Edmunds grew up in Brooklyn, New York, and learned early in life that winning and losing were not nearly as important as the willingness to fight. As an Air Force and FAA controller, he had more than once told his superiors what he thought of them and their policies. As an Airman “next-to-last-class” attending the Air Force’s Air Traffic Control School he had been asked, along with the rest of his class, to fill out a midterm evaluation form on the training instructors, and write on the form whatever comments they thought appropriate. They were assured that nothing would be used against them as the school wanted open and honest opinions. Edmunds wrote well of the instructors that were doing a good job and not so well of others, including the Chief Master Sergeant who ran the place. After reading Edmunds’s evaluation, the Chief Master Sergeant called Edmunds to his office, had him stand at a brace, and threatened him with court-martial. The intimidation did not have the desired effect. Edmunds was scared, but it was nothing compared to the rage that boiled within him. At the end of the course, the class was told to write a final evaluation report. They were also told that if anyone wrote anything other than “outstanding,” that person might have to forgo leave in order to remain on base and explain why. Edmunds nailed the same people a second time, especially the CMSGT. He had decided that if he was going down it was not going to be with a whimper. They let him leave without making so much as a peep. Edmunds was not one to be intimidated by lawyers, courtrooms, or much of anything else. Twice married and divorced, he now lived alone and made it a point to stay away from serious personal involvements.
There was still a half hour until his aircraft would touch down in Boston, enough time to ponder yesterday’s strange phone call that had launched him onto this flight, a call concerning a midair collision that had occurred two weeks before.
Chapter VI
Karen Blair
Two somber faces looked back at her from across her desk. She knew them slightly—chance meetings at the supermarket, passing them on the street. Salem, Virginia, was not a very large town. She guessed them to be in their mid-sixties. They had worked hard all their lives, scrimping and saving in order to send their only son to college. He, in turn, had graduated Summa Cum Laude and earned a full scholarship to do postgraduate work at the University of Virginia. He completed his graduate studies by earning a double Master’s Degree and PhD in computer design and programming, and physics within a two-year period. They had just asked her to represent them in a lawsuit.
“I do contracts, wills, and real estate closings. You don’t want me. You need a litigator, someone who argues cases in court, someone who’s familiar with a wrongful death suit.”
It was Amanda Crawford who spoke. “We want you.” Her husband, Everett, nodded assent.
“Why me?” Karen Blair asked quietly. She knew they had recently lost their son. The local papers had carried the UP stories for the past week or so; all of them strongly insinuated that pilot error on the part of their son was the sole cause of the crash. There had been no remains for them to bury. A simple memorial service had been held at their church a few days previous. The grief and strain showed on their faces. Both of them were slight of build, almost skinny. Amanda Crawford wore a crème-colored dress and a small black hat. Everett was dressed in a slightly off-fitting plain gray suit, white shirt, and dark gray tie. They were hardworking people who had fought against difficult odds and done well. There was a quiet strength in their presence. Blair’s heart went out to them, and she momentarily had to fight back tears.
Blair’s office was on Market Street, just one mile west of Roanoke College. It was located in a business park, a suite on the second story of a five-story office building. It had taken her several years to save enough to afford it. It was tastefully decorated by her own hand. Blair had made a point of shopping for furniture and accessories that projected the right combination of business and comfort. A large bay window behind her desk allowed sunlight to flood the room throughout the day and afforded those sitting across from her a view of the well-landscaped business park.
Everett Crawford was content to let his wife continue to do the talking.
“You’ve done work for several of our friends. They say you’re honest and can be trusted to do what’s right. Every one of them says you worked hard and looked out after their interests.”
“That’s very kind, but I must advise you to seek other counsel. This isn’t my field.”
“We want you. We’re not comfortable with lawyers”
“I’m a lawyer.” It was an attempt at levity, not a very good one.
“You know what we mean.” Everett Crawford’s voice was barely audible as he entered the conversation. He said it gently with the faint hint of a smile across his face.
Blair knew. They wanted to find out the truth about the crash. They could not believe their son was responsible for such a horrible accident, but like most people, they had absolutely no idea how to deal with a government agency in trying to obtain real information, especially the FAA, which had a myriad of departments, sections, and levels of command. They needed someone who could navigate the maze of paperwork and command the attention of an administration that seldom paid attention to anything except “congressional requests” and bad press.
Blair agreed to take their case. She explained to them what her initial thoughts were and how she planned to proceed. She was going to file a “wrongful death” suit against the government through the Department of Justice. It would be a while, perhaps a year or two before any of this went to court. Blair knew that was in her favor. She would have plenty of time to do the research that was needed. Blair knew through her legal friends and associates that the DOJ always ran every case to the maximum time limit as a matter of policy. She also told the Crawfords to expect a difficult fight. Blair was brutally honest with them. She told them the case would not be easy and the prospects of winning were not good. She also explained to them that she would have to seek outside help. She knew nothing about airplanes or air traffic control. They understood. After they left, she seriously questioned if she had acted in their best interest or her own.
Karen Blair married just out of college. Five years later she divorced. Two years after that she remarried. The second lasted seventeen years. In that time she’d gone back to school and earned her law degree. Now forty-seven, she was divorced for a second time. Her social life was nonexistent. She didn’t care. She had been on her own for three years and was comfortable with the way she lived. She had moved to Salem after her second divorce. Virginia was beautiful. People were polite, and life had a firm, quiet ebb and flow in that part of the world. Blair had her fill of living in a big city. Atlanta had had its charm, but now Blair wanted to slow life’s pace. Salem seemed the perfect choice, four seasons, all mild, and the nearby city of Roanoke had enough in the way of theater and arts to satisfy her cosmopolitan tastes.
Lawyering in a small town paid the bills, but while the lifestyle suited her, the work was unexciting and not particularly challenging. Now she had