“Sure. Let me take you down to the visitation room and I’ll get him. Here’s the resident handbook—you can look this over when you have a chance. By the way, we allow contact visitation here—better for the clients.”
He handed me a folder, and we walked down a different hallway, past some heavily fortified cells with bars in the vinyl windows. For all of Joe’s talk about the progressiveness of the center, these didn’t look much different than the jail cells I’d seen. He took me to an enclosed room with large reinforced windows and two plastic chairs inside. I leafed through the handbook he’d given me while I waited.
Finally they brought Nathan in. He was dressed in a bright orange jumpsuit and sneakers, and looked sad and defeated. I’d been angry at him, but those feelings melted when I saw him. I hugged him, and then we sat down.
“Leksi, I swear to you I didn’t do it!” he exclaimed. “They came to Auntie Audrey’s house and said there were pills in my locker. They weren’t mine, I’m telling you. I’ve never even taken pills, so I don’t know what they’re talking about! I wasn’t—”
“Take it easy, just tell me what happened. I need the truth, okay?” He seemed genuinely upset, but I was wary. I needed more information from him, and my bullshit alarm was on high alert.
“I am telling you the truth. I don’t know nothing about no pills—it’s gotta be a mistake or something.”
I looked at his face, trying to determine if he was trying to play me. “Do you share a locker?”
“No, I don’t share with anybody. It’s just mine, so—”
“Anyone have the combination to your lock?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. The locks are like, built in, part of the door or whatever, so I guess only the school has the combo.”
“You don’t know what they found or how it got in there?”
“No, I don’t know nothing. That’s what I’ve been saying.”
I wanted to believe him. But I’d known some addicts back in the day, and I knew that they were liars or worse. Nathan had recently tried heroin, and there was no denying that he’d been mixed up with some bad people.
“Nathan, you know I support you, but this is serious shit. Very serious. If you’re covering for someone, I need to know. Now.” I crossed my arms. “The guys you got the heroin from, did they give you the pills?”
“No. No! I’m telling you, none of this is right. I know I messed up with the dope, but I never took any pills. There’s gotta be a mistake—maybe they looked in the wrong locker or something. It’s not true. I swear on Mom’s grave, okay?”
Something moved in my chest. I decided to trust him, as much as I could. What choice did I have? If I was able to get him out of here, I’d monitor him, check for drugs in his room, make sure he wasn’t lying to me. Trust but verify.
“Okay, I believe you.” I touched his shoulder. “But you got to promise that you’ll be straight with me, all right?”
He nodded, and I saw some tears pooling in his eyes.
“What’d the police say?” he asked after a moment. “You know, like what’s going to happen to me next?”
I hesitated, wondering how much I should tell him. I decided to keep quiet about the possibility of him being moved to the federal holding center, and the fact that he was looking at thirty years in prison if convicted.
“They haven’t told me much, just that they found illegal pills. I’ve got a meeting with a lawyer in Rapid City tomorrow. We’ll figure this out and get you out of here. Marie’s been helping me—she’s staying at our place for now.”
“Marie?” His face lit up. “Sweet!”
“So, they treating you okay here?” I asked, not wanting to answer any questions about Marie just yet. She and I hadn’t discussed our relationship, if that’s what it was. For now, we’d simply enjoyed being together again.
“Yeah, it’s all right,” he said. “The food’s pretty bad, but they let us play b-ball in the afternoon. Have to do schoolwork, too. It’s weird, I know one of the other guys here; I was in fourth grade with him, I think. Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”
His voice changed, and he stared straight at me.
“Leksi, I really want to go home.”
The look on his face was heartbreaking.
“Soon,” I said. “I promise you.”
