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Chapter IX

Friends

“I’m Michael Edmunds.”

The young man holding the sign bearing Edmunds’s name smiled and responded. “Welcome to Boston, Mr. Edmunds, I’m Courtney Braxton, an associate with Mr. Helfinger’s firm.”

The Bostonian accent was unmistakable. And I’m an up-and-coming preppy lawyer who attended the best schools in Boston compliments of Mommy and Daddy fired the impulses across the synapse of Edmunds’s brain. Those same impulses did not trigger his mouth. It was Braxton’s appearance that precipitated Edmunds’s playful thoughts. Braxton had the fresh young look of someone who had just stepped out of the pages of CQ wearing a custom-made Brooks Brothers suit with a complementing power tie, high-polished wing-tipped shoes, and custom-fitted shirt whose sleeve length extended the obligatory one and a half inches beyond the jacket sleeve. Edmunds had no doubt that a copy of Dress for Success was somewhere in the young man’s library. Exuberance oozed from every pore of the polite slender twenty-eight-year-old associate lawyer whose well-bred manner was distinctly upper class. He and Edmunds were the same height, five eleven. At a hundred and sixty-five pounds Edmunds had ten pounds on the fledgling lawyer.

“Mr. Helfinger asked me to meet you, sir, and drive you to the office.”

“Thank you, and the name’s Michael.” Edmunds slung the plastic garment bag he was carrying off the back of his right shoulder and draped it over his left arm. His carry-on bag hung from a strap off his left shoulder. They shook hands. Braxton’s grip was firm, not a limp fish. A good sign, thought Edmunds.

“How was your flight?”

Captain Erickson exited the ramp entrance doorway onto the concourse and walked past them. Edmunds smiled to himself as he watched the captain pass. Then he turned toward Braxton.

“Uneventful. My kind of flight.”

Braxton offered to carry something. Edmunds politely declined. He always felt funny about allowing others to carry his bags for him.

They made their way through the C terminal to the short-term section of the central parking garage. As they passed the shops and restaurants, Edmunds’s thoughts momentarily flashed back to a time in New York when it was common for high schoolers to go on a date to Idlewild Airport, now JFK. There was no security then, no hassle; people could walk out on observation decks and practically touch the airplanes. Edmunds’s face took on that faraway look people get when they become lost in nostalgic thought. Courtney, who had been talking to Edmunds, suddenly realized Edmunds was not listening.

“Michael?”

Edmunds snapped back into the present.

“Oh. Sorry, Courtney. My mind was wandering for a moment. Don’t worry, it doesn’t happen in court.”

Courtney laughed. “Okay, Michael. I’ll take your word for it.”

They drove northwest from Logan Airport on East Boston Expressway in Courtney’s late model silver Lexus coupe. Edmunds had broken into a grin when he first saw it. The car suited Courtney to a T. Their polite conversation covered weather and sports. They found common ground when it turned out they both liked Ayn Rand. Braxton turned southwest onto State Highway 1, crossing the Charles River Basin.

“I’m working on my instrument rating.”

Braxton had read Edmunds’s resume and was impressed. He wanted to tap into some of his knowledge. Braxton had done his homework. He had read all he could on air traffic control and had even watched a video of the PATCO strike from August of 1981. He noticed that most of the controllers on the picket lines were in T-shirts and shorts, overweight, and sported mustaches or beards. When interviewed, their speech patterns were distinctly lower middle class, especially the ones from New York—not a great PR image, observed Braxton. Edmunds didn’t fit this profile. He was slender, clean-cut, and well-dressed—not what Braxton had expected. Edmunds had yet to end a sentence with a preposition, begin one with “Well…” or utter the phrases “uhmm,” “and like,” “it’s like,” “you know,” “’n’ stuff,” or “he goes” in place of “he said.” Edmunds was friendly and thoroughly at ease with himself, not out to impress anyone.

“Good for you,” responded Edmunds, genuinely interested. “How’s it coming? What are you studying now?”

“I’m working on approaches, learning how to read and interpret approach plates.”

“Charts,” corrected Edmunds.

“Charts?”

“Approach charts, not approach plates. Plates is slang.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You must have your basics down very well to be flying approaches,” said Edmunds.

They turned north onto Interstate 93.

“I’m doing okay, but I have to admit I’m not always sure what air traffic control is talking about.”

