The captain said, “Maybe there won’t be any trouble, but plan for the worst, hope for the best, that’s my philosophy.”
Then a secretary passed around white cards with instructions on how to handle protesters and keep violence from accelerating. The title read “Planning and Managing Security for Major Special Events: Guidelines for Law Enforcement.” Chee skimmed the points.
Do not take comments made by protesters personally.
Be patient with your fellow officers and commanders.
While law enforcement must meet its duty to protect people and property during mass demonstrations and protests, it can never do so at the expense of upholding the Constitution and First Amendment–protected rights.
Use of equipment or weaponry should be restricted to limited situations that clearly justify their use.
He skimmed the rest of the list. Good ideas, but nothing he hadn’t heard before.
Captain Ward told them that the delegates would enter and leave the meeting from the rear of the building and that the audience would use the front door and be screened with the Justice Center’s metal detector and directed to the meeting room. Chee would do what Largo had already told him—keep a close eye on the mediator and provide security for the Navajo Nation president, who would officially welcome the delegates later in the week as his schedule allowed. In other words, he was a glorified bodyguard.
Chee and Dashee ordered an early lunch off the menu at the Tuuvi Cafe, a restaurant run by the Hopi tribe. The café occupied part of a gas station/convenience store complex that sold tourist hats and T-shirts, snack food, drinks, and DVDs. The business included video rentals and an attractive Hopi arts and crafts outlet in another part of the building. Dashee knew everyone who worked there.
Chee had met Dashee on one of his first assignments, a situation that started with sabotage to a windmill and ended up involving drug smuggling and murder. He couldn’t have done his job without Dashee’s help.
Chee ordered the Tuuvi taco, a plate-sized piece of fry bread topped with juicy pinto beans, shredded cheese, chopped lettuce and tomato, and a whole roasted green chile. Dashee ate the Hopi stew, a bowl of soft hominy spiced with chopped green chile and a bit of meat. The food arrived quickly, served by a plumpish girl with a lopsided smile.
The taco tasted as good as it looked. Chee took several bites, then put his fork down. “So how has life been treating you?”
“Can’t complain ’cause nobody listens.” Dashee patted his lips with the napkin. “How about with you? I heard you almost got to be a movie star.”
“Not quite. I got sent to Monument Valley and wrapped up with a film company making a movie about zombies, and it turned out to be an interesting case, but nobody offered me a role. So what’s new in Moenkopi?”
Dashee looked puzzled. “New? Nothing, same as always. That’s how we like it.”
Chee said, “I heard the Mormons want to set up some kind of monument there in honor of Lot Smith.”
“Who?”
“You know, the soldier, the big man in the Mormon settlement, the Circle S Ranch guy with a houseful of wives and kids? The one Atsidí killed for shooting his sheep way back when.”
“Oh, that. Nothing decided there yet. But before we get into religion and politics, well, I need a favor.” Dashee cleared his throat. “I’ve got to tell a family to move some livestock.”
“A Diné family.” Chee said it as a statement, not a question. Many Navajos had been displaced when a court ruled that they had to leave land they had long considered theirs. Some observers believed the problem wasn’t the Navajo or the Hopi, but coal companies that wanted to mine Black Mesa, where the families lived. The US Congress had passed the relocation act, and, agree with it or not, it was an officer’s job to uphold the law.
Dashee rested his fingertips on the edge of the table. “They’re the Bitsois. Mainly the mother lives there, although the children and grandkids show up to help. She only speaks Navajo, or at least that’s what she claims when I try to talk to her. That’s why I need some help.”
Chee cut another bite of fry bread moist with beans and chile. Not the healthiest thing on the planet, but why argue with delicious and warm? The room was warm, too. He slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, all the while pondering his answer.
“Don’t you guys have a cop who speaks Navajo?”
“He’s on leave.” Dashee took a spoonful of his stew. “I don’t wanna be the bad guy, but I have to do my job. You know how that goes.”
