Airframe (37 page)

“Hi,” she said.

“Thanks for your help with this,” Reardon said. “We’ll try to make it as painless as possible.”

“Okay …”

“You know of course we’re on tape,” Reardon said. “So if you have a bobble or something, don’t worry; we’ll just cut it. If at any time you want to restate an answer, go ahead and do that. You can say exactly what you want to say.”

“Okay.”

“Primarily we’ll be talking about the TransPacific flight. But I’m going to have to touch on some other matters as well. Somewhere along the line, I’ll ask about the China sale. And there’ll probably be some questions about the union response, if we have time. But I don’t really want to get into those other issues. I want to stay with TransPacific. You’re a member of the investigation team?”

“Yes.”

“All right, fine. I have a tendency to jump around in my
questions. Don’t let that bother you. We’re really here to understand the situation as best we can.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you later, then,” Reardon said. He smiled, and turned away.

The makeup woman moved back in front of her again. “Look up,” she said. Casey stared at the ceiling. “He’s very nice,” the makeup woman said. “A sweet man, underneath it all.
Dotes
on his children.”

She heard Malone call out, “How much more time, guys?”

Someone said, “Five minutes.”

“Sound?”

“We’re ready. Just give us the bodies.”

The makeup woman began to powder Casey’s neck. Casey winced, feeling twinges of pain. “You know,” the woman said, “I have a number you can call.”

“For what?”

“It’s a very good organization, very good people. Psychologists mostly. And extremely discreet. They can help you.”

“With what?”

“Look left, please. He must have hit you pretty hard.”

Casey said, “I fell.”

“Sure, I understand. I’ll leave my card, in case you change your mind,” the makeup woman said, using the powder puff. “Hmm. I better get some base on that, to take the blue out.” She turned back to her box, got a piece of sponge with makeup on it. She began to daub it onto Casey’s neck. “I can’t tell you how much I see, in my line of work, and the woman always denies it. But domestic violence has to be stopped.”

Casey said, “I live alone.”

“I know, I know,” the makeup woman said. “Men count on your silence. My own husband, Jeez, he wouldn’t go into counseling. I finally left with the kids.”

Casey said, “You don’t understand.”

“I understand that when this violence is going on, you think
there’s nothing you can do. That’s part of the depression, the hopelessness,” the makeup woman said. “But sooner or later, we all face the truth.”

Malone came over. “Did Marty tell you? We’re mostly doing the accident, and he’ll probably start with that. But he may mention the China sale, and the unions. Just take your time. And don’t worry if he jumps around from one thing to another. He does that.”

“Look right,” the makeup woman said, doing the other side of her neck. Casey turned to the right. A man came over and said, “Ma’am? Can I give you this?” and he thrust a plastic box into her hands, with a dangling wire.

“What is it?” Casey said.

“Look right, please,” the makeup woman said. “It’s the radio mike. I’ll help you with it in a minute.”

Her cell phone rang, in her purse on the floor beside her chair.

“Turn that off!” someone shouted.

Casey reached for it, flipped it open. “It’s mine.”

“Oh, sorry.”

She brought the phone to her ear. John Marder said, “Did you get the folder from Eileen?”

“Yes.”

“Did you look at it?”

“Not yet,” she said.

“Just lift your chin a little,” the makeup woman said.

On the telephone, Marder said, “The folder documents everything we talked about. Parts report on the reverser cowl, everything. It’s all there.”

“Uh-huh … Okay …”

“Just wanted to make sure you’re all set.”

“I’m all set,” she said.

“Good, we’re counting on you.”

She clicked the phone off, turning the power switch off.

“Chin up,” the makeup woman said. “That’s a girl.”

*  *  *

When makeup was finished, Casey stood, and the woman brushed her shoulders with a little brush, and put hair spray in her hair. Then she took Casey into the bathroom, and showed her how to thread the mike wire up under her blouse, through her bra, and clip it to her lapel. The wire ran back down inside her skirt, then back up to the radio box. The woman hooked the box to the waistband of Casey’s skirt, and turned the power on.

