Sacred Ground

by Barbara Wood

  Harmon Zimmerman represented the homeowners and backed up his analysis of their situation with charts and graphs that he passed around, a flurry of paper to support his case. None of the report pages reached Erica. The men had not expected an eighth member sitting in. The white-haired man with Indian braids, seated on her right, shared his materials with her.

  Erica barely listened to what Zimmerman had to say, she was so angry. Sam and Jared had conspired to keep this meeting a secret from her.

  The morning after the Dimarco cocktail party, Erica had been surprised to see Sam showing Ginny and Wade Dimarco around the camp. There had been other people with them, one man taking pictures, another jotting notes on a clipboard. Erica had asked Sam what it was about, and he had said, “They’re just curious, like everyone else.” The Dimarcos weren’t the first notable persons Sam had taken on a tour of the site; it was something of an honor to be granted access to a project that was off-limits to the general public. However, what made the Dimarcos’ visit different was that not once did they go inside the cave. Wasn’t the cave the whole point? Erica had started thinking, and when she reviewed the night of the Dimarco cocktail party, when she had left so abruptly, she saw something she hadn’t been aware of at the time. Sam and Wade Dimarco with their heads together like conspirators.

  That was when her suspicions had been born. Sam was up to something. In the days that followed, he acted a little too cheerful, a little too spirited, as if to cover up nervousness. And then, just that morning, Erica had seen Sam leaving the compound, dressed in his best suit and whistling merrily. A few minutes later, Jared had also driven out, dressed to the nines and carrying a briefcase. Luckily, the temp secretary was still at Jared’s RV. Explaining to the woman that she had lost the address for the meeting and that she hoped she wasn’t going to be late, Erica had learned that Jared and Sam were headed for a building in Century City where the secretary’s law firm was offering the use of their conference room for a meeting.

  While Zimmerman outlined the loss of income to the homeowners because the excavation was holding up litigation against the builder and insurance companies, Erica finally looked at Jared. And she wondered: the night of the Dimarco party, when she was binding his injured rib and he was telling her about his wife’s tragic death, had he known then about this secret meeting? As he was drawing her into a false confidence, had he already entered into a covert alliance with the men in this room? Because Erica had a strong suspicion of what they were up to here today.

  Barney Voorhees, the developer and builder of Emerald Hills Estates, was next, with a slide show of maps and surveys, grants and deeds and permits, all proving he had developed the canyon properly and legally and that it wasn’t his fault City Hall hadn’t had sufficient soils and geological surveys on file. He, too, argued that the continued excavation held up any progress toward a resolution that would be financially satisfactory to all concerned. The archaeologists, he stated bluntly, were bankrupting him.

  Next, the man from the U.S. Bureau of Land Management erected an easel and gave a well-prepared presentation, complete with graphs and charts, speaking as Zimmerman and Voorhees had in dollars and cents, recommending that the state of California cease the archaeological work at Topanga and instead develop a conservation and protection plan for Emerald Hills Canyon.

  When Wade Dimarco’s turn came, he impressed them all by dimming the lights and causing the center of the table to rise, so that each member was faced with a monitor. His ten-minute video was a masterpiece of computer modeling and special effects, as the audience was taken through a virtual tour of the museum he proposed to build at Emerald Hills. The narrator used the phrase “revenue to the taxpayers of California” more than once. Again, the implication was there: the sooner the excavating of the cave was stopped, the sooner the new Indian museum could bring profits to the state treasury.

