truitt. He was truly afraid of falling short, of failing to live up to his own standards and those who came before him. Here was a Galahad whose greatest fear was that he could not attain the Holy Grail.

She admired and respected this man who was honest and devoted to principles, not to the acc.u.mulation of power and personal wealth. He was everything Max Wanaker wasn't. What a sad irony that she had to betray Sam Truitt's trust and tarnish his beloved bronze statues. For a moment, she felt such shame that she could not look him in the eyes.

He guided her toward the door, grabbing his coat for the walk down the corridor to the chief's chambers. "Wait!" he said at the last moment, and she tensed.

What is it? Has he seen through me? Maybe he's the mind reader!

"I've completely failed to ask what substantive areas of the law interest you," he said.

With the self-discipline and poise that had brought her so far, she chased away the guilt and the fear. "Aviation law has always fascinated me," Lisa Fremont said.

IN THE.

SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES.

GLORIA LAUBACH,.

individually and as representative of the Estate of Howard J. Laubach, deceased, et al.

Pet.i.tioners, vs.

ATLANTICA AIRLINES, INC.,.

Respondent.

ON PEt.i.tION FOR A WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE ELEVENTH CIRCUIT.

PEt.i.tION FOR A WRIT OF CERTIORARI.

QUESTIONS PRESENTED.

Whether the 1978 Airline Deregulation Act bars Pet.i.tioner's claims under the Florida Wrongful Death Act for the death of her husband in the crash of a commercial aircraft, and if there is no such federal remedy, leaves Pet.i.tioner without the right to sue for money damages?

Whether Pet.i.tioner presented sufficient evidence as to Respondent's negligence so as to preclude the entry of summary judgment and to permit jury consideration of that issue?

REASON FOR GRANTING THE WRIT.

The decision below (a) radically departs from established case law; (b) subverts the intention of Congress; and (c) immunizes the tortfeasor from liability, thus permitting a wrong without a remedy, an abhorrent result in a case involving the deaths of nearly three hundred persons.

Respectfully submitted, Albert M. Goldman, Esq.

CHAPTER 5.

Reservoir Dog LISA DROVE AROUND FOR HOURS before heading back to the apartment. She pa.s.sed the Washington Monument, the circle of American flags crackling in the autumn breeze. She drove by the elm trees and the Reflecting Pool, and just as the lights came on, she curled behind the Lincoln Memorial with its distinctive Doric columns resembling the Parthenon. She slowed the car and fought the urge to join the tourists and walk up to old Abe-now dramatically backlit-and soak up all that corn-pone Americana. Thinking about it, she felt like a character in a black-and-white movie, Ms. Fremont Goes to Washington.

What she was feeling now was every bit as hokey as the old Frank Capra tearjerker. A vague disquiet settled over her as she considered notions of justice and honor and the young Sc.r.a.p Truitt sweating on the football field in a n.o.ble but losing effort.

How could I do it? How could I sit there and smile and wow him with my intellect, all the time planning to sabotage his treasured work? How low can I go?

She crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge and headed to the national cemetery, parking the car and sitting there in the enveloping darkness. Scattershot thoughts raced through her mind, but one kept returning, kept nagging at her.

"Tell me about Lisa Fremont, the person."

No. You wouldn't like Lisa Fremont, the person. But I can change. I want to believe all the flowery phrases about duty and justice and principle. Sam, I want to be like you!

She didn't want to be like Max. She was angry with him for manipulating her.

"After all I've done for you, don't you think you owe me this?"

No! Not this.

She believed there was a time in a person's life when one decision affects everything else. You head down that crooked side road one mile too far, and you'll never get back on the highway. But it wasn't too late to play it straight, and this time, there was nothing Max could say that would change her mind. When she got back to the apartment, she'd tell him. Not only wouldn't she try to sway Justice Truitt's vote on the Atlantica case, she'd recuse herself from even preparing the bench memo.

Her cellular phone rang, startling her. It was Max, wondering when she'd get home. She told him she'd gotten the job; she left for later the rest of the day's news.

Max didn't congratulate her, just mumbled uh-huh, like it was no big deal.

Like every day a poor girl from Bodega Bay, a teenage runaway, an underage stripper with no future, gets to be a law clerk on the Supreme Court of the United States.

Now, she had prospects. Entree into the biggest and best law firms. Before taking the clerking job on the D.C. Circuit, she'd been interviewed by a Chicago firm with offices in London, Paris, Moscow, and Rome. Hadn't the managing partner told her to keep in touch, to call him when her clerkship was over? Well, a year from now, she could waltz right in there. Law firms fall all over one another competing for young lawyers who have sat at the foot of the throne.

Hey, Max, guess what. A leopard can change her spots.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," she said on the cellular. "We have to talk."

"Yeah, we do," he said.

Two men in suits were waiting inside Lisa's apartment. Max Wanaker was sleek in his jet black Armani with a thin pinstripe. Theodore Shakanian wore a baggy charcoal gray Wal-Mart special and brown shoes. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and Lisa shot him an angry look. She didn't let Max or anyone else smoke in her apartment. Lisa knew little about Shakanian, other than the fact that his office was adjacent to Max's in Atlantica's Miami headquarters and he was an ex-cop from New York. Ever since the crash in the Everglades, the two men seemed to be spending a lot of time together.

