McBee set a trial date—five months. This wasn’t going to drag out with delays and appeals if he could help it. Justice delayed would be justice denied in this case. He wanted us to move ahead as quickly as possible.
John Q. objected to the trial date, as I’d known he would, claiming he wouldn’t have enough time to mount a proper defense. Judge McBee denied that motion as he’d done the others. The trial was going to happen—the sooner the better.
As I had expected, Jerome was forceful and aggressive about maintaining his innocence, insisting he’d been set up, a victim of a conspiracy—by whom, he didn’t say. Several tabloid television shows, Geraldo, Larry King, etc., interviewed him from his cell. Finally, Judge McBee got annoyed with all the publicity and the aggravation and put a halt to it.
That Jerome had hired John Q. Jones as his attorney was a powerful indication of the seriousness of this trial, and that it was going to be fought to the bitter end. (It was unstated but understood, certainly by me at least, that friends of Jerome’s inside the DEA were paying the legal bills, which would be high, well into six figures.) John Quincy Jones (John Q., as everyone in the legal world addresses him) is an old man now, over seventy, but still formidable as hell. The grand old man is semi-retired now, but he’ll let himself get pulled into a case if the merits stir his blood. Defending a man like Jerome is classic John Q.: he’s as polar opposite from supporting government agencies such as the DEA as any man in the country. But he’s a staunch believer that every man, no matter how vile, must have the best defense he can. I knew John Q. would give me everything I could handle.
My preparation was done at my office in Santa Barbara. There was no reason for me to physically be in Muir County; I could work more comfortably and efficiently in my own space. My investigators drifted in and out as I needed them. On the few occasions I had to be in Blue River, I flew in, took care of business, and flew out. I only spent a few nights, none in Nora’s company. I was cordial with her, but distant—I had no further need for her, it was up to me now.
I had a strong case to prosecute. True, everything was circumstantial; we didn’t have an eyewitness to the killing, nor did we have a ballistics match to the bullet that had killed Juarez. But the evidence was overwhelming, nonetheless. In my days as Santa Barbara D.A. I had prosecuted many cases that didn’t have nearly as much evidence, and I’d gotten easy convictions in almost all of them. This one was a winner—my instincts told me so, and my instincts are rarely wrong.
A month before the trial was to start we moved back to Blue River. Riva and Buck were coming, which was great. I needed the ballast she provides, and her being there would keep Nora off my back. I estimated that the trial would take no more than two or three weeks, after which I could return to my everyday practice and my normal, easy life. My fervent wish was that this would be my last brush with celebrity. I’d had enough of the limelight.
Louisa Bearpaw E-mailed Sylvan Furness and told him they’d be down in the morning with the deposit money. He hadn’t expected that; for all her confident talk, he had thought the tribe’s crazy scheme—which was how he saw it—would fall flat. Where was the poor tribe going to come up with that kind of money? But there was the message, on his computer screen: They would be in his office tomorrow morning, ten o’clock sharp. Check in hand. Have the papers ready for signing.
Louisa breezed in, her entourage in tow, including the tribe’s lawyer-accountant, a middle-aged Chinese-American man from a prominent San Francisco firm. She was wearing a sharp-looking dress in a silklike fabric that accentuated her good features. Her thick hair flowed down her back in a long braid, her dark eyes were bright, fiery. A warrior princess, ready to count coup. Metaphorically, that is.
“You got the paperwork ready?” she asked peremptorily, skipping the amenities. The tribe had been waiting months for this day.
“Nice to see you, too, Louisa,” Furness said. He was nervous; his palms were sweaty. He wasn’t used to dealing with this tribe in this fashion, equal to equal.
“Sylvan.” Louisa leaned forward on his desk, bracing her weight on her hands, which were splayed out on the surface. “We can chitchat later. Okay?”
“Sure, Louisa.” She was in his office ten seconds and he was on the defensive already; she was a manipulator, a good one.