  The next to speak was Chief Antonio Rivera of the Gabrielino tribe, whom Erica recognized as the man Jared had brought to the cave in the early days of the project, hoping he could make a tribal identification of the painting. Of advanced age, his face mapped with a million lines and creases, coppery and weathered with small, alert eyes, he spoke softly and solemnly about the holy places of the American Indian. He spoke in the curious hybrid accent of LA’s barrios: the result of growing up in a Spanish-speaking home and neighborhood laced with years of watching American movies and TV. Chief Rivera handed out folios containing color photographs of sacred sites around the Southwest, all of them in various stages of neglect, decay, and vandalism. “Because no one protected them,” he said sadly. “My people are poor, and we are few in number. These were our churches.” He lifted with a shaking hand the photograph of a cluster of boulders engraved with mystical petroglyphs defaced by obscene words in spray paint. “The cave in Topanga was our church. The stone walls, the earth floor, sacred symbols painted there are all holy to us. We would like our church back, please.”

  Jared spoke next. The Indians he represented wanted the project stopped so that they could get their ancestor properly and respectfully buried in a Native American cemetery. His handouts consisted of a petition containing thousands of signatures, and letters from tribal leaders calling upon the good consciences of all religious men, Indian or white.

  He gave a moving speech: “As some of you here know, the Native American Heritage Commission was established in 1976 in response to California Native Americans requesting protection of their burial grounds. Ancient human remains uncovered during construction for housing and roads were ignored and left rotting in the sun by the workers. Archaeologists and amateur collectors came along and collected the human remains without any care or concern for what the Native people were feeling or the religious beliefs of these people. In addition to the insensitive wholesale destruction of burial sites, human remains were being warehoused by archaeologists at locations across California for future research projects.”

  He swept his dark eyes over the faces of his audience, settling a split second longer on Erica. “The taking of these remains was a continuation of the behavior toward Native Americans between 1850 and 1900, during which time ninety percent of the California Indian population perished from disease, starvation, poisoning, or gunshot wound. Alive, or dead, California natives were not treated with common decency and respect.

  “I am here to see that this does not happen in the case of the Emerald Hills Woman. We wish for her immediate removal from the cave for reburial in a designated Native cemetery.”

  While Jared spoke, Erica felt her body and her heart react to the sight and sound of him. As a woman she desired him. But her brain rejected him. She was riding an emotional roller coaster, a ride she had sworn long ago she would never take again. The foster mother, whom Erica had allowed herself to grow very fond of, saying: “We want to adopt you, Erica. Mr. Gordon and I, we want you to be our daughter.” Hugs and kisses and tears and promises. And eleven-year-old Erica spinning dreams and fantasies, giving her hopes wing knowing that she would he part of a real family at last, with a little brother and a dog and a room of her own. No more visits to Dependency Court, no more trying to keep up with social workers who changed jobs faster than the seasons. And then: “I’m sorry, Erica, it isn’t going to work out after all. And given that we can’t adopt you, Mr. Gordon and I think it would be best if you were placed in another foster home.”

  The high hopes, she had decided, like falling in love, were not worth the bitter disappointments that invariably followed.

  Sam was the last to speak, presenting his own graphs and columns of figures to demonstrate the financial cost of the continued excavation to the taxpayer and projected financial loss compared to historical gain. “It’s a money drain.” He looked at each seated man in turn. “A drain,” he said again, as if he’d finally found the word he’d been searching for.

  So Erica’s suspicions were confirmed, the purpose of this secret meeting. Every man in this room wanted the Emerald Hills Project sto
pped for one reason or another: the homeowners to be handsomely recompensed for their loss, the builder to avert bankruptcy, the Indians to have control of the cave and possibly a lucrative tourist attraction, the Dimarcos to build their self-named museum. She wasn’t sure what Jared’s personal motive was, maybe he didn’t have one, and she told herself she didn’t care. She was here for one reason only and that was what she must focus on.

  “Gentlemen,” Sam said, bringing the agenda to a close. “We have heard all the facts presented and we all seem to be in agreement, so I call the question. Is there a second?”

  Zimmerman raised a hand, but before he could second the call, Erica said, “Point of order.”

  Seven faces turned to her.

  Sam frowned. “What is your point of order, Dr. Tyler?”

  “I haven’t been given a chance to present my case.”

