MARILYN WOODS TAPPED IN HER PASSWORD AND WAITED FOR HER COMPUTER TO PULL up the keys to the kingdom, the confidential partition on Sabre’s computer system where Legend Airlines-like most other major airlines in America-keeps its closely guarded fare information. It was already past 5 p.m. on March 31, and Woods knew she was in for another long evening. After three years of legal battles, start-up Legend Airlines finally was about to get its first plane off the runway al Love Field. The private terminal on Lemmon Avenue was finished. Four DC-9s had been reconfigured with 56 oversized leather seats. Screens for live TV and telephones with dat-aports had been installed. China and crystal for premium meal service had been purchased.
The original target dale for lift-off, Valentine’s Day, had been scotched when the kitchens of the refurbished planes didn’t pass muster. But Legend hoped to get its first (lights to Washington-Dulles. Las Vegas, and LA in the air the first week in April. Woods was at her computer working on the airline’s blend of “bucket” prices that maximizes profits. With up to 14 different fare classes, each airline jealously guards its bucket mix. If a competitor learned Legend had allotted 30 buckets to the cheapest fare on a flight, it could set aside 40 at that price, dumping capacity.
After Woods entered her changes, she clicked a few validation keystrokes: cannot access, user already logged in. She was frozen out. She summoned another supervisor who had access; neither of them could get in.
They called the help desk at Sabre. “This is weird.” the desk jockey told them. Someone was in the partition; the intruder was using a Sabre ID and password. The alarm went up the corporate chain to Legend CEO T. Allan McArtor. His first thought was: “What kind of stunt has American Airlines pulled now?”
American had been trying to inflict “crib death” on his infant airline since 1996, when it had first learned of Legend’s plan to lake advantage of a loophole in the Wright Amendment to fly out of Love Field. American’s executives realized what a threat Legend posed to their profitability. Legend wanted to skim the “sweet cream”- those business travelers who live up and down the Dallas North Tollway and usually pay the highest fares to fly at the last minute. What American called tough competition McArtor believed often crossed over the line into unethical, and even illegal, behavior.
Sabre-recently spun off from AMR Corp., American’s parent company-was eager to prove to its non-American customers that their data was safe. The next day. the company called in a special task force to investigate and, in two weeks, confirmed McArtor’s suspicions. Sabre traced the trespass to a computer at American Airlines’ sprawling office complex near DFW Airport. The break-in had actually occurred on March 23. An employee in American’s “Pricing and Yield Management” department named Kandi Kraemer had “misappropriated” the ID number of a friend at Sabre and “guessed” at her password to gain access to Legend’s data. Though Kraemer stayed in the partition only 61 seconds, she had failed to log off properly, inadvertently freezing Legend out and leaving an electronic fingerprint.
McArtor didn’t buy American’s apology and insistence that Kraemer had made an honest mistake. Kraemer hadn’t been fired and the company refused to let Legend or Sabre talk to her. To McArtor, it was a deliberate hack, one more dirty trick by American Airlines.
But in the intervening weeks, McArtor knew things had changed in his favor. Legend’s executive class jets had lifted off on April 5. American, which had once threatened to turn the skies over Love Field “black” with airplanes to drive Legend out of business, was having trouble getting Love Field gates for its competing executive class flights. And there were bigger storm clouds on the horizon. U.S. Assistant Attorney General Joel Klein, who had busted Microsoft for predatory behavior, was now going after American Airlines.
crandall talks tough
When Scott McArtor and Kevin Ogilby, both 27, got in the receiving line to shake Bob Crandall’s hand, it was with the unabashed admiration of ambitious young men for the smartest-and meanest-dog in the junkyard. Aboard the aircraft carrier Intrepid, moored off Manhattan, the men (the second and third employees of Legend) were attending an industry event honoring Crandall, who had taken the reins of troubled American Airlines in 1980 and built it into one of the most profitable carriers in the nation.
