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  “Okay, sir, just…checking before I breach confidentiality.”

  The medic was looking at Scott but Joe didn’t flinch and it was enough to declassify him as an interloper.

  “So, why did he need air evacuation?”

  “Well, when you have a suspected overdose, especially a barbiturate, there’s no direct antidote, and they’ve got a bunch of things that have to be done fast. We don’t have everything we’d need aboard.”

  “Overdose? You mean as in attempted suicide?”

  “Off the record, probably. The crew chief said he recovered a prescription bottle and other stuff up there indicating the patient didn’t intend to come down alive. They’ll have him at a trauma center in fifteen minutes. It would take us an hour.”

  “What are his chances?” Scott interjected.

  The medic shrugged. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Present Day – August 15th, 10:00 am

  St. Michael’s Hospital, North Denver

  National Guard helicopters cannot successfully pluck stranded climbers from a major mountain peak in a national park at night without the story leaking like a failing dam. When reporters glommed onto the fact that the rescue was none other than the indicted captain of Flight 12, the chase was on.

  Acutely aware of the value to TV news reporters of an on-the-scene backdrop to any interview, Judith arranged to meet camera crews from three of the local stations on the steps of the hospital. Determined to keep it brief, she had already warned the media force that the ‘conference’ would be confined to a prepared statement.

  “Hello. I am Judith Winston, attorney for Captain Marty Mitchell of Regal Airlines. I appreciate everyone’s concern and presence here this morning wondering about Captain Mitchell’s condition. Captain Mitchell made an ascent of Long’s Peak yesterday, and was unable to descend from the summit safely after dark. As a precaution against hypothermia, a helicopter unit of the Colorado Air National Guard volunteered to make a difficult landing on the summit and bring him down to safety, and they performed magnificently. Captain Mitchell is resting comfortably and in good condition.”

  Predictably, hands went up, and Judith turned back, pointing to one of the reporters – a planned maneuver.

  “Ms. Winston, there are rumors that Captain Mitchell is despondent over his prosecution for murder in Denver. Did that play a role in his being on the peak last night?”

  She smiled a practiced, indulgent smile before answering.

  “I think any of us would be despondent over being wrongly and scandalously accused of committing a crime by doing nothing more than trying to save people in a major emergency. And when any of us are feeling such pain, we do different things to take our minds of the raging injustice – run marathons, do extreme sports, ski too fast, climb mountains…you name it.”

  Another reporter tag teamed the first.

  “Did Captain Mitchell intend to come down but couldn’t, or was there some other reason?”

  “What are you asking?” Judith countered, knowing the word ‘suicide’ would not be openly asked.

  The reporter started to respond but Judith interrupted.

  “Folks, when the captain is released from the hospital’s care, we’ll hold a presser and let him describe the problems he encountered last night.”

  The same reporter raised her hand again.

  “Ms. Winston, you’re his defense attorney and it would be expected that you would denounce the prosecution of your client. But, do you truly believe Captain Mitchell is going to be found innocent of the specific charges, considering that he was warned by his airline not to attempt to do exactly what he ended up doing?”

  Perfect set up, Judith thought to herself, taking a small step forward toward the cameras.

  “The short answer is yes, he will be found innocent because the charges are ridiculous and this is a gross misuse of the criminal statutes of Colorado. But there’s a far more important question that everyone out there who is aware of the national outrage over District Attorney Grant Richardson’s attempt to put a decent and even heroic pilot and Air Force veteran in prison needs to ask. In his public comments, he has been uncharacteristically unrestrained. Why is the district attorney so furious?”

  There were more questions, but she waved like a veteran politician and sidestepped them all, disappearing quickly into the hospital’s main entry.

  Room 314

  With a sudden involuntary convulsion, Marty Mitchell jerked back to consciousness, twisting his body as he sat bolt upright in the hospital bed, eyes wide, a feral look on his face as he tried to make sense of the images his eyes were transmitting. This was the second time in seven months he’d found himself in a hospital bed, decorated with plastic tubes and IV bags.

  The unexpected movement had equally startled the only other person in the room, and once she got her heart rate under control, Judith Winston was on her feet, moving to the bedside, her hand on the side rail as he squinted at her in marginal recognition.

  “Judith?”

  “Yes.”

  “So…so I’m alive?”

  “Not by much. You have enough charcoal in you to fuel a grill for a week.”

  “Charcoal?”

  “They say you took a form of Seconal. That’s one of the treatments.”

  “How…how did I get here?”

  “Courtesy of our State National Guard and a great helicopter crew who plucked you off Long’s Peak, despite the fact you were making obscene gestures at them.”

  He shook his head, taking a raged breath, and forced his eyes shut.

  “I’ve got a hell of a headache…and I don’t recall any of that. Obscene?”