  His bushy eyebrows shot up. “Dr. Tyler, you work for the state and I have already presented the case for the state. All sides have been heard. We are ready to take a vote.”

  “May I ask where this agenda was published?”

  He blinked. And then a flush rose up from his collar.

  Erica pressed on: “Surely, Dr. Carter, you are aware that in the state of California, if a commission or an agency is going to take action on something, it must publish the agenda in advance. I found no such public notice in the local newspapers or in the lobby downstairs. Did I miss it?”

  He squared his shoulders. “There wasn’t one. This is just first reading. No agenda has to be published for first reading.”

  “Then no vote and no action can be taken today. Am I right?”

  Their eyes locked across the length of the table while the other participants waited in silence. “Yes,” he said.

  “Therefore, I have something to say.”

  She rose with dignity and spoke in a strong, clear voice. “This morning we have heard figures and statistics. We have spoken of ecology and native rights, environmental impact studies, financial losses and gains. We have heard from representatives of the people and of the environment. One man” —she nodded respectfully toward Chief Rivera— “even spoke on behalf of the cave. I am here to speak on the behalf of someone who cannot speak for herself. The Emerald Hills Woman.”

  “What!” Zimmerman blurted. “Lady, weren’t you listening to him?” he said, gesturing toward Jared. “The man said the Indians want the bones back. They’re going to be buried in a proper cemetery.”

  “That is not sufficient. The woman in the cave was once known by her people, and by her descendants. She has a right to get her name back. This is what I—”

  “It’s a pile of bones, for Chrissake.”

  Erica leveled a cool gaze on Zimmerman. “Sir, I did not interrupt you while you were giving your presentation. May I please be afforded the same courtesy?”

  Zimmerman turned to Sam. “I thought we were finished here. You gonna let just anyone come in and keep this meeting dragging on?”

  Before Sam could speak, another voice intervened softly. “I would like to hear what the young lady has to say.”

  Erica looked at the Indian elder. “Thank you, Chief Rivera.”

  “I, too, would like to hear what Dr. Tyler has to say,” Jared said with a smile. Erica did not return the smile.

  “Very well, Dr. Tyler,” Sam said, not looking happy. “Please proceed, but keep it short.” He made a point of looking at his watch.

  She squared her shoulders. “Gentlemen, I have no charts or graphs, no slide show or video, no fancy binders filled with expensive words. All I have is this.” She reached into her bag and brought out a nine-by-eleven manila envelope. Handing it to Mr. Voorhees on her left, she said, “Would you please look at this and then pass it around?”

  The others waited— some impatiently, some with interest— while Voorhees opened the envelope and drew out its contents. “Good God!” he blurted, staring in shock at the black-and-white photograph. “Is this a joke?”

  “Please pass the picture around, Mr. Voorhees.”

  He quickly handed it to the man from the Bureau of Land Management, who took one look and said, “What the hell is this?”

  “Erica?” Sam said. “What have you got there? What did you bring?” He held his hand out, but the picture was passed first to Jared, whose shocked reaction matched those of the other two.

  “What you are looking at, gentlemen,” Erica said, “is a photograph from the City Morgue. You will find the official stamp on the back. The subject is a Caucasian female in her mid-twenties who was found in a field three days ago, the victim of suspected foul play. Her identity is unknown. She is tagged currently as Jane Doe #38511. The police are trying to find out who she is.”

  Erica had considered making copies of the photo, one for each member of the meeting, but then had decided that a lone photo would have more impact, each man having to face it and deal with it, the lone victim being passed around the table without even the company of cloned sisters. The photo was brutal and frightening. The young woman’s eyes were closed, but she did not give the appearance of sleep. She had clearly not slipped from life peacefully; shadows of the struggle she must have suffered haunted her once-beautiful face. Strangulation marks on her throat stood out in savage relief.

  Jared handed it to Sam, who barely gave it a glance before thrusting it upon Zimmerman. “Jesus!” the movie producer shouted, and jumped as if Sam had put a snake in his hands.

