Paul Levine - Solomon and Lord Drop Anchor

Standard of Review

In considering Atlantica’s motion for summary judgment, this Court must draw all inferences from the evidence in favor of Plaintiffs, the nonmoving parties. First Union Discount Brokerage Services, Inc. v. Milos, 997 F. 2d 835 (11th Cir. 1993). Summary judgment is appropriate if the record shows “that there is no genuine issue as to any material fact and that the moving party is entitled to a judgment as a matter of law.” Fed. R. Civ. P. 56(c). However, in order to demonstrate a “genuine” issue of fact, Plaintiffs “must do more than simply show that there is some metaphysical doubt as to the material facts.” Matsushita Elec. Indus. Co. v. Zenith Radio Corp., 475 U.S. 574, 586 (1986). Rather, they “must come forward with ‘specific facts showing that there is a genuine issue for trial.’“ Id. at 587.

Discussion

First, Atlantica correctly notes that the federal government exclusively regulates matters of air safety and flight operations. This federal regulatory scheme was enacted to ensure the safety of all passengers by centralizing rule-making authority and promulgating uniform federal airline regulations. Atlantica further points out that the 1978 Airline Deregulation Act includes a preemption provision “prohibiting the States from enforcing any law ‘relating to rates, routes, or services’ of any air carrier.” Morales v. Trans World Airlines, Inc., 504 U.S. 374 (1992) (finding that this clause preempted state consumer protection law restricting the advertising of airline fares). Atlantica contends that this action involves questions of airline “services,” which are controlled by the federal law and therefore are outside the scope of state law. The Court agrees. Because federal law does not provide a private cause of action, Plaintiffs have no remedy. Although this result may seem harsh, this Court has no authority to create such a cause of action; it is a matter for Congress to consider and address.

Moreover, Plaintiffs’ claims against the Airline fail for the additional reason that they have not presented any evidence of negligence. While not conclusive, the evidence of record is that the crash of Flight 640 appears to have been caused by an explosive device planted by unknown third parties. There has been no showing of any error of commission or omission on the part of Atlantica that contributed to the planting of such a bomb. It is Plaintiffs’ burden to demonstrate such evidence.

Because Plaintiffs have failed to demonstrate a genuine issue of fact as to the essential element of negligence, their claim fails on this ground as well.

WHEREFORE, the Court grants Atlantica’s motion for summary judgment as to all claims raised in the complaint.

Norman T. Schenkel, Judge

One Giant Step

Lisa Fremont stirred, crawling through the cobwebs of sleep, grasping at the fragile tendrils of an early morning dream. Through the fog, she saw herself stretched between Max Wanaker and Sam Truitt, who were playing tug-of-war with her.

“I love you,” Max was saying, pulling at one arm.

“But I respect you,” Sam Truitt countered, pulling the other arm.

“I need your help!” Max pleaded.

“But your loyalty is to the law,” Truitt said.

I want it all, she thought, waking up with a ferocious headache.

She had a breakfast of three Tylenol and black coffee. Max was gone, having left early to meet the lawyers for another session at the FAA, contesting a surprise inspection report.

Lisa had slept restlessly, her mind churning at the prospect of the job interview. She awoke several times, and now another dream came back to her. She and Max were in New York at a Broadway show. While in the office, he was a gruff corporate executive snarling at underlings, but take him to Les Miserables, and he’ll burst into tears the first time Fantine sings, “I Dreamed a Dream.”

Maybe that’s why I still care for him. But is it love or a mixture of debt, gratitude, and nostalgia?

Which made her wonder.

If I’m trying to change, if I’m trying to be different from Max, why do this? I want to believe in ethics and fairness and all the flowery words in all those dusty books. Why don’t I? Why can’t I?

She’d gone through so many changes that her life, which had once seemed so simple-should I wear the black fishnet stockings with the see-through toreador’s jacket?-had become incredibly complex. Including the really big questions.

Who am I? What do I believe in?

She didn’t know.

Late last night, they’d ordered Thai takeout and watched a movie. Just like being married. They had made love, but her heart wasn’t in it. It had become a mundane duty. A routine parting of the legs and disengagement of mind from body. Really like being married, she supposed.

Lisa wanted more. She wanted a man she would long for when they were apart, cherish when they were together. Sure, it sounded like soap opera stuff, but she’d had it once, oh so briefly, with Tony.

Lisa proceeded to get dressed, or rather to get dressed and undressed several times. She began with the double-breasted navy blazer. Three of them, actually, spread across her bed. One had natural shoulders and white buttons, the second padded shoulders and gold buttons, both with three-inch lapels, while the third was collarless.

After modeling them all in the bedroom mirror, she chose the one with gold buttons, a nautical flair.

If he hires me, I’ll probably get all the damned admiralty cases. And if he doesn’t, I will have let Max down, something he never did to me.

She stood in front of the mirror, holding the jacket under her chin. The strong, dark color suited her fair complexion and blue eyes. Okay, so they weren’t really blue. They just took on whatever color framed her face. They became emeralds if she was dressed in her Sherwood Forest aerobics outfit, as she called the kelly green tights and leotard. They looked like the shallow, turquoise water off St. Kitts if she wore the light blue silk scarf knotted at her neck. In the mustard business suit she bought on sale at Saks, an instantly regretted purchase, her eyes assumed a hazel cast.

She held up two blouses, both silk and pearly white, one with a mandarin collar, the other a V-neck. She had a good neck, so why not show it. Of course, under that theory, she should also show her ass.

She tossed the clothing onto the bed, the silk blouse sliding to the floor, the blazer joining a jumble of suits, dresses, and jackets already modeled, critiqued, and discarded. Now she was naked, studying herself in the mirror. It had been ten years. Strange, she looked younger now than she had as an underage dancer – “never say stripper, you’re an exotic dancer” -in her black garter belts, matching thong, and that awful red satin bolero jacket. And the makeup! Thick eyeliner on top and bottom lids, smeared upward to give a catlike look of sexual ferocity, her lips painted a deep crimson.

Who was I then? Who am I now?

“I’m Lisa Fremont,” she said to the mirror, extending her right hand to an imaginary interviewer.

“Ah yes, Ms. Fremont,” dropping her voice to a masculine timbre. “I’ve reviewed your curriculum vitae, and I must say, you have an impressive background.”

She laughed. “You don’t know the half of it, Justice Truitt.”

She gave good interview-top of the class, a first-rate law review note on the right of privacy, and street-smarts that her Ivy League competitors couldn’t match-so why was she so nervous? Another interview came back to her. In her last semester at Stanford, she had applied to one of San Francisco’s largest and stuffiest law firms. She’d gone to lunch with the senior partner and two young male associates-all suspenders, cuff links, and pearly California teeth. They were at the Big Four, a mahogany mausoleum honoring four railroad tycoons, a place so masculine that testosterone replaces the vermouth in the martinis. The old coot was rambling on about the glory of representing insurance companies, banks, and manufacturers with an unfortunate predilection-his lawyerly term-for producing exploding tires, collapsing ladders, and toxic pharmaceuticals. She listened politely, ignoring the two boy-toy lawyers whose leers suggested they couldn’t wait to bend her over a stack of Corpus Juris Secundum. She wasn’t halfway through her Dungeness crab cocktail when the boss patted his worsted wool suit pocket and turned to her apologetically. “It appears I’ve left your curriculum vitae in the office. Could you orally refresh me?”