It was October 1996, two weeks after the Dallas Business Journal reported Crandall’s pledge to “sue everybody in America to close Love Field” if the Wright Amendment was changed.
To understand the CEO’s histrionics, some background: DFW International Airport opened in 1974. after Dallas and Fort Worth agreed to a bond ordinance requiring them to close their local airfields to interstate commercial aviation. But low-cost Southwest Airlines refused to leave Love Field. The 1980 Wright Amendment allowed commercial flights from Love but only to contiguous states.
In the late ’70s, American moved its corporate headquarters from New York to Fort Worth and built DFW into its “fortress hub,” the centerpiece of its worldwide system. By the mid-’90s. more than 72 percent of the passengers who Hew out of DFW flew on American. The once-coddled airport had the highest-yield major market in the United States, serving 50 million passengers a year and pumping an estimated $8.4 billion into the region’s economy. But whenever anyone floated the idea of opening Love or repealing the Wright Amendment. Crandall went after him like a pit bull.
Crandall took Legend’s mere existence as a threat. He warned that if the start-up were allowed to operate, DFW would become a second-tier hub. Legend would “destroy the Metroplex,” Crandall warned, promising “a fight to the death.”
But that night on the aircraft carrier, Scott McArtor, Alan’s son, was just a fan of the legendary CEO. “Mr. Crandall,” Scott said, “it’s an honor to meet you.” As Crandall shook the young men’s hands, he looked at their Legend Airline nametags. “You goddamn moth-erf-ers,” Crandall said in his patented nasal snarl, “you put my name in the f-ing papers again, and I’ll have your f-ing asses!”
An American executive pulled Crandall away, but a few minutes later, the CEO cornered Allan McArtor. poked a finger in his sternum, and blew cigar smoke in his face. “Allan, I’m never going to let you fly oui of Love Field.”
At the time, Legend didn’t own a single airplane.
Allan McArtor had actually been brought into Legend by Dallas aviation executive Bruce Leadbetter, who had been involved with Chicago’s wealthy Pritzker family in the second incarnation of Braniff Airlines. They had sold the Love Field-based airline in 1988 to a group of investors who moved it to Florida, After Braniff declared bankruptcy. lawsuits erupted.
“We later found out the money used to buy the airline came from American Airlines,” says Leadbetter in bemusement. as he peels open a piece of Nicorette gum and pops it in his mouth. If he looks out the window of his office at Dalfort Aviation, next to the new Legend terminal, Leadbetter can see Braniff’s old home-the East Concourse of Love Field, now occupied by rival American Airlines.
At 62. Leadbetter looks a decade younger, his ruddy face carved with smile lines but his hair still blond. Leadbetter grew up on a trading post in Four Corners, Ariz., and his wheeler-dealer instincts are legendary. Once a talent agent in Hollywood, Leadbetter is known for coming up with brilliant ideas and being smart enough to hire others to make them work.
In 1994, the Pritzkers were thinking about closing Dal fort Aviation, Braniff’s old aircraft maintenance base on Lemmon Avenue. Leadbetter bought Dalfort. and in the deal obtained an option to the East Concourse leasehold. In reading the Wright Amendment-and he may have been the first person ever to actually read it-he got a bizarre notion.
What if he took 727s, ripped out half the seats, and flew “combles”-passengers and cargo-to Mexico? The Wright Amendment allowed long-haul flights by planes with no more than 56 seats. Crandall wouldn’t regard combles as competition, or so Leadbetter thought.
Within the industry, Crandall was regarded as the “baddest shark in a tankful of sharks,” as one executive puts it; colleagues called him “Fang” behind his back. But Leadbetter admired Crandall for steering American through the turbulence created by the 1978 deregulation of the airline industry.
“Crandall took a very troubled airline and turned it into an absolute powerhouse,’’ says Leadbetter. “He surrounded himself with smart people. His life was devoted to making that airline work. He was the innovator. But because of his personality, he didn’t get the respect.”
