Текст книги "Gray Mountain"

Автор книги: John Grisham

Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

14

The Skyhawk climbed to five thousand feet, leveled off, and Donovan asked, “Are you ready?” By then she was enjoying flying at lower altitudes and absorbing the views, but she had no desire to take the controls. “Gently grab the yoke,” he said, and she did.

“I’ve got it too, so don’t worry,” he said calmly. “The yoke controls the pitch of the nose, up and down, and it also turns the airplane. All movements are small and slow. Turn it slightly to the right.” She did and they began a gradual bank to her side. She turned back to the left and they leveled off. She pushed the yoke forward, the nose dipped, and they began losing altitude. She glanced at the altimeter. “Level off at forty-five hundred,” he said. “Keep the wings level.” From forty-five hundred feet, they ascended back to five thousand, and Donovan put his hands in his lap. “How does it feel?”

“Awesome,” she said. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s so easy.” The Skyhawk responded to the slightest movement of the yoke. Once she realized she was not going to crash it, she managed to relax a little and enjoy the thrill of her first flight.

“It’s a great airplane, simple and safe, and you’re flying it. You could go solo in a month.”

“Let’s not rush things.”

They flew straight and level for a few minutes without talking. Samantha watched the instruments closely, glancing only briefly at the mountains below. He asked, “So, Captain, where are we going?”

“I have no idea. Not sure where we are and not sure where we’re going.”

“What would you like to see?”

She thought for a moment. “Mattie told me about your family’s place and what happened there. I’d like to see Gray Mountain.”

He hesitated for a second and said, “Then look at the heading indicator and turn left to a heading of 190 degrees. Do it slow and stay level.” She executed the turn perfectly and kept the Skyhawk at five thousand feet. After a few minutes, she asked, “Okay, what would happen right now if the engine quit?”

He sort of shrugged as if this never crossed his mind. “First, I would try and restart it. If that didn’t work, I’d start looking for a flat surface, a pasture or pipeline, maybe even a highway. At five thousand feet, a Skyhawk will glide for about seven miles so there’s a lot of time. When I found my spot, I would circle around it, try and gauge the wind on the descent, and pull off a perfect emergency landing.”

“I don’t see any open areas down there.”

“Then just pick your mountain and hope for the best.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“Relax. Fatalities in these planes are rare, and they’re always caused by pilot error.” He yawned and went quiet for a while. Samantha found it impossible to relax entirely, but was growing more confident by the minute. After a long break in conversation, she glanced at her co-pilot, who appeared to be dozing. Was he joking with her, or was he really asleep? Her first impulse was to yell into her mike and startle him; instead, she checked the instruments, made sure the airplane was flying straight and the wings were perfectly level, and fought the urge to panic. She caught herself gripping the yoke and let go for a second. The fuel gauge showed half a tank. If he wanted to sleep, go ahead. She would give him a few minutes to nap, then panic. She released the yoke again and realized the plane would fly by itself, with only a light touch here and there for corrections. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. The mountains were slowly passing under them. There was nothing on the radar to indicate traffic. She kept her cool, but there was a growing sense that she needed to scream.

He awoke with a cough and quickly scanned the instruments. “Nice job, Samantha.”

“How was your nap?”

“Fine. Sometimes I get sleepy up here. The drone of the engine gets monotonous and I have trouble staying awake. On long trips, I’ll turn on the autopilot and doze off for a few minutes.”

She wasn’t sure how to respond to this and let it pass. “Do you know where we are?” she asked. He looked ahead and without hesitation said, “Sure, we’re approaching Noland County. At eleven o’clock is Cat Mountain. You’ll fly just to the left of it, and I’ll take over from there. Descend to four thousand feet.”

They flew over the edge of Brady at three thousand feet, and Donovan took the controls. “You want to fly it again sometime?” he asked.

“Maybe, I don’t know. How long does it take to learn everything?”

“About thirty hours of ground school, or self-study, and another thirty in the air. The problem is there’s no instructor around here. Had one, but he died. In a plane crash.”

“I think I’ll just stick to cars. I grew up in a world of plane crashes so I’ve always been wary of aviation. I’ll let you do the flying.”

“Anytime,” he said, smiling. He kept the nose pitched downward until they were a thousand feet above the terrain. They flew beside a strip mine where blasting was under way; a thick cloud of black smoke hung close to the ground. On the horizon, steeples were peeking above the trees. “Have you been to Knox?” he asked.

“No, not yet.”

