He took a drink of his coffee. “Bad news. Got enough problems with the kids killing themselves, don’t need no one else doing it for them.”
“They say these guys are from Mexico, might be working with a gang from Denver. They gave Nathan some drugs for free, he nearly died.”
“He still over at the kiddie jail?”
I should have known Jerome would be aware of Nathan’s arrest. The moccasin telegraph. Everybody knew each other’s business and had to pass it on to the next person, and no one ever forgot shit. So now Nathan would be branded as a drug dealer. The past sticks to you on the rez.
“Yeah, he’s still there. Cops say they found pills in his locker at school. Lots of them. Could be looking at ten years in prison. Not juvie, federal prison. They’ll eat him up in there.”
“Aayy.” He shook his head.
“Like to hear your thoughts, but need you to keep this under your hat,” I said.
A nod.
I told him about the deal they’d offered Nathan. Jerome listened silently, then nodded when I finished. I lit up a cigarette, gave him one, and continued.
“It’s a tough call,” I said. “Don’t like Nathan being involved with the feds. Not to mention, word might get out that Nathan was a snitch. Remember Anna Mae?” Rumors had swirled around the rez for decades that Anna Mae Aquash was murdered for being an FBI informant.
“Yeah,” Jerome said, “no one likes rats. But that Annie thing, it was a long time ago.”
“Sure, but the kids today are even worse about being a snitch or a bait, whatever they call it. ‘Snitches get stitches,’ that’s what they say. You know, somebody’s gotta stop those drugs coming here. But if the gang finds out he snitched, they’ll kill him. Or maybe somebody else will. Where’s the justice in that?”
Jerome was quiet for a minute while he looked off into the distance.
“I don’t know much about justice. But I think the white man has a different idea about it. A lot of our young men are in prison for crimes they didn’t do—maybe they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the people come to you for justice, right? When the police won’t do anything about some winyan who got beat up, you’re the one they call. For justice.”
He poured another cup of coffee and continued. “I see a lot of Indian wannabes come here, they think we worship the earth, they want to sing our songs and do our dances. But Wolakota means not only honoring the land but protecting the people, too. The hippies and the wasicu longhairs who come here, they don’t get that part, that our people are sacred too, not just the land and the water.”
He stopped for a second and looked out into the woods. “I think Indian justice means putting the oyate first, healing the community. That’s what my father told me, anyway. He was Ikce Wicasa, a man of the people, someone who looked after the oyate. He told me, Jerome, always remember the Lakota values, especially waohola, respect for yourself and respect for the community. You got to act with respect for others—no, maybe he said reverence, I’m not sure if that’s the right English word.”
He tossed the remains of his coffee into the weeds.
“These drug dealers, they’re shitting in their own nest. Don’t be a magpie, my father told me, the magpie is the only bird that fouls its own nest. Tell Nathan about Wolakota. Tell him it means living the Lakota way. Think about this, and you’ll know what to do.”
THE NEXT MORNING, I told Marie about the deal the feds had offered. She listened quietly but didn’t offer an opinion. “I’m going to go dig up some wild turnips after breakfast, want to come along?” she said. “Get some fresh air.”
“Turnips? Since when have you been a turnip hunter?”
“Well, Lack told me the tinpsila is the most important indigenous food from the Plains. You can eat it raw, roast it like a potato, even grind it into flour and make Indian bread.”
“How does he know about Plains food? Being from California.”
“Washington, originally. Now he lives in Los Angeles. What difference does it make? He knows about Native foods from all regions, it’s his passion.”
“What’s he still doing here?” I asked. “Thought he was supposed to leave.”
“He really likes it here and changed his schedule to stay a while. He says he’s tired of the California scene. We’re having lunch tomorrow, why don’t you come?”
Since when did Marie know this guy well enough to have lunch with him?
“Sure, I’ll join you tomorrow. Pass on the turnip hunting, though.”