In early 1996, Leadbetter approached McArtor with the idea of combles. His timing was perfect. McArtor-itching for a new project-possessed an impeccable aviation pedigree. An Air Force Academy graduate with a master’s degree in engineering. McArtor had flown 200 combat missions in Vietnam, and had flown with the Thunderbirds. After the Air Force, McArtor went to work in 1979 for fellow Vietnam vet Fred Smith at FedEx. Eight years later, President Reagan appointed him head of the troubled Federal Aviation Administration.
Deeply tanned, with a full head of silver hair. McArtor looks every inch the confident and competent combat pilot. His office at the low-slung Legend headquarters, a block from its terminal, is a hodgepodge of aviation memorabilia and family photos. With 400 employees, the company is still so small that McArtor has a hand in everything. He jumps up from a leather couch in the middle of an interview to race out to the front of the building in lime to do the weekly Friday cheer with a class of flight attendants.
At the FAA, McArtor turned around a demoralized agency. It was the year of several big “near-misses’1 and the public’s confidente in aviation safety was at a record low. Though he’d never worked in commercial aviation. McArtor quickly learned the passenger side of the business. By the time McArtor left the FAA in 1989, he received credit for making significant improvements in the agency’s operations and the nation’s air safety.
He moved back to Memphis to work for FedEx, but when approached by Leadbetter in 1996, he had retired. Like virtually everybody in aviation, he knew about the Wright Amendment and, like everyone else, he had never read it. McArtor realized that Leadbetter was on to something bigger than combies.
Easily 90 percent of American Airlines” best DFW customers live within a few miles of Love Field. Business travelers flying out of Dallas to major markets-New York. LA. Washington, Chicago-were paying some of the highest walk-up fares in the nation but gel-ting stuck in cramped coach seats. Though they comprise only 9 percent of American’s customers, they generate 45 percent of its profits.
McArtor convinced Leadbetter that they should forget combies and instead reconfigure large planes with 56 first-class seats and offer premium service to road warriors. Unlike low-fare attempts- such as Vanguard-to compete with American, their slogan would not be “Cheaper Fares”; it would be “Upgrade.”
In September 1996, McArtor moved to Dallas. Son Scott signed on. as did Scott’s college friend Ogilby. who came aboard to help raise money. McArtor estimated it would take them about 18 months to get the new airline off the ground; it took three and a half years.
Former Dallas City Council member Jerry Bartos raised the first note of caution for Leadbetter and McArtor. In the late ’80s. Bartos had led efforts to open Love Field. In 1993, he sat on an airplane next to Tom McCartin, the former publisher of the Dallas Times Herald, now deceased, who confessed that when he left the paper, American had hired him to dig up dirt on Bartos. Bartos told Leadbetter: “You won’t believe what American is going to do. They’ll go after you.”
Leadbetter shrugged off Bartos’ warning. Even if Legend got 20 airplanes up in the air. at most that amounted to 1.000 seats. The company couldn’t be a big enough competitor for American to even notice. Leadbetter laughs. “I was so naive.”
AMERICAN GOES TO WAR
When Dallas Realtor Allie Beth Allman called McArtor in late 1996. she had bad news. An early cheerleader for Legend. Allman had agreed to contact private investors in Dallas about the as-yet-unnamed airline. But word had leaked to American. “Bob Crandall called and told her how damaging it would be to DFW airport and Dallas.” says McArtor. It was his first taste ol’ the perils of raising capital in American’s hometown.
The coming battle would be a clash between two distinctly different corporate cultures; the tough, whatever-it-takes bully-boy persistence of Crandall and Co., and the small, scrappy, turn-on-a-dime learn put together by McArtor, which seemed to grow in determination the more American threw at them.
The first battlefield was in Washington, where Legend benefited from a series of miscalculations by American’s political team. After the Department of Transportation issued an order ruling that only aircraft originally configured with 56 seats could fly interstate out of Love-issued about the same time as American contributed $250,000 to the Democratic National Committee-Legend took its efforts to Capitol Hill and began lobbying Congress to define the Wright Amendment by what its words actually said.