Max looked grim, his face drawn. "I think you know Shank," he said, gesturing toward Atlantica's head of security, a lanky man with three days of black stubble sprouting from an acne-scarred face.

"I do," she said. "I just don't recall inviting him over."

Max forced a laugh and smiled apologetically at Shank. "Lisa's always been territorial. Like a cat."

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Put your briefcase down and relax," Max said. "Shank will explain it."

She tossed the briefcase at Max, who caught it just before it clipped him in the forehead. He gently placed it on a sofa of white Haitian cotton.

"Congratulations on getting your new job," Shank said, his voice gravelly, like tires crunching loose stones.

"Thank you," she said without enthusiasm. "What's going on?"

Why the h.e.l.l was Max spreading the news?

She'd seen Shank several times in the last few years but had never exchanged more than a casual greeting. A sullen, homely man, he stood perhaps an inch above six feet and had a Sergeant Joe Friday flattop that was so out-of-date it had come back into style. He looked to be between forty and fifty, there was no way to tell. Either he owned only one suit, or he had a closet full of the gray ones, which he always wore with a white shirt and a gray and black tie. She had only seen him once without the suit, in Max's hotel suite in Paris at the annual air show. He was speaking on the phone in a combination of English and what sounded like j.a.panese and was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. Lisa had been surprised at the size of his arms. In a suit, he looked rangy, even underweight. In the snug, short-sleeve shirt, she could see thick wrists and powerful, cabled forearms. On one forearm was the tattoo of a knife slicing a heart down the middle.

"Right now, you've got the most important job of anybody at the airline," Shank said, exhaling a plume of smoke, "and your enterprise falls under my jurisdiction."

Lisa wheeled toward Max, the anger building. This was supposed to be between the two of them. Now it was an enterprise. A phrase came back to her from criminal law cla.s.s: the RICO statute and "racketeering enterprises." She pictured the FBI, the U.S. attorney task force, and a grand jury all probing into their little enterprise.

"d.a.m.nit, Max, I thought I was doing a personal favor for you. Now, it's a corporate job? Who else knows? Did you put it in the shareholders' report?"

"Calm down, Lisa," Max said. "Let me fix you a drink." He walked to the liquor cabinet and tossed some vodka over ice, pouring in bottled orange juice from the minirefrigerator below the wet bar. Then he poured another for himself, his hands trembling. He wouldn't look her in the eyes.

"I don't want a drink," she said angrily. "I want you out of my apartment."

Max shrugged, chugged one of the screwdrivers, and appropriated the other, carrying it to the sofa where he sat down, apparently content to sit out the dance.

"Your apartment is paid for by Atlantica," Shank said with a sneer, "so I tend to look at it as corporate property and you, Ms. Fremont, as a corporate a.s.set."

Lisa fought to control her rage. She had worked so hard to be independent, to be free of anyone else's control, that she felt violated by the man's presence in her home. "You can't invade my privacy like this! You can't take over my life."

Shank didn't move. He looked amused, watching her as a fleck of ash fell from his cigarette to the red and gold Persian rug.

Lisa wheeled toward Max, waiting for an explanation, for something that would make sense. After a long pull of the screwdriver, he said, "A matter as sensitive as this, I had to bring in Shank."

"And who else?"

"The general counsel, but no one else."

"You told Flaherty! Why not just take an ad in the Post?"

"Flaherty had to know. He's the one who ran the projections. All the judges' opinions were run through the computer and stacked up against the facts of our case. The vote came out four-four. Truitt's new. He's the swing vote. If we get him, we win. If we don't, we lose."

She walked toward the faux fireplace, turning away from both men to gather her thoughts. "Then you're in a lot of trouble. Has Flaherty read Truitt's law review articles, his speeches? Does he know Truitt was a card-carrying member of the ACLU when he was a young professor? That he did a stint in the Peace Corps? Does he know that every Thanksgiving he still dishes out sweet potatoes at a homeless shelter? In a dispute between corporate executives and widows and orphans, which way do you think he'll vote?"

"Everyone has his price!' Max said.

"Wrong! Everyone you know has his price, but you don't know Sam Truitt. He really believes the stuff that's carved into the marble, the basic decency of people, the rule of law. Trust me. He's not the kind of man you can buy."

Shank cleared his throat. "That's exactly why you're so important, Lisa."

It was the first time he'd ever called her by her given name, and for a reason she couldn't articulate, she didn't like the familiarity.

"We're counting on you to persuade your boss that Atlantica should win," Shank said. "Simple as that."

"When two hundred eighty-eight people die in a plane crash, it's not so simple." She was growing even more furious.

"The trial court ruled for us," Shank said, smirking, "and so did the appeals court. It's not Atlantica's fault if some crazy Cubans bombed the plane."

"Shank's right," Max piped up. "The trial judge found we weren't negligent."

"Then you have nothing to worry about, do you? You don't need my help."