“Remember,” she said. “From now on, you’re live. They can hear whatever you say.”

“Okay,” Casey said. She adjusted her clothes. She felt the box pinching at her waist, the wire against the skin of her chest. She felt cramped and uncomfortable.

The makeup woman led her back into the War Room, holding her by the elbow. Casey felt like a gladiator being taken into the arena.

Inside the War Room, the lights were glaring. The room was very hot. She was led to her seat at the table, told to watch she didn’t trip over the camera cables, and helped to sit down. There were two cameras behind her. There were two cameras facing her. The cameraman behind her asked her to please move her chair an inch to the right. She did. A man came over and adjusted her microphone clip, because he said there was clothing noise.

On the opposite side, Reardon was attaching his own microphone without assistance, chatting with the cameraman. Then he slipped easily into his chair. He looked relaxed, and casual. He faced her, smiled at her.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “Piece of cake.”

Malone said, “Let’s go, guys, they’re in the chairs. It’s hot in here.”

“A camera ready.”

“B camera ready.”

“Sound ready.”

“Let’s have the lights,” Malone said.

Casey had thought the lights were already on, but suddenly, new harsh lights blazed down at her, from all directions. She felt as if she were in the middle of a glaring furnace.

“Camera check,” Malone said.

“Fine here.”

“We’re fine.”

“All right,” Malone said. “Roll tape.”

The interview began.

Marty Reardon met her eyes, smiled, and gestured to the room. “So. This is where it all happens.”

Casey nodded.

“This is where the Norton specialists meet to analyze aircraft accidents.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re part of that team.”

“Yes.”

“You’re vice-president of Quality Assurance at Norton Aircraft.”

“Yes.”

“Been with the company five years.”

“Yes.”

“They call this room the War Room, don’t they?”

“Some do, yes.”

“Why is that?”

She paused. She couldn’t think of any way to describe the arguments in this room, the flares of temper, the outbursts that accompanied every attempt to clarify an aircraft incident, without saying something he could take out of context.

She said, “It’s just a nickname.”

“The War Room,” Reardon said. “Maps, charts, battle plans, pressure. Tension under siege. Your company, Norton Aircraft, is under siege at the moment, isn’t it?”

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Casey said.

Reardon’s eyebrows went up. “The JAA, Europe’s Joint
Aviation Authority, is refusing to certify one of your aircraft, the N-22, because they say it’s unsafe.”

“Actually, the plane’s already certified but—”

“And you’re about to sell fifty N-22s to China. But now the Chinese, too, are said to be concerned about the safety of the plane.”

She didn’t get angry at the innuendo; she focused on Reardon. The rest of the room seemed to fade away.

She said, “I’m not aware of any Chinese concerns.”

“But you
are
aware,” Reardon said, “of the reason
behind
these safety concerns. Earlier this week, a very serious accident. Involving an N-22 aircraft.”

“Yes.”

“TransPacific Flight 545. An accident in midair, over the Pacific Ocean.”

“Yes.”

“Three people died. And how many injured?”

“I believe fifty-six,” she said. She knew it sounded awful, no matter how she said it.

“Fifty-six injured,” Reardon intoned. “Broken necks. Broken limbs. Concussions. Brain damage. Two people paralyzed for life …”

Reardon trailed off, looking at her.

He hadn’t asked a question. She said nothing. She waited, in the glaring heat of the lights.

“How do you feel about that?”

She said, “I think everyone at Norton feels very great concern for air safety. That’s why we test our airframes to three times the design life—”

“Very great concern. Do you think that’s an adequate response?”

Casey hesitated. What was he saying? “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t follow—”

“Doesn’t the company have an obligation to build safe aircraft?”

“Of course. And we do.”

“Not everyone agrees,” Reardon said. “The JAA doesn’t agree. The Chinese may not agree … Doesn’t the company have an
obligation
to fix the design of an aircraft which it
knows
to be unsafe?”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean,” Reardon said, “is that what happened to Flight 545 has happened before. Many times before. On other N-22s. Isn’t that true?”

