Bad News

31

Judge T. Wallace Higbee felt a lot better this morning. Last week, it had looked as though he would be sucked relentlessly into the vortex of the kind of case that law schools later use in moot court, but by now, Tuesday morning, he could see it was going to be all right. It was just the usual stupidity after all.

They were all in court this morning, at three minutes past eleven, when Judge Higbee took his seat on the raised platform to gaze fondly down upon his people. The high-powered New York lawyers, Max Schreck of Feinberg, Kleinberg, Rhineberg, Steinberg, Weinberg & Klatsch, for the Redcorn woman, and Otis Welles of Holliman, Sherman, Beiderman, Tallyman & Funk, for the casino, were in position at their flanking tables, both this morning with assistants up from New York, and masses of briefcases, and flaming red neckties, obviously ready—nay, eager—to do intricate and arcane legal battle on Judge Higbee’s turf, but as far as he was concerned, they had become toothless tigers.

Little Feather Redcorn was also here, looking more and more like an unvarnished seeker of justice, hard though that might be to believe. Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda, whose stupidity had rolled the clouds away from over Judge Higbee’s head, were here, trying not to look sheepish, which made for a change; usually, they tried not to look lupine. Even little Marjorie Dawson, Ms. Redcorn’s first and extremely local lawyer, was here, blinking in the glare of all this high-wattage legal talent, and serving by her presence, her dimness, her simplicity, to reassure Judge Higbee that it is still the meek who will inherit the earth. After everybody else dies, of course.

In the expectant silence, after he settled himself at the bench, everybody looked at Judge Higbee, and Judge Higbee contentedly gazed back upon them all. Then he lifted a hand, palm upward, and crooked a finger. “Counselors,” he said.

Schreck and Welles immediately got to their feet to stride shoulder-to-shoulder toward the bench. Schreck as tall and skinny as a crane, or some darker bird of ill omen, Welles as bony and angular as an Exercycle in pinstripes, they were physically unalike but, nevertheless, obviously twins in their souls. Neither would ever give an inch, and neither would ever become emotionally involved in the work at hand.

Judge Higbee crooked his finger again, so the two lawyers would lean closer and their conversation could be private. Then he said, “We have a changed situation this morning, gentlemen.”

Welles said, “I hope to speak to that, Your Honor. The depth of feeling in the Indian community is now manifest. We—”

The judge held up a hand. “Save the speech, Mr. Welles,” he advised. “You’ll want it on the record.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Welles said, without apparent irony.

Schreck said, “I would also like to address the changed circumstances, Your Honor, by requesting summary judgment in Little Feather Redcorn’s favor. By their actions, the casino owners have—”

“Not their action,” Welles interrupted. “Those young lads—”

“Stop,” the judge suggested, and they stopped. He looked from one to the other, and then he said, “The reason I called you to this preliminary off-the-record discussion is because I’m afraid emotions may run high today, and I would prefer that nothing disturb the tranquillity of my court. Mr. Welles, just now you interrupted Mr. Schreck. You will not do that again. Nor will Mr. Schreck interrupt you. When I want one of you to speak, I will tell you so. Is that clear?”

Before Welles could speak, Schreck said, “Your Honor, there are those occasions when one’s honorable opponent makes a misstatement that requires a timely response.”

“If either of you interrupts the other, ever,” the judge told him, “I will declare an immediate thirty-minute recess. And what will happen to your timely response then? I suggest you take notes as we go along.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Schreck said, without apparent irony.

“We’ll begin,” the judge said, and made a little shooing gesture that sent the lawyers back to their respective tables. Once they’d gotten there and seated themselves, Judge Higbee said, “Mr. Welles, I believe you would like to make a statement to the Court concerning some recent events.”

Welles popped to his feet. “I do, Your Honor, thank you. As you know, we have an action in the appeals court in Albany at this moment, on your ruling that the Redcorn grave in Queens cannot be considered sacred tribal burial grounds. It has been our contention, not to resubmit the entire case in this venue, Your Honor, that the protections afforded Native American burial sites in previous court decisions are not limited to current tribal lands. As a part of our argument, we have made reference to the strong tribal and religious feelings among the Kiota and Oshkawa concerning the resting places of their ancestors. And now, bearing out that contention, three young lads from the Silver Chasm reservation have actually gone to the Redcorn grave in Queens to rescue their forebear from what they consider violated land. This entirely voluntary act, done without consultation with any of the tribal elders, simply—”

Max Schreck lunged upward with opening mouth. Judge Higbee raised his gavel. Max Schreck saw that movement, clasped his left hand over his open mouth, lunged back down, and began to write slashingly on a long yellow legal pad.

Meantime, Welles had continued to speak: “—serves to reinforce the contentions we have already made to the appeals court, and cocounsel down in Albany will be addressing that court today, to add this bit of evidence to our argument. Thank you, Your Honor.”

Schreck took his hand from his mouth and his pen from his pad and waggled his eyebrows at Judge Higbee, who ignored him and said instead, to Welles, “You see this grave robbing as a further argument in your appeal?”

“We do, Your Honor,” Welles said.

“The three young men involved are all nephews of Roger Fox.”

“And Mr. Fox,” Welles said, while Roger Fox tried to look stoic, “has confessed to me that although the part of him that is a mature adult of course deplores the young lads’ actions, the part of him that is always Oshkawa cannot help but be proud of their actions, however rash.”

Roger Fox tried to look proud.

Judge Higbee said, “Mr. Welles, I have the police report from New York City here in front of me. The van that was used was rented by Mr. Fox.”

“The lads asked him to rent it for them,” Welles replied. “They told him they intended to go fishing.”

