Good Friday on the Rez

by David Hugh Bunnell

  As there is no NBA game, my mind wanders back to the trial, that first chaotic day of jury selection. The AIM followers were back, and again they put their powwow drum on top of the Great Seal, took down the American flag, started drumming and singing the Lakota national anthem. The old courthouse had no air-conditioning and temperatures were in the mid-eighties, so the windows in the third-floor courtroom had to be left open. The noise coming from the foyer and from outside was deafening. AIM leaders had planned to add to the pressure by packing the courtroom with their followers, but there was one little problem: they were ten minutes late. Having little appreciation for “Indian time,” Judge Moran pounded his gavel against the sounding block; no one would get into his courtroom until the next recess.

  Box Butte County Sheriff Underwood and Alliance cop Glen Jenkins stood guard outside the courtroom door. Deputy Sheriff Leonard Benze and Nebraska trooper Phil Kuenle, beefy men who were once Cornhusker football teammates, were shoulder to shoulder half a flight down the staircase, blocking AIM leaders and about thirty of their followers. Leaning over the banister, Sheriff Underwood got into a shouting match with Dennis Banks. “Dennis, cut the goddamn racket. You can send in a delegation of four people at next recess. That’s the best I can do.”

  “Bullshit,” Banks replied. “The outcome of this sham trial has already been decided.”

  Some of the women protesters near the foot of the staircase egged the men on, urging them to force their way past the cops and into the courtroom. Violence seemed imminent, but at the last moment, Banks turned his back to the officers and signaled his followers to march back down the stairs. Friends with Yippie movement founder Abbie Hoffman, he was no stranger to the concept of guerrilla street theater, the power of manipulating the media, scaring people into giving in to your demands. Besides, Banks had been to jail on more than one occasion and knew the futility of trying to accomplish anything while locked up. The Indians continued their drumming, singing, chants, and war whoops.

  Defense attorney Fisher discovered an easy way to dismiss prospective jurors. All he had to do was ask, “Are you afraid of the demonstrators?” When the first dozen or so answered, “Yes,” the judge promptly dismissed them. As the pool was only seventy, the odds of having a jury seemed to be slipping away, and Prosecuting Attorney Mike Smith was losing his cool. Dressed in a mod blue-denim leisure suit and polka dot tie, his long sideburns neatly trimmed, Smith took pride in his dispassionate courtroom demeanor, but beads of sweat poured down his forehead; he wanted to shout out, What kind of fucking circus is this? Instead, he asked to approach the bench. “Judge Moran,” Smith whispered, “can’t you please do something about these noisy demonstrators?” The judge agreed to ban them from banging on their powwow drum in the foyer but said he couldn’t stop the AIM people from congregating outside on the lawn. Wisely, he called for a recess. Because this recess allowed AIM to send four people into the courtroom, they readily agreed to move their powwow drum outside.

  Jury selection continued with a bit less commotion. A few more prospective jurors declared that they were afraid of the demonstrators and were sent home. Judge Moran also dismissed the seven Native Americans in the pool. Smith was biting his nails when it came time to question retired schoolteacher Ruth Dempsey. When Fisher asked her if she was afraid of the demonstrators, she said she was “decidedly not intimidated” and could render an unbiased verdict. Her courage seemed to buoy up those who followed. Determined to have a jury, Judge Moran pushed the process to the peremptory challenge stage, where the state and the defense were allowed to eliminate jurors one at a time down to twelve plus one alternate. Fisher and Smith crossed names off a typed list that they handed back and forth to the clerk, Susan Dyer. By two o’clock that afternoon, there was a jury, which included a cross section of white Alliance: retired railroader, housewife, auto mechanic, beautician, farmer, president of the Jaycees, candy-store clerk, pharmacist—plus the alternate, Ms. Dempsey.

