Airframe (27 page)

"Well, Marder is a fast-talker. He'll give you a lot of double-talk about Airworthiness Directives.

A lot of FAA jargon. But the fact is that he was the program manager on the N-22. He supervised the development of that aircraft. He knows there's a problem—he's part of it."

OUTSIDE NORTON

After the practiced smoothness of Barker, the reporter, Jack Rogers, was a bit of a shock. He showed up wearing a lime-green sport coat that screamed Orange County, and his check-patterned tie jumped on the monitor. He looked like a golf pro, spruced up for a job interview.

Jennifer said nothing at first; she just thanked the reporter for coming, and positioned him in front of the chain-link fence, with Norton Aircraft in the background. She went over her questions with him; he gave tentative little answers, excited, eager to please.

"Gee, it's hot," she said. She turned to the cameraman. "How we coming, George?"

"Almost there."

She turned back to Rogers. The sound guy unbuttoned Rogers's shirt, threaded the microphone up to his collar. As preparations continued, Rogers began to sweat. Jennifer called for the makeup girl to wipe him down. He seemed relieved. Then, pleading the heat, she 149

convinced Rogers to remove his sport coat and sling it over his shoulder. She said it would give him a working-journalist look. He gratefully agreed. She suggested he loosen his tie, which he did.

She went back to the cameraman. "How is it?"

"Better without the jacket. But that tie is a nightmare."

She returned to Rogers, smiled. "This is working so well," she said. "How would it be if you take off the tie, and roll up your sleeves?"

"Oh, I never do that," Rogers said. "I never roll up my sleeves."

"It would give you that strong but casual look. You know, rolled-up shirtsleeves, ready to fight.

Hard-hitting journalist. That idea."

"I never roll up my sleeves."

She frowned. "Never?"

"No. I never do."

"Well, it's just a look we're talking about here. You'd come off stronger on camera. More emphatic, more forceful."

"I'm sorry."

She thought: What is this? Most people would do anything to get on Newsline. They'd do the interview in their underwear, if she asked them to. Several had. And here was this fucking print journalist, what did he make, anyway? Thirty grand a year? Less than Jennifer's monthly expense account.

"I, uh, can't," Rogers said, "because, uh, I have psoriasis."

"No problem. Makeup!"

Standing with his jacket slung over his shoulder, his tie removed, shirtsleeves rolled up. Jack Rogers answered her questions. He rambled, speaking thirty, forty seconds at a time. If she asked him the same question twice, hoping for a shorter answer, he just started to sweat, and gave a longer answer.

They had to keep breaking for makeup to wipe him down. She had to reassure him again and again that he was doing great, just great. That he was giving her really good stuff.

And he was, but he couldn't punch it. He didn't seem to understand she was making an assembled piece, that the average shot would be less than three seconds, and they would cut to him for a sentence, or a fragment of a sentence, before they cut to something else. Rogers was earnest, trying to be helpful, but he was burying her in detail she couldn't use, and background she didn't care about.

Finally she began to worry that she couldn't use any of the interview, that she was wasting her time with this guy. So she followed her usual procedure in a situation like this.

"That's all perfect," she said. "Now we're coming to the conclusion of the piece. We need something punchy"—she made a fist—"to close. So I'll ask you a series of questions, and you 150

answer them with one punchy sentence."

"Okay," Rogers said.

"Mr. Rogers, could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"

"Given the frequency of incidents involving—"

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just need a simple sentence. Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"

"Yes, it certainly could."

"I'm sorry," she said again. "Jack, I need a sentence like, 'The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale.'"

"Oh. Okay." He swallowed.

"Could the N-22 cost Norton the China sale?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I have to say that it might cost the China sale."

Jesus, she thought.

"Jack, I need you to say 'Norton' in the sentence. Otherwise we won't know what you're referring to."

"Oh."

"Go ahead."

"The N-22 might very well cost Norton the China sale, in my opinion."

She sighed. It was dry. No emotional force. He might as well be talking about his phone bill.

But she was running out of time. "Excellent," Jennifer said. "Very good. Let's go on. Tell me: Is Norton a troubled company?"

"Absolutely," he said, nodding and swallowing.

She sighed. "Jack."

"Oh. Sorry." He took a breath. Then, standing there, he said, "I think that—"

"Wait a minute," she said. "Put your weight on your forward foot. So you're leaning in toward camera."

"Like this?" He shifted his body weight, turned slightly.

"Yeah, that's it. Perfect. Now go ahead."

Standing there, in front of the fence outside Norton Aircraft, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, and his shirtsleeves rolled up, reporter Jack Rogers said, "I think there's no doubt that Norton Aircraft is a company in serious trouble."

Then he paused. He looked at her.

Jennifer smiled. "Thank you very much," she said. "You were great."

NORTON ADMINISTRATION

11:55A.M.

Casey came into John Marder's office a few minutes before noon, and found him smoothing 151

his tie, shooting his cuffs. "I thought we would sit here," he said, pointing to a coffee table with chairs in the corner of his office. "You all set for this?"

"I think so," Casey said.

"Just let me take it, at the beginning," Marder said. "I'll turn to you for assistance if I need it."

"Okay."

Maider continued to pace. "Security says there was a film crew out by the south fence," he said. "They were doing an interview with Jack Rogers."

"Uh-huh," Casey said.

"That idiot Christ. I can imagine what he had to say."

"Did you ever talk to Rogers?" Casey said.

The intercom buzzed. Eileen said, "Ms. Malone is here, Mr. Marder."

"Send her in," Marder said.

And he strode to the door, to greet her.

Casey was shocked by the woman who walked in. Jennifer Malone was a kid, hardly older than Richman. She couldn't be more than twenty-eight or -nine, Casey thought. Malone was blond, and quite pretty—in an uptight. New York sort of way. She had short bobbed hair that downplayed her sexuality, and she was dressed very casually: jeans and a white T-shirt, and a blue blazer with a weird collar. The trendy Hollywood look.