“In a van with a sixteen-foot-long storage area?” the judge asked. “How many fish did they expect to catch?”

“I believe they also intended to help a friend move some furniture.”

“It will be interesting to watch you produce that friend, Mr. Welles,” the judge told him, “and his furniture. There is also the question of the second coffin, apparently removed from a grave on the reservation. I have a report that an open grave was found in the older cemetery on the reservation.”

“It is my understanding,” Welles said, “that the person in question was not a member of the Three Tribes, and the lads felt the protection afforded by sacred tribal lands was of little or no moment to him. As they needed a grave in the proper area for the late Mr. Redcorn, they merely intended to reverse the positions of the two decedents.”

“Thereby,” Judge Higbee pointed out, “invalidating any DNA test that might be done.”

Shaking his head, Welles said, “Your Honor, I doubt those lads have ever even thought about DNA.”

“Their uncle thinks about DNA,” the judge said. “However, this is a police matter in New York City, and not to be adjudicated by this court. I was interested to hear what your explanation of those events might be, Mr. Welles. Thank you. And now, Mr. Schreck, I believe you have a premature application you wish to make.”

Clearly, Max Schreck had sniffed the prevailing breeze this morning and understood that the court this week, though it had the same personnel in the same physical location, was not the same as the court last week. It was a more dangerous court this week. Therefore, Schreck did not pop to his feet, but rose cautiously, even rustily, to say, “Your Honor, obviously we don’t believe our motion is premature, but I’m happy to hear you at least acknowledge its potential, and I hope my learned cocounsel will be able to convince you that its time is not later, but now.”

Learned cocounsel? Some other specialist up from New York, full of obscure citations? Judge Higbee prepared himself for boredom. But then, Schreck turned to bow to Marjorie Dawson, who flickered a nervous smile and rose as Schreck sat down.

Oh, I see, the judge thought. He’s throwing her out of the sled. So I’m the wolf, am I? Smiling as though Marjorie were Little Red Riding Hood, he said, “Good morning, Marjorie.”

“Good morning, Your Honor.” That smile flickered again, and she glanced down at her note-riddled yellow pad. “Judge—Your Honor. In attempting to remove the body of Joseph Redcorn from its legitimate—and presumably final—resting place, the casino managers have—”

“Your Honor, I pro—” called Welles.

“Thirty-minute recess,” Judge Higbee declared. Thock went the gavel, and off went the judge, to watch thirty minutes of soap opera in chambers.

“Proceed, Marjorie.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. In attempting to remove the body of Joseph Redcorn from its legitimate—and presum—” She coughed, having remembered she’d already made that feeble joke “—legitimate resting place, the casino managers have made it clear that they believe Little Feather Redcorn is Pottaknobbee, and their actions since she first arrived in this area to press her claim have not been based on their belief in her fraudulence, but in their belief in her veracity. They want to keep her from her proper share in the casino even though they know full well she is Pottaknobbee. By their actions, they demonstrate that their presence in this court is a sham, meant to gain time while they protect themselves by more devious measures. Since they have demonstrated their belief that Little Feather Redcorn is what she claims to be, and since there is no one else who disputes her claim, we see no reason for this action to go forward before the Court, and we therefore request dismissal of all charges against Little Feather Redcorn.”

“Very nice, Marjorie,” the judge said.

Now her smile was real, and surprised. The judge could see that Schreck was surprised, too, having expected him to give the proposer of dismissal of all charges a rough time indeed, which is exactly what he would have given Schreck himself: a brusque dismissal. But what Schreck didn’t yet understand was that not only are all politics local but so is all law. When this farrago was finished, Schreck and Welles and all their cocounsels and their briefcases and their red neckties would go hallooing back to New York City, but Judge T. Wallace Higbee and counselor Marjorie Dawson would be dealing with each other in this courtroom for years to come.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Marjorie said. “I hope this means you will give our motion strong consideration.”

“Henry David Thoreau,” he told her, and everybody else in court, “said, ‘Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.’ There is definitely a trout in the milk this morning—you’re right to that extent—but so far, we do not have anything like proof positive that Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda are the ones who watered the milk. Marjorie, if you interrupt me, we’ll recess until after lunch. Good. It is up to the officials in New York City to decide who is responsible for the trout in this morning’s milk, Marjorie, and if they decide Fox and Oglanda are the diluters, I will be happy to entertain your motion at that time.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Marjorie said, and sat.

Welles stood. “Your Honor, may I speak?”

“Of course, Mr. Welles.”

“Since Your Honor himself has pointed out,” Welles began, “that the matter of the prank by the three lads is in another venue, and since the process of our appeal is in yet a different venue, it might be best to hold these proceedings in abeyance until decisions are made, in one venue or another.”

“Oh, I don’t think we need wait, Mr. Welles,” the judge told him. “In fact, my main purpose in calling this session today is to order the DNA test to proceed at once, without delay.”

Welles looked astonished. “But Your Honor! That’s the very issue before the appeals court!”

“No, I don’t believe it is,” the judge corrected him. “You are not disputing DNA tests in your appeal. You are disputing the right of the Court to order the exhumation of the body of Joseph Redcorn. But that is now moot, Mr. Welles. Mr. Fox’s nephews, all full-blooded members of the Three Tribes, have already done the exhumation, presumably within the strictures of their native religion. The grave is open, Mr. Welles. The cat is out of the bag.”

Judge Higbee smiled at the silent turmoil in front of him. Life among the stupid could be so sweet sometimes. “Marjorie,” he said, “arrange with your client for the taking of a sample for the test.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Thock went the gavel.