Due Justice (26 page)

“In here,” he called back from the living room.

I lifted my foot to step across the threshold and stopped abruptly, foot still in the air, when George yelled, “Bup, bup, bup!”

Across the divide, George stood hands on hips, feet braced, iced tea in hand, examining his efforts. A carpet of black ink on 8 ½ x 11” white recycled copy paper, twelve by sixteen feet, placed in the center of the living room reached almost to the threshold. He had moved the furniture aside to accommodate his giant newspaper article mosaic as it grew beyond Harry and Bess's favorite rolling rug.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“This stuff is fascinating. I started laying your articles out chronologically on the kitchen table, but I ran out of room, so I moved them to the floor.”

“Okay. But what is it?”

“A chronological display of everything you pulled off the computer.” He said this with more pride than the accomplishment seemed to warrant.

I'm sure I seemed less than grateful for his creation, because that's how I felt. I needed a shower to get the sand out of my hair, and a fresh set of clothes.

“I can see what you've done here, but so what? I've read those articles until I can practically recite them verbatim. They don't solve Morgan's murder or tell me where Carly is.”

He smiled, unperturbed. “You may be the lawyer, Willa, but you have no head for numbers and you're missing the obvious. Read these in the order they were written, not in the order they were printed, and they give you a more accurate picture. This way, it's easier to see that one reporter is responsible for more than half the stories, too. And guess who that reporter is?”

George seemed so proud, I was sure the author must be a Pulitzer Prize winner, at least.

“I give up.”

“Robin Jakes,” he said, looking like the cat who'd consumed second helpings of Big Bird for lunch. “Look here,” he said, pointing again and again. “And here. Here. Here. See?”

How did I not notice that? Because I skipped the fluff like dates and bylines and headed to the meat, that's why. Bad habit.

Robin Jakes is a good friend of ours from Detroit. A perfect resource; one that never would have occurred to me.

“That's not all. Look at the development of these articles,” he maneuvered around the edges of his paper carpet; coaxed me onto the floor with his enthusiasm and an insistent pull on my leg.

“George, I looked at the ‘development' of those articles until 3:30 in the morning. If I could see some ‘development' in them, I would have noticed it already.”

“You don't have to be so testy. I'm only trying to help you. Look, early on, the articles are excessively sympathetic to ‘the plight of the women victims of our male-dominated society which makes breast implants a desirable commodity'. But as time progresses, the articles get less sympathetic and more scientific, see?” He gestured to the relevant papers to demonstrate. “In the next group, they're discussing recent science and point out how that science supports the manufacturers, not the victims.”

He had my full attention. I leaned over his bent knee on the floor so I could read the computer print more clearly. “I see what you mean. At the same time, the global settlement is about to fall apart and the major manufacturer and contributor to the global settlement goes into bankruptcy.”

George nodded like a teacher whose dim pupil was finally catching on. “Exactly. Until finally, there's hardly a supportive article on the plaintiff's side. Instead, the articles are about the financial woes of the plaintiff's bar and the limited amounts being paid to ‘victims'.”

“And, it's only in the end that Michael Morgan's name is prominently mentioned,” I said. “What do you think, George? Was Dr. Morgan about to disclose a definitive connection between breast implants and auto immune disease that would run the manufacturers out of business?”

He shook his head, unsure. “Or the opposite? Was he about to disclose no connection? The whole house of cards would come tumbling down? Either way, a large group of disappointed people would be lining up to keep him quiet.”

“I think a call to Robin is in order.” I said, bounding vertical, all fatigue abolished. I grabbed the phone.

“Put her on the speaker,” George replied, as he leveraged his creaking knees to push himself up off the floor.

We spent an hour and a half on the phone with Robin. She told us she had been on the breast implant story since 1992. She had a special interest in the material, she said, because she'd had implants after cancer surgery and had never had a moment's unhappiness with them. She covered the story from a variety of angles as it unfolded and she had written more than seventy-five articles in the past four years under her own byline. Some had been picked up by the wire services. We didn't have them all.

Robin confirmed George's observations regarding the progress of the controversy. She told us of the hardships the corporate defendants had suffered at the hands of the plaintiff's lawyers. She had interviewed several dozen defense attorneys who, while happy to have the work, consistently proclaimed that the science didn't
support the causation theories offered to explain the women's injuries.

“What do you think, Robin?” George asked. “You've been pretty close to this thing all along. You've got to know.”

Robin said, “There's no evidence here. These products are safe. No doubt in my mind.”

Brief silence filled the distance between Detroit and Tampa.

I said, “What about Michael Morgan? What was his role in this thing?”

She hesitated briefly. A big, audible sigh. Then, “Dr. Morgan studied the phenomenon from the beginning. He claimed to be the most knowledgeable plastic surgeon in the country on breast implants. After he surrendered his license, he followed the controversy both academically, as an expert witness and as a defendant himself in many cases.”

George asked, “You interviewed him, right?”

“Several times,” she said.

“How did he seem to you?” I wanted to know.

“Varied. Sometimes was intoxicated, incoherent. Other times, quite lucid. But every time, he was absolutely convinced that he knew why some women developed autoimmune symptoms and others did not.”

“Did he say why? Was it the gel? Random problems for some women? Or what?”

“Morgan said the problem wasn't caused by any of those theories. He said he knew the solution. He'd recently approached all of the manufacturers and defense attorneys. He offered to disclose his conclusions for the defense,” Robin explained.

“But that never happened, did it?” I asked.

“Because of his background, all of the defendants refused to be associated with him. They said they'd rely on more legitimate research,” she said.

