“Number one is, ‘The petitioner has been identified as an American Indian entity on a substantially continuous basis since 1900.’ ”
“My list says, ‘Be identified from historic times until the present on a substantially continuous basis as American Indian or aboriginal.’ ”
Each reviewed the other’s list and the language.
“Your list is clearer,” Sarah said.
“It is. Number two: ‘Prove that a substantial portion of members lives in a specific area or lives as a community viewed as American Indian and distinct from other populations of the area; and prove that members of this community are descendants of an Indian tribe.’ ”
“That’s easy to do in the western states.” Sarah read on for Cooper. “Number three: ‘Prove that it has maintained tribal political influence or other authority over its members as an autonomous entity throughout history until the present.’ ”
Cooper read on, then threw up her hands. “All this crap about documentation. If you’ve been moved around or removed, how can you provide documentation to the very same government that’s screwing you?” She stopped herself. “Sorry.”
“No, no. I understand, but this is even worse.” While flipping through the papers, Sarah had plucked out the criteria needed for an individual to prove he was Indian, as described by the Bureau of Indian Affairs. “This is real betrayal. Worse than ‘screwing you.’ Look at this.”
Cooper read the passage, then said, “This is flat-out impossible. You have to give the maiden names of all women listed on the request for the Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood. So you need, at the least, your mother and grandmother’s maiden names. You can abbreviate that to CDIB. How helpful.”
Sarah continued in Cooper’s line. “Birth certificates? Okay, that’s reasonable. ‘Delayed birth certificates,’ what in the devil does that mean? Death certificates … and ‘the Indian tribe must have a duly adopted tribal ordinance concerning the issuance of such documents.’ So you can’t be born or die according to your customs, you have to do it the U.S. government way and prove it? And your degree of Indian blood can only be computed if there are records of ancestors of Indian blood who were listed on an official roll.” Sarah caught her breath. “This is a bureaucratic paper nightmare.”
“Paper genocide,” Cooper whispered.
“What?”
Cooper explained what Harry had told her about Walter Ashby Plecker and the peculiar phrase linked to him.
Sarah was silent for a long time, then said, “It is genocide. Dear God, it is. Why did Aunt H have all this stuff?”
“Do you think she might have wanted to prove her own Cherokee blood?”
“No. There would be no way to prove it and by now it’s so intermingled with, for lack of a better description, British Isles blood.” Sarah shook her head.
“Yeah.” Cooper stared at the folder, then turned more pages. “Obviously, Hester was fascinated with this. And you know about the Virginia tribes not being recognized by the federal government?”
As Sarah did not, Cooper explained. Sarah exploded, “They’re totally ripped off. It isn’t even the loans and all that stuff. It’s needing to be recognized for surviving at all, for keeping their cultural integrity intact. This may sound odd but one of the main reasons I go to Mass is for the liturgy, for the tradition. It’s my culture. It has been intact for two thousand years. I am saying and praying what people before me prayed throughout the centuries. I need that. Doesn’t it make sense that those of Indian blood need their customs, spiritual solace?”
Cooper returned to the file. “It does make sense. It’s more important than the money, but I’m willing to bet the reason this is all so complicated and difficult is the government doesn’t want thousands of people applying for scholarships, loans, you name it.”
“Everything comes down to money. Like divorce. A relationship devolves into fighting over money and who gets the couch. Pretty much the whole thing repulses me.”
“Divorce?” Cooper half-smiled at her.
“Yeah, but what I’m really talking about is bean counting. That’s what I do at the insurance company: I count beans.”
Cooper took in what the young woman said, then returned her gaze to the file in front of her. “Says here that tribes may purchase or reacquire traditional lands and have the property placed in trust status, exempt from state or county rules, including, in some cases, zoning restrictions.” She read more. “This states the possible land base for Virginia Indians is too small here.”
