Tucsonan was in Tower 2 when it was 'punched with the second plane'

Sept. 10, 2001

My family and I — my wife Kathy and our 4-year-old, Daniel, and 1-year-old twin girls, Sarah and Rachel — were living in a nice house in San Francisco. I was working my standard 60-hour weeks as the CEO of Ventaso, a sales and marketing software company. 

On Sept. 10, I boarded a United Airlines 777 for a typical cross-country business trip to New York City. My company had been trying to finalize an agreement with Morgan Stanley for months, and I felt the need to meet them myself, privately, to see if we could hammer out a path forward.

Prior to boarding the plane, I bought "One Day in September," the story of the 1972 Munich Olympics where the PLO massacred 11 members of the Israeli Olympic team. I am an avid reader of history and love to process how others have dealt with life’s unique situations, or in this case, tragedy. The flight was a success as it was uneventful and the book was more than interesting.

It showed how a normal day can turn into the nightmare of nightmares. There were heroes, bystanders and evil. Little did I know that within hours I would witness the same.

Sept. 11, 2001

I awoke at the Embassy Suites across from the World Trade Center and made my way to the complex for my 8 a.m. appointment. After a wait at security for the South Tower, WTC 2, I was given my pass card that allowed me entry to the 64th floor. There, I was escorted to a conference room on the northeast corner of Tower Two, and the view was simply amazing. We were really on top of the world.

The meeting with Sandy and Liz from Morgan Stanley was collaborative, and we quickly defined the path necessary to move the business relationship forward. We talked about the important things such as proof of concepts, taking one step at a time, building trust. The three of us were taking copious notes, and we agreed on definitive next steps.

Everything changed at 8:46 a.m.

The sound was one of a loud whirling jet engine streaking past our window, impacting and then exploding. Three distinct sounds that lasted approximately one second each: WHIRL, CRASH, BOOM. We looked at each other, and Sandy said, “What was that?” I immediately got up and looked north at that amazing view I was admiring an hour before. Everywhere in the air were papers, papers, papers — the sky was full of 8 ½ x 11 paper. Looking towards Tower One, about 25 floors above us, were approximately 20 broken windows with flickering flames protruding from most of them.

"Everybody out now!" screamed Sandy. Sandy was outside the conference room now, running around the floor making sure everyone was moving. In hindsight, we were lucky that Morgan Stanley had taken the lessons of the 1993 attack very seriously (when Arab extremists tried to blow up the towers with a truck bomb parked in the underground parking garage), and Sandy was doing what she was trained to do: react quickly and with determination. I looked around and realized I was alone in the northeast conference room on the 64th floor of Tower Two. My first instinct was to sit and watch the drama being played out before me, whatever the hell was happening next door. But as I continued to hear Sandy prod and incite others to head down the fire escape, I picked up my bag and walked out of the conference room. Not really fearing for my safety but simply not wanting to be alone.

Looking back at those critical decisions now, none of us knew that an American Airlines airplane had crashed into the north side of Tower One, and we were viewing just a small portion of the real damage. In retrospect, I also realize that if Sandy had not acted with authority and urgency, my own personal outcome could have been very different. I owe her something that I can never repay.

Following Sandy and Liz towards the stairwell was like any other fire drill we have all participated in. We moved through the door and joined the masses making their way down in a methodical fashion. There was much talking as floor by floor we moved towards ground level. Sandy jokingly mentioned that if she survived, I would indeed get their business. Occasionally we would pass someone standing in a doorway watching, but everyone was moving in a crisp yet not hurried fashion. At 8:59, the first announcement talking about a fire in Tower One was broadcast. The guy behind me bitched about it taking almost 15 minutes before we heard any news about what was going on. Due to the noise level in the stairwell, many of us only overheard that a fire was in Tower One and that no issues existed in Tower Two. That was about to change.

At 9:03, Tower Two was punched with the second plane. Those of us snaking our way down the stairway were immediately thrown to one side, and many fell or sat down. The building swayed left and then right with a diminishing frequency that lasted approximately five seconds. The guy with the watch screamed, "Let’s go. We have twenty-five floors left, people. Let’s move." The urgency multiplied in everyone. The fear in the air and on people’s faces was tangible. The march towards the ground was now faster and a bit more erratic. Two men were helping a woman down, and I waited for my turn around this group. That was the last I saw of Sandy and Liz, as they were moving quickly downwards. The guy with the watch was getting impatient behind me, but everyone was respectful and did the right thing on the way down. But things were now different, very different. No longer was this an accident. My first attempt at reasoning was that someone was lobbing mortars from the river towards the WTC buildings. We were in a bizarre scenario that no one could truly comprehend.

When we got to the Plaza level, I walked towards the windows as we were making our way towards the down escalator to go to the underground mall. I still hadn’t understood the magnitude of what was going on, but the smell of smoke was in the air. Looking out on the Plaza, it was a war zone with a pair of shoes, lots of paper, and many pieces of insulation that looked very similar to things I had seen at airplane crashes on TV. It seemed like it was snowing. My eyes were drawn towards a large mound of ooze about 3 feet high. It was the remains of something or somebody. I shut my eyes and quickly headed back towards the escalator. Below on the mall level, we were guided by people every 50 feet or so. Port Authority personnel were making sure we didn’t run but moved quickly in the right direction. They saved many people, including my own, by keeping us orderly, but in return probably gave their lives. I still remember many of their faces, and they were not unlike yours or mine.

