I unbuckled my seat belt and tentatively made my way to the front of the cabin where he was seated, but he wasn’t there. I checked the bathroom, but both stalls were open. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said to an aging stewardess who was sitting down, reading USA Today. “I’m looking for my father. He’s in ten-c. He’s got grayish hair; he’s wearing tan corduroy pants…”
“That’s your father?” she said. “He’s up front.”
“Oh, you upgraded him?”
She gave me a slow, appraising glance. “Not exactly. Come.”
We walked through the business class cabin. In the kitchen space, by the door, there was Pops sitting in one of the jump seats usually reserved for crew. Next to him was a leggy, highly made up bottle-blonde in a dress so tight her breasts were hiked up to her chin. Both had their hands in their laps; both were wearing handcuffs.
I Will Wait for You
I WAS FLABBERGASTED. WHY WAS my father under arrest? I knelt at his feet. “Pops? What did you do?”
“I just—I don’t know. I met this nice lady here,” he said, motioning his head toward the woman by his side.
“Hello,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m Elizabeth Blair, but you can call me Beth.”
“Beth and me were getting to know each other,” Pops continued. “One thing led to another and we decided to join the mile-high club.”
“The what?”
“The mile-high club. We wanted to, you know, in the bathroom, a mile up in the air,” he whispered. He made the international symbol for intercourse—a circle with his thumb and pointer finger, his other pointer finger jackhammering in and out. It was awkward with the cuffs, but I got the point.
“Oooh-kay,” I said, glancing at Stewart the steward, who was situated in a jump seat across from Pops. He gave me one of those “hey, what can you do?” shrugs, although what I sensed he meant was, What is wrong with that horny father of yours that he can’t keep his pants zipped up for one lousy flight?
“Did my father commit a crime?”
“The new rules state that two adults can’t enter a bathroom stall at the same time. We worry about people coming together to make, oh, I don’t know, a bomb,” Stewart said, dropping the word like it was a bomb.
“But clearly these were two consenting adults…”
Stewart held up his hands. “That’s not for us to decide. The Department of Homeland Security will meet them in New York to investigate.”
“Oh, lordy,” Beth said. “We’re not going to one of those secret jails where they torture people, are we?”
“You want my opinion?” Stewart snarled.
Not if you’re going to snarl, I thought.
“When the passengers wake up and find out we’re back at Kennedy,” he said, “you’re gonna hope that’s where you’re going.”
Several hours later, we landed in New York. Nobody was allowed to get up until the police came on board to arrest Pops and Beth Blair. The passengers were then told to deplane, but to stay near the gate because the flight would take off as soon as it had been refueled and serviced.
“I’m carrying a trunk with special cargo in the hold. Can I get it removed while I go look for my father?” I asked Stewart the steward who was saying his “bub-byes” at the door.
“Haven’t you caused enough trouble?” he asked.
“I haven’t caused any trouble,” I said. Pops, on the other hand…“Do you know where they took my father?”
“There’s a Homeland Security office next to the x-ray machines in Area B. They’re taking them there,” he said. “But don’t go beyond the gate area. We could be reboarding at any time.”
I shot him an incredulous look. “I’m not leaving, not without my father,” I said. It was very Sally Field in Not Without My Daughter. But truthfully, I was torn. My first duty was to stay with the dresses I was carrying. But Pops was in trouble. I couldn’t just leave him. “How much time before we take off?”
Stewart shrugged. “Forty minutes. An hour.”
I checked my watch. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” As I made my way out, FBI agents were waiting to enter the plane with bomb-sniffing German shepherds. “You’re wasting your time,” I shouted, but not too loud for fear of getting arrested.
I rang the buzzer at the Department of Homeland Security’s unmarked door, which a guard at the x-ray machines had pointed out. A NYC cop let me in. The waiting room was pure government office circa 1970—beige linoleum floors, pewter-colored folding chairs, water cooler with a Dixie cup dispenser, and a cheap black Formica table with several copies of Counterterrorism News strewn on top. There was a closed door marked “No Admittance.” That’s where they must have taken Pops and Beth Blair, I thought.
“You’ll have to wait,” the cop said.
“Does my father need an attorney?”
“Not if he’s innocent,” the officer said. He disappeared through the “No Admittance” door.
Swell, I thought. That’s what they say on Law & Order when they’re trying to get someone to confess before lawyering up.
I used my cell phone to call 1-800-lawyer. What do you know? There was such a place. The secretary transferred me to an attorney on staff who insisted on talking to Pops immediately, just as soon as he took my debit card number.
I opened the “No Admittance” door and shouted, “Hello-ow, Sven Ross, Pops, don’t say a word. I need to speak to my father. His lawyer is on the line.”
An ash-blond interrogator wearing a headset peeked out of a door. “Can I help you?”
I bolted
