Impact (22 page)

IX.

Prior to March 23, 1987, the defendants, and each of them, negligently designed, manufactured, assembled, inspected, placed in the market, and sold the airplane, and operated it as a common carrier, including but not limited to aircraft engines, communications, navigation and warning systems, their component parts and instruments, and other component parts and instruments related to occupant safety and survivability, so as to be defective, unsafe, dangerous, and unreasonably dangerous for their intended use and purpose, as said defendants and each of them knew or should have known.

X.

As a direct and proximate result of the negligence hereinabove described, the airplane crashed and burned near San Francisco International Airport on March 23, 1987, and Rhonda J. Warren and Randolph F. Warren were killed.

Twelfth Cause of Action

I.

Plaintiff reaffirms, realleges, and incorporates herein by reference each and every allegation contained in Paragraphs I through X of the First Cause of Action herein.

II.

In designing, manufacturing, marketing, and in failing to warn or instruct about the dangerous and defective condition of said aircraft and its components, so as to cause and allow said aircraft into the stream of commerce and to be operated by a common carrier without reasonable occupant protection from crash and fire, said defendants and each of them acted recklessly and indifferently and in disregard of the probable consequences, and were acting with fraud, malice, and oppression, so as to subject them and each of them to punitive and exemplary damages, which should be assessed in a sum no less than twenty minion dollars ($20,000,000).

WHEREFORE, plaintiff prays judgment against defendants, and each of them, jointly and severally, as follows:

1. For general damages for the wrongful death of his wife, Rhonda J. Warren, and his son, Randolph F. Warren, a minor child,

2. For damages for the loss of society of his wife and minor child, and for the loss of consortium of his wife,

3. For special damages according to proof relating to the wrongful deaths of Rhonda J. Warren and Randolph F. Warren,

4. For costs of suit,

5. For punitive damages in the sum of twenty million dollars ($20,000,000),

6. For such other and further relief as may be just and proper.

DATED: August 28, 1987

Law Offices of Alec Hawthorne

By

Alec Hawthorne, Esq.

SEVEN

Martha looks in on him with a harried scowl, her stock expression since Hawthorne's heart attack. During his convalescence she has taken command of the office, and it has begun to grind her down. Her critical thrusts, previously trained on him, are now directed inward—she blames herself for every imperfection of the firm, from the cost of paper clips to the misplaced commas in briefs on their way to court

Mismanagement is not her only worry. In their private moments, Hawthorne is still unable to prove that he is none the worse for his heart's revolt. Though she claims to believe his incapacity is both trivial and temporary, Martha clearly fears it is an omen, that her inability to coax Hawthorne to erection means he is on the verge of severing all but professional relations with her, and perhaps even those as well. Hawthorne hopes his condition stems from the opposite impulse—that he has come to care so much for Martha he can no longer treat her like a toy—but he has not told her so, because he doesn't know what to do if it turns out to be true.

What he fears is that impotence is a permanent consequence of his attack, that he has become so attuned to the potential byproducts of ejaculation—ruptures and aneurysms, infarcts and fibrillations—that even in the most erotic circumstance he will no longer anticipate rapture but only a second collapse. He doesn't know what to do if this suspicion is correa, but he has thumbed through the Yellow Pages listing of psychiatrists, just in case.

“You've got a call,” Martha announces flatly. “Line three. Some guy who claims he was in law school with you.” A corner of her mouth curls upward. “How many were
in
that class, anyway? Ten thousand?”

As his renown has grown, Hawthorne has been approached with increasing frequency by dimly recalled classmates seeking contributions to this or that good cause. Since Martha sees charities as shameless beggars, a threat to the budgets she has laboriously constructed for both Hawthorne and the firm, even philanthropic interruptions are a menace.