“So, Sylvan. The documents. May we?” Her hand was outstretched, practically in his face.
He handed her the thick, ten-by-fourteen-inch manila envelope. She passed it behind her to the accountant without cracking the clasp. They had already seen the preliminary draft; this shouldn’t have any surprises. Still, she asked, “Do we have to read this telephone book?”
“You know you can trust me,” Furness assured her with a friendly smile.
“We have to read it,” the lawyer-accountant said firmly.
Furness flushed. He was offended; not that the accountant should want to read it, of course he should—it was his tone of voice, simultaneously accusatory and condescending.
“Do you have the money?” Furness asked curtly, fighting for equilibrium.
She opened her purse and withdrew a legal-sized envelope. White, with a window in it for the recipient’s name and address: U.S. Department of the Interior. He could read the words through the cellophane. She handed it to him across the desk.
“You don’t have to read it,” she said, grinning mischievously.
He couldn’t help himself—he opened it.
The check was made out on the tribe’s account. One hundred fifty thousand dollars.
“It’s good,” she said dryly. She was smiling, feeling her oats.
Furness wasn’t. “I’m sure it is,” he responded stiffly.
The lawyer was perusing the document, flipping the pages rapidly.
“How does it look, Julian?” she asked. “Can we trust the white man this time?”
“You never can trust the white man,” the lawyer replied humorlessly, not lifting his eyes from the pages. “That’s why you hired me.”
Furness wanted to say something about her trusting him, but decided it would sound wimpish.
They all waited in silence while the lawyer took his time. He turned over the last page and looked up. “It’s okay,” he pronounced.
Furness, who had been standing rigidly without realizing it, sat down behind his desk, using it as a psychological barricade.
“Let’s go over the basics, so we’re clear with each other,” he said. She wanted business? Fine, he’d give her business. Official, formal business.
“Let’s,” Louisa came back at him, still smiling, as if to say, We’re friends, Sylvan. It was another way of trumping him, he thought, looking at her seated across the desk, one leg insouciantly crossed over the other.
“This is a six-month option to buy the property,” he said, referring to his own copy of the document. “That’s clearly understood?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“If the transaction goes through, we’ll transfer title to your tribe, and you’ll annex it. Washington’s okay with that, since the land’s contiguous. The full purchase price is one million, three hundred thousand dollars. All cash, no bank contingencies, no second trust deeds, no notes of any kind. Cash on the barrelhead.”
“Correct,” she said firmly. She didn’t look back at her lawyer—she was in charge.
“If you don’t pay the remainder within the prescribed time, you lose ten percent of your down payment, fifteen thousand dollars. No extensions. Agreed?”
“It’s your property, you hold the cards. As usual,” she added caustically.
“As you’ll notice,” he continued, ignoring her sarcasm, “it’s been signed by the secretary of the interior. You’ll sign as representative of the White Horse Nation. You’re authorized to do this?”
This time, she glanced behind her, at the others in her party. They nodded their approval.
“Yes, I have authorization.” She reached into her purse and took out an old-fashioned fountain pen
. Her lawyer handed her the papers, placing his finger on the proper line for her to sign.
“Remember, Louisa,” Furness said in a last cautionary note, “if you don’t make the rest of the payment, you lose this opportunity. There won’t be any extensions. The property will go on the auction block. We’re giving you a first look here, so that’s how it has to be.”
“I understand all that,” she said impatiently. “Can we sign now, please?” She was holding her pen, her hand poised above the document.
“Yes,” he said, feeling a sadness he didn’t fully understand. He wasn’t going to see her much anymore, he knew.
She inscribed her signature in the appropriate places, both on the tribe’s copy and the Interior Department’s. Furness placed his in the top desk drawer; it would be pouched to Washington in the morning. The tribe’s copy went back into the manila folder, the lawyer tucking it protectively under his arm.
