Marine One

6

AS SOON AS the NTSB finished playing the cockpit voice recorder, they played it again. The second time was even more riveting. As Collins's voice filled the room again, my mind jumped from one scenario to another as one small noise replaced another, each demanding immediate attention as the key to the puzzle.

I tried to listen to every single detail, but it was impossible. Too much was going on. I gave up taking good notes and just jotted down some of the things that were screaming at me. Ten things that might help explain what had happened. Some implicated my client, some the pilot, and some pointed to things outside the helicopter, which could be, as my law professor at American University used to say, either benign or malignant.

After the second playing, another NTSB technician entered the room with CDs for each of the party members of the investigation teams. The NTSB had loaded the data from the flight data recorder, the FDR, onto each disk. He gave them to Rose. Each CD box had the name of one of the principals on it. Rose looked down at the boxes, counted them mentally, then looked at the audience. "I have here the flight data recorder information. We thought that the FDR was damaged, but it was just the external box. The hard drive was fine and we had no problem getting the data out of the recorder. Since I know you are just as capable as we are of utilizing the software necessary to read the FDR, we're going to provide each of you with a copy of the data. Please do not duplicate it except for internal purposes, and please do not release it outside of your investigation team." She looked around the room. "Do I need to remind you that releasing information to people outside the investigation is punishable?

"In this room, tomorrow morning, at the same time as we met today, we will have the computerized animation of the data from the flight data recorder so you can see exactly what happened to the helicopter; many of you will be doing the same thing yourselves and need not attend. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the crash site. Please come up here after we're done and each of you can take your copy of the FDR data. That's all for now."

Those members of the teams that had been designated to pick up the FDR data made their way up front. Everyone else took the chance to discuss what they had just heard. Marcel approached me. He said quietly as Rachel joined us, "Are you going back out to the site?"

"No, I have to go to that lunch, then to Justice."

"Yes, of course, I had forgotten. You know who's coming to the lunch, don't you?"

"Yeah, David Tripp. He's the general counsel, right?"

"Yes, he is the general counsel, but he won't be the only one there."

This was news to me. In the e-mail I had gotten confirming the luncheon appointment, it only mentioned Tripp and the president of WorldCopter U.S.

Marcel leaned in a little closer. "No, as you might think, this has gotten the attention at the highest levels. They are very concerned about this accident and this investigation. The president of WorldCopter U.S. will be there, and the president of WorldCopter Europe."

I was shocked. He was the man in charge of the entire multibillion-dollar corporation. There had been much speculation on the news about his whereabouts as he had not commented on the accident. Several senators were calling for him to make a statement, but he had not responded. Now he was here in Washington.

"Does anyone else know he's coming?"

"Only those who will be at the meeting."

I had never met either of the presidents of these two companies, and the Frenchman was legendary.

As Rachel and I left the NTSB building, I handed her my keys. "You drive."

She frowned, took the keys, and climbed into the driver's seat. I pulled out my black notebook and studied my notes from the CVR. I circled numbers next to the top ten things in the order I thought we should think about them. Listening to the CVR had caused me to rethink everything I had assumed about this flight. I didn't want to deny that this could still be my client's fault, but after listening to the recording, all I could think about were the malignant scenarios. And much of what I'd heard pointed to Collins.

The Capital Grille was on Pennsylvania Avenue in the Northwest section of D.C. It was routine to see politicians, lobbyists, high-powered attorneys, and diplomats lunching there. I'd only eaten there a couple times. It was way out of my price range.

We walked up to the beautiful hostess. Rachel said, "We're here to meet with some people from Michelin."

As we headed toward the Fabric Room, a private dining room reserved for us, I saw the television over the bar in the back of the restaurant. It was a replay of the swearing in of the vice president, now president, Cunningham. I had watched it in detail the night before on my new high-definition television. I could see every bead of sweat on the vice president's neck being absorbed by his cotton shirt as he took the oath of office. I had wanted to see his face, and that television allowed me to see it better than I could have seen it if I were there in person. I could see into his soul. I looked for fear, excitement, anything that shouldn't be there. When he had been selected to be A3's vice-presidential candidate, the entire country knew the only reason he had been picked was his unmatched fund-raising ability. His agenda was to get power, and keep it. Pretty simple. But I wondered how far he would be willing to go. At this point I wasn't about to rule anything out. I had long operated by the idea that the more outrageous an explanation was, the more complex, the more it required a vast conspiracy, the less likely it was to be true. But like the saying about paranoia, the fact that most conspiracy theories were ridiculous didn't mean there weren't any conspiracies.

When I had first watched Cunningham's face during the oath, and later when he'd expressed his deep sympathy and personal grief, and the usual stuff about "moving on" and honoring the legacy of his predecessor, I didn't see much that looked out of the ordinary. But when I'd watched it again after my wife had gone to bed, I thought I saw fear.

