A Chick in the Cockpit (17 page)

Good God, what's next?

Lunch came and went and still, no one. It's been twenty-four hours since I became Alice in Wonderland. Finally, around midday, my door buzzes open and a voice booms through a speaker in the wall that I didn't know existed in my cell.

“Step out of the cell and face inward at the doorway.”

I step to the opening of the door and turn around. I feel strong arms pull my hands behind my body as I'm strapped into handcuffs again. The faceless man with arms walks me to the elevator. I step in, he pushes a button, and I'm sent alone into the bowels of the building. At the bottom of the rabbit hole, the door opens and no one is there. I step out and a voice overhead tells me to turn left and follow the line on the floor. Doors automatically open and close, and I am walking underground from the jail to the courthouse. I follow the line which ends at an elevator. I step in and magically, the elevator carries me up to where there is sunlight. This time, someone is waiting for me. The stone faced guard says nothing, grabs me by the shoulder, and pushes me in the direction that he wants me to go.

As the guard opens up a door, I am greeted with the rise and fall of frustrated voices. The room I end up in has all the violent offenders put together. All men and me. They see the color of my jumpsuit and they all mock my ability to scare them. I have no makeup on and my long blonde hair hasn't been washed for several days, since I hadn't fit in a shower before I was taken away. I also have the added humiliation of breast milk stains making a large circle over each breast.

The purpose of this meeting is for each person to talk to a public defender for about five minutes. I haven't been given an opportunity to call anyone, so I guess there is no need to call a lawyer. There are two public defenders at the table, but only one person does the speaking. My defender asks my name and shuffles through a pile of papers until he finds my checklist of sins. He reads the charges aloud to me:

“Ah, yes. Here you are. You are charged with domestic violence, assault, and battery and you have two choices here today. You can either accept full responsibility and enter a diversion program—which means you get out today—or you plead not guilty and speak to the judge. If you plead not guilty, you will have to remain in jail for the next five days before the judge can even hear your case. You picked the short straw by getting hauled in on a long holiday weekend. New Year's Eve and New Year's Day are both holidays, and then it's the weekend, so you'd have to wait until Monday. Do you have any questions? You have to decide right now what you're going to plead.”

“What's a diversion program?”

“It's a program that gets you counseling.”

“And I get out of jail today? Just like that?”

“Well, you still have to go before the judge and enter your plea and see if he'll accept it. The victim also has a right to make a statement in court before the judge.”

“What do you mean? What victim?” I honestly don't know what he means.

“Your husband. The victim. He gets to come to court today and make a statement to the judge to help the judge decide how to rule. I have his written statement here.” He shuffles to the bottom and hands me a disheveled piece of paper and I see the awkward, slanted writing of a lefty.

“He says he wants to file charges. If he files charges, there is a good chance you'll have to serve jail time. We can probably get it down to Misdemeanor Assault in the 3
^rd
degree, but there is still jail time with it. Maybe just a little with extensive community service or some variation of that. Either way, you will have a record.”

Below the standard name and address and personal information summary, there is a “victim's statement” which is filled in its entirety. The beginning of the form is fill-in-the-blank, but it allows for freestyle writing at the end. The weight of his statement hangs heavy in my hands:

...I am so ashamed that my wife can't control herself, especially since she is a mom. I don't think she should be left alone with our child.

I hope this trip to jail has helped my wife think about what she did and maybe she has thought about how she is going to apologize to me and make up for this. I don't know if I can trust her ever again. This trip to jail should be able to teach her a lesson, but this doesn't even begin to punish her for what she's done. She needed some time to think things through and this has hopefully given her that chance.

I plan on pressing assault and battery charges and if possible, further criminal charges and believe she should not be allowed to leave jail. She is a violent person and who knows what else she could do?

I want to also mention the excellent work of the Evergreen police officers who helped out in this matter. They are to be commended for their professionalism.

Brad Armstrong

I have not had food for over twenty-four hours, so the bile in my stomach is fierce and demanding. I read those words, in his own childish handwriting, and hate enters my body for the first time in my life. It's as permanent as losing my virginity. There is a before and after, but never again will I have that moment back. It has infused every cell, and I don't know what to do with it.