“You have one hundred eighty days to raise over a million dollars, Louisa,” Furness lectured her, unable not to be a bureaucrat. He gave her and the others what he hoped was a stern look. “If you don’t, you lose your chance. And your money.”
He was dubious about their ability to raise the remainder of the funds in so short a time; as the BIA representative, he knew how much was in their kitty for speculative ventures—not much, nothing near the million-plus dollars this agreement required. It wasn’t coming from other tribes, the department had checked that out. Nor was it Nevada gambling money—the casinos were fiercely opposed to Indian-reservation gaming, it took money out of their pockets. They’d spent millions fighting various state ballot initiatives permitting expanded reservation gambling—they weren’t going to subsidize their competition.
Louisa stood up, her smile fixed on her face.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him. “The white man will get his money. And the Indian will get the land. Finally.”
Riva had a surprise for me when I came back to our home away from home at the end of my workday.
“Honey, meet Joan Canyada,” she said, angling her head in the direction of the dining area, which we’d set up as a play station for Buck, with his toys scattered about the floor and a portable crib pushed up against a corner, in sight of the kitchen, from where she could keep an eye on him.
As I looked over, a young Indian girl jumped to her feet, scooped our son onto her hip with a practiced gesture, and came forward. She’d been down on the floor on her hands and knees, playing with him. He clung to her like a little monkey.
“Hello, Mr. Garrison,” she said, extending her free hand.
“Hello,” I replied, shaking her hand. I leaned over and took him from her. He snuggled up against me.
The girl looked to be in her late teens or early twenties, although I’m not good at guessing the ages of Native Americans—living up here was my first experience with them as regular people you see on the street. She was wearing jeans and a halter top, her thick black hair pulled back off her face. Pleasant-looking girl, flat features, on the solid side.
“Joan’s going to work for us as an au pair while we’re here,” Riva explained. “It’ll free me up to get out occasionally, or if you and I want to have an evening out.”
“Sounds good.” I was glad Riva had done this; I didn’t want her going stir-crazy up here. And having someone like this girl was much better than having Nora baby-sitting for us, as she’d volunteered to do. The last thing I wanted was Nora and Riva spending time together, especially without me around.
“Joan goes to community college,” Riva said, wanted me to feel comfortable about this, figuring I couldn’t object to a college kid. “She is taking this semester off.”
I nodded. “Where do you live?” I asked, making conversation.
“The White Horse reservation,” the girl answered, making a face. “North of here.”
I knew of the White Horse reservation, although I’d never been there. It was the largest reservation in the area. I remembered that Bearpaw, Tom Miller’s main deputy, was from the same reservation.
I mentioned that to her: “Do you know Wayne Bearpaw?”
Her dark complexion reddened visibly. “Everybody knows Wayne,” she answered with a girlish titter.
The way she blushed and answered confirmed my intuition, when I’d first met him, that he was one of the local heartthrobs.
“My girlfriend Maria goes with him,” she added. “I see him around a lot.”
“He’s a deputy sheriff,” I explained to Riva. “He was there that night, with Miller.”
Riva cocked an eye—that was new news.
“He’s on my witness list,” I told her. “He and Miller are helping me out now, also.”
I turned to the girl. “So you’re off college for a while?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you working somewhere else?”
She shook her head. “There aren’t many good jobs around here for kids my age.” She paused. “There aren’t many good jobs for anyone around here. Especially my people.”
The reservation had a high unemployment rate, that I knew. “Well, glad to have you with us,” I told her, hoping my tone of voice would put her at ease.
“Joan’s going to be living here with us,” Riva said. “She’ll sleep in Buck’s room with him. They’re getting along great already.”
As if in confirmation, Buck reached out to Joan. She took him from me.
“He likes you,” I said. “He doesn’t do that with everybody.” He is gregarious, but he has his likes and dislikes, like all of us.
“He’s a sweetheart,” she cooed, nuzzling her lips against his neck, which brought forth a giggle. “We’re already good friends. Aren’t we, Buckaroo?”