  “Yep. You apparently put on quite a show as they were approaching.”

  “God. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Alive, I mean.”

  “I know. I broke into your house when you stood me up. Found your goodbye letters. You don’t have to kill yourself to avoid an appointment, y’know. You could just call.”

  “You broke into my house?”

  “Sure did. It’s another form of attorney-client privilege.”

  “Okay. Right. Go away, Judith.”

  “Let’s get at least one thing straight,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I get really ticked off at criminal law clients who leave me prematurely, okay?”

  “But, I thought I was your only criminal law client.”

  “That’s right. You are. And I’ve rearranged my entire professional life to defend you, and, I have to say, I’ve become almost as angry as you over this stupid prosecution, so I’m not going to let you deprive me of the experience. Don’t try this again or I’ll do the job for you.”

  “Defending me, you mean?”

  “No, killing you as painfully as possible.”

  He fell silent, eyes downward, rubbing his head as he lay back.

  “I’m sorry, Judith. I was…I’m still…being tortured.” He paused, looking up. “Does anybody know about the whole thing on the peak…other than the rescuers?”

  “Oh, just the majority of the population of Colorado, plus a few tens of millions who watch national television, all thanks to a very clever and persistent Denver Post reporter. Same guy I’ve told you is trying to write a book on the crash.”

  Marty cringed.

  “They don’t have your suicide notes,” she continued, “…and so far, no videos have surfaced of you flipping the bird at the bird, but the sudden notoriety is enough to make jury selection problematic for the DA, so…well done for that!”

  “What’s the point?” Marty turned away. “You said I was guilty.”

  She released the bed rail and paced around to the other side. “There’s an immediate legal argument about the propriety of even bringin
g these charges that will make solid grounds for appeal if it came to that. But it’s much more important to show a jury that what this idiot DA calls premeditation in no way fits the criminal definition. You were exercising captain’s emergency authority. I need you on the stand to drive that point home. But you can’t flip off the judge or the DA.”

  He was shaking his head again, gingerly. “My decision would have worked if…”

  “I know, I know,” she said, hand extended to stop him. “and no one can disprove what you thought you saw, and what you calculated. It doesn’t matter one whit what the company ordered you to do. You were the legal authority. They weren’t in that cockpit with you. You were doing your best and that story’s got to be told. And you are not on trial for the midair collision, regardless of whether the NTSB ultimately tries to pin it on you.”

  Marty nodded as he looked quizzically at her. “I…was thinking the very same thing last night up there on Long’s. I remember being distraught and furious that no one, including you, understood. At least I thought you didn’t…maybe you do.”

  “You’re going to stay with me through the trial, right?” Judith asked abruptly. “No more early sneaking out via suicide?”

  There was a long moment of silence as Marty turned to stare out of the window, then turned back to her, nodding, his tone resigned.

  “Yes. I’ll stay.”

  “Okay. I am the only one licensed to terminate your existence before this is over.”

  “I got it. I got it.”

  “Anyone I should call to come see you? I know there’s no immediate family…”

  He laughed, a singular, explosive sound.

  “Nope. No one cares. Except you.” He looked at her in mild horror, as if he’d accidentally said something sexist. “I don’t mean you care, care, just…that you have an interest.”

  “Well, actually I do,” Judith said, almost if she were trying to bite off the words before they found air.

  “Have an interest, you mean.”

  “No, dammit, care care, as you put it. I…also want the torture to stop for you, but with you still on the planet. Okay?”

  Marty looked shocked. “I’m…not sure what to say?”

  “Then don’t say anything. That’s not some weird declaration of love, all right? I just happen to care. End of sentence.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And thank you for not giving up on me…for saving me. When was that? Last night?”

  “Just about fourteen hours ago. Life and death move faster these days.”

  She started to turn toward the door, then turned back. “I’ll look in on you tomorrow. I expect they’ll be ready to kick you out of here by then.”

  “I hope it’s not sooner,” he said. “I feel like crap.”

  “But you look alive, and act alive, which is what counts.”

  “Judith, is what happened going to affect the trial?”

  “Other than pissing off a judge who loves to overreact? Actually, I don’t think so. You didn’t violate any court orders, and attempted suicide isn’t illegal – though in ancient Rome it was a capital offense punishable by, wait for it, death. But in this case, in short, I don’t think it hurts or helps us, but I could be missing something.”

  “Missing something?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Yes. That actually happened once. Meantime, I have an assignment for you. Think of it a trial prep.”

  “Okay.”

  “Seriously, Marty, I am not unaware or unsympathetic to how much this is torturing you, each time you have to re-live the crash and everything that led up to it, but I really need you to go over the last twenty minutes of the flight sequence with great care…meticulously, in fact. Write notes. Use bullet points. Leave out nothing.”

  “Why?”