Hate. Pure. Perfect. Hate. It's accompanied with adrenaline, and my hands start to tremble as I read it again. The moment is so intense that I forget that a whole room of people are staring at me, waiting for an answer.

“But this isn't true. He lied; he made this whole thing up...” The public defender raises his hand to stop what is about to tumble out of my mouth. He's heard it all before, right?

“Look, you got arrested, not him. The judge will at least give the officers the benefit of the doubt. The best thing to do is just tell the judge it was a bad fight and that you're really, really sorry. Be humble. Don't give the judge any attitude or start telling him the cops made a mistake. They hate that. The cops hate it, too. Your best bet is to take the diversion program and go home.”

The room is full of voices. There is no privacy, and every single person waiting can hear our conversation. They're next to sit at this table, so they want to hear their choices, too. The other inmates start murmuring, “Just go home, little girl. It ain't worth fighting it ‘cause you ain't gonna win anyways. Don't you know that the
cops
are judges, not the judges? The cops decide for the judge who gets judged...” I am eerily calmed by the support of the other inmates. They're laughing and tossing out lighthearted advice; it must not be a big deal.

“Fine, I'll take what's behind door number one,” I say, and the public defender smiles.

“Diversion program?”

“I guess. It sounds better than sitting here for the next five days, or longer.”

“Do you understand that you are pleading guilty?”

“Oh, wait. No. No way. I am absolutely not pleading guilty. I guess I didn't realize that. Wait. Why do I have to plead guilty to enter the diversion program?” The public defender sees my hesitation, and he just wants to get on with his day, so he reassures me with, “Because that's the only way out today.”

“Seriously? God. Okay, whatever, just get me out of here. I just want to see my baby ...” With that, I sign on the dotted line. The public defender then says, “Oh, there is a restraining order placed on you automatically, so you might not be able to see your baby when you get out. It depends on a few things...” I wait for him to explain, but the guard has already put the handcuffs back and speaks over the public defender's voice as he commands me to turn around and walk. He walks me to a room behind the walls of the courtroom and there is nothing left to do but cry again while I wait to be judged.

Within thirty minutes of my signature, I am escorted, handcuffed, and walked into the courtroom where I'm placed in a plastic chair against the wall, facing the judge. I lean sideways against the Berber carpeted wall, and can smell the wool and feel the anxiety of the room. When I crane my neck around to the right, I can see the spectators of the courtroom, and there he is. Brad has on a dark blue Polo sweater with a red horse on it. Something his mom bought him so he could look innocent in court. This is the first time he'd ever dressed “preppy.” It's disgusting. He wouldn't even put on nice clothes when my family came out to Colorado for Christmas just a few days ago. He had dinner in his tie-dyed t-shirt while the rest of us had on something more presentable. Too bad he didn't put on his true clothes today.

I hear two cases, and then it's my turn. I hear my name, and the bailiff takes off my handcuffs and walks me to the defendant's podium. Simultaneously, Brad walks up to the prosecution podium, and the judge then allows him to read his victim's impact statement. With his voice, his words, his sentiment, I am disgusted to the core. I can't look at him. I have never looked at anyone with hatred before, and I'm afraid of it. The hatred has rushed up from the depths of hell and if I look at him, I might make him burst into flames. So I look at him, but despite this new strength coming from hate, he doesn't burst into flames. After Brad's statement, the judge reads more paperwork and formalities, looks up, takes off his glasses, tilts his head and with exasperation, asks, “Well,
Mrs.
Armstrong, please tell the court why you're here today.”

“Because I had a fight with my husband.”

“Lots of people fight with their husbands. Tell me why you're here and not at home.”

“Because it was a really bad fight?” I don't know what he wants me to say. The public defender said to be humble, but to do this in front of Brad is literally killing me.

“Did you hit your husband?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Really? Then why are you here? There are charges here that say you hit him and threatened to harm your daughter. You stand here today and not your husband, so there must be more to your statement. You will end up with jail time if this goes to a hearing and you're found guilty...”

“I pushed him.”

“You pushed him?”

“Yes. I pushed him away from my baby, and the officer said because I touched him first that I was the one in trouble.” I see the judge pause and pick up more papers. He isn't reading anything and is just paging through them as he questions, “It says here you're willing to go into the Diversion Program. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, let us see if Mr. Armstrong thinks that's going to be sufficient.” He turns to Brad and softens his voice. “Mr. Armstrong, I have heard and read your victim's impact statement, and you state you want to press charges. If we send your wife to counseling, do you think that would be a satisfactory compromise?”