“Yes,” he squealed.
I shrugged out of my coat and loosened my tie. “I’m going to make myself a drink. You want one?” I asked Riva.
“There’s a bottle of white wine open in the fridge. We’re having trout for dinner. Fresh caught. Joan brought it.”
“My uncle fishes about every day,” the girl said. “Hunts in the winter. How he puts food on the table.”
I remembered Nora telling me about the venison she had in her freezer. It was a common thing, obviously. Especially in a region where hard cash was scarce.
“Now that you’re home, I’ll get dinner started,” Riva said. “It won’t take long.”
After pouring a couple of glasses of wine and handing Riva hers, I looked through the mail. Most of it comes to me at the office—this was flyers and a few magazines, forwarded from Santa Barbara. I leafed through a week-old Sports Illustrated.
“I want to thank you for letting me live here with you.”
I looked up. Joan had come up behind me, Buck in tow.
“This is much nicer than…where I live. Way nicer.”
“Glad to have you.”
She shifted from one foot to the other. “You’re going to be trying that case soon, aren’t you?”
“Do you know about it?”
“Everybody around here knows about the trial,” she said energetically. “It’s the biggest thing to hit this county in years. Nothing ever happens around here,” she added, as if implying, This is a dull and boring place and I can’t wait to get out. “But that’s going to change.”
“How so?”
“That fancy spread? The one the dope dealers owned, where the raid took place?”
“Yes?” I sipped my wine.
“We’re going to buy it.”
I looked over at her. “You’re what?”
“My tribe. We’re going to buy it.”
“Oh?” I hadn’t heard anything about that. Something like that was outside my purview, so it wasn’t my affair, but in a small community like Blue River there aren’t any secrets. Not that this was a secret, obviously. What it meant was, I wasn’t part of this community. I put my blinders on and did my job and that was it. It was an interesting development, though.
“Does the tribe have
plans for it?” I really didn’t care, but she was standing right there, I had to say something.
“We’re going to set it up as a casino.”
“A casino? Way out here?”
“If you build it,” she informed me boastfully, “they will come.”
Where had I heard that line before? “I guess so. People like to gamble, that I know.”
Like most prosecutors—or ex-prosecutors—I’m not in favor of widespread gambling. It’s a vice, and vices attract undesirable elements. Vegas and the other multibillion-dollar meccas notwithstanding, nothing good comes of it, except to those running the show, and the shadowy figures who operate behind the scenes.
“It’ll be a way for our tribe to become self-sufficient,” she said, sensing my disapprobation. “We’re not sitting on oil welts or mineral rights.” She was almost defiant in her attitude.
“Well, that’s a good thing,” I said as mildly as I could. I didn’t want to get in an argument with this kid, right off the bat.
She, too, was happy to retreat. “Would you like me to give Bucky a bath? Or is that something you and Mrs. Garrison do?”
I looked at my son, nestled in her arms. “Do you want Joan to give you a bath, Buckaroo?”
“Yes!” he said happily.
“Go for it,” I told her.
She carried him into the bathroom, started the water running. I changed into a T-shirt and shorts and joined Riva in the kitchen.
Three weeks to go before the trial began, John Q. Jones paid me a visit. We sat in my office, the door closed.
“I can’t believe a lawyer as smart and experienced as you is going ahead with this meshuga case,” he said, immediately going on the offensive.
I laughed. “You can do better than that, John Q.”
“It’s crazy,” he said, persisting. “You don’t have a case.”
“You’re grasping, big fella.” I grinned at him. “You wouldn’t be here if you really believed that.”
“I’m here because I like and respect you, Luke, and I don’t want to see you make a fool of yourself.”
I leaned back, still smiling, not wanting to laugh in a legend’s face, but unable to restrain myself. “That’s damn nice of you to consider me, but I can take care of myself.”
Above the Law Page 35