“It’s the seat of Curry County, where I was born. Nice town, about the same size and sophistication as Brady, so you haven’t missed much.” They flew over the town, but there wasn’t much to see, at least not from one thousand feet. They began climbing again, weaving around the taller peaks until they were deep in the mountains. They topped one and Donovan said, “There it is, what’s left of Gray Mountain. The company abandoned it twenty years ago, but by the time they left most of the coal was gone. Lawsuits tied up everything for years. Obviously, the site did not get reclaimed. Probably the ugliest spot in all of Appalachia.”

It was a desolate landscape, with open gashes where coal was being extracted when the crews suddenly stopped, and mounds of overfill left to sit forever, and all over the site scrawny trees trying desperately to survive. Most of the mine was rock and soil, but patches of brown grass had grown up. The valley fill dropping from the site was partially covered with vines and shrubbery. As Donovan began to circle, he said, “The only thing worse than a reclaimed strip mine is one that’s been abandoned. That’s what happened here. It still makes me sick.”

“Who owns it now?”

“My father, it’s still in the family, but it’s not worth much. The land is ruined. The streams disappeared under the valley fill, all the fish are gone. The water is poison. The wildlife ran off to a safer place. Did Mattie tell you what happened to my mother?”

“She did, but not in detail.”

He descended and banked steeply to the right so she looked straight down. “Do you see that white cross down there, with rocks around it?”

“Yes, I see it.”

“That’s where she died. Our home was over there, an old family place built by my grandfather, who was a deep miner. After the flood destroyed the home, my mother found a spot there, near the rocks, and that’s where it happened. My brother, Jeff, and I found some old timbers from the house and built that cross.”

“Who found her?”

He took a deep breath, and said, “So Mattie didn’t tell you everything?”

“I guess not.”

“I found her.”

Nothing was said for a few minutes as Donovan buzzed the valley on the east side of Gray Mountain. There were no roads, homes, or signs of people. He banked again and said, “Just over this ridge here is the only part of the property that wasn’t ruined. The water flows in another direction and the valley was safe from the strip mine. You see that creek down there?” He banked steeper so she could.

“Yes, I got it.”

“Yellow Creek. I have a little cabin on that creek, a hiding place few people know about. I’ll show it to you sometime.”

I’m not so sure about that, Samantha thought. We are now close enough, and pending some change in your marital status, I have no plans to get closer. But she nodded and said, “I’d like to see it.”

“There’s the chimney,” he said. “It’s barely visible, both from here and on the ground. No plumbing, no electricity, you sleep in hammocks. I built it myself, with help from my brother, Jeff.”

“Where’s your father?”

“Last I heard he was in Montana, but I haven’t spoken to him in many years. Have you seen enough?”

“I believe so.”

At the Noland County Airfield, Donovan taxied close to the terminal but did not kill the engine. Instead, he said, “Okay, I want you to get out here, carefully, and walk behind the airplane. The prop is still spinning.”

“You’re not getting out?” she asked, pulling the latch on her shoulder harness.

“No, I’m going to Roanoke to see my wife and daughter. Be back tomorrow, and at the office.” Samantha got out under the wing, felt the rush of air from the propeller, walked behind the tail, and waited at the door. She waved at Donovan, who gave her the thumbs-up and began taxiing away. She watched him take off and drove back to Brady.

Saturday dinner was a pot of Chester’s legendary Texas chili. He’d never been to Texas, as best he could remember, but found a great recipe (only two years ago) on a Web site. The legend part seemed more or less a creation of his own imagination, but his enthusiasm for cooking and entertaining was infectious. Mattie baked corn bread and Annette brought a chocolate pie for dessert. Samantha had never learned to cook and was now living in a tiny apartment with only a hot plate and a toaster, so she got a pass. While Chester stirred the pot and added spices and talked nonstop, Kim and Adam made a pizza in Aunt Mattie’s kitchen. Saturday was always pizza night for them, and Samantha was delighted to be at the Wyatts’ and not stuck again with Annette and the kids. In their eyes she was no longer a roommate/babysitter, but in one week had risen to the hallowed status of big sister. They loved her and she loved them, but the walls were closing in. Annette seemed content to allow the kids to smother her.

They ate in the backyard, at a picnic table under a maple tree ablaze with bright yellow leaves. The ground was covered with them too, a beautiful carpet that would soon be gone. Candles were lit as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. Claudelle, their paralegal, joined them late. Mattie had a rule that over dinner there would be no shop talk—nothing about the clinic, their work, their clients, and, especially, nothing even remotely related to coal. So they dwelt on politics—Obama versus McCain, Biden versus Palin. Politics naturally led to discussions about the economic disaster unfolding around the world. All news was bad, and while the experts disagreed on whether it would be a minor depression or just a deep recession, it still seemed far away, like another genocide in Africa. Awful, but not really touching Brady, yet. They were curious about Samantha’s friends in New York.