There was a long pause as Brad acted like being asked this question was too daunting to answer quickly. We all sat in suspense and he took a deep inhale and spat, “Oh, I suppose. How long does she have to go counseling?”

“Thirty six weeks, every single week for two hours each week, she can't leave the state, and she has to pay for it. If she doesn't go or doesn't pay, she goes to jail. It's that simple.”

This is the first I've heard about the parameters of my counseling. I didn't even think to ask the PD how long, how much, where, and with whom. Because I am new a mom and growing babies are tracked in weeks, I reflexively realize I could almost grow a baby in the amount of time I will be in this diversion program.

“If she doesn't go or gets arrested again, she goes back to jail?” The smirk in his voice is undeniable.

“Yes. And if she does it again, she stays in jail.”

“Then I guess I'd agree to that.”

“Okay. Done.”

His enormous wooden gavel hits its mark, clips my wings, and the punishment begins.

17
Declare an Emergency

1.
Transponder code - set to 7700 to let everyone know you're in trouble

2.
State to ATC - “I am declaring an emergency”

3.
Focus on what is working, rather than just the failure

4.
Fly the airplane

Pilots hate to declare emergencies, even if a wing falls off. It's like admitting defeat. Oh really, double engine failure? No problem, I can handle it. The engine fell off the fuselage? Well then, I'll just step harder on the other rudder. It'll just be another great story to talk about back at the hotel bar—that is, if we live. Let's find out.

The number of black boxes recovered from accident investigations that record the calm, cool voice of an in-command pilot when his aircraft is undoubtedly doomed is overwhelming. Women pilots are even worse when it comes to declaring an emergency. It's just that we've worked so damn hard to get where we are (yes, the guys have, too, but we've been plowing the way for the women coming up behind us, as well), that we don't want to tell anyone we can't handle the situation, even if it's not our fault. We don't want help, we want to do it ourselves, and we don't want to draw any more attention to the situation if at all possible.

Once you officially declare an emergency (you have to say the magic words, “I am declaring an emergency” to air traffic control), the whole aviation world stops for you. All other aircraft in your airspace are diverted or put in holding patterns, and airport operations shut down until you're on the ground. Emergency vehicles will be standing by. Of course, the media will be there, too, and they'll blame you for not seeing that the bolt on the landing gear tire wasn't torqued correctly which caused the tire to fall off on rotation. The bolt went around 72 times instead of 136, but, of course, it's the pilot's fault for not visually knowing the difference. It's always the pilot's fault according to the media.

Pilots shudder when another aircraft declares an emergency. All aircraft in the vicinity (which covers hundreds of miles) are often pulled off their intended paths, sent to holding patterns, and, usually, controlled chaos follows the magic words, “I need to declare an emergency.”

We have absolute empathy for the other pilot, so we gladly do whatever we need to do for the aircraft in peril, but it's still a pain in the ass. If it's a long emergency, it can turn into fuel emergencies for the other aircraft. Because we're put into holding patterns, it burns up fuel in our reserves (which is why we carry reserves), but if there is any weather in the way, one aircraft's emergency can send ten others into critical fuel conditions.

Until the end of time, pilots will perpetually be called into the Chief Pilot's office for not declaring an emergency. Their argument will be the pure evidence that they are standing in the office and not dead—so, what was the emergency? We're trained and cajoled that it shows more competence to declare an emergency, even if it's marginal, than to not declare one. Better safe than sorry is what they remind us.

Well, you can't have a pilot without ego. They have to have egos, and they're bigger than most, so pilots will continue to refuse to declare an emergency. That's just the way it is. Let's not forget though, that more than one person can declare an emergency during the situation. Anyone on the flight deck, flight attendant, passenger, control tower, or just a bystander watching airplanes from the ground can declare an emergency for an aircraft in distress, but they have to know it's in trouble. From the outside, an airplane can look majestic and powerful, while inside all the systems can be failing in sequence. It can start with just one failure, but the failing system can take down the rest of the functioning equipment if the checklist isn't complied with correctly.