Crandall and crew enlisted Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchison (R-Texas), whose husband Ray was bond counsel for DFW Airport, and Rep. Kay Granger (R-Fort Worth), the former mayor of Fori Worth.
But Legend found a champion in Sen. Richard Shelby (R-Alabama), head of the Senate Transportation Committee, who sponsored an amendment allowing reconfigured jets to fly oui of Love Field for long-haul traffic, as long as they had no more than 56 seats. Majority Leader Trent Lott of Mississippi signed onto the Senate side. Both were irritated that their constituents could not fly on Southwest to Dallas because of the Wright Amendment.
Both sides hired lobbyists to work Capitol Hill. American had dozens; Legend’s could tit in one taxi.
Legend’s lead was Ed Fberman, a K Street lobbyist whom McArtor knew from his time at the FAA. After years at the FAA, Faberman had also worked for American for eight years. He had clashed with Crandall over the CEO’s insistence that the carrierfacing multiple complex issues ranging from labor relations to international airline routes-push relentlessly for everything it wanted.
“My view of Washington is that you have to pick and choose,” Faberman says. “It’s very difficult to get everything you want. His view was ’even if we get this one. we can’t afford to lose that one.’” The strategy had worked in the ’80s, when carriers were bleeding red ink. but by the mid-’90s, American was making record profils. Faberman deftly positioned Legend against American’s greed for the whole pie and the internal inconsistencies that created.
“American was saying, “you have to let us in Japan and you’ve got to lei us expand our alliances in Europe.” comments Faberman. ’”And by the way. if you lei a 56-seat airline fly out of Love Field, you’re going to put us out of business.’ American’s Chicken Little defense was so laughable it helped us sell il in Washington.”
As the public face of Legend. McArtor. the telegenic former combat hero with a gift for sound bites, made a perfect foil for Crandall, the pugnacious “Fang.” But McArtor’s real skill was in keeping his message on prices, relentlessly calling American a monopoly whose interest in Love Field was strictly self-interest.
American’s haughtiness helped. In a debate on a local public television show. McArtor pointed out that a seven-day advance fare on American cost Austin travelers $400 to fly to Chicago, but Dallas fliers paid $1,169-and they flew on the same plane. Why? The American spokesman’s response: “Supply and demand.”
An audience member complained that though the Memphis airport was closer to his destination, it was much cheaper to My to Little Rock. Ark., where American had lowered fares to compete against Southwest. American’s response: “Drive to Little Rock.” McArtor leaped on it: “Webster’s dictionary now has an alternative spelling for arrogance with two capital As.”
Behind the scenes, American brilliantly manipulated the festering sibling rivalry between Fort Worth and Dallas, equating Fort Worth’s interests with American’s need to maintain its monopoly. But McArtor says American went too far, smearing Faberman and other Legend allies.
“They tried to ruin Ed in Washington,” says McArtor. “It wasn’t only unfair, it was vicious.”
American tried to intimidate the experts and scare the public. Bernard Weinstein. an economist at UNT, came out with a study showing Dallas consumers paid among the highest airfares in the country and that DFW would suffer no negative impact if Love opened up. Says Weinstein. “American has gone out of its way to intimidate me and to impugn my professional integrity.”
American’s congressional allies also released testimony by a Dallas-based FAA official named Norm Scroggins claiming thai relaxing the restrictions at Love Field would create safety problems. Legend scrambled to find the retired Scroggins. who told reporters that his statements had been true in 1991, but a billion-dollar overhaul by the FAA had doubled the airspace capacity and resolved any safety issues.
It was the first time Legend’s small group of employees ever saw McArtor lose his temper. “It was a gratuitous low blow.” McArtor says. “Of all the airlines that don’t need to be arguing about safety, it’s American.” He began presenting combat helmets to new Legend employees.