For the third or fourth time that afternoon and evening, Samantha noticed a detached coolness in Annette’s words and attitude toward her. She seemed fine when talking to everyone else, but slightly abrupt when she said anything to Samantha. At first, she thought nothing of it. But by the time dinner was over, she was certain something was gnawing at Annette. It was puzzling because nothing had happened between them.

Finally, she suspected it had something to do with Donovan.

15

Samantha awoke to the pleasant sounds of distant church bells. There seemed to be several melodies in the air, some closer, or louder, others farther away, but all busy rousing the town folk with not so gentle reminders that the Sabbath had arrived and the doors were open. It was two minutes past nine, according to her digital clock, and she once again marveled at her ability to sleep. She thought about rolling over and going for more, but after ten hours enough was enough. The coffee was ready, the aroma drifting from the other room. She poured a cup and sat on the sofa and thought about her day. With little to do, her first goal was to avoid Annette and the kids.

She called her mother and gabbed for thirty minutes about this and that. Karen, typically, was absorbed in the latest crisis at Justice and rattled on about it. Her boss was having urgent, preliminary meetings to organize plans to investigate big banks and purveyors of sub-prime mortgages and all manner of Wall Street crooks, and this would begin as soon as the dust settled and they figured out exactly who was responsible for the mess. Such talk bored Samantha, but she gamely held on, sipping coffee in her pajamas and listening to the nonstop church bells. Karen mentioned driving down to Brady in the near future for her first real look at life in the mountains, but Samantha knew it was all talk. Her mother rarely left D.C.; her work was too important. She finally asked about the internship and the legal clinic. How long will you stay? she asked. Samantha said she had no plans to leave anytime soon.

When the bells stopped, she put on jeans and left her apartment. Annette’s car was still parked in front of the house, an indication that she and the kids were skipping church on this beautiful Sunday. From a rack near Donovan’s office on Main Street, Samantha bought a copy of the Roanoke Times and read it in an empty café while she ate a waffle with bacon. After breakfast, she walked the streets of Brady for a while; it didn’t take long to see all of it. She passed a dozen churches, which all seemed to be packed, judging by the crowded parking lots, and tried to remember the last time she had seen the inside of one. Her father was a lapsed Catholic, her mother an indifferent Protestant, and Samantha had not been raised in any faith.

She found the schools, all as old as the courthouse, all with rusting air conditioners sagging from the windows. She said hello to a porch full of ancient people rocking their time away at the nursing home, evidently too old even for church. She walked past the tiny hospital and vowed to never get sick in Brady. She walked along Main Street and wondered how in the world the small merchants stayed in business. When the tour was over she got in her car and left.

On the map, Highway 119 wiggled through the coal country of far eastern Kentucky and into West Virginia. The day before, she had seen Appalachia from the air; now she would try it from the road. With Charleston a vague destination, she took off with nothing but a road map and a bottle of water. Soon she was in Kentucky, though the state line made little difference. Appalachia was Appalachia, regardless of boundaries someone had set an eternity ago. A land of breathtaking beauty, of steep hills and rolling mountains covered in dense hardwood forests, of rushing streams and rapids cutting through deep valleys, of depressing poverty, of tidy little towns with redbrick buildings and whitewashed houses, of church after church. Most of them seemed to be of the Baptist variety, though the brands were hopelessly confusing. Southern Baptist; General Baptist; Primitive Baptist; Missionary Baptist. Regardless, they were all bustling with activity. She stopped in Pikeville, Kentucky, population seven thousand, found the center of town, and treated herself to coffee amongst the locals in a stuffy café. She got some looks but everyone was friendly. She listened hard to the chatter, at times uncertain if it was the same language, and even chuckled at the banter. Near the West Virginia line, she couldn’t resist stopping at a country store that advertised “World Famous Beef Jerky, Homemade.” She bought a package, took one bite, tossed the rest in a trash can, and sipped water for fifteen miles to get rid of the taste.

She was determined not to think about coal; she was tired of the subject. But it was everywhere: in the haul trucks that owned the roads, in the fading billboards urging union strength, in the occasional glimpse of a strip mine and a mountaintop being removed, in the battle of bumper stickers, with “Like Electricity? Love Coal” on one side and “Save the Mountains” on the other, and in the tiny museums honoring the heritage of mining. She stopped at a historical marker and read the account of the Bark Valley Disaster, a deep mine explosion that killed thirty men in 1961. Friends of Coal had an aggressive campaign under way, and she drove past many of their billboards declaring “Coal Equals Jobs.” Coal was the fabric of life in these parts, but the strip-mining had divided the people. According to her Internet research, its opponents argued that it destroyed jobs, and they had the numbers to support them. Eighty thousand miners now, almost all non-union and half working in surface mines. Decades earlier, long before they began blasting tops off mountains, there were almost a million miners.