Chee did know. Sometimes, it really was a matter of someone not speaking English. Sometimes, it was a case where the person knew some, but not enough to serve in complicated conversations. Sometimes, the language issue bought time to figure out a complicated situation.
“We Navajos don’t have any jurisdiction there. That’s your turf.”
“If you could come with me, well, I think it would make it easier on the family. I don’t want to arrest anybody, and having you along to explain things would help.”
“Two cops show up at the place instead of one? Yeah, that always helps people relax.”
Dashee chuckled. “I figured you’d be out of uniform, sort of a translator, explaining the situation to Mrs. Bitsoi and whoever else of the family shows up.”
Chee let the conversation sit as he finished his meal. “When do you need to do this?”
“Soon. Maybe in a day or two. After the protesters get tired.” Dashee grabbed the bill. “I’ll get this.”
“Trying to bribe me?”
“Nah, if I wanted to sweeten the deal, I’d ask you to the Niman dances.” In June, Hopi people living away from their ancestral villages returned to help with the event and visit relatives and friends during the sixteen-day Niman ceremony.
Chee smiled. Dashee invited him every year, but either he or Bernie always, always had had to work. It had become a joke between them. Whatever the day, something happened in Navajoland that kept them from the Hopi mesas. The last time, Dashee said he’d surprise Chee with the date and hope for the best.
The dances, held at the summer solstice, celebrated the departure of the Katsinas, Holy People of the Hopi, for their summer home on the San Francisco Peaks. Chee knew the mountain as Dook’o’oslííd, one of the four sacred mountains that defined the Navajo world and home of Talking God.
Dashee pushed back his chair. “Think about it, will you? I’ve got to go to the Hotel Hopi to stay warm with our delegation until the session starts. You working out there in the cold?”
Chee nodded. “Only until the mediator arrives, then I’m inside as a bodyguard.”
“I thought you drove him to town last night.”
“I mean from the hotel. His clan sister is bringing his dress-up clothes and she’ll give him a lift to the Justice Center.”
“I bet he was nervous as a one-eyed cat after the explosion.”
“You’d lose. He was calm and collected. Bernie said he was upset about his car, but not especially worried about some jerk trying to kill him.”
He watched Dashee make his way across the street, Highway 264, the route to the Hopi Mesas. The other road at this intersection, US Highway 160, marked an informal boundary between the Hopi reservation and the Navajo Nation that surrounded it. Highway 160 stretched up to Colorado and east to Missouri, but in Chee’s mind, this was its most interesting corner.
He called Palmer to check on him and learned everything was fine. Katie had arrived without incident and would drive him to the session in about half an hour. Chee noticed a missed call from Bernie and listened to her voice mail. She had a couple days off and might come to Tuba City. He called her, but her phone went right to message. “Great,” he told the electronic voice. “Can’t wait to see you.”
He walked back to the Justice Center. A few people had gathered outside the building, some bundled up in hats and coats and others less warmly dressed. He noticed a handful of Indians in the mix but didn’t see anyone he recognized
. They all had assembled by the main entrance and piled their professional-looking signs on the sidewalk near the front doors: “Save the Confluence,” “Love the Grand Canyon,” “Ban the Resort,” and “Developers = Exploiters.” He wondered if they were from Save Wild America. He assessed the group, looking for a leader. No one stood out.
“You have to step back, folks, and put your signs somewhere else. You can’t block the entrance.”
A potbellied man came up to Chee. “We have a right to protest.”
“You do. But you have to move back so people can safely get into the room for the meeting. We don’t want anyone tripping over one of these sticks. That doesn’t do any good.”
“Did you make up that rule about the sidewalk?” The man wore a short-sleeved shirt. His nose and the tops of his ears had reddened from the icy wind.
Chee memorized the face. “It’s a safety issue and common courtesy.” Looking at the protester made Chee happy he had his jacket. “Where are you from, sir?”