Though CEO Crandall personally lobbied members of Congress, Hutchison’s clout was no match for the power wielded in the Senate by Shelby and Lott. The unthinkable happened. On October*), 1997, the Shelby Amendment survived American’s pull-out-all-the-stops efforts and became law. Mighty American had been beaten by tiny, virtually non-existent Legend in Washington. Legend threw a party at The Velvet Elvis. Says Ogilby: “We thought that was game, set, and match.”
The next day, the city of Fort Worth filed suit against the City of Dallas, Legend, Da I fort Aviation, the DFW Airport board of directors, and the airport’s executive director.
“We laughed it off,” says Ogilby. Big mistake. Almost immediately American joined the suit.
“CAPTAIN CONFLICT”
OGILBY SAYS HE KNEW THEY WERE IN SERIOUS TROU-ble when State District Judge Bob McCoy began to read a newspaper while Legend’s attorney was making an argument. Al every juncture in McCoy’s Fort Worth courtroom, Legend lost. Says Kevin Ogilby: “We got home-towned.”
Filed by Fort Worth attorney Dee J. Kelly, the lawsuit sought to bar Dallas from allowing expanded service out of Love. McArtor immediately dubbed Dee Kelly “Captain Conflict” for filing suit on behalf of Fort Worth at the same time he sat on AMR Corp.’s board of directors. Kelly brushed off the criticism, saying neither party had a problem with it.
Kelly’s presence was one more sign American was playing hardball. In practice since 1956, the dapper Kelly is known as a wily political strategist. Nobody gets elected in Fori Worth-and that includes state district judges-without Kelly’s blessing.
As crafted by Kelly, Fort Worth’s strategy was to argue, “a deal’s a deal.” Fort Worth was honoring its handshake: Dallas was not. McArtor regarded Kelly as a surrogate for American. The subsequent blizzard of litigation would ultimately cost Dallas, Fort Worth. Legend, and American about $2 million each.
The same day the suit was filed, a group called Love Field Citizens Action Committee began running ads on six Dallas radio stations urging citizens to call the city council to protest opening Love Field, citing concerns about noise, traffic, and pollution. A reporter discovered that American Airlines had paid $2,500 for the ads on one station.
In the months to follow-not bothering with a surrogate- American bought bus ads that read “Washington, keep your hands off our airport” and prime time TV commercials that urged Congress to “Leave Love alone.” Op-ed pieces by American allies predicted dire consequences for the region’s economy if Love was opened to any long-haul flights.
Though Crandall retired in mid-1998 and Don Carty was named CEO, American continued its blitzkrieg public relations campaign, lobbying its Dallas AAdvantage members to contact their council member. Donna Blumer, one of Legend’s only vocal supporters on the Dallas council, discovered that many of the letters she received were forged- the citizens she checked with denied sending them. She says, “I thought American was acting like a spoiled child.”
Meanwhile, Ogilby’s efforts to raise capital had stalled. Eventually. Legend raised $62 million from about 55 investors, but Ogilby says many were unwilling to risk American’s wrath. Though McArtor’s team believed they would prevail. American could drag out the litigation, increasing their start-up costs dramatically.
Il wasn’t until late 1999 that the Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals released its ruling siding with Legend. The Supreme Court refused to hear Kelly’s appeal; the upstart had triumphed.
“I lost,” says Kelly matter-of-factly. “I won all the skirmishes and lost the war. Legend and others successfully demonized American.”
To celebrate, McArtor gathered his small band of battle-scarred employees for dinner at Nick & Sam’s. Legend’s troops toasted the guest of honor: the mounted head of a dummy that, with its steel-rim glasses and graying temples, looked suspiciously like Dee J. Kelly.