“I don’t believe that,” Sarah said. “It’s just that the land has been in other hands for centuries. White folks got here in 1607. Well, earlier if you count the city of St. Augustine down in Florida.”
“Here’s something else,” Cooper said. “If a close affiliation with a property can be shown, the tribe might reclaim the lands or demand damages for its ‘illegal’ usage—‘illegal’ is in quotes—many years ago. Means church and school lands used by the Catholic Church, Quakers, etc., could possibly be reclaimed, bought back, and some sort of reparation deal structured.”
“What a mess, except it isn’t because it’s hidden,” Sarah said. “Squelched. People nowadays are too busy downloading the latest film to even think about something like this.”
Cooper smiled again at Hester’s niece. “I don’t think being self-centered is unique to our time. We simply have more ways to pursue it.” She then looked down before exclaiming, “Big bucks!”
Sarah took the paper from Cooper’s hand and read, “ ‘The Mashantucket Pequots of Connecticut run the biggest moneymaker in the western hemisphere with their casino.’ All the other tribal-owned casinos are listed here with profits. And there’s a note at the bottom.”
Cooper read out loud: “ ‘Dear Hester, Per your request. It’s fascinating. Think of the fly rods one could buy with even a sliver of those profits. Ha. Your buddy, Josh.’ ”
Cooper’s face turned pale. “He was onto something. He had to be. He couldn’t have been killed in such a bizarre way for finding an accounting error in the books of the local convenience store.”
“Maybe he wanted to push for a casino.”
“But the Virginia Indians signed away that possibility.”
“Laws can be overturned. It must be something like that, Cooper, because my aunt would never, ever be involved in something underhanded. She wanted just enough to live decently and wished the same for others.”
“Sarah, I know that’s the truth, but your aunt Hester discovered something dangerous, and I’ll bet she shared it with Josh.”
Brilliant sunshine flooded Harry’s fields and pastures Monday afternoon, turning golden the sunflower stubble and the plowed fields.
Soil map in hand, Neil Jordan by her side, Harry stepped over a gray fox den nestled between a deep fold in her back quarter acre where she’d planted Petit Manseng grapes. Foxes love grapes, or any sweet things.
Tucker, his snout smushed down in the opening, announced, “Vixen! I can smell old chicken bones.”
A fox’s voice from within called, “I killed that chicken fair and square, Bubble Butt.”
Pewter, daintily following the dog and Mrs. Murphy, paw midair, shrieked with delight at the female fox’s declaration. “Bubble Butt! She called you Bubble Butt. See, I’m not the only one that recognizes your more ridiculous qualities.”
“Don’t worry, she heard you,” Tucker snapped, a little embarrassed.
“I did,” said the fox. “You can hear Fatty Screwloose for acres when she runs her big flannel mouth.”
Appalled at the insult, Pewter flashed to the den’s opening, pushing aside the dog. “How dare you? Come out of there and I’ll pull every whisker from your pointy face.”
“Come in here and say that to my pointy face,” the gray fox challenged.
Enraged, Pewter stuck her head farther into the den.
Sensible as usual, Mrs. Murphy warned, “Don’t go in there. She has every advantage.”
&
nbsp; “For one thing, I’m not fat,” the fox sang out, enjoying herself.
Pewter moved in a bit farther, to stare into two golden eyes. She hit reverse in a hurry, waddling back out comically.
Tucker held her tongue.
Pewter sat for a moment, licking her paw.
“Come on, Pewts,” Mrs. Murphy told her. “Time to keep up.” Neither she nor Tucker was fooled by the cat’s studied nonchalance.
The three animals scampered up to be with Harry and Neil.
The gray fox emerged from her den to watch. Ever curious about humans and domesticated animals, she wondered how on earth they could get along, but they seemed to do just fine. She liked Harry’s grapes, so she somewhat liked Harry. Sometimes seeds dropped; some corn kernels from a little patch were tasty. This was a perfect location for a den. Occasionally, Tucker would drop and forget a bone nearby. Those were treasures. But still, spending your life following an animal lurching around on two legs? Seemed odd, and perhaps undignified. Humans were so slow, but the two cats and the dog willingly poked along.