  At 3:05 p.m., with the jury seated, attorney Mike Smith made his opening statement. “Eyewitnesses,” he said, “will provide proof beyond any reasonable doubt that Raymond Yellow Thunder was murdered by the Hare brothers and their accomplices. About midnight on February 12, 1972, the door of the American Legion Hall in Gordon, Nebraska, flew open. An Indian man without pants or shoes, Raymond Yellow Thunder, tumbled onto the dance floor. Earlier that night, five people, including the defendants, were driving around Gordon in a 1966 Ford sedan, excessively drinking beer they purchased at the Wagon Wheel liquor store. Upon spotting Raymond Yellow Thunder, one of the five, defendant Les Hare, jumped out of the car and brutally attacked him. He slugged Yellow Thunder in the head, and when he fell to the ground, kicked him with his heavy cowboy boots. Later that evening when they again spotted Yellow Thunder, who was going into a used car lot, they got out of their car to search for him. Shoving him onto the dance floor was their sick idea of fun; they were having a good ol’ time at the expense of this poor Indian man. Yellow Thunder came to the Gordon police station at one thirty a.m. and talked to a policeman on duty who will testify that Yellow Thunder had a large bruise and cut on his right forehead. Five days later, a group of boys playing baseball in an adjacent street discovered his body in the cab of the panel truck at the same used car lot.”

  As Attorney Fisher countered with his opening statement, the strategy for the defense became absurdly clear. Raymond Yellow Thunder had voluntarily gotten into the trunk of Toby Bayliss’s car, which was equipped with a special lever so it could be opened from the inside, and for this reason, Yellow Thunder had not been imprisoned. The defendants had never struck Yellow Thunder. If a blow to his forehead caused his death, it could have been an accident or come from someone else; there were many other people driving about Gordon that night. Taking his pants off and pushing him into the American Legion was a prank—immature, ill advised, for sure, but just a joke. Besides, the defendants figured the American Legion manager would call the police and Yellow Thunder would go to jail, where he would be safe and warm.

  Sitting with their attorneys, the Hare brothers didn’t look like the gruff, macho cowboys who’d abducted Yellow Thunder; they were clean shaven with fresh haircuts, nicely dressed in brown business suits, white dress shirts, blue ties. Instead of scruffy cowboy boots, each wore brightly polished black dress shoes. Throughout the trial, they listened attentively, made eye contact with the jurors, and seemed like nice young men, college graduates who perhaps worked as part-time assistant managers at the local bank.

  * * *

  The shrimp having arrived, I take a break from my musings and marvel at how big, perfectly fried, and scrumptious they are, just as I remembered them. I order a glass of Stella Artois on tap; it’s incredible to me that I can get such wonderful brew in Alliance—when I lived here, we had only Budweiser, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and Schlitz. No Coors, even though the brewery is nearby in Golden, Colorado, less than a four-hour drive away. In 1873, the German immigrants Adolph Coors and Jacob Schueler planned to build their Coors brewery right here. They found the artesian water coming from the Ogallala Aquifer better than the water from the Rocky Mountains. So that the brewmasters and other workers would have a place to stay, Coors built the Alliance Hotel near the rail terminal. But alas, local members of the Temperance Society, pointing out that Alliance already had more than twenty bars, launched a campaign against the brewery that was ultimately successful. Under tremendous pressure from their wives, the city councilmen voted not to approve the permit. Furious, Coors and Schueler banned the distribution of Coors beer in Nebraska, a ban that was to last more than a hundred years.

  “Ridiculous,” I mutter to myself. “Just ridiculous.”

  The young man sitting near me, a nice-looking boy with engaging brown eyes, a ponytail, and hip John Lennon glasses, who ordered Jameson on the rocks and a chef’s salad, says, “What’s ridiculous?”

  I look over at him, slightly annoyed at the interruption, but reply, “Alliance. Alliance is rid
iculous. Did you know we could have had the largest brewery in the world here?”

  His name is Pearce. He’s interested that I once lived here, enjoys hearing my tale about Adolph Coors. I learn that Pearce grew up in Kansas City; went to Rockhurst University, where he majored in electrical engineering; and came here to work on the railroad. He likes it in Alliance. “There are a lot of young people here,” he says. “They come from all across the country. Most didn’t go to college, but they have good-paying jobs thanks to Burlington Northern.”

  I ask him if he’s been to the rez, expecting he’ll say he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but much to my surprise he answers, “Yeah, man, of course. I ride my Harley up there all the time; beautiful country.”

  “But have you been to Big Bat’s?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah. Love the burgers there.”

  “Do you know who Raymond Yellow Thunder was?” I ask.

  “No, never heard of him.”