THE WHOLE PIE
ASK TO INTERVIEW SOMEONE AT AMERICAN AIRLINES who can talk about Love Field and you get quadruple-teamed. Four executives-John Carpenter, vice president of corporate affairs, attorney Bruce Wark, PR director Chris Chaimes, and Dan Hagan, managing director corporate communications-assemble in a conference room at American’s high-security complex in northwest Fort Worth to talk about Love Field. They are concerned. It’s well known that Ois Legend’s in-flight magazine. They want to make sure they’ll be treated fairly. I assure them 1 have nothing to do with ad sales; besides, I’m stockpiling my AAdvantange miles for a trip to Paris.
Groomed by Crandall, they are smart, articulate men, with years of experience in the most cutthroat industry on the planet. Their attitude is that American fought and lost; now it’s time to move on.
“Our plans are fairly obvious.” says Carpenter, who with Hagan lobbies the City of Dallas for American. “Love Field is a different airport now. We need to have a presence there.”
In fact, American has a beautiful terminal at Love Field, but can’t use it-yet. Another miscalculation? Or a brilliant pre-emptive strike?
Carpenter later takes me on a tour. We walk east, away from Southwest’s busy ticket counter, through a rarely used hallway, up some terrazzo stairs into the East Concourse, where we abruptly come upon a spacious area decorated in AA blue: three jet gates with executive-type chairs. Carpenter says that on a few days notice, they can be ready to service flights. In fact, American began staking oui a toehold at Love Field as soon as whispers of Legend wafted west.
The subject of the East Concourse still makes McArtor and Leadbetter irate. Legend had obtained an option for Braniff ’s leasehold on the East Concourse, closed to commercial passenger traffic since 1974. But after the City of Dallas insisted that legally it could be used only for offices. Legend let the option go. A week later they learned that AMR had paid a premiurn for the lease. A MR spokesman Al Becker insisted the deal had nothing to do with American Airlines; another AMR affiliate simply needed office space. McArtor and Leadbetter believed American had snatched it off the market to keep Legend out.
American began renovating the space. In August 1998, American Eagle began flying from Love to Austin out of a Continental Express gate. The Austin flights were rarely more than 40 percent full, and the company spent millions on construction as required by the lease. Both moves were costly. But the company gained a toehold and sent a message to other carriers: Stay 0U3!
Legend was forced to build a $21 million private terminal and parking garage on the Lemmon Avenue side of Love on land controlled by Dalfort Aviation, Grandfathered under an 1955 legal argument, the leasehold was allowed up to six gates for commercial air traffic. For the investors, it seemed a safe real estate play. If Legend failed, the gates can be used for increasingly popular commuter flights by so-called regional jets.
American even tried to block the construction. After the Staubach Company made a pitch to develop Legend’s terminal, they abruptly pulled out. “American told them they’d lose the Sabre contract at Solana,” says Scott McArtor. “We had to start all over.”
On January 26, 2000, Legend announced it would begin flying on Valentine’s Day. That same day. American wrote to the City of Dallas saying it would begin its own competing flights out of Love, using smaller reconfigured Fokker 100s, but it needed gates. Continental had informed the airline that it was terminating its sublease on May 15 and all the other existing gates were tied up by Southwest.
“It is incumbent upon the city to find an alternative solution immediately,” the airline’s attorney wrote. The city could allow the use of the East Concourse-or Legend’s terminal would do just fine. American provided the federal rules on airport access. “These DOT/FAA statements may be useful in your discussions with Legend.” McArtor was astounded-and angry-to learn his archrival had designs on Legend’s gates.
The city told American they were required to provide reasonable accommodations, and instead offered American two ground-level gates on the North Concourse, used by Southwest Airlines for training. American refused, saying the space was “basement quality” and would take months to renovate. They had booked “thousands” of customers on flights out of Love.
In early February, American quietly requested a building permit to install ticket counters and jet bridges at the East Concourse. Legally, the City of Dallas couldn’t refuse, but City Attorney Madeleine Johnson warned American that it could not use the gates without the approval of the city council. American began drilling piers to install jet bridges.