“Right here I have a pH of seven.” Harry turned over some dirt with her boot tip. “I’d like to get it to six point five.”
“Let me give you Centerpoint,” said Neil. “It’s one of my best products. Given that you want to experiment with a small portion—what, four by four feet?”
“Right,” Harry answered.
“Spread it by hand, or if you have one of those walking spreaders, the type people use for small lawn areas, that will do it. Mark your corners and I promise you next harvest you’ll see a difference.”
“All right.”
“You’re fortunate to have good soil. Well, good soil for Virginia. Davis loam. Some alluvial deposits.”
“Most of the lower fields are like that, but Dad really kept at them and when I was little we could use muck from the Bay.” She meant the Chesapeake Bay. “Can’t do that now, but that really helped here. We could also use crushed oyster shells.”
“Calcium,” Neil said, nodding. “Well, that’s the best, but since those things are off-limits now, these commercial applications do provide the same things: calcium, selenium, potassium, magnesium, and on and on the list goes. Soil tests are so accurate today they can pinpoint the exact application you need for your specific crop. Much more cost-effective.”
“Until you hit red clay.” She scuffed some dirt with the toe of her boot.
“Harry, we can even enrich that these days. Clay has important uses. The reason so many early Virginian homes are brick is thanks to that red clay. It’s the devil to dig up. But I mean it, fertilizer today helps even that.”
They turned to walk back to Harry’s house, about a half mile away, glowing in gorgeous afternoon light.
“Neil, how’d you wind up selling fertilizer and other ag products? You didn’t go to ag school.”
“My college major was business and I liked it okay, but an old girlfriend, premed, goaded me into organic chemistry. She said it was the washout course for premed and that included vet premed, too. First, I had to take regular chemistry. Liked it. Then I took organic and found I loved it. But what could I do with it? I didn’t want to be a medical student.”
“I think you are the only person I have ever heard say that they loved organic chemistry.” She smiled.
“Actually, a lot of people do, but you have to have a feeling for it, because it’s not always logical like, say, mathematics is. Magic happens in those equations.” He grinned. “Anyway, I graduated from Amherst with a business degree and starting working at a Monsanto satellite company outside of Minneapolis—great city, by the way. That’s when I realized that, much as I did like the business end of the company, I truly liked the hands-on, using the products. Monsanto gets attacked all the time for their genetic engineering of seeds, etc., but I learned a lot, and, Harry, how are we going to feed billions? Twenty-five million babies are born annually in India and seventeen million are born each year in China. They want Western foods, technology, all our goodies.”
“What’s the number of births annually in the U.S., if you know it?”
“Four point three million.”
“Ah.” The implications were becoming dreadfully clear. “All those people in developing countries … if they can’t get enough to eat, seems to me there will be tremendous instability.”
“There already is,” he said with conviction. “Anyway, I started thinking about what to do to make money based on what I was learning, and I decided to go out on my own selling fertilizer. There are good companies that I can call on, get the best products, and, of course, buy in bulk from Mosaic, PotashCorp. I work with the best. Even companies like Bayer, which made their fortunes in other areas in the late nineteenth century, the early twentieth, now have ag arms. Food is the future, not doctors.”
“I believe that.”
“Harry, in the next forty years, farmers will need to produce more than they have in the past ten thousand, and the biggest grain producer in the world is still the United States and it will always be. Huge corn producer, too.”
“That I know. No other nation in the world has the soils, the variety of climate, that we do. But that huge midwestern belt is gold, pure gold. And we are bound by two huge oceans and have the Gulf right in the middle of the country. Fishing alone is worth billions.”