Who wouldn't be scared to step out of the shadows of obscurity-from the job that wasn't worth a warm pitcher of spit according to Cactus Jack Garner, FDR's first vice president-into the infinitely bright scrutiny and endless hatred that goes with being the president? But as I now watched his face yet again on the television in the bar of the Capital Grille and saw that fear, the chord of recognition that it struck within me was far different from what I expected. Something was going on in his head that I needed to understand. It could be as simple as if this was an assassination, he could be next.

Rachel slowed, and I caught up with her as she reached the private room. Two doors separated it from the main area of the restaurant, and the only indication of its presence was a small bronze plaque that said FABRIC ROOM. I followed Rachel as she pushed through the first door and then the second. She stopped as soon as she'd entered the room. It wasn't just private, it was secretive.

The large room had a table for ten set for lunch. Several men, none of whom I recognized, were speaking with each other in quiet tones. They stopped talking when we entered, which caused a rather awkward moment.

"Hello, I'm Mike Nolan, and this is my associate Rachel Long."

One of the men broke away and walked over toward me with his hand extended. A small man, perhaps five foot six, he looked pale and exhausted. "Hello, Mike, I'm David Tripp, general counsel for WorldCopter U.S."

We walked over to where three men were conversing. Tripp said, "May I introduce Mr. Jean Claude Martin, president of WorldCopter, and Dan Lake, president of WorldCopter U.S." I shook hands with both of them, as did Rachel, after which Tripp said, "Mike and Rachel are the attorneys our insurance company has hired." Martin was listening carefully and evaluating us. He had a serious look on his face.

I glanced at the third man who was standing nearby. Tripp hadn't introduced him, and I couldn't tell why. Finally Tripp could sense my curiosity and turned to extend his arm to invite the other man closer. "Mike, let me also introduce William Morton."

"Nice to meet you," I said as we shook hands. I recognized him. I'd seen him at criminal law seminars and on television. He routinely represented people in major political investigations.

I sat down at the table with Tripp to my left, and the two presidents to my right. Morton sat directly across from me. "Thanks for asking us to be here," I said to Tripp quietly, as the others at the table conversed by themselves. "I think you should just let Morton do the criminal side by himself. You're in good hands. Send me back out to the wreckage."

"No, for two reasons," Tripp said as he placed his napkin on his lap. "If the investigation results in criminal charges of any kind against WorldCopter, or a fraud case by the government, it might actually go to trial. He has lots of trial experience"-Tripp covered his mouth discreetly so no one could hear him except me-"but all of it on the other side of the table." He glanced at Morton to make sure he wasn't listening. "He has an amazing reputation, but he's never tried a criminal case where he actually defended someone. Usually when he shows up, the government tries to resolve it. That's what we're hoping for here, but if they don't? That's where you come in."

"So he prepares the criminal case and I try it?"

"Probably together."

I didn't like the sound of that at all. Trial work was all about setting a tone and selling your personal credibility. You can't have two lead trial attorneys. "I'm not sure that would work, but we can talk about that later."

As the food was served by an army of waiters, the French president of WorldCopter spoke directly to Morton and me. He spoke softly but with intensity. His English was excellent. "This obviously is a catastrophe for my company, and for the United States. One thing I can say with certainty. This was not our fault-"

I interrupted, "I'm not sure we can say that yet. We'd better find out what happened first."

"You do not understand." He leaned toward me. "No WorldCopter helicopter has ever crashed like this. There is no chance that this helicopter came apart in the storm. It is stressed to withstand ten times whatever this storm could produce. That simply did not happen. As far as the blade coming off"-he noticed my surprise-"I spoke with Marcel. That did not happen either. It has never happened, our balancing procedure is flawless, and we will not be held for the scapegoat for that. If this was our fault, they must prove it, but they will not. I promise you."

His promise was ominous. I had represented clients before who offered to "find" anything you wanted, and "unfind" anything you didn't want, and "promised" how things would come out, because they felt so strongly. Sometimes they'd give you a knowing wink at some appropriate time, just enough for you to know they'd taken care of it, and for them to deny it if you had an unexpected flare-up of your fading ethics. But his promise didn't change anything and wouldn't determine the outcome of the investigation. "We really don't know enough to say too much right now-"

"Yes, we do! That is my whole point! Our helicopters don't fail like this! I am telling you that, and I will tell the U.S. government that."

"That's fine," I said, glancing at the others at the table, not at all sure how to handle his intensity. "There's just a lot we don't know yet, and if we say that now, it will just sound like a denial, not a conclusion. And you're right about one thing: we can't just rely on the NTSB. They're good, but we cannot assume they'll get this right. You've already got your own in-house team on it, but you need to retain an outside accident reconstructionist and others. Metallurgists, aerodynamicists, lots. I'm sure the insurance carrier will help with that."