The man looked surprised at the question. “That’s none of your business.”
Wherever the man lived, Chee thought, it fell short on good manners. “Well, welcome to Navajoland.”
“Why do you care where I live?”
“I figured you could be from someplace where it doesn’t get very cold. You might want to put on a hat to protect your ears from frostbite.” It was too warm for frostbite, really, but Chee wanted to make a point.
The man said nothing.
“Those signs need to be off the sidewalk so someone won’t fall over them.” Chee was tempted to add, And lighten up while you’re at it.
The man nudged the pile of signs with his foot, moving them barely to the edge of the sidewalk.
About ten minutes later, an Arizona Highway Patrol car pulled up with a couple of men Chee had seen at the meeting. As discussed, they would take charge of the building’s front entrance and help the Navajo cops with parking lot security.
The taller man, Officer Albert Anderson, turned his back to the civilians and spoke in a low voice. “Are these the activists the captain was talking about?”
“I don’t know.” Chee nodded in the direction of the man standing by the signs. “That guy in the short sleeves has an attitude problem.”
Anderson exhaled. “So, we’re off to a good start.”
His partner, Dan Rivera, said, “At least it’s not snowing.”
“Not snowing yet, anyway.” Anderson zipped up his coat and turned to Chee. “Any bigwigs here yet?”
“I don’t know. They’re parking by the back doors and assembling in a room there. Palmer wants them to come into the hall all together.”
“A grand entrance,” Anderson said. “I can hardly wait. How come this meeting is here instead of Phoenix, where it’s warmer?”
“The Navajo Nation thought you guys needed a road trip. The site for the potential resort is only half an hour from here, and Palmer plans a field trip at some point.”
More vehicles began to trickle in. Mostly Navajo and Hopi people now, he noticed, along with a few non-Natives and Indians whom he couldn’t pigeonhole. A handful of new faces joined the protesters. Most of the folks headed inside, and Chee considered that himself. He could stand in the atrium and watch for Palmer without freezing his toes off. But he’d be inside for hours once the meeting started. Best stay here and soak in some sunlight. He’d give Palmer another few minutes and then call him again.
He heard the rumble of a vintage Volkswagen engine. The pumpkin-colored camper van he had visited in the hotel parking lot last night found a spot along the side fence. After some minutes, a man emerged wearing sunglasses, a parka, and a brown knit hat pulled over his ears. He walked to the pile of signs and stopped, talking to the men there. He was carrying something. Something white. Not a gun, Chee thought. At least not a gun like any he’d ever seen.
Then a black limousine pulled into the lot and slowly rolled up to where Chee stood. The driver lowered the window and stopped. “Where is the entrance for the delegates?”
Chee walked toward him. “Head on around the back and use the door there. You’ll see another Navajo cop like me. You can park there, too.”
“I’m just dropping off my clients, but thanks.” The man wore a cap like chauffeurs in the movies. Chee noticed two men in suits in the backseat. One of them leaned toward him.
“Does the session still begin at two?”
“That’s what the schedule says.” Chee knew from experience that Indian Country meetings started when they started, when the time was right regardless of what the agenda suggested. He wondered how Palmer would handle the inevitable discussion over that.
Then he heard an amplified voice. “This is Bebe Durango. Save Wild America to the front. Hustle up now.”
Chee turned toward the noise. The device the man in the brown hat had with him was a bullhorn. People sitting in the cars climbed out and headed toward the front of the building and the limo.
The passenger in the limo who had asked Chee the question said, “Let’s get out of here,” and rolled up the window. Before the big car could move, Durango appeared, blocking the way. He put the bullhorn to his face and started to yell.
“Shame, shame, shame on Canyonmark.” He bellowed it out. The chant became a mantra. Other protesters joined, surrounding the car, waving their signs. The driver inched along, the crowd swarming around the car.