THE NEXT MORNING, I left early for my appointment with the lawyer in Rapid City. Indians called it Racist City, due to the countless stories about Natives being harassed by locals or the police for the crime of being indigenous. Just a few years ago, a group of middle school kids from Pine Ridge had gone to a minor-league hockey game as a reward for making the honor roll, but a group of fifteen white men sitting in a corporate box above them poured beer on the kids and shouted nasty slurs at them. The children were humiliated and left the arena in shame. They identified the men that did the deed and charged one of them—just one—with disorderly conduct. To no one’s surprise, the jury acquitted the man, and the kids learned a bitter lesson in how the justice system works in the good old USA. And people wonder why Natives want to stay on the reservation.
The lawyer’s office was in the small downtown area of Rapid City, where there were life-size statues of every US president, and also two sculptures of anonymous Native Americans. A few years ago there had been a statue of an Indian with his hands tied behind his back, but protesters had forced its removal, and a more generic artwork of a Native mother and child had been set up in its place. Walking down the street, I saw some graffiti in an alley—a spray-painted picture of Sitting Bull and the words THIS IS NDN LAND below it.
Charley Leader Charge greeted me in the reception area and led me back to his office. He was an older man, tall and expensively dressed in a dark-gray suit and striped red necktie—no bolos here. His gray hair was cut short and gelled, and his handshake was direct and firm. He radiated an aura of authority, reinforced by his voice, which lacked the usual rambling rez cadence and intonation.
I looked around his office, which was dominated by an elegant mahogany desk and an old-fashioned bronze banker’s lamp. Various diplomas and certificates were hung on the walls: Georgetown University Law Center, Supreme Court of South Dakota, United States Court of Appeals for the Eighth Circuit, Sicangu Oyate Bar Association.
“Thanks for driving up here,” he said. “I’ve talked to Ben Short Bear a few times about—is it Nathan?”
I nodded.
“Nathan, right. Ben told me what’s going on, and I made some calls over to the Rosebud Juvenile Court and the prosecutor’s office. He hasn’t been formally indicted yet—that should happen soon—but the tribal prosecutor filled me in on what he’s looking at. It’s not good. They found a substantial amount of narcotics in his locker, and there’s potentially a class three felony charge. At best maybe class four. If they use the federal schedule, it’s a class C charge—that’s a minimum of ten years in prison, no parole. Either way, it’s a serious charge, and the tribe doesn’t have jurisdiction over major felonies.” He leaned back in his chair. “That means he’d be transferred to the federal system and possibly tried as an adult. We don’t want that, of course. We want to keep him in tribal juvenile court, but it’ll take some fancy footwork to persuade the feds.”
No one had yet explained to me what sort of evidence they had. “How do they know it’s his drugs? What proof do they have?”
“I don’t have his documents and can’t get them unless I enter an appearance as his counsel. I don’t have any idea how strong a case they have or what probable cause they had to search those lockers. It’s tricky in school cases, but we’d likely be looking at a motion to suppress in court. But I can’t do anything unless you sign an agreement for me to represent him.”
This was the moment I’d been dreading. “Uh, what sort of rates do you charge? I don’t have too much cash on hand, but I could possibly—”
“Not to worry,” he said. “Ben asked me to help out, so I’d be taking this case pro bono. Fo
r free. I just need you to sign this agreement, if you approve. You’re his legal guardian, right?”
I nodded.
“Then you’re authorized to retain me as his counsel. But let me explain a few things. Juvenile justice is different in some ways from other cases. Even though you’re the one retaining me as his lawyer, he’s the actual client. That means that I represent his interests, not yours. I’ll have an obligation to protect any confidential information he tells me because of attorney-client privilege. I can’t even let you see any documents in the case unless he consents. If all that sounds acceptable, read over the agreement and sign it. You have any questions, fire away.”
I skimmed the document and signed it. What choice did I have? Here was a solid defense lawyer—and Native to boot—willing to fight on behalf of my nephew and not charge me for it. I was lucky, and I knew it.
“All right, I’ll have my assistant file the papers. Now, the first order of business is to get your nephew out of detention. He’s really very fortunate to be in the Rosebud juvenile center. They’re one of the best—good programs, decent conditions, not like some I’ve seen.”