I had just had a major malfunction which created an emergency of epic proportions, but I was still not willing to admit it.

After the judge made his ruling, the bailiff wordlessly grabbed my arms and cuffed me in front of Brad and the rest of the spectators in the courtroom. I held my head high, but I was dying inside. It had been thirty hours since the beginning of the end.

The bailiff pointed me down a hall and once again the ghosts in the machine opened and closed doors and elevators for me on my journey back to my jail cell. I was informed that lunch was over, but dinner would be served in two hours. I told the guard that I was going home and didn't need dinner. He just slammed the door in reply.

Dinner was served, and I didn't know why I was still there. When the guard slid the food in, I asked him why I was still here. “How the hell should I know?” was the reply.

The sun set and I could feel the cold racing into the cell again. I just didn't understand why I was still locked up. I had been awake for about thirty nine hours and was trembling from the exhaustion and cold. My shirt was stiff and crunchy from the hours of breast milk leaking on my shirt, and it suddenly hit me like a brick wall that they had stopped leaking and hurt.

This was how my daughter was weaned from me.

All those hours of pumping my breasts in the airplane bathroom during stopovers and filling the freezer full so that I could breast feed for a year was now over in what would be three days away from her. This connection was taken from a mother and daughter, never to be returned to us. Because of what? I just couldn't comprehend what my life had become. How did I let this happen?

By my best guess, at around 8:30 p.m., a tinny voice barked through the speaker in my cell. You can make a phone call. One.

I jumped up and walked to the phone cradle mounted to the wall and stopped dead in my tracks. Who the hell was I going to call? It was late on New Year's Eve. All my friends in Colorado were casual acquaintances, and I couldn't even imagine the humiliation calling one of them to pick me up from
jail.
My friends were all mothers with young children. They were all happily married with respectful husbands. I'd be expelled from every playgroup and get-together for the rest of Lindsey's life. I lived in a small town and I couldn't do that to her. Hell, I couldn't do that to myself. I had no family in Colorado. I had no one. I had no money. I didn't even have money for a cab. No car. No job. No pride. No hope. No future. Nothing. I had nothing except desperation. The only reason I had to live right at that moment was my baby, who was at home with
him
. I was forty minutes from home. Home. I just wanted to be home with Lindsey. I hadn't been away from her for more than an hour or two since I left flying.

Reality hit me like a ton of bricks and I swallowed the bile floating up from the pit of my stomach. My vision tunneled as I dialed my home number to bum a ride home from the very person who had sent me to jail. The irony tasted bitter on my tongue.

“Yeah? Hello.”

“Brad, it's me. I need a ride from jail. I'm sorry you have to wake up Lindsey, but I don't know how else to get home.”

“Lindsey's not here.”

“Where is she?”

“My mom's neighbor's house.”

“What?”

“I dropped her off at my mom's house yesterday, but my mom had plans for New Year's Eve, so she dropped her off with another neighbor, but she didn't tell me exactly where. Betsy or Betty or something like that.”

“You don't even know where our daughter is?!”

“Do you want a ride or not.”

“Yes. I need a ride.”

This was the first gut churning moment when I realized I had lost all control. I had stopped flying my aircraft and settled on the idea that I was in an unrecoverable flat spin. Forget declaring an emergency, I was going to have to bail out of my aircraft. I was now just a passenger in my own life at the mercy of a man who had damaged me to the point where I didn't know if I could ever be put back together again.

At 10:30 p.m. on New Year's Eve, I was sent down to the jail's discharge office. I had to holler “hello?” because no one was there, and I wasn't sure what to do. I was still in my jail clothes and wondered if everyone had gone home, until I heard footsteps down the hallway and a male voice ask for my name. A button was pressed and a rack of clothes like the dry cleaners came to life, making the clothing of my former life dance in jubilation at the thought of being returned to my body.

Not only my life, but my body and soul had changed as I put on these old clothes. My breasts were empty and my plan of nursing for the first year was a mere pipedream. Even though these were my clothes, the clothes I put on were of another person. They were on me, but I was no longer me. And then, I waited.

I could hear his pickup truck coming into the parking lot, a big red Dodge Cummins diesel with an unmistakably high-pitched whine that was the signature of a turbo diesel.

