“Casting doubt on the misplaced-fuel scenario,” Penelope adds.
“Correct,” he agrees with furrowed brow. “This kind of stuff simply doesn’t happen during an NTSB investigation.”
Apparently, it does, I think before asking, “Do they at least have the test results?”
Larose nods, but his expression remains troubled.
“The rumor is that the test results indicated that the fuel was contaminated,” Penelope says. “The problem for us is that nobody but the NTSB can utilize those test results.”
That’s right. NTSB reports cannot be presented as evidence in a court of law, damn it.
“Contaminated with what?” I ask.
“Nothing nefarious,” Larose replies. “It sounds like there was water in it. The contamination was fairly minor, so it may or may not have been a contributing factor. That’s what makes the loss of the backup sample so devastating. Without test results, there’s no way to hold AAA Avgas legally accountable for pumping bad fuel into that aircraft.”
Even my addled brain can process how dire the implications of that news might be for our clients. Without tainted fuel to hold out as a cause for the crash, the lawyers for the plaintiff will almost surely turn to an argument pointing a finger at faulty maintenance. Penelope sags back in her chair and stares up at the ceiling, deep in thought. Larose sits quietly, as do I. Thoughts of my daughter quickly flood into the temporary vacuum in the discussion.
Where is she? Is she still alive? If so, how do I keep her that way? Answers are just as elusive as they were the other ten thousand times I’ve posed those questions to myself since Saturday night.
“Tony?” Penelope says softly, breaking into my reverie.
Without quite knowing when I assumed the position, I find my forehead resting on my crossed arms on Penelope’s desk. “Sorry,” I murmur as I look up.
She waves the apology aside before her eyes slide over to Larose. “The insurance company has the aircraft, right?”
“They should still have it,” he replies. “The NTSB turned it over to them some time ago, though. If they’re done with it, they’ll probably sell it for scrap.”
“We need to file an injunction to preserve any additional fuel trapped in the engine block,” Penelope says. “Actually, to preserve the entire aircraft.”
“I agree about the wreckage, but there’s two problems with the fuel angle,” Larose says. Penelope’s brow furrows in disappointment as he continues, “Even if there is more recoverable fuel in the engine block and it’s contaminated, there’s no way to prove it didn’t happen sometime during the past couple of months.”
A great weariness settles over me. Are we ever going to catch a break in this damned case?
“Rumor has it that Windy City and their insurance company have reached a settlement in their lawsuit,” Larose says next.
“What does that mean to us?” I ask.
His shoulders sag. “I’m told the settlement stipulates that all details and materials amassed by the insurance company are to be considered confidential and privileged information.”
Penelope groans and swears for the first time in my experience. “Damn!” she mutters while slapping a hand on her armrest in frustration.
“We can sue for release of the information,” I suggest.
“I wouldn’t bet on winning,” she says thoughtfully. “That wreckage is starting to look like the only thing we’ll have to work with. We need to get our hands on it.”
“If the FBI charges Billy and Rick, how are we supposed to defend them?” I wonder in horror.
“Good question,” my partner replies. Then, as she usually does, Penelope unearths a silver lining. “Mind you, in that case we’d have the urgency of a criminal trial to argue for overturning the confidentiality provision of the settlement between Windy City and their insurance company.”
So, I’m supposed to be excited about the prospect of criminal charges being laid against our client? How in hell did things come to this?
Penelope squares her shoulders as if she’s gearing up for battle. “We’ll start by suing AAA Avgas for all their records from the week before and after the crash. Heck, we’ll countersue Windy City to make sure that we get our hands on everything they have when they turn over discovery.”
“Go after every scrap of paper you can lay your hands on about Megan Walton and the rest of their pilots,” Larose suggests.
I’m stricken with horror over the potential ramifications from us going after AAA Avgas and Windy City. Joe was pretty clear that he was looking out for their interests. Not for the first time in the past few days, I feel as if I may buckle beneath the weight of the competing interests at war within me. The lives of multiple people—Brittany, Papa, Billy Likens, Rick Hogan, and Bobby Harland—will potentially be put at risk or devastated by whatever we do.
Penelope is again staring at me with open concern, which fills me with guilt and remorse. It’s hardly fair that her partner is withholding pertinent information. But she can’t know everything. Or can she?
I throw my hands up and stand. “I don’t know what the hell to do!” I exclaim before I turn away and stalk out the door.
I may have been brought to a standstill by the paralysis of indecision, but Penelope isn’t. Thinking we’re in agreement, she goes ahead and files suit against AAA Avgas and serves Windy City Sky Tours with a court order for all records pertaining to the hiring and training of their pilots, including Megan Walton. She also files a motion to have the plane wreckage preserved and turned over to us. Moving with her usual efficiency, she files all the actions by the following afternoon.
The blowback isn’t long in coming.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Jake Plummer calls after dinner Wednesday evening, almost a full day beyond Joe’s two-day deadline.
“I need to see you right away,” he says tersely.
My stomach twists into a tight, painful knot. “Why? Is Brittany okay?”
“As far as I know.”
I’m overcome with relief for a nanosecond before his answer fully registers. “So far as he knows” means he
