the compassion of Gandhi and the strength of Zeus. And I’ll be right there beside you… corrupting the process, violating everything you believe in.
She had never known anyone like Sam Truitt. He was truly afraid of falling short, of failing to live up to his own standards and those who came before him. Here was a Galahad whose greatest fear was that he could not attain the Holy Grail.
She admired and respected this man who was honest and devoted to principles, not to the accumulation of power and personal wealth. He was everything Max Wanaker wasn’t. What a sad irony that she had to betray Sam Truitt’s trust and tarnish his beloved bronze statues. For a moment, she felt such shame that she could not look him in the eyes.
He guided her toward the door, grabbing his coat for the walk down the corridor to the chief’s chambers. “Wait!” he said at the last moment, and she tensed.
What is it? Has he seen through me? Maybe he’s the mind reader!
“I’ve completely failed to ask what substantive areas of the law interest you,” he said.
With the self-discipline and poise that had brought her so far, she chased away the guilt and the fear. “Aviation law has always fascinated me,” Lisa Fremont said.
IN THE SUPREME COURT OF THE UNITED STATES GLORIA LAUBACH,
individually and as representative of the
Estate of Howard J. Laubach, deceased, et al.
Petitioners, vs. ATLANTICA AIRLINES, INC.,
Respondent.
ON PETITION FOR A WRIT OF CERTIORARI TO THE UNITED STATES COURT OF APPEALS FOR THE ELEVENTH CIRCUIT PETITION FOR A WRIT OF CERTIORARI QUESTIONS PRESENTED
Whether the 1978 Airline Deregulation Act bars Petitioner’s claims under the Florida Wrongful Death Act for the death of her husband in the crash of a commercial aircraft, and if there is no such federal remedy, leaves Petitioner without the right to sue for money damages?
Whether Petitioner presented sufficient evidence as to Respondent’s negligence so as to preclude the entry of summary judgment and to permit jury consideration of that issue?
REASON FOR GRANTING THE WRIT
The decision below (a) radically departs from established case law; (b) subverts the intention of Congress; and (c) immunizes the tortfeasor from liability, thus permitting a wrong without a remedy, an abhorrent result in a case involving the deaths of nearly three hundred persons.
Respectfully submitted,
Albert M. Goldman, Esq.
CHAPTER 5
Reservoir Dog
Lisa drove around for hours before heading back to the apartment. She passed the Washington Monument, the circle of American flags crackling in the autumn breeze. She drove by the elm trees and the Reflecting Pool, and just as the lights came on, she curled behind the Lincoln Memorial with its distinctive Doric columns resembling the Parthenon. She slowed the car and fought the urge to join the tourists and walk up to old Abe-now dramatically backlit-and soak up all that corn-pone Americana. Thinking about it, she felt like a character in a black-and-white movie, Ms. Fremont Goes to Washington.
What she was feeling now was every bit as hokey as the old Frank Capra tearjerker. A vague disquiet settled over her as she considered notions of justice and honor and the young Scrap Truitt sweating on the football field in a noble but losing effort.
How could I do it? How could I sit there and smile and wow him with my intellect, all the time planning to sabotage his treasured work? How low can I go?
She crossed the Arlington Memorial Bridge and headed to the national cemetery, parking the car and sitting there in the enveloping darkness. Scattershot thoughts raced through her mind, but one kept returning, kept nagging at her.
“ Tell me about Lisa Fremont, the person.”
No. You wouldn’t like Lisa Fremont, the person. But I can change. I want to believe all the flowery phrases about duty and justice and principle. Sam, I want to be like you!
She didn’t want to be like Max. She was angry with him for manipulating her.
“ After all I’ve done for you, don’t you think you owe me this?”
No! Not this.
She believed there was a time in a person’s life when one decision affects everything else. You head down that crooked side road one mile too far, and you’ll never get back on the highway. But it wasn’t too late to play it straight, and this time, there was nothing Max could say that would change her mind. When she got back to the apartment, she’d tell him. Not only wouldn’t she try to sway Justice Truitt’s vote on the Atlantica case, she’d recuse herself from even preparing the bench memo.
Her cellular phone rang, startling her. It was Max, wondering when she’d get home. She told him she’d gotten the job; she left for later the rest of the day’s news.
Max didn’t congratulate her, just mumbled uh-huh, like it was no big deal.
Like every day a poor girl from Bodega Bay, a teenage runaway, an underage stripper with no future, gets to be a law clerk on the Supreme Court of the United States.
Now, she had prospects. Entree into the biggest and best law firms. Before taking the clerking job on the D.C. Circuit, she’d been interviewed by a Chicago firm with offices in London, Paris, Moscow, and Rome. Hadn’t the managing partner told her to keep in touch, to call him when her clerkship was over? Well, a year from now, she could waltz right in there. Law firms fall all over one another competing for young lawyers who have sat at the foot of the throne.
Hey, Max, guess what. A leopard can change her spots.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she said on the cellular. “We have to talk.”
“Yeah, we do,” he said.
Two men in suits were waiting inside Lisa’s apartment. Max Wanaker was sleek in his jet black Armani with a thin pinstripe. Theodore Shakanian wore a baggy charcoal gray Wal-Mart special and brown shoes. A cigarette dangled from his mouth, and Lisa shot him an angry look. She didn’t let Max or anyone else smoke in her apartment. Lisa knew little about Shakanian, other than the fact that his office was adjacent to Max’s in Atlantica’s Miami headquarters and he was an ex-cop from New York. Ever since the crash in the Everglades, the two men seemed to be spending a lot of time together.
Max looked grim, his face drawn. “I think you know Shank,” he said, gesturing toward Atlantica’s head of security, a lanky man with three days of black stubble sprouting from an acne-scarred face.
“I do,” she said. “I just don’t recall inviting him over.”
Max forced a laugh and smiled apologetically at Shank. “Lisa’s always been territorial. Like a cat.”
