Miles To Go Before I Sleep (19 page)

In my nightmare, the doorbell rang and Scott went to answer it. He'd come back and say, “It's for you.” A tall, dark-haired man stood in the doorway, extending a gift. I said thank-you and started unwrapping the box. I love getting gifts so I eagerly opened the present. Inside were three small boxes within boxes. Inside the last was a note saying, “Ha, ha. Got you this time!”

In my nightmare, I looked up at the man at the door as he reached into his bag, pulled out a gun, and shot me in the head. I fell to the ground and the man ran away. Scott started yelling, “Jackie, are you okay? Are you okay?” There was blood all over the white carpet. I looked Scott in the eyes, said, “I don't think I can make it this time,” and fell into his arms.

I knew I was having other nightmares, too, ones that I couldn't remember when I woke up. I knew they were nightmares because I could feel them in my body, and I'd wake up in the middle of the night, crying.

The hijackers haunted me during the day as well. I often thought about the curly-haired hijacker who banged me on the head, the one who died during the midair gun battle. I could feel his body and sense his presence near me. Doctors said I was hallucinating, but that wasn't it.

I didn't hear him speak, but felt him saying, “You're still mine. I still gottcha. You can't get away from me.”

I'd fight back, saying, “Leave me alone!”

Shortly before I was scheduled to testify in Malta, I reached a crisis. I was afraid to travel and said I wanted someone to protect me. I was afraid that Rezaq's buddies might show up and kill some of us who were planning to testify.

It wasn't an idle concern. The FBI received a lot of information on the continuing activities of terrorist groups in the region. There was always a concern that Libya or another group might attempt to disrupt the trial. Days before the hijacker was arraigned on charges of murder and attempted murder, a bomb exploded at the Libyan Cultural Institute in Malta, a short distance from the law courts. No injuries were reported, but the blast damaged a library. Nobody claimed responsibility.

Malta guarded Rezaq around the clock, which took a lot of resources for a country with such a small military and police force. According to FBI sources, the Maltese wanted to be rid of him, but they were caught in a political mess: if they handed him over to the United States, they would anger Egypt, Libya, Greece, and several other countries who wanted to try him. In the end, it was politically expedient for Malta to try him there.

I called my contact person at the FBI, and she agreed to assign two bodyguards to protect me. They were all set to meet Scott and me at the Minneapolis airport and fly with us to Malta. As the trial date approached, I felt more and more jittery about going to Malta, even for a few days.

In my head I wanted to go, to make sure justice was done. I wanted to put the guy away. But my body kept saying no. I didn't want to go back and live through the hijacking all over again. I didn't want to see or be in the same room with the man who shot me. I didn't want to look into his eyes.

I knew it was too soon for me to make the trip back to Malta. I was shaking and scared inside. I was terrified by the mere prospect of getting on a plane again.

In February 1986, I called my FBI contact in Washington, D.C. I was crying on the phone. “I can't do it, I just can't,” I told her. I felt as though I was letting everybody down by not going to tell my story in court.

“That's okay, Jackie,” she said, gently.

I was so glad that she wasn't mad at me for changing my mind.

“I'd like to be able to do something to help you put this guy away. Is there any other way I can help? Could I tell my story here in Minnesota?”

“Sure, we can do something in Minnesota,” she said. “You can testify there. We'll have someone take your statement.”

Two FBI agents from the Minneapolis bureau, a man and a woman, came to our apartment and escorted me to the federal courthouse in Minneapolis. A prosecuting attorney from Malta and a court-appointed public defender representing the hijacker also flew to Minnesota to be present during my testimony.

I was scared when we entered the large, empty courtroom, but the court officials made me feel safe. They ordered the courtroom cleared except for myself, the attorneys, and the FBI agents. They sat me down in the witness stand, and I took the oath.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” the clerk asked.

“I do.”

The questions began. First, the prosecutor asked me to describe the hijacking step by step—what happened and when. He was a kind man.

Then it was the defense lawyer's turn. I'd been terrified by the prospect of facing the man assigned to defend the hijacker who shot me. But the person in front of me was not to be feared. He was a short, bald man with kind eyes. He obviously was sympathetic to me. He was appointed by the court and was there to do his job.

“Do you remember the man who shot you? Can you describe his physical appearance for the court?” he asked.

“Well, he had straight hair and very piercing eyes,” I began….

The lawyers asked me to look at some pictures and see if I could pick out the hijacker who shot me. I did. At the time, however, I wasn't sure if I'd picked out the right man.