LATER IN THE DAY, I left to visit Nathan at the juvenile detention center. A staff member led me back to the visiting area. We passed by the medicine wheel mural that proclaimed YOU HAVE A CHOICE! I wondered if any of us really had a choice about our judgments, or if we were forced by circumstances beyond our control into our own orbits, our own pathways.
“Uncle!” Nathan grabbed me in a tight embrace.
“Hey dude, happy to see you. You doing okay?” He didn’t look so good. There were dark hollows in his face, and he appeared ten pounds lighter.
“I’m all right. You know. It’s weird to be here.”
“They feeding you? You look skinny.”
“Yeah, I’m eating. The breakfasts are decent—cereal, maybe a boiled egg, but the lunches are pretty gross.”
“Gross? What do they give you?”
“Like tuna cakes and mashed potatoes, some old salad. Carton of milk.”
Apparently the indigenous food movement hadn’t taken root here. “What about dinner?”
“Um, maybe some canned chicken and rice. We got peach crisp yesterday, wasn’t too bad. But the portions are really small. I’m hungry all the time.”
“Is there a commissary—any way to buy snacks?”
“Naw. There’s a garden where they grow stuff sometimes, but nothing’s going on in there now.”
It pissed me off to hear he was hungry, and I was tempted to have some words with the self-satisfied facility director. But chances were, I’d end up decking him. Best to keep my mouth shut.
“Let’s talk,” I said. “There’s a lot of news.”
He looked at me expectantly.
“Best news is we got a lawyer for you. Charley Leader Charge. He’s not costing us anything, I guess he owes Ben Short Bear—you know, Marie’s dad—some favors. I went ahead and signed the papers, so he’s your guy now. I hear he’s solid, knows how to work with the whites. At first I thought he might be a hang-around-the-fort Indian, but he’s a fighter, I can tell.”
Nathan shifted around in his seat, waiting for me to say more.
“Now the bad news. The lawyer got the papers for your case and talked with the prosecutors. The charges against you—it’s pretty rough. They want to move you to federal court and charge you as an adult. Means you’d have to leave here, fight the case in Rapid City, I think.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.” His face looked hopeful, but I was trying to soften the blow that was about to come.
“Well, it means you’d go to federal prison, if you lost the case. No juvie jail.”
“Oh. But there’s no way that would happen. If I can just explain to them—”
“Nathan, it’s bad. They’re charging you with distribution. There were so many pills in the locker, they think you were selling them. The sentence for selling is ten years in prison, no parole.”
“Ten years! That’s not fair!” He stood up and pushed his chair aside. “I wasn’t selling no pills! They aren’t mine!”
“Dude, take it easy. I believe you. We got to be smart and listen to what the lawyer says. He told me there may be a way to keep you out of federal prison and have the charges dropped.”
The hopeful look on his face broke my heart.
“Turns out the federal cops are chasing some drug dealers in Denver, same dudes that gave you that stuff. The heroin. The crap that—”
“But I don’t even know them—”
“Let me finish.” I stopped for a second. “They
want to catch these guys selling heroin on school grounds. There’s some major penalty if you sell by a school. So they want your help. To get them off the rez. For good.”
It slowly dawned on him.
“You mean, they want me to snitch?”
I nodded, slowly. “It’s worse. They want you to wear a wire and buy drugs from the guys, then they’ll arrest them.”
“I can’t do that. Won’t happen.”
I took a moment.
“What are you worried about?” I asked. “You afraid it’ll be dangerous? Or they’ll find the wire? A cop told me the wire is really small, you can’t even see it—”
“No, that’s not it.” His face knotted as he struggled to find the words. “What it is, you gotta understand, you can’t snitch at school. It’s just not done. Anyone who rats somebody else out, the kids hate him. Like, everybody.”
It was what I’d suspected. The culture against working with the police was strong with them—even the rap songs they listened to hammered home that message.
“Hey, I get you don’t want to be a rat, or like we used to call them, a narc. But listen: the lawyer said the case against you is strong. I don’t want to think about you going to prison. Not juvie, real prison, federal prison, with grown men.”
