John Nance - 16 Souls

“So, the company’s advice between slowing down for Runway Seven, or risking death and serious injury on Runway Seven in particular if you didn’t slow down, that binary choice did not include any other runways?”

Borkowsky’s head was suddenly on a swivel as he looked at the judge, looked at Judith, and then, for the first time, looked at Marty before answering.

“Yes. That’s exactly right. We had other choices.”

“Choices that might not automatically result in anyone’s death?”

“Yes.”

“Choices that your company had not considered?”

“Yes.”

“So, Mr. Borkowsky, the choices that Captain Mitchell ultimately made about where to land and what speed to use on landing were different from the singular scenario that Regal Airlines was warning against when they tried to direct the two of you to slow the aircraft if you landed on a fully plowed Runway 7?”

Once more Grant Richardson was on his feet, looking pained and shaking his head. “Your Honor, PLEASE! Who is testifying here? This is beyond leading the witness and I object and ask that this entire exchange be stricken from the…”

“Overruled, Counselor!” Gonzales snapped. “I want to hear his answer! “

The judge turned his full attention toward Ryan Borkowsky, who was taking a long drink of water, his hand clearly shaking.

“Would you like the question repeated, Mr. Borkowsky?”

He shook his head no in staccato fashion.

“I can answer it. It was a very fluid situation, and I knew that Marty… Captain Mitchell… was weighing a dozen options a second. I didn’t know exactly what he was thinking other than what he told Butterfield on the sat phone because things were unfolding far too fast. I didn’t even have a clue why he broke off the approach to Runway Seven until a minute or so later. Yes, the company told us not to land at that speed on Runway Seven, and I don’t think they ever realized several thousand feet had been left unplowed. So, were there other options other than what the company was worried about? Yes. Absolutely. And he didn’t have time to explain them to Butterfield or to me.”

“And, in your opinion, Mr. Borkowsky, of those other potential options the company did not know about, do you believe that at least one of them might reasonably be expected to result in no deaths at all?”

“Yes. Definitely. I do.”

“No further questions,” Judith said, turning to walk back to the defense table with a side glance at Grant Richardson. “Your witness.”

Present Day — September 10 — Day Five of the trial

Hyatt-Regency Lounge, Denver

“Judith, conviction or acquittal will turn on the final instructions to the jury,” Joel Kravitz said as the two lawyers sat in the bar of the Hyatt-Regency an hour after leaving court. “It isn’t always that way, but in this case, it may make the difference.”

“I know it,” she replied.

“Grant Richardson seems to have only limited credit with Judge Gonzales, which portends well for your getting the best language you can in the instructions, but in the end, Richardson is going for simple and stupid.”

“What are you telling me, Joel?”

The older attorney sighed. “Shit, I hate things like this. All right. It is my duty to tell you that despite what has been a brilliant attempt on your part to undercut this sleezebag DA, I think he still has you cornered.”

“I’m not following that.”

“He’s reaching the jurors better than you are. This jury is worrisome. Our jury consultants have been watching each of them as you know, and they’re convinced, despite your best efforts to select the best panel you could get, these folks don’t seem terribly bright.

“That seems harsh.”

“It is, but my point is that in the end, they’re going to go for simple because the big DA told them to look for simple and primed them to expect you to do a smoke, mirrors, and sparkly-thing shuffle to confuse and distract them. He’s warning them not to fall for complexity, or compound thoughts. I don’t know if there’s any way you can defuse that prejudice in your closing, but that will be your last, best chance. They’re already sitting there glazed over with their arms folded. Very bad sign.”

“Jesus, you’re a barrel of fun tonight!” she said, gesturing absently to the bartender for a refill.

He laughed.

“I suppose I should point out to you that citing Jesus to a Jew bears some risk of lowered credibility?”

She sighed. “Sorry. I’m just… what’s the word the kids use? Bummed?”

He smiled, and shook his head as if his student just wasn’t getting it. “You really should update your repertoire, Judith. That phrase died in the nineties. Hang out with some certifiably insane teens. Smoke a joint. Listen to some crap music.”

“You mean rap?”

“One and the same.”

She took a sip of the Manhattan she hadn’t really wanted and studied nothing for a few seconds, working hard to keep any feelings of panic at bay. Finally, she turned back to Joel.

“You and the jury consultants really believe this jury is dumb?”

“High probability. Maybe not quite as stone-cold stupid as the OJ jury, but not the sharpest cheese on the cracker. You did your best in voire dire, but… the jury pool was pathetic. No one with a real job ever seems to show up for jury duty anymore.”

She nodded.

“Are you putting your boy on the stand in the morning?” Joel asked.

“I am. I was. Should I?”

“If you’re sure he can stay controlled, yes. His voice is great, a captain’s voice filled with tones of reassurance, and it just might work.”

“Thanks.” She shifted uncomfortable on the bar stool and turned back to him.

“Did Gonzales stipulate that no one could bring up the cause of the midair collision?”

“Yes. That was quite a pretrial battle, but since the NTSB has not ruled, I used the principles of federal preemption and the fact that it had virtually nothing to do with the crime charged, and he agreed. Months ago I wanted to kill that disgusting toad.”

“Richardson?”

“No… Judge Gonzales. But he’s been very fair so far.”

“Oh, by the way, Judith, do you remember that of the five killed in the crash, one was a young socialite named Victoria Moscone?

“Yes, I saw her name. I don’t know anything about her.”

“This may not be worth mentioning, but her husband has been in the courtroom every day so far, sitting quietly and watching. This guy is worth billions — all from venture capital shenanigans and good gambles over time — name is Carl Moscone. Victoria was his much younger trophy wife. Moscone owns a private jet, of course, but it was grounded and she was racing to visit her sick mother in Orlando.”

“Is his presence significant?”

“I don’t know. He’s a very private person… I’ve met him in prior venues… but he’s politically powerful and usually gives the maximum donation to politicos he likes.”

“Such as Grant Richardson?”

“Don’t know, but I’ll check on it. Of course, he has every right to be torn up enough over his wife’s loss to come watch the trial. Maybe it’s just part of closure for him. He hasn’t said a word to anyone.”

She sat in thought for a second wondering where to file this new shard of relatively disconnected information. Was there any chance Richardson’s emotional attack on Marty was a surrogate action propelled by a rich widower calling in a political favor? It wasn’t a question she could answer, and it probably wasn’t worth the effort to even try. The PI she’d hired had reported back empty handed, too.