Song of the Lion

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Song of the Lion Page 9

by Anne Hillerman


  “No gun or knife?”

  “Nothing.” Palmer walked through the metal detector without setting off the alarm. The guard inspected the bag and belt, handed them back, and turned to the next person in line to repeat the process.

  The building was new, part of the big judicial complex the tribe had constructed over the last few years. Chee had been inside before for hearings, and he liked it, a place to be proud of.

  Mediation, as Palmer had explained it last night, was similar in some ways to the Navajo’s long-established Peacemaking process. But in Peacemaking there was no neutrality. A family matriarch might be the facilitator, and she had an interest in the outcome: getting her clan members to shape up. Unlike a mediator, she would offer suggestions for solving the problem.

  Chee led him to the meeting room, a large, bright space filled with conversation. The door to the hallway had been propped open to make it easier for people to come in. The audience section, already half full, contained an interesting assembly, Chee thought. Men in cowboy hats and shirts with pearl buttons, women in tailored suits, Hopi people looking serious in their best outfits. A scattering of Navajo men in their best jeans and matriarchs wearing velvet blouses and silver necklaces, perhaps including a classic squash blossom and armfuls of turquoise bracelets. Weathered bilagaana men in hiking boots, probably Forest Service, National Park, or Bureau of Land Management retirees, he thought. He noticed Indians who didn’t look Diné or Hopi, maybe Havasupai or Hualapai, two other tribes with a direct and compelling interest in Grand Canyon issues. Behind the audience seats and off to one side, a uniformed Coconino County deputy had positioned himself against the wall near a microphone installed for audience comments.

  After surveying the room, Palmer walked onto the stage, put his bag on the table, and studied the delegate seating arrangement, a set of narrow tables covered with white cloths and positioned in a semicircle, facing the audience. A podium with a microphone stood to the left.

  He turned to Chee. “This will do for now.”

  “I can get someone on the staff to rearrange it if you want a different setup.”

  “It will work for introductions and audience statements. When we reach the time for the delegates to talk and listen to each other privately, we’ll create a circle.”

  Chee looked at the folding chairs onstage. “Who will be here? I wasn’t expecting such a large group.”

  Palmer counted them off on his fingers. “We’ve got Native delegates from five tribes. The Forest Service, the Park Service, the developer, the Grand Canyon Protectors, representatives from the EPA, and the Arizona Department of Environmental Quality.” He listed a few more groups Chee had never heard of, then opened his black leather bag and extracted a folder. Chee watched him take from it a couple of sheets of white letter-size paper, which he placed on the podium. Then Palmer pulled out some tent-shaped signs made of heavy white paper with each person’s name and agency.

  “Want me to put those on the table?”

  “No, I’ll do it. I’m considering where people will be sitting today. Relax, Sergeant. I’ll let you know if I think someone else wants to blow me up again.” Palmer walked to the podium. “I’m going to stand here, read over my notes before we start, and collect my thoughts for a few minutes.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “How about a bottle of water?”

  “Sure.”

  Chee had never been a bodyguard before. The closest he’d come was escorting prisoners to jail or to court. He’d never liked that much either, but it was more exciting than watching people come into an auditorium while Palmer silently read notes. He looked into the audience for the young man who’d wanted a word with Palmer but didn’t see him.

  He had no idea where to get a bottle of water, but he figured he could find someone who could help with that. In the hallway he saw a county sheriff’s deputy talking to a group of people in Save Wild America T-shirts. Everyone looked peaceful; he didn’t interrupt.

  He walked toward the entrance, checking the alcoves for vending machines along the way without success. He asked the security guard about it.

  “There’s a machine down the hall to the right,” he said. “But I don’t think there’s water in it. Just sodas.”

  The guard was wrong. Ever since the Navajo Nation had increased the tax on soda and junk food, vendors made an effort to stock machines with healthier choices. Bottled water took its place alongside the colas, diet drinks, and root beer.

  Chee found change in his pocket, just enough for a bottle. As he was heading back to the meeting room, he felt his phone vibrate.