  I tell Pearce about Raymond Yellow Thunder, the events in Gordon, his killers, the fact that the trial was right here in Alliance. Again he surprises me; he is actually interested, says he is part Indian himself, his father Irish, his mother Choctaw; she grew up near Muskogee, Oklahoma. I ask him, “Do you know the song?”

  “Yeah, I know the song.”

  Spontaneously, not caring what the twenty or so other patrons at Ken and Dales might think, we start singing: “I’m proud to be an Okie from Muskogee, a place where even squares can have a ball.…”

  We laugh. Ken, who is standing in the kitchen, and Dale at the front counter join in the laughter, as do some of the customers, and right then I realize that Alliance is changing. Like me, it seems to have mellowed out, doesn’t take itself so goddamn seriously.

  I ask Pearce, “Do you want to know why the Hare brothers got convicted?”

  “Sure,” he says. “Why did they get convicted?”

  “Two reasons. First, the jury was intimidated by AIM, all the drumming, singing, shouting out on the courthouse lawn. Every second during the trial, even during the deliberations, the jurors could hear the pounding noise. It scared the holy fuck out of them.”

  “And the second reason?”

  “The defense attorney, Fisher, was too clever for his own good. He called the younger, more believable of the two brothers, Pat, to the stand as his last, surprise witness. Might have worked, but the story they concocted was such a whopper, not even the local yahoos on the jury could swallow it. Would you believe, he referred to Yellow Thunder as the ‘Indian gentleman.’ ‘This “Indian gentleman,” Pat said, ‘was obviously drunk, walking down the street on a very cold night. We worried he might freeze to death, so we asked him if he would like a ride.’ Only when they realized how stinky the ‘Indian gentleman’ was did they asked him if wouldn’t mind riding in the trunk. Yellow Thunder was agreeable. He climbed in all by himself. Someone started closing the trunk, and Les told the ‘Indian gentleman’ to look out for his fingers!”

  Pearce and I laugh loudly; I notice that a few old-timers in one of the booths behind us are looking over their shoulders at us. They are not amused; too many strangers in Alliance these days.

  Pearce asks, “So why did they shove him into the Legion dance?”

  “Well, you see, we were all so fucked-up drunk” Pat said, “we figured if we went to the police station, we would all be arrested. So we decided to take him to the Legion. Once we pushed him into the dance without his pants and shoes, the manager would call the cops. The cops would take Yellow Thunder to jail, where he would be safe and warm.

  “Prosecutor Smith had a field day with this bullshit. On cross-examination, he sarcastically said to Pat Hare, ‘So you were being a Good Samaritan? So you took his pants off to refresh him? Your acts were humanitarian? You explained to him how to open the trunk, how he could get out, in all his naked glory, while you drove down the street?

  “‘YOU GAVE HIM A BEER for his troubles?’”

  I explain to Pearce that as far as I’m concerned, it was a proud moment for Alliance that while Judge Moran gave the jurors the option of finding one or both Hare brothers guilty of the lesser charge of assault and battery, after only five hours of deliberation, they found both guilty—guilty as charged—of manslaughter and false imprisonment.

  AIM was so convinced that the brothers would get off, a few had conspired to attack the judge, the Hare brothers, the jurors, and the police officials. They managed to grab about a dozen seats in the courtroom for the verdict. Each protester had a predetermined target. As soon as the “not guilty” verdict was read out, Russell Means would charge the bench to beat up Judge Moran. Others would take down the Hare brothers.

  “So what did the Indians do?” Pearce asks.

  “Hell, they had a party outside on the courthouse lawn, banging away on their drums, singing, dancing all night long.”

  By now, Pearce and I are both drinking shots of Jameson and it’s near closing time—Ken and Dale are anxiously waiting for us to leave so they can close up. Using our cell phones, we exchange contact info, and I tell Pearce if he’s ever in California he should look me up. He’s already my best buddy in Alliance.