There were fees that had to be paid. Checking out of jail is similar to checking out of a hotel. Jail isn't free. They charge you for your stay, but they don't ask how the accommodations were. If I'd known that I had to pay for this, I would have asked for turn down service and a chocolate. Oh, and maybe a pillow.

Brad rolled his eyes and sighed over and over while reviewing the list of charges. They didn't take credit cards so he had to write a check, which they electronically transfer the money before you can leave. It was my money he was using, but he acted like he had just signed over his last penny.

The cold outside air took my breath away. We didn't say a word as we got in the truck. The clock said 11:23 p.m. on New Year's Eve, the cusp of a new year.

Not a word was said. Nothing. There was no music on the radio; there was just the black clear sky and occasional burst of fireworks being launched off the decks of mountain homes. Happy mountain homes with happy mountain people.

As we approached Elk Meadow Open Space Park, I told Brad to pull over. I needed to tell him it was over. I had the speech in my head, but my thoughts were derailed at his first reaction.

“Pull over? What the fuck for? I'm not pulling over.”

“God, Brad. Really? We need to talk.”

He took the turn too quickly and we skidded across the gravel and came to a stop before pulling into the trailhead parking lot. He shut off the truck and turned towards me in one simultaneous motion.

“I expect an apology from you.” He glared at me and pursed his lips.

“What??”

“I had to get up and come get you out of jail on New Year's Eve, and I expect an apology from you.”

I sighed. “Brad, I can't live with you anymore. I'm leaving. What you've done is so beyond horrible, it can never be fixed. I want a divorce. Lindsey and I will stay in town, but we're leaving. There is something wrong with you.”

He laughed. He held his belly like it was hurting him to laugh this much. It was the first time I had ever wanted to punch someone in the face. For a split second, I thought it might be worth it. I'd punch him in the nose, get out of the truck and run. But it was freezing cold and he was the only one who knew where my daughter was. I'm a good person, and even though I really, really, really want to punch him in the face, I didn't

“Erika. How stupid can you be? Are you having your period? YOU just got
arrested
. There is nothing wrong with me; it's
you
that has something wrong. If you ever try to leave me, or divorce me, or cheat on me, or do
anything
to me, I will have you arrested again. You'll never, ever see Lindsey again. I'll make sure of it. What judge would
ever
give you custody? You're a violent offender and you just got out of
jail.
You even have a parole officer assigned to you now! Ha! You've got no job, no family, and no friends. Now that you've been arrested, you're not gonna be able to get a job. You got nothin' except me. So you're going to go home and go to bed and get up tomorrow as my wife just like before. God, I thought this time in jail would've taught you a lesson, but I guess you're a slow learner ‘cause you just don't get it...”

He was right. I just didn't get it. I absolutely didn't get it. What I internalized was that Brad had just summarized my emergency situation to my own ears, and the situation was dire. I needed to bail out of the airplane, but hadn't thought to pack a parachute.

I think the Chief Pilot's office would have declared this a justifiable emergency.

Yep, you're thinking to yourself, just leave. Just leave. It's easy to say, but definitely out of the realm of possibilities given the mindset I was in. When I look back, I'd give myself that same advice, but I couldn't see through the fog of fear. I couldn't declare an emergency because I'd been broken and couldn't see a way out. There are plenty of books telling women how to leave and when to leave. But the shelves are empty when it comes to telling women how to live in this impossible situation. I
couldn't
get out, and the best I could do was to make it up as I went along.

My life existed only for my child and what was best for her. I couldn't support her at the moment, and I couldn't leave her with him. If I ran, I'd be caught. I had a record. As Brad so happily reminded me, my flight crew included a parole officer. It was now my responsibility to check in with my parole officer and show him I was living a “normal” life. I had to attend domestic violence counseling classes or I'd be arrested. I wasn't allowed to leave the state. I had to prove that my once-extraordinary life was no longer extraordinary. It was just extra, extra ordinary, and that's all I could be from now on. White trash. No. Now I had to strive to live like white trash. I might as well put a wife beater shirt on Brad while I hide in the shadows to complete the scene. My world had once been endless. Now it was confined to this little itty bitty life of fear. I used to put an airplane upside down and in a spin on purpose, and not be afraid. I was now the definition of afraid.