“Neither am I,” deadpanned Edmunds.

The remark caused Braxton’s head to spin right and stare at Edmunds who grinned and stared back. Braxton laughed and continued the conversation.

“I know you’re going to be busy with the case, but I have a lot of questions about ATC if you have some time and don’t mind…”

Edmunds liked Braxton. Even though the “preppy” quip crossed his mind at the airport, it was just the New Yorker in him having some fun. Edmunds begrudged no one their status and certainly not their money. Class envy was not in his makeup. Braxton was unassuming, polite, and pleasantly gregarious. Mutual admiration was developing.

“No problem. I’ll be glad to.” So much for not ending a sentence in a preposition.

“Any particular questions you have in mind?” Edmunds was enjoying the ride.

They turned southwest bound at the Highway 3 exit onto Charles Street then weaved their way toward the Law Offices on Commonwealth just west of Clarendon Street.

“Lots on communications,” continued Braxton. “As I said, I’m not always sure what controllers are talking about when they give orders. I do know that doctors and lawyers have a higher percentage of aircraft accidents than other professionals. I don’t want to end up in those statistics.”

“Some things to consider, Courtney. First, controllers don’t give orders. They issue clearances and instructions. You’d better have a good reason if you’re not going to comply with them, but they aren’t orders. You have the option of negotiating amendments, and in the case of an emergency, you have the responsibility of saying no if that’s what the situation requires. Second, aircraft accident statistics on doctors and lawyers are very misleading…”

Braxton interrupted. “Why?” It was a reasonable question. Edmunds was glad to see the young man had not blindly accepted his prior remark.

“How many professionals do you know that make enough income to own and operate an aircraft, even a small one?”

Braxton nodded. He got the point.

Edmunds continued. “By and large doctors and lawyers are pretty good pilots. The best way not to avoid becoming a statistic is to be aware of your, and the plane’s, limitations. Keep in mind the laws of physics and aerodynamics are the same for everyone, especially doctors and lawyers.”

It wasn’t a sermon, just information and advice. Braxton knew it.

“Actually,” Edmunds continued, “there are doctor-lawyer pilot organizations that do a great job of providing information to their members.”

“About flying?” Even as it came out of his mouth, Braxton knew it was a stupid remark, but it was too late.

This time Edmunds’s impulses engaged his mouth. “No! About skateboarding, you schlemiel!” Both the streetwise Edmunds and the blue-blooded Braxton burst out laughing. They were fast becoming friends.

“What’s a schlemiel?”

“A New York term of endearment. Look it up.”

“Okay, I will.” But that’s two on the prepositions, thought Braxton.

They stopped for a traffic light. A late model BMW 3 series coupe pulled alongside them.

“Beautiful automobile,” commented Braxton.

“Three series; three liter, six cylinder in-line aluminum engine; twenty-four valves; one piece construction; zero to sixty in 6.2 seconds.” The words shot out of Edmunds’s mouth like machine gun bullets.

“You know your cars.” Braxton’s face did little to hide his amazement.

“Not really, just that one. They’ll be introducing a two-door coupe in a couple of weeks…I’m just dreaming.” Edmunds leaned back into the seat and gazed ahead.

“Why don’t you buy one?”

“With what, my charm and good looks?” Most people would have been turned off by the remark, but Braxton knew it was said in jest.

“Spend some of those big bucks you make,” quipped Braxton.

Edmunds laughed. “I didn’t realize they taught outcome-based education in those prep schools you attended. I would remind you, my young legal beagle, that you guys are the ones who get 25 percent of all awarded monies, while I, lowly consultant, do not share in the spoils. I merely get paid my meager daily rate.”

“What makes you think I went to prep schools?” Braxton looked over at Edmunds.

Edmunds looked to his left with a raised eyebrow then looked back out the front windshield. “You’re joking?” There was a brief silence.

“Only if we win,” said Braxton.

“What?”

“I said, only if we win. If we lose, we get 25 percent of nothing, which, according to my prep school outcome-based education, is nothing, plus we end up having to pay expenses.”

“From what I’ve researched about your firm, your winning percentage is about the same as Larry Bird’s shooting percentage on a good night.” Braxton wasn’t the only one who had done homework.

They pulled into one of the seven reserved parking spaces just outside the twenty-three-story glass professional building. This guy is going to make life interesting, Braxton thought.