I jumped in when he paused. “Yeah, I got a tour by the director. Lots of classes, sure, but he’s still in a cell. What do we got to do to get him out?”
“I’m getting to that. At the detention hearing, I’ll request a PR bond—that means no bail—but it’s unlikely the judge will grant it. Given these charges, I’m guessing the judge will set bail at twenty thousand dollars, maybe more, which means you’ll have to come up with two thousand for the bondsman.”
“Look, I’m not sure I—” The look on my face must have been evident, because Charley stopped me.
“Let’s not panic; maybe I can convince the judge to issue a reasonable bond. Nathan doesn’t have any past offenses, does he?”
I shook my head, and he wrote something down on a yellow legal pad.
“That’ll be my argument. The hearing should be held in the next day or two; sometimes jurisdictional issues slow things down, but the court has a duty to set a bond right away. Two things I need to tell you.” He leaned in closer to me. “First, as the legal guardian, you must appear at all court appearances for Nathan—without fail. If you miss even one, the court can issue a warrant for your arrest. We don’t need that right now, so you better stay in touch with my office for settings. Second, when Nathan is bonded out, don’t let him make any statements to anyone—and I mean anyone—unless I’m there. That goes for searches too. I don’t care if some friendly cop comes sniffing by, seems like the nicest guy in the world, just wants to help; do not let them search your residence or vehicle and especially his cell phone, unless they have a search warrant. You call me on my direct line if they show up with a warrant.”
“I get it. We don’t let the cops in the house,” I said. “But what if Nathan doesn’t have anything to hide? Shouldn’t we show that we’re cooperating?”
Charley smiled like I was an idiot.
“The police are not your friends. Especially the feds. Right now there’s only one person you trust, and you’re looking at him. If you haven’t figured this out yet, Indians get the short end of the stick when it comes to white justice. I’m going to do my damnedest to make sure it doesn’t happen to Nathan.”
AFTER THE MEETING WITH THE LAWYER, I needed to unwind for a few minutes, so I headed for the Black Hills, known in Lakota as He Sapa. As usual, the roads were crawling with tourists speeding to see Mount Rushmore, or, for those who considered themselves to be more progressive, the Crazy Horse Memorial. Few of these people knew they were traveling on sacred ground, lands that had been promised by treaty to the Lakota people forever but were stolen after gold was discovered in the 1860s. Adding insult to injury, Mount Rushmore had been carved out of the holy mountain previously known as Six Grandfathers as a giant screw-you to the Lakotas. Kind of like Indians building a casino in the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem.
Even the Supreme Court agreed that the Black Hills had been illegally seized, and the Lakota nation won a big lawsuit against the government in 1980, with hundreds of millions of dollars awarded in damages. But the leaders of the Lakota nations refused to accept the settlement, stating that they wanted the land back, not the money. The government wouldn’t hand over the Hills, and the Lakotas wouldn’t take the blood money, and so the settlement sits in a bank account earning interest, over $1 billion. If the seven Lakota nations were to accept the money and divide it equally among the people, every man, woman, and child would get about $25,000 each. For a family of four, a hundred grand could ease a lot of financial suffering. But aside from a few complainers, there hadn’t been any real pressure from the Lakota people to accept the money. I admit, I’d daydreamed about what $50,000 could do for Nathan and myself. A decent place to live, good food, a chance at college for Nathan. As I drove through the Hills, I felt guilty for thinking about the money again, but I resolved to wise up. What did I care about some rocks and valleys?