  Bernie said, “Hi. How’s Tuba City?”

  “Quiet and cold,” he said. “What’s new in Shiprock? Anything on the bombing?”

  “Yes, actually. The man in the parking lot died and the feds already ID’d the body.”

  “Anyone we knew?”

  “No.” She saw no reason to say the name of the dead man and Chee didn’t ask. “A witness I talked to saw another person hanging out, looking suspicious. That guy—or maybe it was a female, too dark to tell—didn’t match the description of the victim but might have something to do with that bomb.”

  “Ah, a homegrown conspiracy,” Chee said. “I bet Cordova loves that.”

  “Shiprock is buzzing with agents and investigators. Acronyms I never heard before.”

  “Same here in Tó Naneesdizí.”

  “Have you talked to Dashee?”

  “He bought me lunch. He wants me to help him with a job involving some trespassing livestock.” Chee summarized the details. “I told him I’d think about it. I’m not sure how involved this bodyguard stuff will be.”

  “Guess what? I got a call from Palmer’s ex-wife.”

  “Did she call to confess?”

  “You’re funny. She said she was worried about him. I went to high school with her.”

  “Were you friends?”

  “Not exactly. Lona liked boys, and I liked basketball.”

  “I’m glad you like this boy now. Did she say anything relevant to the bombing?”

  He could tell by the silence that the question caught her off guard.

  “I’m not sure,” she said finally. “I figure the bomber targeted Palmer, but the feds won’t say for sure yet that it even was a bomb. Maybe the bomber wanted to damage the school or make a statement against basketball and picked the BMW because of where it was parked.”

  Chee laughed. “Clever, Manuelito. Evading the question by challenging my assumption. I guess that means you forgot to ask her. Did she have murderous tendencies in high school?”

  “I don’t think so. But she and Palmer fought a lot, breaking up, getting back together.”

  “Sounds like high school. Speaking of Palmer, I need to return to my babysitting job. Catch you later.”

  In the minutes he’d been looking for water, people who had arrived too late to get a seat had gathered in the hall outside the meeting room. Officer Rivera stood straight, shoulders back and legs apart, talking and stressing his points with his hands, unsmiling. Chee knew the pose, designed to forestall arguments. Closer, he caught the last of what Rivera was saying: “. . . can’t sit on the floor or the steps. All the seats are filled, and the fire marshal set the limit for occupancy. When and if someone leaves, someone can come in.”

  The man in a red T-shirt with a Save Wild America logo scowled. “That’s not fair. This is supposed to be the session for public comment. You guys should have found a bigger room, but hey, these sessions are always rigged anyway.”

  The officer said nothing.

  Red Shirt said, “We’ll stay here in the hall until that guy Palmer agrees to let us talk.”

  The officer said, “You can stay as long as the noise out here doesn’t disrupt the meeting and as long as your people don’t block the flow of the traffic.”

  Red Shirt turned to Chee. “I saw you talkin’ to him. Tell him he needs to come out here and listen to what the real people
have to say about the development.”

  As he entered the room this time, Chee noticed a second person onstage. He stood facing Palmer, who sat at the long table for the delegates. He was of average height, made taller by his hiking boots. Chee couldn’t see his face, but noticed that he wore a vest over his fleece jacket and a cap. He moved closer to Palmer, pointing at him with an extended index finger, a rude gesture in the Navajo world. Chee noticed the startled expression on Palmer’s face and sensed the man’s anger even before he caught the end of what he was shouting: “. . . good-for-nothing jerks.” Then he saw the man reach toward his vest pocket.

  Chee leapt over the top steps onto the stage. “Police. Put your hands where I can see them. Step away from Mr. Palmer.” The man glared at him, then stepped to the side with a string of obscenities.

  Palmer rose and took a step toward the man in the cap. “It’s OK. Easy on him. Easy there.”

  Chee wasn’t sure if Palmer meant the “easy” for him or Cap Man.

  Cap Man spit out the words, “It’s a sad state of events when a person can’t express an opinion without police harassment.”

