Bad News

32

Everybody rose, including Marjorie. Everybody, including Marjorie, watched Judge Higbee stride from the room, smiling like a cat full of cream. But what Marjorie was thinking was, what’s wrong here?

This was the second time she’d picked up a secret reaction from Little Feather Redcorn, and once again it had to do with DNA. When the prospect of a DNA test was first raised, in chambers, Marjorie had been the only one close enough to Little Feather to realize the idea wasn’t new to her. She’d been waiting for it, and she was relieved and pleased when it finally arose, but she didn’t want to admit it. Marjorie hadn’t been able to figure that out, and now, just as strongly, when Judge Higbee made that startling announcement that the DNA test could proceed right away, Little Feather’s reaction, no matter how much she tried to hide it, had been dismay.

Was Marjorie imagining all this? How could Little Feather have been expectant and eager and already aware of DNA tests last Thursday, and then dismayed at the prospect today? I have to find out about this, she told herself.

Across the aisle, Otis Welles and his associates packed their briefcases, Welles now like a broken Exercycle in a suit, Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda yattering away at the lawyers with demands, questions, outrage. On this side of the aisle, Max Schreck smiled like a coyote as he packed his briefcase and whispered an encouraging word to Little Feather, as though this morning’s outcome were his own work, cleverly and agilely accomplished.

Marjorie stood silent beside Little Feather until Schreck turned away, and then she said, “Well, Little Feather, this is wonderful news, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” Little Feather agreed, but Marjorie could see the panic deep in Little Feather’s eyes and knew the woman could hardly wait to get alone somewhere by herself, so she could scream and stamp her feet and tear her hair.

No, not yet. “Little Feather,” Marjorie said, “let me take you to lunch.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you, Ms. Dawson,” Little Feather said, smiling to beat the band, “but I think I ought to just—”

“I think,” Marjorie told her, “you should accept my invitation to lunch. I’m speaking as your attorney, Little Feather.”

Little Feather frowned at her. Marjorie could see the calculations going by behind those shrewd eyes, and then, all at once, Little Feather switched on the sunny smile once more and said, “I think that would be really nice. Just us girls.”

Traditionally, the lawyers had lunch at Chez Laurentian, half a block from the courthouse, so Marjorie took Little Feather the other way, a block and a half to the County Seat Diner, where the bailiffs and clerks and police ate. Over at Chez Laurentian, the smoking section was two tables at the back, by the kitchen, while here in the County Seat Diner, the nonsmoking section was two booths down at the left end, with windows on one side and the rest rooms on the other.

Having their choice of booths, Marjorie and Little Feather took the one marginally farther from the rest rooms, and while they waited for the waitress to bring their menus, Little Feather said, “That Judge Higbee is quite a card.”

“He doesn’t usually get to show what he can do,” Marjorie said. “I think he’s probably having fun.”

Then the menus came, and they didn’t go on with their conversation until after they’d given in their orders. Then Marjorie said, “Little Feather, you know I’m your lawyer.”

“One of my lawyers,” Little Feather said.

“Your first lawyer.”

“Court-appointed lawyer.”

“Little Feather,” Marjorie said, beginning to be exasperated, “I’m your lawyer, all right? Will you at least accept that?”

Little Feather shrugged. “Sure.”

“And as your lawyer,” Marjorie went on, “I am required to keep in confidence anything you tell me. The lawyer-client privilege, have you heard of that?”

Another shrug. “Sure.”

“Unless you tell me you’re going to commit a crime,” Marjorie explained, “which I don’t expect you to do—”

A crooked grin from Little Feather. “You can pretty well count on it.”

“Well, barring that,” Marjorie said, “which, as your attorney, I wouldn’t, in fact, be bound by law to report, but, barring that, everything you say to me is strictly private between us and will go no further.”

A nod. “Good.”

“So tell me what the problem is,” Marjorie said.

Little Feather cocked her head, like a bird deciding if that thing in front of her is a twig or a worm. She said, “What problem? Everything’s great.”

“I’ve been watching you,” Marjorie told her. “I know you don’t think much of me—”

“Hey!” Little Feather cried, showing surprise and anger. “What gives you that idea?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Marjorie said, “nobody thinks much of me. But I can see, and last Thursday, when Judge Higbee first mentioned DNA, you already knew all about it.”