I looked him straight in the eye.
“I can’t—won’t—force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But this is serious shit. The jury finds you guilty—and guess how white juries feel about Indians—you could go away for a long stretch. Doing hard time. You hear me? I believe your story, but I don’t know if a jury would.”
Did I believe him? I wanted to, but there were so many things that didn’t make sense. Like Nathan trying heroin in the first place, and just days after that, morphine pain pills are found in his locker. I wanted to trust him, but it was hard to escape my suspicions. I looked over at him, and could tell by his face he was starting to understand the gravity of the situation.
“What do you think I should do?”
The moment I’d dreaded.
“I think you need to wear the wire.”
19
I awoke the next morning to the smell of fried wild turnips. Marie was already awake and cooking, her pillow vacant. The aroma was sharp, nothing like the pleasant smell of hash browns and bacon. It was like a cross between boiled cabbage and burned popcorn, and I crawled out of bed, still partially enmeshed in my dream.
Then the events of the previous day came flooding back. After my conversation with Nathan, I’d been disturbed, worried that I’d given him bad advice. When I got home, Marie had seen the trouble in my face. She didn’t say a word, just took me in her arms, and I’d felt some peace then, a calm amid the storm winds.
I sat down at the table, and Marie poured me a cup of coffee. “Sorry, these are taking forever to cook. It’s my first time frying them, and I’m trying to get them to caramelize. I threw in some wild onions and a little garlic salt I found in your cabinet.”
I didn’t know what caramelizing was—it sounded like adding sugary sauce to a dish—but the fried turnips were excellent, a sweet and nutty flavor balanced with a little bitterness.
“I could get used to these,” I said.
“See? Told you they were good. Speaking of food, you going to join us for lunch today? Lack will be there, remember? I should warn you, though, my mother is going to come.”
Oh boy. It made sense that Marie’s mother would want to meet the celebrity chef. Anastasia Freeman Short Bear, Ann to her friends. A light-skinned Osage from a wealthy family in Oklahoma, she’d met Ben at some Native conference and then followed him to South Dakota, which she detested. Tall, thin, elegant, she wore her short hair styled in a modern bob cut and shopped for her clothes in Santa Fe, San Francisco, and Dallas. Marie once told me that she’d demanded a monthly clothing allowance from Ben in excess of what most people made here in a year.
Needless to say, she’d never liked me and hadn’t been shy about expressing her opinion. She felt Marie should follow in the footsteps of her older sister, who’d left the rez and worked in banking somewhere on the West Coast. I suspected that Marie’s med school applications were largely driven by Ann’s maneuverings. I had no desire to eat lunch with Ann, but I thought I’d better meet this Chef Lack.
“Yeah, I’ll meet you guys there. Sounds fun.”
I HAD ONE CALL to make before I did anything else.
“Charley? It’s Virgil Wounded Horse.” I’d called his direct line and was surprised that he picked up on the first ring.
“Virgil, how you doing? I’ve got about five minutes before I head out for a deposition.”
“Won’t need that much time. I’m calling to let you know I spoke to Nathan. He’s willing to wear the wire. Go ahead and set it up.”
I heard rustling noises in the background, like he was moving papers around.
“That’s great, I think it’s the right decision. Hold on, let me take some notes. First step, let’s get Nathan out of the detention center. I’ll call the ADA right away, get everything going, and I’ll nail down the terms in writing. This may take a couple days, but I’ll be in touch as soon as the agreement is finalized. We’ll need a judge to sign off on the PR bond, but that won’t be a problem. Worst case, he has to stay in there for a few more days.”
“That’s great,” I said, “but will there be something in there about keeping Nathan safe during the buy? You know, what they’ll do to protect him?”
“No, these agreements never specify the details of how the CI will be utilized. They probably don’t know themselves yet. Don’t worry, these guys know what they’re doing. They follow a safety protocol, and they’ll be even more careful given his age. They have every incentive to keep him safe so he can testify in court. Trust me, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Trust me. I kept hearing those words.