She eventually made it to Charleston, the capital. She still wasn’t comfortable in traffic and found more than she expected. She had no idea where she was going and was suddenly afraid of getting lost. It was almost 2:00 p.m., past lunch and time to turn around. The first leg of her trip ended when she randomly pulled in to a strip mall surrounded by fast-food restaurants. She was craving a burger and fries.

All the lights were on in Donovan’s office long after sunset. She walked by it once around 8:00, started to knock, but decided not to disturb him. At 9:00 she was at her desk, primarily because she wanted to avoid her apartment, and not really working. She called his cell and he answered it. “Are you busy?” she asked.

“Of course I’m busy. I start a trial tomorrow. What are you doing?”

“I’m at the office, puttering, bored.”

“Come on over. I want you to meet someone.”

They were in his war room, upstairs, the tables covered with open books and files and legal pads. Donovan introduced her to one Lenny Charlton, a jury consultant from Knoxville. He described the man as an overpaid but frequently effective analyst, and he described Samantha simply as a lawyer/friend who was on his side. Samantha wondered if Donovan insulted all the experts he hired.

He asked Lenny, “Ever hear of Marshall Kofer out of D.C.? Once a high-flying aviation trial lawyer?”

“Of course,” Lenny said.

“Her dad. But there’s nothing in the DNA. She avoids courtrooms.”

“Smart lady.”

They were ending a long session in which they had gone through the list of sixty prospective jurors. Lenny explained, for her benefit, that his firm was paid trifling wages to conduct background searches of every person on the list, and that the chore was difficult given the tight and incestuous nature of coalfield communities. “Excuses, excuses,” Donovan mumbled, almost under his breath. Lenny explained further that picking juries in coal country was dicey because everyone had a friend or a relative who worked either for a company that mined coal or for one that provided services to the industry.

Samantha listened with fascination as they discussed the last few names on the list. One woman’s brother worked at a strip mine. One woman’s father had been a deep miner. One man lost his adult son in a construction accident, but it wasn’t related to coal. And so on. There seemed to be something wrong with this spying game, of allowing litigants to peek into the private lives of unsuspecting people. She would ask Donovan about it later if she had the chance. He looked tired and seemed a bit edgy.

Lenny left a few minutes before ten. When they were alone, she asked, “Why don’t you have co-counsel for this trial?”

“I often do, but not this case. I prefer to do it myself. Strayhorn and its insurance company will have a dozen dark suits swarming around their table. I like the contrast, just Lisa Tate and me.”

“David and Goliath, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“How late will you work?”

“I don’t know. I won’t sleep much tonight, or this week for that matter. Comes with the territory.”

“Look, I know it’s late and you have better things to worry about, but I have to ask you something. You’ve offered me a part-time job as a research assistant, a paid position, so I would become an employee of your firm, right?”

“Right. Where is this going?”

“Hang on. I’m not sure I want to work for you.”

He shrugged. Whatever. “I’m not begging.”

“Here’s the question: Do you have in your possession documents—the bad documents as you and Vic call them—owned by Krull Mining pertaining to the contamination of the groundwater in Hammer Valley, documents that you’re not supposed to have?”

His dark and tired eyes flashed with anger but he bit his tongue, hesitated, then smiled.

“It’s a direct question, Counselor,” she said.

“I get that. So, if the answer is yes, then I suppose you’ll decline the job and we’ll still be friends, right?”

“You answer my question first.”

“And if the answer is no, then you might consider working for me, right?”

“I’m still waiting, Counselor.”

“I plead the Fifth Amendment.”

“Fair enough. Thank you for the offer but I’ll say no.”

“As you wish. I have lots of work to do.”

Black lung is a legal term for a preventable, occupational lung disease. It is more formally known as coal workers’ pneumoconiosis (CWP), and is caused by prolonged exposure to coal dust. Once coal dust is inhaled into the body it cannot be removed or discharged. It progressively builds up in the lungs and can lead to inflammation, fibrosis, even necrosis. There are two forms of the disease: “simple CWP” and “complicated CWP” (or progressive massive fibrosis).

Black lung is a common affliction among coal miners, both in deep mines and surface mines. It is estimated that 10% of all miners with 25 years experience develop the disease. It is debilitating and usually fatal. Approximately 1500 miners die each year from black lung, and because of the insidious nature of the disease, their deaths are almost always slow and agonizing. There is no cure and no effective medical treatment.