  “Let’s just say something’s missing from the logic of the story, and I have to know what. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying that you’re purposefully leaving something out, but some dots just refuse to connect. Also, I need you in my office in one week for a boot camp on surviving a criminal prosecution, and then we go to trial in three weeks.”

  “And after that?” he asked, meaning the question to be sarcastic but surprised at the hunted look that suddenly crossed his lawyer’s face like the shadow of a fast building cumulonimbus.

  Judith stepped toward him, her eyes on the floor for a second, her lips pursed, before she looked up.

  “Marty, I’m going to presume that by then you will be a free man who can re-start his life. I can’t guarantee anything. I can’t guarantee someone doesn’t bomb the courtroom and kill us all, or that we aren’t obliterated by an asteroid, or that you won’t have a massive coronary, or for that matter that I won’t have one during opening arguments. But in the meantime, I simply refuse to see you as anything but free.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the dead of night an innocuous noise somewhere down the hospital corridor caused Marty to jolt awake as if jabbed in the ass with a red hot poker. Once awake, the only apparent pathway back to a tortured nightmare-ridden sleep was through the nurses and the hospital’s pharmacy, and there was nothing to be gained with that approach. Besides, Judith wanted an excruciatingly detailed review from him of the last twenty minutes of Regal Flight 12, and now was as good a time as any.

  He felt a heavy shroud of sadness settle around him as he sat there in the bed, torn between despair over having been robbed of his final exit from all this pain, and yet entertaining a faint flicker of hope that he would be heard; and that maybe he was no longer alone in this fight.

  But fight for what? To prove he’d been right that night? Or just to beg license to consider himself a decent, if deeply flawed, human.

  As the image of the 757 cockpit coalesced again around him, Marty took a deep breath and submerged once more into the prison of his personal memory.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Seven Months before – January 21st

  Regal 12

  The temptation to accelerate the process and get the stricken 757 on the ground had grown to an internal imperative as primal as the human need to run from a monster. Marty recognized the syndrome. That form of “get-home-itis” had killed better airmen than him.

  The controls had been given over to Ryan so Marty could force himself to think clearly and as free of panic as possible. It was a logical idea, but it wasn’t working. His thoughts – propelled by the cascading urgency of everything real and imagined – were a confused cacophony clamoring for attention like a classroom of agitated 3rd graders.

  I’ve done the final briefing with Ryan, but he has to back me up on the spoilers…wait, remember, there won’t be any! Okay, reverse thrust is going to be our only friend after the brakes, and the braking factor down there is poor in the last report. Do I need to make another PA to the passengers? No…Nancy and the crew have it under control.

  The very real monster, he understood, was the dropoff at the end of Runway 7, and it was time he faced it. The numbers and the graphs were not subjective. There was no flexibility in the cold hard prediction that there wasn’t enough slippery runway in a blizzard for a big jet traveling a hundred knots faster than normal. Even if he slammed the 757 on right at the beginning of Runway 7, 230 knots of momentum was a huge amount of extra energy to dissipate, and the only tools he would have probably weren’t enough – especially if the tires blew or the brakes were more ineffective than figured. What then?

  If I can’t stop her, should I run off the left side of the runway onto the taxiway? There’s a drop there, too, alongside, but maybe it wouldn’t be that lethal.

  Face it, he told himself, everything was stacked against them if he didn’t reduce his approach speed significantly under 230 knots. He’d known it for the las
t forty minutes and been doing everything possible to treat the reality like the iconic three monkeys refusing to perceive evil. But there was a brutal binary choice, and it was as unyielding as granite: Slow down and make a safe landing and in the process sacrifice those people on the wing that were only there because of his mistake; or, stay at 230 knots to touchdown to save the occupants of Mountaineer while rolling the dice that skidding off the end of Runway 7 and down the slope at the eastern end would not seriously injure anyone.

  After nearly losing the Beech 1900 fuselage in his experimentation with a slower airspeed, there was no longer any doubt that lower airspeed meant certain death for the occupants of Mountaineer 2612. It wasn’t a gamble, it was a certainty.

  Railing against the siren in his soul that screamed that there had to be another way, Marty locked down his decision: If it was a contest between certain death on one hand and a chance of everyone coming through on the other, he’d take the chance.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the warbling of the satellite phone, and in the vain hope that it might bring unexpected deliverance, he answered it even though it had to be Paul Butterfield on the other end from Minneapolis – and was.

  “Captain, we need to know your decision and your plan.”

  “Sir, we tried slowing and we almost lost the Beech at two hundred twenty knots. I’m maintaining two thirty knots and I’ll land at two thirty knots with flaps at eleven, which is as far out as we could get them before asymmetry. That’s the best we can do.”

  “I understand we’re talking about Runway Seven, and you do understand it has almost no overrun, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And braking is reported nil?”