I NEEDED SOME SMOKES, so I rode my motorcycle into town early. After stopping at the gas station for supplies and nicotine, I pulled over. A new coffee spot had opened up in the old warehouse building, the one with the ghost sign, the former owner’s name still visible in the fading paint. GRABLANDER, it said. I’d never grasped the bitter irony of the long-dead wasicu’s name on the sign before, and I stared at the lettering, trying to remember when I’d first seen it. It was one of those familiar sights, the kind that you stop noticing until something makes you see it in a new way. I leaned on my bike and lit up. The coffee shop—called Buffalo Brew—was crawling with teenagers. As I smoked, I watched the kids inside gossiping and chattering with each other, and wished Nathan was one of them.
After I was done smoking, I decided to go to the casino early. Our little gaming house was nothing like the huge Indian casinos in Connecticut or Minnesota. Those casinos were near big cities, so they had a massive population to draw upon for their customers. The closest town to our local gambling den was Valentine, population two thousand. Not only that, but there was another casino over in Pine Ridge and plenty of them up in Deadwood. Some wasicus believed all Natives were rich because of casino earnings, but our casino barely broke even, much less provide any profits to tribal citizens. But I liked our little gambling house. It was a good place to relax and visit with people, even though I didn’t drink anymore.
I showed my ID and entered the main room. A cloud of cigarette smoke drifted over the gamblers like a cancerous veil. I sauntered past the slot machines to the tiny bar to get a Coke. The one advantage we had over the neighboring Pine Ridge casino was that we served booze, although there was no real bar area or any place to sit down with a drink. As I approached the bar counter, I saw Tommy. Even though it was late morning, I could tell he was already three, maybe four sheets to the wind.
“What are you doing here so early?” I said.
“Hey Virg! Shit man, good to see you! I’m playin’ some slots, trying to get on a winning streak. I’m hurting for coin, trying to win a few dollars. Got a shutoff notice, had to pawn my guitar. You playing blackja
ck?”
The blackjack tables were closed.
“No, just hanging out. But I’ll watch you play. Let me get a soda.”
“You spot me a beer? I hit the jackpot, pay you back.”
I came back with the drinks and watched Tommy hit the buttons on the slot machines.
He won a little bit and kept playing. Eventually he hit a pretty good jackpot—fifty dollars.
He turned to me excitedly. “See, I told you, homeboy! I knew I’d win, just gotta have faith.” He started singing. “You gotta have faith, faith, faith. Who was that song by? George Carlin? Sheeit, I don’t know, let’s go get a drink, on me.”
I sipped a fresh Coke while he downed a Bud Light.
“Never seen you drink a light beer before. What’s up with that?”
He laughed and spilled a little beer down the front of his shirt. “Watching my weight, am I right? Naw, I was drinking with my friend Ivan last night, he picked up some light brews at the off-sale, I kind of liked ’em. You know Ivan?”
I shook my head.
“He’s a cool cat, I think he’s Navajo, Pueblo, you know, one of them desert Indians. Met him at the Depot. Dude really knows about music, played me some shit I never heard before. But he started freaking me out. Said he could start fires with his breath, ’cause he’s a, uh, pyrocardiac, something like that. Told him to show me but he wouldn’t do it, said he might burn us. Sounded like some booshit, but I got outta there anyway.”
“Crazy,” I said, and looked at my watch. I had to get to lunch with Marie, her mother, and the chef. But then I had an inspiration. “Hey, you want to come along for lunch? At the restaurant here? Marie and her mom are meeting with that chef guy from California.”
I realized having Tommy along could take some of the pressure off me. I also knew that Marie’s mother detested Tommy—she thought he was a buffoon—and it tickled me to bring him along, just to irritate Ann Short Bear.
“The dude with the food truck? In the house? Hell yeah, I’ll go.”
Winter Counts Page 15