He waved his hand and nodded. "Yes, of course. Whatever you need. But the reason we're here right now is because of the meeting at your Justice Department this afternoon. This is where they start preparing the noose for me and my company."

Morton spoke before I had a chance even to prepare a thought. "Yes, sir, we will take care of you. I'm sure they will press on two things primarily: contract fraud-in other words, you delivered a helicopter that was not what they bought, i.e., defective-and breach of national security. The first one is simply going to be determined by what the investigation finds. The second one though is pretty scary. It's my understanding that…"

Morton said exactly what everybody needed to hear, that even though the lack of security clearances was probably caused by a lack of diligence on the part of the FBI, it left open the possibility that WorldCopter had an employee who was out to get the president and had placed something into the helicopter or otherwise sabotaged it so that at just the wrong moment, the helicopter would come apart.

"But what do we do now?" Dan Lake, the American president of WorldCopter U.S. asked. "What do we need to know going into this ambush?"

I answered while glancing at Morton. "Everything you say will be twisted. Every step you take will be scrutinized. They already think you're a criminal. They would love nothing more than to find an employee of WorldCopter who is responsible for this accident and put him, and you by the way, in prison and WorldCopter out of business. But they're a little torn. They have to consider an actual assassination, or terrorism, so they can't focus on you exclusively. They'll have a team of lawyers looking at you, and others looking elsewhere. I don't want to overstate it, but this could go very badly in a lot of directions."

Jean Claude nearly came out of his chair. "Prison? What do you mean?"

Morton jumped in. "The CEO of a company can be criminally liable for criminal acts of the company."

"Criminally liable?"

"You can go to jail. Literally. Just like a murderer."

"I can go to jail if the Justice Department decides? Me personally?" Jean Claude asked, furious.

"Yes, it's possible. Look, they'd have to issue an indictment, and if they couldn't get you to plea, they'd have to go to a trial. We're a long way from that, but Mike is right to let you know. Justice doesn't want to meet with you as your friend. They want to burn down your village. They can do real damage. They can ruin your reputation as a company, they can force you into bankruptcy, and they can put you in prison. And there are hundreds of young, ambitious attorneys at Justice who would like nothing better than to bring you down and hang this whole thing on a foreign corporation that stole business from an American-"

"We didn't steal the Marine One contract! We competed for it against the American companies and won! We were selected by your government. How could anyone say we stole it?"

"They will, I promise."

Martin was deeply troubled about many things. He already knew this accident, or incident, or whatever it turned out to be, could ruin his company. But he had clearly not considered that it could ruin him personally as well. He turned to me. "What of the voice recording? Did you make any conclusions?"

"There were some interesting things. We'll need to study it, both-"

"What did you find interesting," he asked, pointing at my chest.

"Marcel would be the one you should-"

"No." Jean Claude paused until I looked him in the eye. "I want your opinion."

I hesitated. "Well… I… a couple of things. The pilot didn't treat the president with much respect. President Adams came to the cockpit and stuck his head in. You can hear the president talk to Collins, but he clearly doesn't respond. Later, right in the middle of a checklist, the copilot tells him that he just can't ignore the president. And Collins said, 'I don't really give a shit.' That's a remarkable statement by the pilot of Marine One."

Morton was frowning with his arms folded, but the president was interested. "What do you think-"

"I think it's-"

A young man walked into the room carrying a cell phone. "Excuse me, sir," he said to Jean Claude. "It's Marcel. He needs to speak with you immediately. He told me to interrupt. Sorry." The young man handed his phone to the president.

Jean Claude took the phone and spoke to Marcel, then listened intently. He looked around the room at us, knowing information that he couldn't share, but was anxious to do. He continued to listen, then a look of complete surprise or shock came over his face. He nodded, closed the flip phone, and returned it to its owner.

We all waited, anxious for this report that called for such an interruption. I watched Jean Claude's face carefully. It wasn't horror, and it wasn't pleasure.

Martin said, "He has reviewed the flight data recorder information. It is on our computer. He said everything is normal until very late in the flight. As the helicopter begins one of its descents, then something happened."

"What?" I asked, dying for the answer.

"We don't know. The flight data recorder stops."

We were all puzzled. Flight data recorders didn't just stop. Like the cockpit voice recorder, they ran on a continuous thirty-minute loop; there was no on/off switch.

"Did Marcel say why it stopped?" Morton asked.

"No. He is completely confused."

I couldn't imagine how that could happen. "Has Marcel checked with the NTSB? Did we get bad data-a bad CD?"

The president nodded. "That was his first call. The NTSB said theirs stops in the same place." He looked directly at me. "It now will be even more difficult to find out what happened." He leaned over, anger in his voice. "Get all the experts you need. Get them paid for by the insurance company, or if they won't pay, I will. But you must find out what happened to Marine One. You must solve this before the U.S. government does, because we will tell them what happened, not wait for them to tell us!"