“What's his name?” Hawthorne asks, his mind scanning the dwindled panoply of faces he recalls from the class of '65. Of the half-dozen people who were important to him then, he knows nothing about any but the one who had, in the name of Ho Chi Minh and the liberation of the Asiatic masses, tossed a Molotov cocktail at a police cordon on the Berkeley campus and is still serving time for it. For all Hawthorne knows, his other friends could be dead or, worse, be on the bench. For one of the few times since his attack, he finds himself eager to take a call.

Martha scratches her temple. “Tollman, I think. No. Tollison.”

“Keith Tollison?”

She nods. “He sounded embarrassed. I suggest you watch your wallet.”

“Keith Tollison. I'll be damned. Where's he calling from? Here in town?”

She shakes her head. “Altoona.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“Somewhere between Santa Rosa and Bodega Bay. It's one of the stoplights you hit between the wine country and the coast.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“My guess is he's the class treasurer and you're the key to his quota.”

For many reasons, not the least of which his old friend's bashful bent, Hawthorne knows she is wrong. “We were in the same section freshman year, and on law review together. He was probably my best friend in those days. Hell, he was probably the last best friend I had. Our last year we were partners in the trial practice competition.”

“Did you win?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “We screwed up the dying declaration exception to the hearsay rule.”

“How?”

“We forgot to prove the dying declarant died.”

Wondrous at Hawthorne's nostalgic burp, Martha looks as though he has just volunteered the Apostles' Creed. “I take it you want to take the call.”

He nods. “No interruptions. No matter what.” As he is punching the third button on his console, Martha disappears.

“Hello?”

“Alec?”

“Keith?”

“Hey. Alec. How are you?”

“Great, Keith. It's been a long time.”

“Twenty years.”

“Jesus. We must be getting old.”

“I wouldn't know—I broke all the mirrors in the house.”

Hawthorne laughs. “It's nice to hear your voice.”

“You too, Alec.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

The silence comes from nowhere. It is surprising and unsettling, suggests this has not been a good idea after all. Hawthorne grasps for a sustaining sentence, but the ball is in his old friend's court. Ever the litigant, Hawthorne decides to wait him out.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you, Alec,” Tollison manages finally. “I've followed your career over the years, so I know how busy you are. But I just—”

“I'm only trying to keep out of Chapter Seven, just like half the country. What are
you
up to these days? I have to confess I've lost track.”

The ensuing laugh is stunted. “I'm a sole practitioner, is all—criminal stuff, fender benders, unlawful detainers. I'm not practicing any of the law we studied in law school, that's for sure. And I certainly don't do anything anyone has reason to keep track of.”

Hawthorne remembers the young Keith Tollison as quietly confident, enviably mature, certain of where he was bound. Since those labels don't match the meekness he has just heard, Hawthorne wonders if his memory is faulty or if he never really knew his friend. “Where's your office?” he asks as a second hush threatens to defeat them.

“Here in Altoona.”

“Right. Right. You came from up there, didn't you?”

“Yep.”

“Did you go back right after school? I thought you were here in the city for a while. Didn't we bump into each other at Vanessi's once?”

“Right. Back in 'sixty-six. I was with the P. D. After a couple of years of representing sociopaths, I decided to go back home. So now I represent drunks and Christmas tree farmers. It's about as exciting as it sounds.”

“What made you go back?”

Hawthorne asks the question without thinking, in an effort to reestablish the candor that had once been their strongest bond. Belatedly, he realizes the question could be construed as condescending, or even cruel.

Tollison seems to consider the subject for the first time, though that can't possibly be the case. “It seemed like a good idea back then. The city was getting pretty wild—drugs, the antiwar movement had turned ugly, blacks and whites were scaring each other to death. Plus, city life was so inefficient—I seemed to spend all my time waiting in line. Then my dad had some trouble and needed my help, so I headed home to see if things would be better in the country.”

“Were they?”

“I don't ask that question anymore.” The answer reeks of surrender.

Hawthorne tries to make his friend feel better than he sounds. “Compared to what's going on in the city
these
days, the sixties seems like the Age of Pericles.”