  Erica continued: “This young woman lies naked and exposed on a morgue table. She was once someone’s daughter. Perhaps she was someone’s cherished sister or wife. She deserves to be mourned and remembered.”

  “I still say it’s just a pile of bones,” Zimmerman muttered.

  “Beneath that flesh, Mr. Zimmerman,” Erica said, pointing to the morgue photo in his hands, “is also a pile of bones, as you put it. That woman is three days dead. The Emerald Hills Woman is two thousand years dead. I fail to see the difference. I propose we submit the Emerald Hills remains to DNA testing for tribal—”

  “DNA testing!” Wade Dimarco said. “Do you realize the cost of such a procedure? To the taxpayer, I might add?”

  “And how long would it take?” Voorhees the builder groused.

  Dimarco, his expression stormy, said, “Sam, you yourself said the project was already a drain. How much more money and time are we going to waste on it?” He turned to Jared. “You said you’ve already made arrangements for reburial of the skeleton, right?”

  Jared nodded. “The Confederated Tribes of Southern California wish to assume guardianship of the remains.”

  “We have no right to just sweep that woman under the bureaucratic carpet because of a few dollars,” Erica countered. “The historical evidence in the cave indicates that her descendents intended for her to be remembered. Mr. Commissioner” —she turned to Jared as she brought a piece of paper from her purse— “may I read something to you?”

  The others made a sound of impatience but Jared gave her the go-ahead.

  She read out loud: ” ‘The mission of the Native American Heritage Commission is to provide protection to Native American burials from vandalism and inadvertent destruction; to provide a procedure for the notification of most likely descendants regarding the discovery of Native American human remains and associated grave goods; to bring legal action to prevent severe and irreparable damage to sacred shrines, ceremonial sites, sanctified cemeteries and places of worship on public property; and to maintain an inventory of sacred places.’ This is the mission statement of your own Commission, Mr. Black.”

  “I’m familiar with it.”

  “I thought you might need to be reminded that your primary objective is to find the most likely descendent. Don’t you think that immediate reburial of the skeleton is in direct contradiction of that goal?”

  She lifted the morgue photo, which had made its way back to her. “Gentlemen, let me put it to you this way. Would you prefer that the authorities make no effort to fi
nd out who this woman was?” Erica met the eyes of each man at the table. “If she was your wife, Mr. Zimmerman, or your daughter, Mr. Dimarco, or your sister, Sam, wouldn’t you want the authorities to handle her remains with respect and dignity, and do everything in their power to restore her to her family?”

  Erica placed her palms flat on the table and leaned forward. “Let me finish my work in the cave. It can’t be much longer. Once DNA testing is approved, we should have at least a tribal identification of the skeleton. And maybe that tribe, whoever they are, have a story in their mythology about a woman who came across the desert from the east. They might even know her name.”

  Sam Carter’s small, acute eyes roved Erica’s face, saw the familiar passion and earnestness. He wished he had sent her back to Gaviota and the abalone shells. “You’ll never get approval, Dr. Tyler. What you’re proposing is spending a big chunk of taxpayer money on something the public is going to consider a waste of time and resources.”

  “But I plan to get taxpayer support.” Erica reached into her purse and pulled out a newspaper clipping. “This woman has agreed to help.” She sent it around the table until it reached Sam. He scowled when he saw what it was. Sam was familiar with the columnist for the Los Angeles Times, a woman who was also the founder and president of the League to Stop Violence Against Women. She was famous for occasionally running a Jane Doe morgue photo in her column with the caption: Do you know me?

  “She has agreed to run a photo of the Emerald Hills Woman,” Erica said.

  * * *

  Downstairs in the lobby, Jared caught up with her. “Quite a persuasive presentation, Dr. Tyler.”

  She turned on him. “Did you really think you would get away with this?”

  His mouth dropped open. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You and your cronies holding a secret little meeting—”