"No. They have no such obligation."

"Why not?"

"Newsline can decide what's newsworthy. If they think the outcome of the trial is not newsworthy, they don't have to report it. It's their call."

"And meanwhile, the company is bankrupt," Marder said. "Thirty thousand employees lose their jobs, houses, health benefits, and start new careers at Burger King. And another fifty thousand lose their jobs, when our suppliers go belly up in Georgia, Ohio, Texas, and Connecticut. All those fine people who've devoted their lives working to design, build, and support the best airframe in the business get a firm handshake and a swift kick in the butt. Is that how it works?"

Fuller shrugged. "That's how the system works. Yes."

"I'd say the system sucks."

"The system is the system," Fuller said.

Marder glanced at Casey, then turned back to Fuller. "Now Ed," he said. "This situation sounds very lopsided. We make a superb product, and all the objective measures of its performance demonstrate that it's safe and reliable. We've spent years developing and testing it. We've got an irrefutable track record. But you're saying a television crew can come in, hang around a day or two, and trash our product on national TV. And when they do, they have no responsibility for their acts, and we have no way to recover damages."

Fuller nodded.

"Pretty lopsided," Marder said.

Fuller cleared his throat. "Well, it wasn't always that way. But for the last thirty years, since Sullivan in 1964, the First Amendment has been invoked in defamation cases. Now the press has a lot more breathing room."

"Including room for abuse," Marder said.

Fuller shrugged. "Press abuse is an old complaint," he said. "Just a few years after the First Amendment was passed, Thomas Jefferson complained about how inaccurate the press was, how unfair-"

"But Ed," Marder said. "We're not talking about two hundred years ago. And we're not talking about a few nasty editorials in colonial newspapers. We're talking about a television show with compelling images that goes instantaneously to forty, fifty million people-a sizable percentage of the whole country-and murders our reputation. Murders it. Unjustifiably. That's the situation we're talking about here. So," Marder said, "what do you advise us to do, Ed?"

"Well." Fuller cleared his throat again. "I always advise my clients to tell the truth."

"That's fine, Ed. That's sound counsel. But what do we doT

"It would be best," he said, "if you were prepared to explain what occurred on Flight 545."

"It happened four days ago. We don't have a finding yet." Fuller said, "It would be best if you did."

After Fuller had left, Marder turned to Casey. He didn't say anything. He just looked at her.

Casey stood there for a moment. She understood what Marder and the lawyer were doing. It had been a very effective performance. But the lawyer was also right, she thought. It would be best if they could tell the truth, and explain the flight. As she listened to him, she had begun to think that somehow she might find a way to tell the truth-or enough of the truth-to make this work. There were enough loose ends, enough uncertainties, that she might pull them together to form a coherent story.

"All right, John," she said. "I'll do the interview." "Excellent," Marder said, smiling and rubbing his hands together. "I knew you'd do the right thing, Casey. Newsline has scheduled a slot at four p.m. tomorrow. Meantime I want you to work briefly with a media consultant, someone from outside the company-" "John," she said. "I'll do it my way." "She's a very nice woman, and-" "I'm sorry," Casey said. "I don't have time." "She can help you, Casey. Give you a few pointers." "John," she said. "I have work to do." And she left the room.

She had not promised to say what Marder wanted her to say; she had only promised to do the interview. She had less than twenty-four hours to make significant progress in the investigation. She was not so foolish as to imagine she could determine what had happened in that time. But she could find something to tell the reporter.

There were still many dangling leads: the possible problem with the locking pin. The possible problem with the proximity sensor. The possible interview with the first officer in Vancouver. The videotape at Video Imaging. The translation Ellen Fong was doing. The fact that the slats had deployed, but had been stowed immediately afterward-what exactly did that mean?

Still so much to check.

"I know you need the data," Rob Wong said, spinning in his chair. "I know, believe me." He was in the Digital Display Room, in front of the screens filled with data. "But what do you expect me to do?"

"Rob," Casey said. "The slats deployed. I have to know why-and what else happened on the flight. I can't figure it out without the flight recorder data."

"In that case," Wong said, "you better face the facts. We've been recalibrating all the one hundred and twenty hours of data. The first ninety-seven hours are okay. The last twenty-three hours are anomalous."

"I'm only interested in the last three hours."

"I understand," Wong said. "But to recalibrate those three hours, we have to go back to where the bus blew, and work forward. We have to calibrate twenty-three hours of data. And it's taking us about two minutes a frame to recalibrate."

She frowned. "What are you telling me?" But she was already calculating it in her head.

'Two minutes a frame means it'll take us sixty-five weeks."

"That's more than a year!"

"Working twenty-four hours a day. Real world, it'd take us three years to generate the data."

"Rob, we need this now."

"It just can't be done, Casey. You're going to have to work this without the FDR. I'm sorry, Casey. That's the way it is."

She called Accounting. "Is Ellen Fong there?"

"She didn't come in today. She said she was working at home."

"Do you have her number?"

"Sure," the woman said. "But she won't be there. She had to go to a formal dinner. Some charity thing with her husband."

'Tell her I called," Casey said.

She called Video Imaging in Glendale, the company that was working on the videotape for her. She asked for Scott Harmon. "Scott's gone for the day. He'll be in at nine tomorrow morning."

She called Steve Nieto, the Fizer in Vancouver, and got his secretary. "Steve's not here," she said. "He had to leave early. But I know he wanted to talk to you. He said he had bad news."

Casey sighed. That seemed to be the only kind of news she was getting. "Can you reach him?"

"Not until tomorrow." "Tell him I called."

Her cell phone rang.

"Jesus, that Benson is unpleasant," Richman said. "What's his problem? I thought he was going to hit me."

"Where are your

"At the office. Want me to come to you?"

"No," Casey said. "It's after six. You're done for today."

"But-"

"See you tomorrow, Bob."

She hung up.

On the way out of Hangar 5, she saw the electrical crews rigging TPA 545 for the CET that night. The entire aircraft had been raised ten feet into the air, and now rested on heavy blue metal fixtures beneath each wing, and fore and aft on the fuselage. The crews had then slung black safety webbing beneath the underside of the aircraft, some twenty feet above the ground. All along the fuselage, doors and accessory panels were open, and electricians standing on the webbing were running cables from the junction boxes back to the main CET test console, a six-foot square box that was placed in the center of the floor to one side of the aircraft.

The Cycle Electrical Test, as it was known, consisted of sending electrical impulses to all parts of the aircraft's electrical system. In rapid succession, every component was tested-everything from cabin lights to reading lights, cockpit display panels, engine ignition, and landing-gear wheels. The full test cycle ran two hours. It would be repeated a dozen times, throughout the night