Any lawyer who travels the country taking depositions will tell you his favorite part is a phone call stating the deposition is canceled. Why is there such an aversion to flying the friendly skies? Well, the universal truth is that the cerulean ceiling is all but friendly.
Take the first dilemma, which occurs before you leave for the airport. That actually is the dilemma — when should you leave? How long will it take to get through the security gate? The controlling FAA regulation states: the earlier your airport arrival, the shorter the amount of time it takes to walk to the departure gate. On the other hand, the corollary states: if you are running late you are bound to find yourself at the end of a long line, and ahead of you will be the dreaded vacationing family. You can spot them as soon as you enter the terminal. Two, three or four children of various ages are bouncing untethered down the hall while mom attempts to keep the baby from crying (until she is seated directly behind you). Usually trailing by 15 to 20 feet is dad, pulling, pushing and carrying enough luggage to buckle the knees of an African elephant.
Moving at a glacial pace toward the security check point the fellow immediately in front of you drops suddenly to one knee. He opens his briefcase searching frantically for his ticket. You now must decide whether to hurdle him with your best Flo-Jo effort or wait while he hobbles forward on one knee, simultaneously looking through his briefcase. His paroxysmal forward progress reminds you of a true believer seeking to purge his affliction under a revival tent.
Another five minutes, another five feet forward. By the time you’re throwing your metallic worldly possessions in a plastic tray on the scanner’s conveyor belt you realize that the gods’ conspiracy to make you miss your flight is failing. You have just enough time to get to the departure gate, which is the second to last one at the end of the farthest concourse. Holding your breath you pass through the metal detector, then stuff your pockets with your possessions, grab your briefcase and head for your gate.
Once at your gate, you hand the attendant your ticket, as the plane has been boarding for 10 minutes. She runs the ticket through the machine and red lights start flashing. “Would you please step over there to the security officer,” she tells you. Turning around you realize the machine has randomly selected you as a potential shoe bomber. You know the drill. Some rather overbearing lady tells you to hold your arms out to your side while she “wands” you. Finding no metal concealed under your clothing, she asks if you mind if she touches your ankles. You cannot remember the last time a woman asked to touch you there. Trying to show you are a liberated guy, you say “sure.”
You are next requested to have a seat and remove your shoes. She inspects them, finding no fuse hanging from the heel. Now you have reached the “turn on” portion of your encounter. “Please turn on your computer, PalmPilot, cell phone, Blackberry, pager and all of the electronic gear you have.” Once all are verified as working (is there some profile that terrorists carry non-working cell phones?) you are free to board the plane.
You reach your seat, the middle one of three. You look at who is seated on either side of you and wonder if you have stumbled into a sumo wrestler convention. Think thin, you tell yourself as you lift your briefcase to place it in the overhead compartment. Finding the compartment full, you seat yourself, briefcase held securely on your lap. About this time the four-year-old behind you starts kicking the back of your seat with his impression of a Gene Krupa jam session. Well, you think, at least it’s a short flight and you can survive this.
About this time the pilot comes over the loudspeaker and says that there is a bit of a weather delay. Air traffic control has indicated we will wait on the tarmac for the next 30 to 60 minutes before we are cleared for takeoff.
You now wonder if the panic rising in you is what a trapped animal feels. There is no escape from this personal hell. Your eyes dart around the plane but every seat is taken. You try to nap but are jolted back to consciousness as Gene Krupa reaches a staccato rhythm. You turn around to say something and recognize the vacationing family. They’re all there except for dad. He apparently has opted for self-preservation and sits alone six rows behind them, sipping the first of several JB and waters.
And so it goes in the search for testimony. Each out-of-town deposition becomes less and less attractive. The glamour of travel is hollow. The search for truth through telephone depositions looks more and more enticing.
But even that has its downside: no woman will ask to touch your ankles.
Larry Glenn is an attorney in St. Louis and a member of The Levison Group, which provides columns for this newspaper. He may be reached at [email protected].