“No,” Casey said.

“No?” Reardon’s eyebrows shot up.

“No,” Casey said, firmly. This was the moment, she thought. She was stepping off the cliff.

“This is the first time?”

“Yes.”

“Well then,” Reardon said, “perhaps you can explain this list.” He produced a sheet of paper, held it up. She knew from across the room what it was. “This is a list of slats episodes on the N-22, going back to 1992, right after the plane was introduced. Eight episodes. Eight separate episodes. TransPacific is the ninth.”

“That’s not accurate.”

“Well, tell me why.”

Casey went through, as briefly as she could, the way Airworthiness Directives worked. She explained why they had been issued for the N-22. How the problem had been solved, except for foreign carriers that had failed to comply. How there had not been a domestic incident since 1992.

Reardon listened with continuously raised eyebrows, as if he had never heard such an outlandish thing before.

“So let me see if I understand,” he said. “In your view, the company has followed the rules. By issuing these air directives, which are supposed to fix the problem.”

“No,” Casey said. “The company
has
fixed the problem.”

“Has it? We’re told slats deployment is the reason people died on Flight 545.”

“That’s incorrect.” She was now dancing on a tightrope, working a fine and technical line, and she knew it. If he asked her, Did the slats deploy? she would be in trouble. She waited breathlessly for the next question.

Reardon said, “The people who told us the slats deployed are wrong?”

“I don’t know how they’d know,” Casey said. She decided to go farther. “Yes, they’re wrong.”

“Fred Barker, former FAA investigator, is wrong.”

“Yes.”

“The JAA is wrong.”

“Well, as you know, the JAA is actually delaying certification over noise emissions, and—”

“Let’s just stay with this for a moment,” Reardon said.

She remembered what Gershon had said:
He’s not interested in information
.

“The JAA is wrong?” he said, repeating the question.

This called for a complicated answer, she thought. How could she put it briefly? “They’re wrong to say the aircraft is unsafe.”

“So in your opinion,” Reardon said, “there is absolutely no substance to these criticisms of the N-22.”

“That’s correct. It is an excellent aircraft.”

“A well-designed aircraft.”

“Yes.”

“A safe aircraft.”

“Absolutely.”

“You’d fly in it.”

“Whenever possible.”

“Your family, your friends …”

“Absolutely.”

“No hesitation whatsoever?”

“That’s right.”

“So what was your reaction, when you saw the tape on television from Flight 545?”

He’ll get you saying yes, then hit you from left field
.

But Casey was ready for it. “All of us here knew that it was a very tragic accident. When I saw the tape, I felt very sad for the people involved.”

“You felt sad.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t it shake your conviction about the aircraft? Make you question the N-22?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because the N-22 has a superb safety record. One of the best in the industry.”

“One of the best
in the industry
 …” Reardon smirked.

“Yes, Mr. Reardon,” she said. “Let me ask you. Last year, forty-three thousand Americans died in automobile accidents. Four thousand people drowned. Two thousand people choked to death on food. Do you know how many died in domestic commercial transports?”

Reardon paused. He chuckled. “I must admit you’ve stumped the panel.”

“It’s a fair question, Mr. Reardon. How many died in commercial aircraft last year?”

Reardon frowned. “I’ll say … I’ll say a thousand.”

“Fifty,” Casey said. “Fifty people died. Do you know how many died the year before that? Sixteen. Fewer than were killed on bicycles.”

“And how many of those died on the N-22?” Reardon asked, eyes narrowed, trying to recover.

“None,” Casey said.

“So your point is …”

“We have a nation in which forty-three thousand people die every year in cars, and nobody worries about it at all. They get into cars when they’re drunk, when they’re tired—without a second thought. But these same people are panicked at the thought of getting on an airplane. And the reason,” Casey said,
“is that television consistently exaggerates the real dangers involved. That tape will make people afraid to fly. And for no good reason.”

“You think the tape shouldn’t have been shown?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you said it will make people afraid—for no good reason.”

“Correct.”

“Is it your view tapes such as these should not be shown?”