Just as Chee began to think he should do something, the Arizona Highway Patrol officers moved in. Anderson and Rivera stayed calm and professional, and most of the protesters moved back so the car could pass. Chee radioed Redbone, whom the captain had posted at the delegate entrance. “A black limo, a man with a bullhorn, and a bunch of protesters headed your way. Everyone seems calm enough now.”
“I hear them. A few protesters are back here, waiting for the car.”
Bebe continued yelling at the limo. He and the sign people followed the car out of Chee’s sight.
As Chee headed to the front doors of the Justice Center, a young Navajo man, short and slim in jeans and boots, walked up to him.
“Yá’át’ééh, Officer.”
“Yá’át’ééh.”
“Do you know if Mr. Palmer is here?”
“I haven’t seen him yet.”
“But he’s supposed to be here, right?”
“You bet. He’s the guy running the sessions. What do you want with him?”
“Oh, we know each other from way back. I’m hoping to talk to him for a minute or two before the meeting begins. Thanks.” The young man pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his ears and walked past him through the big doors and into the building.
Chee stood in the sun, enjoying its faint warmth on his face. He liked the contrast to the frigid November air. The man with the bullhorn must have put it down, because he didn’t hear the shouting anymore.
People continued to arrive. Some greeted him with a nod and looked slightly familiar from his time working at the local substation. Most of the people he remembered vividly wouldn’t be at the meeting, he thought. They were in prison.
A pickup truck pulled into the lot and drove close to the front doors. He noticed an attractive Navajo woman sitting tall behind the steering wheel, her hair pulled into a ponytail. The passenger door opened, and Aza Palmer climbed out wearing new jeans, black boots with a shine to them, a Pendleton jacket, and a cream-colored cowboy hat. He looked more like a rancher than a lawyer, Chee thought, and the look was probably the perfect persona for the people gathered inside. He carried the black leather briefcase he’d had in Chee’s unit over his shoulder with a strap.
“Hey there. Good afternoon,” Chee said.
“Yá’át’ééh.” Palmer waved at the truck as it left. “My clan sister, Katie. I’ll introduce you next time.” He looked around the parking lot. “Not many protesters.”
Chee said, “Most of them are around back, chasing a limo.”
“A limo?”
“One
of them recognized the developers inside.”
“You’d think those people would try to blend in with the common folks a little better to limit the antagonism, wouldn’t you?” Palmer turned toward the building. “Let’s go in. I want to check the setup of the space and see if I can tell what the climate of the room is.”
“All the heating is centrally controlled. So are the lights. State-of-the-art.”
“I meant, is the audience curious, angry, restless, worried? Who wants to make a scene? I know some of these people have come a long way, given up their weekend because what happens with the resort, with the Grand Canyon, matters to them. The delegates and I get to practice listening. That’s a great skill to hone for the sessions to come.”
“How many people will you let talk?”
“All of them who’d like to, but I might have to impose a time limit.” Palmer moved the briefcase higher on his shoulder and started for the building.
Chee said, “There was a young man here who wanted to see you.”
“That’s interesting. He didn’t have a suicide vest, did he?” Palmer grinned.
“Not that I noticed. He went inside.”
They walked together through the big doors and down a tiled hallway, the heels of Palmer’s boots clicking against the hard floor. He was slightly taller than Chee, but they fell into an easy cadence. Palmer moved like a man with a mission, as though he looked forward to serious work ahead.
Chee ushered him to the head of the line of people waiting to go through the metal detector. “Excuse us, folks.”
Palmer gave his bag to the guard, took off his smooth black leather belt with the sand-cast silver buckle. He put his hand to his bolo tie, a piece of turquoise framed with a thin band of silver at his throat. “Do I need to take off my bolo and the jacket?”
The guard looked at the string tie with its silver tips. “It will be fine. Any keys or metal in the jacket pockets?”
“No.”
Song of the Lion Page 8