“Like everything else, it’s politicized. Do I think we need to carefully manage our resources? I do. It’s a tightrope walk, so either some of the environmentalists give a little ground or ultimately millions will starve to death and then a billion or so. There will be nine billion people by 2050 and I think you and I might still be alive then.”
“Who knows?” Harry shrugged. “But I can see you do your homework.”
“I wouldn’t be in business if I didn’t.”
“He kind of smells like fertilizer, don’t you think?” Tucker said.
“It’s a medley of smells.” Mrs. Murphy flared her nostrils.
They reached the back porch.
“Come on in for a Co’Cola or maybe something stiffer,” offered Harry.
“Too early for that.” He smiled. “But I could use something cold.”
“I have some iced tea. Always have it, even in winter.”
“Sounds good.”
The animals walked into the kitchen, where Pewter took up her post next to her bowl, just in case.
As Neil sipped his beverage, Harry unfolded the soil map with the plan of her farm.
Neil studied it again. “You’re very fortunate.”
“I am. Given your business and your outlook for the future, I mean that population growth, how do you feel about housing development?”
“In the next ten years Richmond and its surrounding area is supposed to grow by four hundred thousand people. That means good farmland goes under.”
“Does. Well, it’s happening here.”
“Yes, it is, but if developers will plan entire communities with common gardens, wild spaces, stuff like that, or even build more row houses that share an exterior wall, maybe we can limit the damage. People have to live somewhere and not everyone is meant for a high-rise, especially in Virginia. People don’t move to Albemarle County to live in a skyscraper. It’s much easier to make money as a developer than by farming. We need to find that balance, but profit is what drives all business. There’s going to be more development everywhere.”
“Wouldn’t it make sense for, say, Wesley to buy and build on those acres where the soil is poor?”
Neil leaned back. “Sure. But he also has to consider access to I-64, Route 29, good roads in general. Water. Can wells be dug in places where there is no city water? The whole permitting process is complicated, and like every other county in America, there are people on the board of commissioners dead set against any form of growth or development.”
“Right,” said Harry. “So why do you and Wesley want Buddy’s hundred acres so much?”
“Harry, look where it is! Close to Croz
et, a hop to Route 250, maybe a twenty-minute commute to Charlottesville or thirty to Waynesboro, forty minutes to Staunton. Perfect location and the soils seem to be decent, which I don’t like to see built upon, but Buddy’s got corn smut. Those spores have to be in the soil.”
“If he sprays for corn borer, it will somewhat cut down on the smut, not a lot.”
“There is no seed treatment for corn smut,” Neil said, warming to the subject. “You can remove the galls in a home garden, but not for one hundred acres. So he has to burn or plow under the diseased stalks. Burn, then plow, that’s the surest way.”
“He can plant a more resistant variety.”
“Not for Silver Queen.”
“True, but Mexican restaurants like cooking with those galled ears, think it’s a delicacy. And they’ll pay good money for it.”
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up.
“I told Buddy and he called around. Just talked to him this morning, actually. He says he can make more selling to them than he can just selling straight old Silver Queen. It’s too late for this crop—it’s been on the stalk too long—but he’s kind of excited.”
“Harry, you never cease to surprise me. Maybe you saved those one hundred acres from development.”
“Hey, if I can help out a friend, I will. I don’t know if this will help Buddy and his hundred acres, but Tazio and I are going to work to save Random Row. Before Hester was killed, she asked Tazio to head that project. It’s the last thing we can do for Hester, and it’s the best thing we can do for our special history.” She glanced at the calendar on the wall. “Three days until Halloween. Any tickets left?”
“Sold every one.” Finishing his drink, he thanked her, then said, “Well, I’ve got to push off. If you come on out with me, I’ll give you the Centerpoint sample now. Have it in the truck. And I’ll drop some more by later.”
“Great.”
Harry happily followed Neil, Tucker in her wake. The dog didn’t much like the odor of fertilizer, and said so to the cats.
The Litter of the Law Page 15