  Palmer turned to Chee. “I know Mr. Blankenship. He’s one of the delegates. I met him on an earlier mediation for another resort. You can back off, Sergeant. It was just a discussion.”

  Knowing someone didn’t guarantee the person wouldn’t harm you. In fact, Chee had seen the opposite too often “I was watching you. I could tell he was angry and I saw him reach for something.” Then he gave Blankenship his best “don’t mess with me” look.

  The man scowled back. “I was going to show him something from my billfold. You got a problem with that?”

  Blankenship extracted a smooth brown leather wallet, opened it, and pulled out a small photo. “I wanted him to look at this.”

  Chee glimpsed at a photo of a group of people standing outside along a river. Blankenship held it close to Palmer’s face. “That’s what I’ve been talking about. You’ve got the power, man. Make a difference. Let the river live.”

  Blankenship massaged his arm where Chee had gripped it. “What you just did, jumping to an assumption there, is why law enforcement has a black eye these days.”

  Palmer said, “Let it go. The officer was just doing his job.”

  “His job isn’t to terrorize people, last I heard.”

  Chee said, “Go outside, sir. Calm down. Get that temper under control.”

  “You’re the one who lost it. You’re just another empty-headed cop.” Blankenship stomped down the steps and out the back door.

  Palmer sat down again. “Thanks for the water. I’m going to get things started here in a few minutes. It would be best if you left the stage.”

  “Why?”

  “I plan to open with a little talk about trust and the value of cooperation. Having a cop standing behind me contradicts that. It says either that I am afraid of something or that you guys, the police, are worried about me. Either way, it’s the wrong message.”

  Chee said, “After what happened last night, Largo and the chief are worried that someone will try to hurt you and disrupt the meeting.”

  “What did happen last night?” Palmer raised his shoulders toward his ears, lowered them. Exhaled. “Something exploded and destroyed a car that happened to be mine. That might have nothing to do with the reason I’m here today.”

  Chee shook his head. “Until the captain tells me otherwise, I’ve got a job to do. I’ll stand over there against the wall at the edge of the stage where I can watch you and the audience.”

  Palmer sighed. “We’ll try it for today.” The mediator walked to the podium, set down some papers, sipped the water, and adjusted the microphone. The noise in the room quieted with anticipation.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. I know we’re running late and I will get started in a few minutes. The delegates are assembling in the next room. Thank you for your patience.” Then Palmer left the stage and Chee heard the sound of a door opening and the thud of it closing again. He knew Silversmith and Redbone were back there, keeping an eye on things, but Palmer’s absence made him nervous.

  Chee stood against the wall, keeping track of how long the man was gone and studying the audience for signs of trouble.

  The people seated in the room seemed mellow. Good. He allowed himself to unwind a fraction of a turn and the fatigue in his muscles and behind his eyes reminded him that he’d had a long day yesterday followed by an early morning.

  Just about the time Chee began to worry, Palmer returned to the stage. Behind him came the delegates. Palmer shook hands with each of them, one by one. He had arranged the representatives alphabetically by their own names, not by the entities they represented. They entered in that order and sat at the table behind tent signs identifying them with who they represented in smaller print below their names.

  Interesting, Chee thought, and clever. Was it a subtle reminder that they could think for themselves beyond the groups they represented? He recognized some of them. He knew the three Navajos: the tribe’s director of development, the head of the historical preservation division, and an elder from the Bodaway Chapter House, the closest local Navajo government unit to where the development might be. He also had met one of the Hopi delegates, a distinguished leader from the Bear Clan. He recognized the developer’s representatives from the earlier encounter with the black limousine in the parking lot, but most faces were new to him. It looked like a fine array of bigwigs. A great place, he thought, for a group with violence in its toolbox to make a statement.

  In the background, Chee heard the pulse of a siren. An ambulance, he knew. And from the growing intensity of the wail, it was coming his way.