ABOUT THREE MONTHS AFTER THE HIJACKING, in mid-February 1986, Scott and I moved out of his parents house and into a two-bedroom apartment in Minnetonka, a western suburb of Minneapolis. We decided we needed to get a place of our own. Naively, perhaps, I still expected us to settle down quickly and get back to a “normal” married life—whatever that meant. I did my best to get on with life, but it wasn't working.

Scott and I both experienced the frustration of living with a head-injured person. There were plenty of times when we'd be leaving to go somewhere and I'd say, “Wait, I have to brush my teeth”—which I'd just done ten minutes before. One time I told Scott I couldn't find my coat. I began searching the apartment from top to bottom—until Scott pointed out that I was wearing it.

Scott was often frustrated with having to repeat things to me all the time. “I just told you that, Jackie!” he often said.

There were other stresses. The Cairo American College honored our teaching contracts and paid our salaries for the rest of the year, but Scott had trouble finding work in Minnesota. Teaching jobs were scarce, and none of the local school districts needed a physical education teacher. Scott had a letter of reference from U.S. Senator David Durenberger, urging employers to give him an interview and explaining our circumstances, but it didn't seem to help much. He got some interviews at Pillsbury and, at one point, was offered a management trainee position at a fast-food restaurant, but he wasn't interested.

Scott did part-time painting and other odd jobs to help support us, but the work was spotty and low paying. Scott also worked as a caretaker at the Stratford Woods apartment building, which allowed us to live there without paying rent.

Meanwhile, my medical bills were still skyrocketing. How were we going to pay them, plus our regular expenses? The crushing financial pressure was hard to bear.

A few months later, a friend of mine in Baytown, Texas, gave us the name of a lawyer at Kreindler and Kreindler, a New York law firm specializing in personal injury lawsuits for people injured or hurt in airplane crashes, accidents, or hijackings involving airplanes. Frank Fleming, a lawyer at the firm, offered to file a lawsuit against EgyptAir to try and recover some damages to help pay for my hospital bills and compensate us for the pain and suffering I'd gone through.

Fleming took a personal interest in the case. He hoped to change the international treaty covering personal injury cases, which he said was hopelessly outdated. For example, the most a passenger could recover from a plane crash under the Warsaw Pact Treaty, signed in the 1930s, was less than fifteen thousand dollars.

Scott laughed when he heard how low the amount was. “You get almost as much for your luggage and belongings as you do for your life,” he said.

Neither of us had much interest in filing a lawsuit, but if we could get some money to pay medical bills and help change the law, it seemed important to pursue.

The endless days of being caged in a small apartment were a special form of torture to me. I'd been out exploring the world, living my great adventure. Now I was trapped within these four walls. And nothing was within walking distance. I was bored and restless. I was supposed to heal, but I continued to wonder,
What did that mean?

As a child, I'd always been the outgoing, adventurous type. I was curious, upbeat, and active. I loved slipping away to touch and taste the world for myself. I tried to see only the good in people and situations, the possibilities. I was intensely curious about everyone and everything. I wanted to meet and talk to different people and get to know them. I wanted to find out about things. I wanted to break out and have great adventures.

My playful antics in our neighborhood were a continual source of frustration and concern for my mother. It wasn't easy to keep me out of trouble. I started riding a bicycle—without training wheels—when I was four years old. I loved my new mobility and freedom. Though my mom had warned me not to ride in the street, I did anyway.

I rode my bike up and down the sidewalk, flashing a big smile and greeting anyone who crossed my path. Often, I wasn't paying close enough attention to avoid the dangers in my path.

One afternoon, I ventured into the street to talk to a new friend. I was so focused on the other person that I crashed my bike into a parked car. I was shaken up pretty bad, but the very next day I was back on my bike, speeding around as usual.

My uncle used to tell me, “Jackie, I believe you'd fall down in the middle of a desert.” Now, it felt as if my uncle's prophecy had come true. I'd fallen down and was now marooned in this strange suburban landscape, a prisoner of circumstances beyond my control. My ability to explore and experience the world for myself, my most precious possession, had been stolen from me.

One day, Scott came home with a surprise to ease some of my loneliness—a dog! To me, this was such a wonderful expression of Scott's love for me. It was a little white poodle and I immediately fell in love with him. I hadn't had a dog since I was a little girl. The one I had then was a dachshund named Tammy.

What should we call our new pet?
Scott had a great idea and, in a moment of perverse good humor, suggested “Spike.” I liked it too. So we named our little poodle Spike.

At least I had a new friend to keep me company. Yet, most of the time, I had to face my problems on my own.

For a while, I felt a new sense of hopefulness. I was willing to work hard to get the old Jackie back. If I was now like one of my learning disabled students, so be it. I'd use every technique I'd learned as a special education teacher to train myself to read and remember. I'd do my part.