Arthur Hailey - Evening News

Remembering that trust and his own vested interest, Underhill decided to use the accident victims yarn now, thereby putting himself on the record and, he hoped, the Learjet in the clear whatever else might happen.

”It's a sad situation,” he told the Customs man and went on to describe the tale he had been told in BogotA, which—though Underhill didn't know it—tallied with the documents in Miguel's possession.

Amsler listened noncommittally, then said, "Let's go, Captain."

He had encountered Underhill's type before and was not impressed. Amsler assessed the pilot as a soldier of fortune who for the right kind of money would fly anywhere with any cargo, then later, if trouble erupted, depict himself as an innocent victim deceived by his hirers. All too often, in Amsler's opinion, such people were flagrant lawbreakers who got away with it.

They walked together from the Hangar One main building to the Learjet 55LR, parked under an overhead canopy. The Lear's clamshell door was open and Underhill preceded Inspector Amsler up the steps into the passenger cabin. He announced, "Lady and gentlemen, we have a friendly visit from United States Customs.”

* * *

During the preceding fifteen minutes, since landing and taxiing in, the four Medellin group members had remained aboard the Learjet on Miguel's orders. Then, after the engines were shut down and both pilots left—Underhill to file a flight plan, Faulkner to supervise refueling—Miguel talked seriously to the other three.

He warned them of the possibility of a Customs inspection and that they must be prepared to play their rehearsed roles. There was a sense of tension, clearly some anxiety, but all indicated they were ready. Socorro, using the mirror in a makeup compact, slipped a grain or two of pepper beneath each lower eyelid. Almost at once her eyes filled with tears. Rafael this time said no to the pepper and tears; Miguel didn't argue. Baudelio had already disconnected his exterior equipment from the three caskets, after making sure their occupants were still deeply sedated and would not stir for an hour or more if left unattended.

Miguel made clear he would be principal spokesman. The others would respond to his prompting.

Consequently it was not a total shock when Underhill made his announcement and a Customs officer appeared.

”Good evening, folks.” Amsler used the same polite tone he had with Underhill. At the same time he looked around, taking in the caskets secured on one side of the cabin and the passengers on the other—three of them seated, Miguel standing.

Miguel answered, "Good evening, officer.” He was holding a sheaf of documents and four passports. He proffered the passports first.

Amsler accepted them but didn't look down. Instead he asked, "Where are you all going and what is the purpose of this flight?”

Having seen the flight plan, Amsler already knew the declared destination and Underhill had described to him the journey's motive. But a Customs and Immigration technique was to start people talking; sometimes their manner, plus any sign of nervousness, revealed more than actual answers.

”This is a tragic journey, officer, and a once happy family is now overwhelmed with grief.”

"And you, sir. What is your name?”

"I am Pedro Palacios, not a member of the bereaved family but a close friend who has come to this country to give help in time of need.” Miguel was using a new alias for which he had a matching Colombian passport. The passport was real and the picture inside was of himself, but the name and other details, including a U.S. entry visa dated a few days earlier, were skillful fakes. He added, "My friends have asked me to speak for them because they are not proficient in English.”

Amsler looked at the passports in his hand, located Miguel's and, glancing up, compared the photo with the face in front of him.”You speak English very well, Seftor Palacios.”

Miguel thought quickly, then answered with assurance, "Part of my education was at Berkeley. I love this country dearly. If it were for some reason other than the present one, I would be happy to be here.”

Opening the remaining passports, Amsler compared the photos in them with the other three people, then addressed Socorro.”Madam, have you understood what we have been saying?”

Socorro raised her tear-streaked face. Her heart was beating fast. Haltingly, forsaking her normal fluent English, she answered, "Yes . . . a little.”

Nodding, Amsler returned to Miguel.”Tell me about those.” He gestured to the caskets.

”I have all the required documents "I'll look at them later. Tell me first.”

Miguel let his voice become choked.”There was a terrible accident. This lady's sister, her sister's young son, an older gentleman also of the family, were on vacation in America. They had reached Philadelphia and were driving . . . A truck, out of control, crossed the turnpike at great speed . . . It struck the family's car head-on, killing everyone. Traffic was heavy . . . eight more vehicles crashed into the wreckage, with other deaths . . . a fierce fire burned and the bodies Oh, my god, the bodies!”

At the mention of bodies, Socorro wailed and sobbed. Rafael had his head down in his hands, his shoulders shaking; Miguel conceded mentally that it was more convincing than the tears. Baudelio simply looked wan and sad. While speaking, Miguel had watched the Customs inspector carefully. But the man revealed nothing and simply stood waiting, listening, his expression inscrutable. Now Miguel thrust the remaining documents forward.”It is all here. Please, officer, I ask you—read for yourself.”

This time Amsler took the papers and leafed through them. The death certificates appeared to be in order; so did the body disposition permits and the entry permissions for Colombia. He went on to read the press clippings, and at the words "bodies burned . . . mutilated beyond recognition,” his stomach turned. The photographs were next. One glance was enough and he covered them quickly. He was reminded that earlier tonight he had considered calling in sick. Why in hell hadn't he? At this moment he felt physically nauseated, and sicker still at the thought of what he had to do next.

Miguel, facing the Customs inspector, had no idea that the other man was worrying as well, but for a different reason.

Wally Amster believed what had been told to him. The documentation was okay, the other material supportive and nobody, he decided, could fake the kind of grief he had witnessed in the past few minutes. A decent family man himself, Amster's sympathy went out to these people and he wished he could send them on their way right now. But he couldn't. By law the caskets had to be opened for inspection and that was the cause of his own distress.

For Wally had a quirk. He could not bear to see dead bodies and was filled with horror at the thought of seeing the mutilated remains described, first by Palacios, then in the news clippings he had read.

The problem had started when Wally, at age eight, had been forced to kiss his dead grandmother lying in a coffin. The memory of waxen, lifeless flesh against his lips while he struggled and screamed in protest still caused him to shudder, so that for the rest of his life Wally never wanted to see a dead person again. As an adult he teamed that psychiatry had a name for what he felt—necrophobia. Wally didn't care about that. All he asked was that the dead be kept away from him.

Only once before in his many years as a Customs inspector had he viewed a dead body in line of duty. That was when the corpse of an American arrived late at night from overseas when Amster was at work alone. An accompanying passport showed the deceased's weight as a hundred and fifty pounds, yet the shipment weight was three hundred pounds. Even allowing for a coffin and container, the difference seemed suspicious and Amster reluctantly ordered the coffin opened. The result was horrible.