George groaned. “I'm guessing Morgan didn't take that well.”

Robin laughed ruefully. “You knew the guy, then? I met with him a few days before he died. He was outraged. Wanted to show them all up. He told me his theory and gave me a video of his presentation.”

“What did you do with the video?”

“I wrote a freelance feature for
The New York Times
, Sunday Edition. After Morgan disappeared, they held it a few weeks. But it'll be published next week. I can fax you an advance copy, if you like, Willa.”

We accepted her offer and signed off. I gave George a proper thank you kiss, and headed to the shower when he trudged down to the restaurant for the Saturday night dinner crowd.

Cuddled up with Harry and Bess. Read the fax four times. Well written, but too many information gaps. And no video.

So I made a plane reservation on a six-thirty flight the next morning.

Then, I called Kate's son, Mark, for an early lunch. No answer. Again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Tampa, Florida

Sunday 5:30 a.m.

January 24, 1999

AWOKE TO ANOTHER GLORIOUS January day, with dawn in its infancy and ambient temperature fifty-five degrees. Carefully slipped away from my sleeping husband and ducked into the shower. Postponed my morning Java; I'd pick up a latte at the terminal. Sunday morning meant light traffic all the way to Tampa International Airport's short-term parking lot. Smooth sailing along the surface streets, timing the traffic lights, and we arrived eight minutes after leaving our driveway; so quick, my hair was still slightly damp.

Parked Greta near the blue elevators, grabbed the photographs from her glove box, rode down to the third floor and hustled to slide between the tram's closing doors. No way to speed up the tram ride, but when it stopped at Airside D I dashed to the Northwest Airlines gate. The gate agent barely looked up when she accepted my first-class boarding pass. Walked aboard, plopped down in 2A, snugged my seatbelt, and checked my watch.

Elapsed time: twelve minutes. Not a personal best, but not bad. So far, the trip was working out as well as I'd planned.

A little extravagant to travel first class for my two hour and fifteen minute nap to Detroit, but worth it to skip chatty vacationers, screaming and seat-back kicking kids, and cranky businessmen crammed into coach. During my years in private practice constant travel had generated a limitless supply of frequent flier miles close to expiring anyway. In those days I seemed never to sleep anywhere except on airplanes. Back then I'd nod off before my plane left the gate. No more.

Today, I watched the departure show unfold as it normally did until takeoff. Twenty-five seconds after lift-off I'd completed my prayers and for the first time since August 16, 1987, failed to drop into immediate REM sleep for the duration of my flight.

The normal nap schedule had been stamped into my brain by the crash of Northwest Flight 255, the deadliest sole-survivor crash in U.S. aviation history and the first airline disaster I'd personally witnessed.

An unforgettable disaster and equally indelible miracle.

On Sunday night, August 16, 1987, flight 255 was bound for Phoenix. My flight was scheduled to depart thirty minutes later.

I'd changed my travel plans the day before. A second deposition had been added to our docket. Instead of a quick trip out to Phoenix and back on 255, our team now planned to start in California and then hit Phoenix on the way home to Detroit. I'd watched 255 load passengers at the gate, still angry that I wasn't one of them because my opposing counsel had forced a second day of travel into my jam-packed schedule.

Flight 255 pushed back at 8:32 p.m., right on time.

Light rain drizzled outside, but storms were moving our way. Everybody needed to get out before the storms delayed everything to a snarled mess.

The DC-9's engines started easily enough and 255 taxied to runway 3C, my runway, awaiting clearance for takeoff. The plane ran an abnormally long takeoff roll, almost all the way to the end of the runway, before it lifted off.

But thirteen minutes after push-back, at exactly 8:45 p.m., 255 rotated skyward for takeoff. And something went horribly wrong.

The plane never gained altitude.

Never soared.

It lifted less than fifty feet off the ground. A series of quick disasters followed.

Flight 255 rolled left and hit a light pole, severing a portion of its left wing.

Rolled right, hit another light pole, another, and the top of a building.

Belly-flopped into flames.

Bounced and skidded a wide fiery ball along Middlebelt Road dropping burning sections and killing two motorists on the ground in its wake.

After twenty seconds, Flight 255 slammed into the I-94 expressway's eastbound overpass and exploded like a giant bomb flooding heat and smoke, destroying by impact forces and fire.

Only one passenger survived. A four-year-old girl seated in 8-F, traveling with her brother and parents. She was found still belted into the seat, 35 yards from her mother. She suffered broken bones and burns, but pictures featured a big pink hair-bow and purple nail polish and a beloved brown teddy snugged under her left arm.
The Detroit Free Press, The Detroit News
and countless national media described every conceivable detail about the “miracle child of Flight 255.”

Twenty seconds can be a lifetime. For 156 people one hot August Sunday evening, it was. But for the miracle child and me, twenty seconds defined our lives.

The girl was reunited with relatives and lived a devout life, I'd heard. I often thought about her and everyone who died that night.

After pushback I watched my fellow passengers and imagined 255's travelers spent those last thirteen minutes getting settled, organizing blankets and pillows, opening books and magazines. On my flight, mothers comforted children and nervous fliers relaxed grips on the seat's arms when the plane safely left the tarmac and continued to climb. On 255, passengers must have done much the same, too briefly.

For the first twenty-one seconds after takeoff on every flight, I pray.

Once airborne this day, my fellow passengers relaxed. Babies no longer cried with earaches, conversations resumed, couples squeezed loved ones, opened their books, closed their eyes. Window-side passengers admired the view.