I took the back roads to stay away from the tourists, driving past one of the longtime tourist traps, the Cosmos Mystery House. I’d loved that place when I was a kid, and even Nathan had a good time when I took him there. It was a wooden cabin built on the side of a mountain at a crazy angle, so it seemed like the law of gravity was suspended. Water appeared to run uphill, people looked like they were standing at a 45-degree angle, and trees seemed to curve in strange ways. The tour guides told a hokey story that powerful magnetic fields created a gravitation vortex, but the whole house was a giant optical illusion. The best part was the Cosmos Truth Chair, a wooden seat that seemed to be suspended in midair by only its back legs. The tour guide said that anyone sitting in the chair who told a lie would cause it to fall down. A few tourists sat in the chair and appeared extremely nervous as the tour guide asked corny questions like “Have you ever run a red light?” or “Have you ever cheated on a test?” I wondered what questions someone would ask me if I was in the Truth Chair. Maybe “Did you ever stop loving Marie?” or “Do you think you’ll ever forgive yourself for the things you’ve done?”
After a while, I pulled off the road and found a quiet spot away from all of the people. I listened to the wind and the birds and the sound of some water off in the distance, then looked at the mountain across from me, rising up into the sky. It was crazy, but the shape of the rocks—the fractures, fissures, and crevices—looked like the wrinkled face of an elderly Native man. In fact, I thought it looked a lot like my grandfather, who’d lived to be ninety years old. He’d died when I was young, maybe eight or nine. He’d spent most of his later years in a small shack without running water or electricity. And now that shack was demolished, just a pile of old lumber on a deserted road. I thought about him and the kindness he’d shown me, even when he could barely walk or move around. He’d endured so much trauma in his life, and yet he’d survived and found some peace, some acceptance. I stared at that mountain—the rock that looked like my tunkasila—for a long time.
Then it was time to go home.
16
I woke up the next morning to the smell of bread and flour. It had been so long since anything other than fried hamburgers and frozen burritos had been cooked in the house, I wasn’t sure what it was at first. I peeked my head around the corner and saw Marie hunched over my tiny stove.
“I made kabubu bread. Want a piece?” she said.
“Sounds good. Don’t think we got any butter, though.”
She smiled. “I picked some up at Turtle Creek. Grape jelly, too.”
As we ate, I filled her in about what the lawyer had told me. She listened quietly, nodding her head when I told her I’d retained Charley Leader Charge and that he’d offered to represent Nathan for free. She listened as I explained about the charges Nathan was facing, the prospect that the judge might set a high bond, and the fact I didn’t have enough to pay the ten percent fee to the bondsman.
“Look,” she said, “I have some cash in a savings accoun
t. I want you to have—”
“No way. You know I can’t take your money.”
“Lose the pride act for one minute, will you? Nathan needs to get out of that place. Call it a loan—pay me back later, if that makes it easier.”
I didn’t know what to say. Then she softened.
“Just think about it, okay?” She tore off another piece of bread. “If you’re not busy this morning, why don’t you come with me to the warehouse? There’s a shipment of commods coming in. A food truck, too. Free lunch.”
I’d always heard there was no free lunch—that you always pay. One way or the other.
WE TOOK OFF for the warehouse near the tribal offices, which were located about twenty miles away. While she drove, Marie talked about the latest outrage from her boss, Delia. Something about a negative review of a memo Marie had written.
Delia was the bane of Marie’s existence. As she told it, Delia took every opportunity to make Marie look bad, stop her proposals, and talk shit behind her back. She’d even written Marie up a few times for missing work. On top of that, Delia had apparently told everyone that Marie only got the job because of her father. Which was partially true, although I didn’t point this out. I’d suggested Marie look for another job, but she was too stubborn for that. She was going to defeat Delia at her own game—rise above her and get her own ideas implemented. But tribal bureaucracy moved slowly. I remembered that they’d once been semi-friends years before, but had a falling-out.
“Hey, what ever happened between you guys?” I asked. “You and Delia.”
“You mean back in high school?”
I nodded.
“Well, I guess I can tell this now. I found out she was having sex with a teacher. Mr. Joseph? The English teacher? I thought that was pretty crappy, because he was married and his wife was pregnant. So I told her to cut it out.”
“That’s all?”
“Ah, no. When she wouldn’t stop messing around with him, I had to take action.”
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