“I thought it was terrific,” Little Feather said. “I was happy.”

“You were relieved,” Marjorie told her. “You’d been thinking about DNA, and waiting for somebody to mention it, but you didn’t want to be the one who brought it up yourself. I suppose that’s because you don’t want people to think you planned this all out beforehand.”

Little Feather shrugged. “You got that wrong,” she said, “but I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“Well, my question is,” Marjorie said, “why did it upset you today, when Judge Higbee said the test could go ahead?”

Little Feather’s frown got deeper and deeper. “Upset me? I thought it was great, we’re finally gonna get moving on this.”

“I could tell, Little Feather,” Marjorie said. “Something happened between last Thursday and today. Then you thought a DNA test would solve all your problems. Today, the DNA test is the problem.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong, lady,” Little Feather said.

The food came then, and they both waited. When the waitress left, Marjorie leaned over her BLT and said, “Little Feather, you’re in some kind of trouble. You can lie to me if you want, and you can go back to Whispering Pines and cry your heart out all by yourself if you want to, but I’m telling you I’m on your side.”

“Court-appointed.”

“To be your representative.” Marjorie shook her head. “Little Feather, I know we got off to a bad start last week, but you know I’ve been on your side ever since, really on your side. And it would be against the law if I told anybody anything you confided in me. You’re in some kind of trouble. Can I help? How do I know, if you won’t tell me what the trouble is?”

Little Feather chomped into her cheeseburger as though she intended never to speak again, but there was a vertical worry line on her brow, and her eyes were thoughtful, so Marjorie said nothing more, just went to work on her BLT.

Little Feather drank some of her diet Coke. “Nobody can help me,” she said.

Marjorie put down the BLT, sipped some seltzer, and said, “Try me.”

Little Feather seemed to be figuring out how to organize her story. At last, she shrugged and said, “You know how I got my lawyer. My other lawyer.”

“Somebody you know out west recommended him,” Marjorie said. “That’s what you said, anyway.”

“Yeah, well, that’s it, only a little more complicated. The guy’s one of the owners at a place in Vegas where I was a dealer. We never had anything like that, you know, between us, you know what I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Marjorie agreed.

“He’s just a nice guy,” Little Feather said, “so when I needed help, I called him, and he told me to see this other guy who’s in the East, named Fitzroy Guilderpost, so I called him, and he’s the one put me together with Mr. Schreck.”

“Fitzroy Guilderpost.”

“That’s it. There’s something funny about him, Ms. Dawson. I’m not sure, but maybe he’s some kind of crook. I’d like to keep away from him, and the people he’s with, but I don’t know, then I’m gonna be alone again. And now we’ve got this mess.”

“What mess?”

“Well, it wasn’t Fitzroy thought of this,” Little Feather said. “He’s got these friends of his he hangs out with, and they all knew what was happening up here with me, and one of the others, he said the tribes were gonna do what they did, switch bodies so the DNA won’t match.”

Marjorie, surprised, said, “This person guessed that? In advance?”

“I think that’s the way they think themselves,” Little Feather said, and shrugged, then added, “Anyway, they thought they’d help me out.”

“Oh dear,” Marjorie said. “They did something.”

“They switched tombstones,” Little Feather said.

Which was about the last thing Marjorie had expected. She said, “What did they do?”

“They went out there to the cemetery,” Little Feather explained, “and they switched the tombstones over two graves, and they figured to go back out the night before the DNA test and switch them back. They didn’t figure on the tribes getting caught.”

Marjorie said, “So, as of right now, Joseph Redcorn’s headstone is on some other grave.”

“And it’s got a guard on it,” Little Feather said.

Marjorie sat there, BLT forgotten. Little Feather grinned crookedly at her and said, “That’s the way I’ve been feeling, Ms. Dawson, exactly like you look. And we figured, we figured the tribes were gonna go on stalling, so we had time to work this out, and maybe somebody could come up with a solution before the test, but now the test is gonna be immediately.”

“Oh my God,” Marjorie said.

Little Feather nodded. “So that’s it, Ms. Dawson,” she said. “You got any good advice for me?”