  Outside, it is getting cold; the unusual early spring weather is coming to an end. I carefully drive up Third Street, conscious that the days when Alliance cops arrested only Indians for drinking are over, and wouldn’t it be ironic to find my ass in the drunk tank, perhaps the very same one where Chillo Whirlwind hung himself. I try not to drive too slowly either. Somehow Viva VW, like one of Vernell’s Indian ponies, finds its way back to the Holiday Inn Express. I get out and look up. Orion, no longer low in the sky, is high overhead. Again I try to trace a straight line from the three stars making up the Great Hunter’s belt through the Hyades star cluster and on to the Pleiades, but I cannot see either one as the lights of my hometown obliterate the brilliance of the night sky. Here, Vernell would not have been able to find his way back to the little log house in Yellow Bear Canyon. I wonder what percentage of the world’s people look up at the stars but miss the vastness of the universe.

  My phone buzzes. It is a message from Vernell: U must b in Alliance.

  I return the text: Home but lost.

  FINALE

  DEATH OF A CHIEF

  On the first Sunday of Advent, Chief Guy White Thunder slowly rises with the morning sun. He puts on his tattered housecoat and ambles into the kitchen next to his bedroom, not an easy trek for an eighty-nine-year-old man with aging hips, strong hands from years of hard labor, aging knees, and frail ankles. He puts a pot of water on the stove to boil, sits down at the old Formica kitchen table. Guy’s long, gnarly fingers gingerly roll a cigarette from the Bugler tobacco Suzy White Thunder brought to him. He’s lucky to have such a thoughtful daughter-in-law; he must remember to thank her again for being so respectful to elders. Deeply inhaling the sweet smoke, he thinks about his many accomplishments, how he stopped the uranium miners, brought solar energy to the reservation, organized the Grey Eagle Society, fought for the return of Páha Sápa, advocated speaking Lakota at all the council meetings, worked with the United Nations on international treaty rights. He remembers his travels to New York, Washington, D.C., Germany, and Switzerland. I’ve fought the good fight, he thinks, but I’m too tired, too old to fight anymore.

  By now his fifty-seven-year-old youngest son, Anthony, is up, putting coffee into the boiling water, rolling his cigarette. He asks Guy if he wants coffee. Guy mumbles incoherently, which Anthony interprets as a yes. He pours. The two men sit smoking, sipping coffee; they look out the kitchen window through the thin, nicotine-stained curtains Mary White Thunder hung years ago, one of the few signs a woman once lived in this house. The sun is bright; perhaps the snow on the ground will melt today.

  Guy stands up tall, squares his shoulders like those of a much younger man. In a clear voice, he says, “I’ve got to go now.”

  Anthony thinks little of this as his dad walks back into the bedroom. Perhaps he needs
more sleep. Guy White Thunder closes the door and walks over to the old rocking chair; he sits down, closes his eyes, and takes one last breath. A few hours later, I receive an e-mail from Vernell. A one-liner, it reads: “My father passed into the spirit world today.”

  This message brings tears to my eyes. I tell my wife, Jackie, “I’m going back to the reservation. The Chief of the Chiefs, Vernell’s dad, has died. I must go.” The full draft of this book is nearly finished, but it will have to wait.

  Like a president lying in state, Chief White Thunder is placed in an open casket in a community hall behind the Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic church in Kyle. Beside him is his Eagle Staff, wrapped in soft buffalo hide, eagle feathers attached to the red banner down its length, signifying his honor as an akicita, a leader who has earned distinction. Resting atop the curvature of the staff is his chief’s war bonnet with its stunning black-tipped eagle feathers and extraordinary beadwork and quillwork. Directly behind him is a large honorary banner from the Oglala Lakota Nation. It depicts a circle of nine tepees representing the nine districts of the Pine Ridge reservation; across the top are the words GUY HOBART WHITE THUNDER, and on one side, CHIEF, COUNCIL OF ELDERS. Hung across the back wall are dozens of beautiful handmade star quilts of every color imaginable. Resting on tables in front of these quilts on equally beautiful blankets are framed photographs of Chief White Thunder on horseback, with friends and family, with tribal officials. Also sympathy cards, flowers, candles, newspaper and magazine articles, citations, more star quilts, boxes of decorated cakes like those you might find at a birthday or anniversary party. The frosting design on one cake depicts a black buffalo standing in front of two crisscrossing peace pipes, with lettering that says: “In Memory of Uncle Guy.” I can’t help but notice that the label on the cake box indicates that it is from the Whiteclay Grocery & Cake Shop; at least they sell something in Whiteclay besides beer. There are six of these cakes.