Casey felt uncomfortable, just looking at her. But now Marder had turned, and was saying,

"Ms. Malone, I'd like to introduce Casey Singleton, our Quality Assurance specialist on the Incident Review Team."

The blond kid smirked.

Casey shook her hand.

You got to be kidding, Jennifer Malone thought. This is a captain of industry? This jumpy guy with slicked back hair and a bad suit? And who was this woman out of a Talbots catalog?

Singleton was taller than Jennifer—which Jennifer resented— and good-looking in a wholesome, midwestern way. She looked like an athlete, and she seemed to be in pretty good shape—although she was long past the age where she could get by with the minimal makeup she wore. And her features were strained, tense. Under pressure.

Jennifer felt disappointed. She had been preparing for this meeting all day, honing her arguments. But she had imagined a much more commanding adversary. Instead, she was back in high school—with the assistant principal and the timid librarian. Little people with no style.

And this office! Small, with gray walls and cheap, utilitarian furniture. It had no character. It was just as well she wasn't filming here, because this room wouldn't photograph. Did the president's office look like this, too? If so, they would have to tape his interview somewhere else. Outside, or on the assembly line. Because these shabby little offices just didn't work for the show. Airplanes were big and powerful. The audience wouldn't believe that they were made 152

by crummy little people in drab offices.

Marder led her to a seating arrangement, to one side. He gestured grandly, as if he were taking her to a banquet. Since he gave her a choice of where to sit, she took a chair with her back to the window, so the sun would be in their eyes.

She got out her notes, shuffled through them. Marder said, "Would you like something to drink? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be great."

"How do you take it?"

"Black," Jennifer said.

Casey watched as Jennifer Malone set out her notes. "I'll be frank," Malone said. "We've gotten some damning material on the N-22 from critics. And on the way this company operates.

But there are two sides to every story. We want to make sure we include your response to the criticism."

Marder said nothing, just nodded. He was sitting with his legs crossed, a notepad on his lap.

'To begin," Malone said, "we know what happened on the Transpacific flight."

Really? Casey thought. Because we don't.

Malone said, "The slats came out—deployed?—in midair, and the airplane became unstable, went up and down, killing passengers. Everyone has seen the film of that tragic accident We know passengers have filed lawsuits against the company. We also know the N-22 has a long history of slats problems, which neither the FAA nor the company has been willing to deal with.

This, despite nine separate incidents in recent years."

Malone paused for a moment, then went on. "We know that the FAA is so lax in its regulatory policies that it doesn't even require certification documents to be submitted. The FAA has allowed Norton to keep the certification documents here."

Jesus, Casey thought She doesn't understand anything.

"Let me dispose of your last point first," Marder said. "The FAA doesn't have physical possession of certification documents from any manufacturer. Not Boeing, not Douglas, not Airbus, not us. Frankly, we'd prefer the FAA do the warehousing. But the FAA can't store them, because the documents contain proprietary information. If they were in possession of the FAA, our competitors could obtain

this information under the Freedom of Information Act. Some of our competitors would like nothing better. Airbus in particular has been lobbying for a change in FAA policy—for the reasons I've just explained. So I presume you got this idea about the FAA from someone at Airbus."

Casey saw Malone hesitate, glance down at her papers. It was true, she thought. Marder had nailed her source. Airbus had fed her that tidbit, probably through its publicity arm, the Institute for Aviation Research. Did Malone realize the Institute was an Airbus front?

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"But don't you agree," Malone said coolly, "that the arrangement is a little too cozy if the FAA lets Norton store its own documents?"

"Ms. Malone," Marder said, "I've already told you we'd prefer the FAA do the storage. But we didn't write the Freedom of Information Act. We don't make the laws. We do think that if we spend billions of dollars developing a proprietary design, it should not be made available free of charge to our competitors. As I understand it, FOIA wasn't enacted to enable foreign competitors to pillage American technology."

"So you oppose the Freedom of Information Act?'

"Not at all. I'm simply saying that it was never designed to facilitate industrial espionage."

Marder shifted in his chair. "Now, you mentioned Flight 545."

"Yes."

"First of all, we don't agree that the accident was the result of slats deployment."

Uh-oh, Casey thought. Marder was going out on a limb. What he was saying wasn't true, and it might very well—

Marder said, "We're currently investigating this situation, and although it's premature for me to discuss the findings of our inquiry, I believe you have been misinformed on the situation. I presume you've gotten this slats information from Fred Barker."

"We are talking to Mr. Barker, among others..."

"Have you spoken to the FAA about Mr. Barker?" Marder said.

"We know he's controversial..."

'To put it mildly. Let's just say he adopts an advocacy position that is factually incorrect"

"You believe it is incorrect"

"No, Ms. Malone. It is factually incorrect," Marder said, testily. He pointed to the papers Malone had spread out on the table. "I couldn't help noticing your list of slats incidents. Did you get that from Barker?"

Malone hesitated a fraction. "Yes."

"May I see it?'

"Sure."

She handed the paper to Marder. He glanced at it.

Malone said, "Is it factually incorrect, Mr. Marder?'

"No, but it's incomplete and misleading. This list is based on our own documents, but it is incomplete. Do you know about Airworthiness Directives, Ms. Malone?"

"Airworthiness Directives?"

Marder got up, went to his desk. "Every time there is an inflight incident involving our aircraft, we review the incident thoroughly, to find out what happened and why. If there's a problem with the aircraft, we issue a Service Bulletin; if the FAA feels compliance with our bulletin should be mandatory, it then issues an Airworthiness Directive. After the N-22 went into active service, we 154