Blood Hollow

12

Cork parked in front of Pflugelmann’s Rexall Drugstore across from the county courthouse. He found Jo in the courtroom of Judge Daniel Hickey. She sat at the plaintiff’s table, jotting notes while Ed Mendez, the defendant’s attorney, argued something about “interpretation of the trust language.” Hickey looked bored. The clients weren’t present, and the courtroom was mostly deserted. Cork sat behind Jo, on a bench in back of the railing that blocked off the spectator area. He waited a few minutes for an opportunity to make his presence known to Jo. It came when the judge asked to have a look at a document Mendez held. As defense counsel approached the bench, Cork leaned across the railing and handed Jo a scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled a note. She read it and nodded.

When Mendez started away from the bench, Jo stood. “Your Honor, I apologize, but I’d like to request a ten-minute recess. A rather pressing personal matter.”

Hickey, a little man with a white billy goat beard, shook back the sleeve of his robe and glanced at his watch. “Any objection, Ed?”

Mendez thought a moment. “No, that’s fine.”

“All right. Ten minutes I think we can handle, Jo. Court is in recess until nine-forty.” He sealed his pronouncement with a tap of his gavel, and he yawned as he left the bench.

Jo turned to Cork.

“Not here.” He motioned her to an empty corner of the courtroom.

“Where is he?” Jo asked.

“At Sam’s Place,” he whispered. “He spent the night there. He’s ready to turn himself in.”

Jo shook her head. “I told you. I can’t represent him.”

“No, you said you won’t. That’s different. He needs our help.”

“I can’t just leave here. I’m in the middle of a hearing.” She waved toward the judge’s bench.

“Solemn’s just a kid, Jo, and he’s scared. He could bolt at any moment. Couldn’t you ask Hickey for a continuance or something?”

Jo pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes a moment. “Look, talk to Oliver Bledsoe. He really is Solemn’s best hope. He’s here today. Courtroom B. Cork, I’m sorry, but I can’t help Solemn, not in the situation he’s in right now.”

“Will you at least go with me to talk to Ollie?”

Jo looked at her watch. “If he’s free.”

They were in luck. Bledsoe was standing in the hallway outside Courtroom B, consulting his Palm Pilot.

Cutting off a part of his foot had turned out to be a blessing for Oliver Bledsoe. He’d been a young man without much direction beyond earning a good paycheck and spending it having a good time. While recovering from the logging accident, he’d decided to make some significant changes in his life. The first thing he did was to enroll in college. He completed his B.A. at the University of Minnesota at Duluth in three years and applied immediately to law school. He graduated from William Mitchell School of Law in St. Paul, second in his class. He could have had his choice of law firms. Instead, he opened a storefront legal office on East Franklin Avenue in the Phillips neighborhood of Minneapolis, an area that at the time contained the largest population of urban Indians in the United States. He represented people who often had little hope and even less money. His practice ranged from simple wills to defending clients accused of murder. Eventually, he made a name for himself. His one-person law office grew over time to include half a dozen lawyers, some of whom had left lucrative positions to work in what they considered the front lines of American justice. After twenty years, Oliver Bledsoe had been persuaded to return home to head up the new legal affairs office for the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe. Because of the casino profits, he was better paid now, but his clients and their problems were little changed.

Bledsoe glanced up when Cork and Jo approached, and he smiled.

“Got a minute?” Cork said.

“Just.”

“You heard about Solemn Winter Moon?”

“You’d have to be deaf not to.”

“He wants to turn himself in. He’ll need representation.”

Bledsoe’s eyes shifted toward Jo.

She held up her hands in objection. “I can’t. I’ve never handled a criminal charge that serious.”

Bledsoe shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help him either.”

“You’ve got the experience,” Cork said.

“But I’m not in a position to help. Cork, I represent the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe. I officially represent them. You know better than anyone how tenuous the relationship is between the rez and the rest of Tamarack County. Solemn’s antics feed into some of the worst stereotypes white people have about Indians. I can’t risk the possibility that people will associate him as an individual and the mess he’s got himself into with my official representation of the reservation. If Solemn’s civil rights were being violated, or, shoot, if I really believed he was being wrongly accused-”

“You don’t?” Cork said.

“It’s my understanding there’s plenty of evidence against him.”

“He’s still entitled to the best representation possible.”

“Look, why don’t you try Bob Carruthers? He’s a good, experienced criminal attorney.”

“Experienced,” Jo said. “Good would be a stretch.”

Bledsoe looked at his watch. Cork was becoming irritated that in this house of the law, time seemed more important to everyone than justice. But he kept his mouth shut.

“I’m sorry,” Bledsoe said. “I’m due in court. Good luck.” He headed away.

Cork swung his gaze to Jo. He could see her tense a moment, then give a little sigh. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go with Solemn while he turns himself in so that he’s got someone to advocate for him, but I’m not agreeing to take his case. I’ll help just until we can get a lawyer capable of doing a good job of representing him in this thing.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Jo said without enthusiasm. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to tell Judge Hickey.”

The occasional snowflake had turned to a dismal drizzle of cold rain by the time Cork and Jo pulled up to Sam’s Place. Iron Lake had disappeared behind a gloom of mist. As they walked across the lot, they felt the wet gravel like slush under their feet. Cork pushed open the door of the Quonset hut and called, “Solemn?”

There was no answer.

He looked in the front where the rain dripped down the glass of the serving windows, but Solemn was not hiding there. He turned back to Jo.

“You told me he didn’t exactly promise he’d stay,” Jo said. “You tried to help. What more could anyone ask?”

Cork stood in the room where he thought he’d made a connection with Solemn. He felt that he’d somehow failed the young man, although he couldn’t have said exactly how. He glanced at the kitchen sink and saw that it was empty. Before he’d vanished, Solemn had done the last thing Cork had asked of him. He’d washed the dishes.