Tollison laughs. “It's not so hot up here, either. They took down a meth lab on the edge of town last week, and we've had a couple of teen suicides this year already.” Tollison hesitates, as though there is something he needs to express exactly. “I guess I thought Altoona would be a good place to raise a family, but I never had a family to raise. And I wanted to work on cases that had importance beyond the particular client, but those cases stopped coming through the door. And suddenly it was too late to do anything but what I'd been doing for the last ten years, which was nothing much.”

Tollison's tawdry résumé makes Hawthorne angry at the weight of years and the twists of fate. “Are you married?” he asks, hoping to lighten his old friend's load, then remembers he has already heard the answer.

“No. You?”

“Four times,” Hawthorne admits, his marital miseries suddenly a symbol of fallibility which he happily bestows on his friend.

He senses Tollison has to suppress dismay. “Kids?”

“One,” Hawthorne answers. “A boy. Twenty. We don't get along too well.”

“He still at home?”

“I've been paying rent on an apartment for him in Berkeley.” He pauses, then decides he has not yet matched his friend's confessional. “I just found out he abandoned the place three months ago, so I've shelled out twelve hundred bucks for an empty room.”

“Too bad.”

“Yeah, well, I keep thinking there's something I can do about it, but everything I try seems to make things worse, so I've decided to disengage for a while. I guess that's one thing someone like you doesn't have to worry about, right? Kids and alimony.”

Tollison chuckles dryly. “Someone like me, huh? Is this where I'm supposed to tell you I'm not gay?”

Hawthorne closes his eyes. “It never even occurred to me, Keith. And it wouldn't matter anyway. Christ, we're too old to be passing judgments. At our age, morality is whatever gets you through the night.”

“I haven't gotten through a night in years.”

“Me either.”

They laugh in unison. For the first time the silence between them seems a prelude, not a finale. Like all silences it lasts too long, however, and after another moment Tollison rushes to fill it. “Listen. The reason I called was, I was wondering if you have anything going in that SurfAir thing.”

In an instant, Hawthorne becomes careful and circumspect, donning the protective reticence of his business. “We've got a few files. Twelve, I think. Why?”

“Two women in Altoona lost people in that crash. One—her name is Brenda Farnsworth—lost her sister. She isn't—”

“A sister isn't much of a client in that kind of thing, given the rules on damages.”

“I know. I just thought …”

Impulsively, Hawthorne makes a commitment that, among other things, will infuriate Martha when she learns of it. “We can take it on. No problem. What's the other one?”

“The woman is Laura Donahue. Her husband, Jack, was one of the survivors. He's in a coma down at San Jose Memorial. Lots of brain damage.”

“What'd he do for a living?”

“Real estate. A bit of a hustler, I guess. Started with residential stuff, but was moving up. His big dream is a resort complex—golf, tennis, swimming—something to lure tourists from the wine country and the coast to this part of the state.”

“How far off the ground was it?”

“I don't know yet; Jack's affairs are tough to get a handle on. He and I weren't close, though his wife and I have … anyway, I've told her she ought to get rolling on this. She's low on funds, and the insurance people are after her to settle but aren't offering anything serious.”

Hawthorne is careful. “That one sounds promising.”

“I think so, too.”

“I'd want to talk to both of them, of course.”

“That's why I'm calling. I thought we could set something up.”

“Let's see. I'm in Salt Lake the end of the week. Then Chicago the next. Hmmm. Actually, tomorrow would be best if we're going to get it done right away. Afternoon. Do you think you could get them in here on such short notice?”

“I'd have to check.”

“Anytime after three.”

“Let's shoot for four. That way Brenda doesn't have to miss school.”

“She a teacher or a student?” Hawthorne asks.

“Teacher. Altoona High.”

“Teachers are good; juries like teachers. Okay. Why don't you see if they can make it, then call me back. Might make it easier if you come along too, if you can. We can finalize the referral arrangement.”