Outside, people were gathered about 200 yards from the Towers near an old cemetery and City Hall. We were all looking up at the twin candles as they burned. Someone next to me said that she saw an American Airlines plane fly directly above her floor, the 44th, and hit the building. My mortar theory bit the dust. I quickly realized the need to contact my wife. Repeatedly, I tried to call with no luck. At the same time, people were saying not to use cell phones and to reserve them for the emergency workers. Everywhere I looked, someone was trying to call home. I gave up and decided to make my way towards the Village and find a payphone there. I walked 50 feet, stopped and watched once more. A lone F-15 streaked across the sky, circling the Towers. The crowd gasped as if to think that plane No. 3 was coming our way. A bit late, but it was calming to see a “friendly” in the sky.

For some unknown reason, I looked down at my phone and noticed that Joe Terry, my VP of Sales, was calling me. Picking up, I told him to call my wife now, and within 10 seconds we were disconnected. Thank God for Joe Terry and for sending the message home that I was OK.

I continued to walk north, stopping every 50 feet and watching. Then there was a jumper, and the crowd groaned. I had enough and did not want those images in my head. I stopped being a voyeur and made my way north. As I walked, I could see on the faces that were looking towards the towers that every few minutes more people were making the fateful decision to jump. Eyes would follow them as they jumped and made their way down to their fateful end. And then another gasp. I kept walking. Walking around City Hall, I noticed a throng of people making their way across the Brooklyn Bridge. It was full of people headed toward Brooklyn, and no cars could be seen. Just thousands of people desperate to make their way home.

Three blocks north, I turned left and headed west toward West St. My foolish thought was that I would head back to my hotel, across the street from WTC One, to retrieve my computer and luggage. I went into a store and purchased a Coke to alleviate my thirst. Inside, as I filled my cup with ice cubes, the building shook and rumbled. This was not the natural rumble of an earthquake that either rolls or jolts you. No, this was unnatural, chaotic. Running outside, I was told WTC Two had fallen. So, in slightly more than an hour I had moved from sitting in a 64th-floor conference room in WTC Two to sitting on the street knowing the building, the conference room, and many souls no longer existed.

At the next intersection I stood with 50 people and looked at the 110 floors that were now a pile of steel and people a hundred feet high. The dust cloud moved primarily south and east as the wind was from the north that day. I thought of Sandy and Liz’s notes, grasping for the way things used to be.

Reaching West Street, I found the staging area for the FDNY, the New York Fire Department. Dressed like warriors, walking single file towards the behemoth of fallen debris from Tower Two and the still-standing Tower One. The bravery and image of these men at that time will never leave me. Everyone was running away from the carnage, and they walked forward, determined to do their job. Amazing people showing amazing courage.

I continued to walk southward towards my hotel until the rush of people told me that moving forward anymore was unrealistic and … foolish. Since all the cell phones were not working the lines at the few payphones were long and unmoving. I hopped in one of these phone lines and watched Tower One burn. Then the end began. The antenna on top of the building tilted ever so slightly, and the building came down. It was fast, only lasting 10 seconds. People were racing past me as I watched. Me, watching as if the action were miles away and MSNBC was on the scene. The panic and fear in people’s faces flashed on me as they ran past me, arms flailing in the air. At one point, a sliver of the building was standing above the rubble below like a defiant finger to whoever had done this. This sliver was no more than 10 feet across, but it soared 25-plus stories above the rubble … and then it fell.

I slowly made my way north, hoping to find security and peace. I walked and walked, stopping only at the occasional car, all doors opened, radio playing loudly. At each car, roughly 40 people stood and listened. The Pentagon. Gasp. Two planes. Gasp. Another plane missing. Gasp. I finally sat down at a park, but then anxiously got up and walked east and sat my butt down in a bar named Barney Mac's. I finally had a home with two phones, two televisions, company and as much beer as I could consume.

I called Kathy. She told me when Tower Two had fallen, she had thought I had died. Since cell phones weren’t working, I had been unable to check in with anyone. For a brief period, and in their minds, Kathy had no husband, and my children had no father.

Personal aftermath

Everything about my life changed after 9/11, and because of it. 

My immediate goal after New York was to turn Sept. 11 into a positive in my life.

On Dec. 11, 2001, three months after my Morgan Stanley meeting in New York, Kathy and I and the kids moved into our new house in Tucson, my hometown, where I grew up attending St. Cyril's and Catalina High and graduated from the University of Arizona. Our 3-acre lot and house provided us with all the birds, quail, javelina, coyotes and desert we could handle.

In 90 days, we had changed my job, our house, our city, our schools, our lives. (To read Jim Campbell's story of how that journey unfolded, see the full version of this article online at his website, www.ghostdance.net.) 

The anniversaries

I awake to a plethora of images, sights and sounds recalling Sept. 11, 2001. As I sit with the tears streaming down my face, I realize not only how blessed I am but how sad and smaller this world is without the 3,000 fathers, mothers, sons and daughters that we lost. Their lives were stopped and destroyed, with their family and friends left to pick up the pieces that can never truly be picked up.

On the other hand, Sept. 11 brought me to a place where I am blissful compared to where I was then. I feel guilty that I was allowed to move forward while so many others were not. Yet at the same time, I must believe I am here for some reason. Maybe to be a voice, maybe to be a father, maybe to be a friend to someone in need. I hope to be a better person than I have ever been. I have learned, reflected and processed many things in the years since. Most of all, I have learned who I am.

For me, this experience has been a rebirth. And birth just like death is a defining moment in our lives where clarity is of the utmost.