The symptoms are shortness of breath and a constant cough that often yields a black mucus. As these grow worse, the miner faces the dilemma of whether or not to pursue benefits. Diagnosis is fairly straightforward: (1) an exposure history to coal dust; (2) a chest X-ray; and (3) the exclusion of other causes.

In 1969, Congress passed the Federal Coal Mine Health and Safety Act which established a compensation system for victims of black lung. The law also set up standards to reduce coal dust. Two years later, Congress created the Black Lung Disability Trust Fund and funded it with a federal tax on coal production. In this law, the coal industry agreed to a system designed to ease the identification of the disease and to guarantee compensation. If a miner had worked ten years and had medical proof—either an X-ray or autopsy evidence of severe black lung—then in theory he was to be awarded benefits. Also, a miner still working with black lung was to be transferred to a job with less exposure to dust without the loss of pay, benefits, or seniority. As of July 1, 2008, a miner with black lung receives $900 a month from the Trust.

The intent of the new federal law was to sharply reduce exposure to coal dust. Tough standards were soon in place and miners were offered free chest X-rays every five years. The X-rays showed 4 in 10 miners tested had some level of black lung. But in the years after the law took effect, new cases of black lung plunged by 90 percent. Doctors and experts predicted the disease would be eradicated. However, by 1995 government studies began to indicate an increase in the rate of the disease; then an even bigger increase. Just as troublesome, the disease appeared to progress more rapidly and it was showing up in the lungs of younger miners. Experts share two theories for this: (1) miners are working longer shifts, and thus are exposed to more dust; and (2) coal operators are exposing miners to illegal concentrations of coal dust.

Black lung is now epidemic in the coalfields, and the only possible reason is a prolonged exposure to more dust than the law allows. For decades the coal companies have resisted efforts to strengthen the standards, and they have been successful.

The law does not allow a miner to pay a lawyer; therefore, a typical miner with a claim must try to navigate the federal black lung system by himself. The coal industry is harshly resistant to claims, regardless of the proof offered by the miner. The companies fight the claims with experienced attorneys who skillfully manipulate the system. For a miner who prevails, his process usually takes about five years.

For Thomas Wilcox, the ordeal lasted twelve years. He was born near Brady, Virginia, in 1925, fought in the war, was wounded twice, decorated, and upon his return home he got married and went to work in the mines. He was a proud miner, a staunch union man, a loyal Democrat, and a fine husband and father. In 1974, he was diagnosed with black lung disease and filed a claim. He had been sick for several years and was almost too weak to work. His chest X-ray clearly showed complicated CWP. He had worked underground for 28 years and had never smoked. His claim was initially approved, but the award was appealed by the coal company. In 1976, at the age of 51, Thomas had no choice but to retire. He continued to deteriorate and he was soon on oxygen around the clock. With no income, his family scrambled to support themselves and cover his medical expenses. He and his wife were forced to sell the family home and live with an older daughter. His black lung claim was thoroughly choked up deep within the federal system by crafty attorneys working for the coal company. At the time, he was due about $300 a month, plus medical care.

By the end, Thomas was a shriveled skeleton, stuck in a wheelchair and gasping for breath as the final days passed and his family prayed for a merciful end. He could not speak and was fed baby food by his wife and daughters. Through the generosity of friends and neighbors, and the tireless efforts of his family, the supply of oxygen was never depleted. He weighed 104 pounds when he died in 1986, at the age of 61. An autopsy yielded incontrovertible proof of black lung.

Four months later the coal company dropped its appeal. Twelve years after he filed his claim, his widow received a lump sum settlement for back benefits.

Note: Thomas Wilcox was my father. He was a proud war hero, though he never talked about his battles. He was a son of the mountains and loved their beauty, history, and way of life. He taught us all how to fish the clear streams, camp in the caves, and even hunt deer for food He was an active man who slept little and preferred to read late into the night. We watched him gradually slow down as the disease took its grip. Every miner fears black lung, but he never thinks it will happen to him. As reality set in, Thomas lost his energy and began to brood. The simple tasks around the farm became more difficult. When he was forced to quit the mines, he went into a prolonged period of deep depression. As his body grew weaker and smaller, talking became too strenuous. He needed all of his energy just for breathing. In his final days, we took turns sitting with him and reading his favorite books. Often, he had tears in his eyes.

MATTIE WYATT, JULY 1, 2008

It was in the last section of the thick binder of seminar materials, and had obviously been added later. Samantha had not noticed it before. She put away the binder, found her running shoes, and went for a long walk around Brady. It was after eleven on Sunday night, and she did not see another person outdoors.