  7

  Bernie had awakened before dawn. She went for a long run along the San Juan River, noticing the thin layer of ice along its banks where the shallow water lingered. The dead cottonwood leaves wore a coat of frost that added a gray sheen to their faded yellow. At sunrise, she said her prayers to welcome the day.

  With beauty before me may I walk.

  With beauty behind me may I walk.

  With beauty below me may I walk.

  With beauty above me may I walk.

  With beauty all around me may I walk.

  When she arrived at work Largo told her that Cordova wanted her to set up the appointment with the victim’s grandmother, planned to meet her at the substation, and hoped to leave for the woman’s house as soon as possible. She’d never known an elderly lady who slept in, so she called the number Largo supplied. Not only was it working, but a weathered voice answered. Bernie identified herself as a police officer and asked to speak to Mrs. Nez.

  “Go ahead.” The old lady responded in Navajo.

  “I have some news about your grandson and some questions to ask you, Grandmother. An officer from the FBI and I would like to come and talk to you this morning.”

  The phone seemed to go dead; then the woman said, “Come now.” She gave Bernie directions to find her home.

  Cordova updated Bernie on the investigation, noting that he hadn’t learned anything about the boys who had fled from the gym, that Byrum Lee, the medic, had a clean record, and that Mr. Franklin and the security guards in the Chieftain Pit had all been of great assistance. Initial research confirmed that a bomb—a homemade device, possily detonated with a cell phone or rigged to ignite with the start of the engine—had caused the blast. He wanted to drive, but Bernie persuaded him to ride in her unit, arguing that she knew the way and that the Navajo Police department’s SUV had the clearance needed for Mrs. Nez’s road.

  “Just make sure we get there alive, Manuelito. I’ve heard about your driving.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. A confidential informant. Let’s talk about the interview. Horseman’s last address was with this lady?”

  Bernie said, “Yes. I’ll break the news to her in Navajo.”

  “You didn’t tell her he was dead over the phone?”

  “Of course not. A
fter that, I’ll try to switch to English if she’s comfortable with it. If not, I’m the translator.”

  “Right. Good.” They talked through a few more details and then he looked at his phone. “I’ve got a signal. I have to make some calls.”

  She tuned out his conversation and considered the job ahead of them. She dreaded having to announce death. She’d done it before, mostly in the case of missing people whose bodies turned up long after they had wandered away, often victims of dementia or too much alcohol. Usually, the family was saddened, but not surprised.

  Cordova put his phone down.

  “I’ve got news. A player with Save Wild America, a guy who had been arrested for setting a bomb in California but released on parole, has been tracked to the protest at Tuba City. We’ll have him under surveillance there while we see if there’s a link to the Shiprock case.”

  “Wow. That’s great.”

  “I don’t know about great, but it’s something. Here’s something else I’ve been wanting to tell you. I’ve been reassigned. I’m going to Michigan.”

  “Really?” She wasn’t too surprised. With a few exceptions, most of the FBI guys who came to work felonies on the Navajo reservation left for more prestigious assignments after a few years. “What will you be doing there?”

  “Still Indian Country cases, but a whole different environment and more opportunity for advancement.”

  Bernie had lots of questions. She waited to see if Cordova would save her the trouble of asking them.

  He said, “You know, when I first got here, I thought I’d been sent to the third world. I couldn’t see much except the poverty, the misery. That’s one of the problems with this kind of work. We never get a call that says everything is great. Come on over because the people here love each other. But now, well, now I can find the beauty here, too.”

  He moved his hand toward the windshield, waving at the clear turquoise sky and the tree-covered mountains on the horizon, motioning to include the expansive, arid landscape and a cluster of horses nosing for food. “I mean, not just the geography, but the people out here. It’s interesting. You Navajos, the people from VISTA, volunteers on a church program wanting to make things better. The optimists who work at the public health clinics or come out to teach.The grisly old desert-rat dropouts and the Navajo grandparents who barely speak English, bragging about grandkids who have gone to college. You know, Manuelito, I might miss this. I might even miss you, Chee, Largo, and the rest of the crew.”

 

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