He made two quick jabs with his right hand to get my measure; the second one brushed my forehead. He then threw a left hook into my ribs that startled me. I was glad Fritz had worked with me in LA or I would have taken the full brunt of that punch and been gasping for breath as he pummeled me.
My attacker began to load up for an overhand right. I slipped to the side as he threw it, and it clipped my ear. I was now inside his guard. Time to quit dodging and start to administer some of my own punishment. I hit him with an openhanded palm strike in the diaphragm as hard as I could. Unlike with Baby Dick and his gang, I knew I couldn’t hold back.
My tormentor just grunted and stepped back to give himself some room. I noticed a man coming up the aisle behind him.
“Stay back, I don’t want you to get hurt,” I warned.
He just nodded. The last thing I wanted was more people getting in the crossfire from this guy. I already felt guilty for allowing the copilot to get clocked. He at least was coming around, and people were attending to him.
My assailant got a determined look on his face.
“I’ve been gentle to this point. Playtime’s over,” he said and threw a combination at my head.
Something I’d become good at, thanks to Cassidy, was defending myself. The problem was I’d never faced a puncher with as much power as this guy had. Both his punches got through and staggered me. I could tell my nose was bleeding, and I was sure I had a cut under my left eye. If I let this continue as a fistfight, I wasn’t going to win.
He loaded up for another overhand right. As it sailed towards my face, I countered the punch, redirected it, and then used his momentum to hip-toss him. He slammed into the wall behind me. I was on him like a flash, buried my knees in his armpits and began to unleash both fists into his face. I had to hit him nine times to get him to give up.
“Stop,” he begged.
I rolled him over and put him in an arm bar. The man who had come up the aisle pulled off his belt and tied my seatmate’s hands behind his back.
“I got him,” my helper said.
◊◊◊
Our plane was diverted to Detroit, where the local police met us with TSA officers in tow. When my assailant was escorted off the plane, people clapped. The copilot and I were taken off to get treatment. Bev followed us so we could all give statements to the police. It turned out the man who assisted me was a Chicago police officer. He also joined us.
I called Caryn and explained what had happened. Frank called me shortly after I got off the phone. I told him what happened so he could do his job. I then received a call from Ms. Dixon. This asshole was starting to cost me money.
While the police interviewed us, I noticed the plane was no longer at the gate; it had apparently continued on to Chicago. The Detroit police wanted us all to go to a police station to give statements, but the Chicago police officer told them no, that we needed to get home. I was surprised when they let us go.
It seems that if you help a copilot and flight attendant, the airline appreciates your efforts. We were on the next flight to Chicago.
◊◊◊
When we landed in Chicago, the FBI was there to meet us, and we were taken to a meeting room. They said my tormentor was Kevin O’Connell, a professional boxer, and they wanted to see my video. I was pissed when they wanted my phone. I logged off and handed it to them.
“What’s the password?”
I just shook my head. While I didn’t think there was anything on my phone to get me in trouble, why invite it?
I asked for my lawyer, and that pissed everybody off.
“Sorry, I’ll email you the recording, but I’m not giving you access to my phone,” I explained.
“It’s a chain-of-custody matter. We don’t plan to do anything other than examine the video file and confirm it’s legitimate.”
“Sure, you don’t,” I deflected.
Sadly, I don’t think the guy caught the sarcasm.
Ms. Dixon finally showed up. She made them agree to limit the scope of the investigation of my phone and put it in writing. Once that was done, I gave them the password. She talked to them, then came and spoke to me.
“Is there anything on your phone you’re worried about?” Ms. Dixon asked.
“Teenage boy here; who knows?” I said with a grin.
“Good call,” she agreed.
She had more information about Mr. O’Connell. He was a cruiserweight—up to 200 pounds—who was on his way to Chicago for a fight. He grew up in a rough area of New York and had a record of assault and strong-arm robberies. Mr. O’Connell had a boxing record of 18–9 but had lost his last five fights. They’d matched him up with a local kid who was supposed to be an up-and-comer.