American was trying to force the city to do something it had sued it to prevent-open gates at Love. But the city was caught in a complex web of federal rules, lease agreements, bondholder covenants, and competitive pressures. If they opened three gates on the East Concourse, what if United asked for two? Neighborhood activists. once funded by American, were foaming at the mouth. The airline insisted the city needed to offer space “comparable”’ to that of Legend and announced in a full-page newspaper ad that it would begin to fly out of its new gates in May.
On May 1.5, City Attorney Johnson wrote American a scathing cease-and-desist letter saying the airline had renovated at its own risk and could not fly from the East Concourse without council approval. American responded by hanging jet bridges. The spirit of Bob Crandall was walking the East Concourse.
The city council voted unanimously to table the issue until the Love Field Master Plan was finished in November. American began a furious lobbying effort, taking council members on a hard-hat tour. “It’s our view that the city ought to encourage us to he offering our product,” says Carpenter. “The space they offered us does not make a good impression. What’s the harm of letting us use the East Concourse?”
Blumer, Legend’s ally, was at first amused by American’s chutzpah, then angry. She saw the camel’s nose in the tent. And room on the East Concourse for an additional 19 American gates.
“If we lei them use three gates, what would prevent them from using 22?” Blumer says. “Once they’ve established their presence there, there’s no way they’re going to leave until they drive Legend out of business. And again, they’ll have their monopoly.”
By June, it looked like American had managed to get live council members to put temporary use of the East Concourse on the agenda. Concerned that American might get the eight votes it needed. the partners who own Legend’s terminal offered American two gates until the end of the year, but only for the same number of frequencies (eight) they were flying at Continental,
But after Legend announced flights to LaGuardia. American asked for II, 12, then 13 frequencies. Then American demanded use of the gates through the fall of 2001. When the partners refused, American accused Legend of violating the Sherman Act by engaging in restraint of trade. The discussions collapsed.
The ironies here are many. American’s ability to counter Legend at Love Field apparently has been stalled at least until early December. Forced to build a private terminal. Legend is now sitting at the best spot at Love, away from the traffic and parking problems of the main terminal, which are about to get worse due to construction of a new garage. And American could have been next door. AMR Combs, a flight service, had the adjacent properly with the same lease provision for gates. Apparently confident that the litigation would succeed, AMR sold off AMR Combs. After negotiating with the city, the new owner agreed to remove the lease’s gate provision-leaving Legend silting pretty on Lemmon. American’s next moves could risk turning what CEO Carty has publicly called a public relations disaster into an even bigger debacle: the complete opening of Love Field.
“They run the risk of offending Congress,” Leadbetter says, “so that it says the hell with the Wright Amendment.”
And they run an even bigger risk. Last year, Assistant Attorney General Joel Klein filed suit in Kansas against American, alleging the airline engages in illegal predatory pricing to force competitors out of their markets. Faberman believes the very public fight with Legend piqued the government’s interest.
Days after Legend announced it would begin flying to LaGuardia in Septemher, American announced its own flights from Love to that airport would begin in late August. The dogfight is just heating up.
FLY WITH ME
The 4:15 P.M. Legend flight from Washington-Dulles to Dallas is three-fourths full. It leaves a few minutes late but is otherwise uneventful. At the ticket counter, in the waiting room, in the line with boarding passes, most of the passengers’ small talk is about the big leather chairs, the 46 inches of legroom, and the unlimited number of carry-on bags allowed. On board, they watch live TV. switching from cartoons to the Bloomberg Report to a re-run of Law & Order. After dabbing their fingers with a warm wet towel, they eat spiced nuts and drink complimentary glasses of wine. Cold poached salmon is served on china.
A few minutes after touching down at Love Field, the passengers gather their belongings and walk into the terminal. Alan McArtor stands there shaking his customers’ hands. After a five-minute walk to the parking garage, they speed off toward home. Most get there inside of 15 minutes.
McArtor smiles. “We basically invented a new industry.” he says. “We’re on to something very big.”
