Helix

by Dave Balcom

  “How old is she?”

  “DOB wasn’t part of this casual research; if I’d asked too much, there’d be red flags all over the place.”

  “Did you call her?”

  “Saw no need. Thought an enterprising journalist would figure out the best approach.”

  “Thanks, Pete.”

  “Jim? Walk softly on the rez; they can be touchy.”

  “I mean no harm, you know that.”

  “Make sure you do no harm, that’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Chapter 35

  At 11 the next morning, Jan and I pulled our truck up to the ranch home on one of the many well-maintained streets that make up the residential section of the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation.

  I had studied the historic home of members of the Cayuse, Umatilla, and Walla Walla tribes and found it in many ways an exception to the stereotypical Native American reservation.

  The tribal leadership has long been populated by natives who left for educations in law, business, and science before returning to their hometown where, through savvy negotiation, strict leadership, and enterprise, they carved out a successful model of industry and ethnic pride along the banks of the Umatilla River.

  Willow Close’s home was convenient to the Native School where the tribal history, traditions, and culture were taught part and parcel with modern public education. The tribes run a world-class golf and gambling resort, and a high-tech industrial enterprise that created the upwardly mobile employment that fuels this place. My favorite part of the place, however, had always been the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute which offers amazing insight to the life here for centuries before the commercial-oriented tribes had traded canoes for horses to Lewis and Clark when the expedition arrived at the Columbia Basin, and then traded horses for canoes back again as the party departed for the return home – profiting handsomely on both deals.

  The lady who answered our knock that morning would have served as a model for how beautiful women dream of aging. Just a hair over 5-feet tall, and nowhere near 100 pounds, she wore her raven-black hair in a bun; her smile, flashing perfectly white teeth, went all the way to her shining dark eyes.

  Jan extended her hand first, “Willow, I’m Jan Stanton; this is my husband, Jim. We thank you for the opportunity to meet you this morning. Is the timing still right for you?”

  “Of course, thank you both for coming,” the woman said in a calm but lilting voice.

  She led us to the kitchen table, where she had prepared coffee and small vanilla cookies. “We can sit here, if you like.”

  Jan and I took chairs and she poured coffee. When we’d tasted, she called the question, “How may I help you today?”

  “We’re friends with Grace Morton and Elmo Williams, and we volunteer at the Table of Grace soup kitchen,” I began.

  “You’re here about Benny, aren’t you?” She said it in a neutral tone; her expression gave up nothing.

  “Why would you jump to that conclusion?” Jan asked.

  “When a noted journalist and author calls out of the blue and wants to visit a poor Native woman, she wonders why; then he identifies himself with the Table of Grace where Benny gave so much of himself...” She shrugged.

  I couldn’t keep a bark of laughter contained, and that made her giggle; Jan actually put her hand over her mouth to conceal her amusement.

  As we calmed down, she started talking. “I wasn’t the only Indian at Benny’s funeral, but I was the only one who knew him as a gentleman and not just a caring provider of meals.

  “I had the pleasure and honor of getting to know him for what a tortured soul he really was, and I did my part to help him with his ongoing effort to live a life patterned after Jesus’ teachings.

  “It was a struggle for him as it can be for so many; but he was committed to service and giving. We prayed together often, seeking the strength to continue the struggle.

  “Benny and I were together the night before he died. He came by with food at the end of his route, which was his practice. He told me that it might be a while before he’d be back...”

  A tear had magically found its way on her eyelash. She wiped it away with an angry swipe. “Sorry about that, I try not to be overly emotional.”

  Jan reached out a hand, and the woman put hers inside it, and squeezed.

  “Why did he think that?” Jan asked softly.

  “He told me that a powerful man’s son had made it his mission to destroy the Table of Grace. He said this man’s son had decided that the soup kitchen was anti-American because it provided food to immigrants and others who struggle to feed themselves and their families. I, for one, live on a meager allowance that often, before the Table started, left me eating about every other day. I now write a monthly check to Grace, but that check leaves me with ample money to pay for other needs – I have no rent here; the house was deeded to me and my mother years ago by my father.

  “Many older women here rely on the Table for food security, but for some reason this man and his friends see the Table as simply an effort at undermining their precious way of life...” she was shaking her head sadly.

  “Can you tell us anything about this man or his son?”

  “Benny told me once that he didn’t want me to know too much; he felt it would be safer for me if I didn’t know.”

  Jan asked, “Did the Pendleton Police speak to you after Benny died?”

  “Oh, no; they never come out here. Sometimes state troopers come, but always with rez police officers, never alone.”

  “Did the Reservation police ever discuss Benny’s death with you?”

  “I don’t know why they would... I doubt my friendship with Benny would have meant anything to them. We were friends; not lovers.”

  I was taken aback. “I’m sorry; I guess I made an assumption that Benny’s feelings for you were well past casual friendship. I didn’t mean any offense...”

  “Don’t be silly, Jim,” the woman said, her eyes dancing. “I’m 62, Benny was an old 64. Our wild oats are past sowing. If we’d met younger, I’d bet we would have maybe... but at this stage of our lives, company was every bit as important as passion would have been years ago. I have never married, but I have had love in my life. I know the difference between love and passion.”

  “So you never heard a name or any reference to a profession?” Jan asked again.

  “No, none. He just referred always to ‘the man.’”

  We chatted a few more minutes, and as we were preparing to leave, she seemed to become different, almost shy or embarrassed. Jan started for the door, and then stopped, “Jim? Would you wait for me at the truck?”

  I knew an exit order when I heard it, thanked Willow again for her time, and again told her how sorry I was for her loss.

  I was halfway to the truck when the door opened and Jan called out to me, “Jim? Come back, please?”

  There was something in her voice that made me almost break into a sprint, but then, it wasn’t fear I’d heard, “Humor?” I thought.

  Back in the kitchen, Jan was leaning at the sink, her back to the window, her legs crossed at the ankle, an evil grin on her face. “What’s the...?” I started, but stopped as Willow came into the room with four books in her arms.

  “Mr. Stanton,” Jan began, fighting to keep the laughter out of her voice, “you are in the home of a fan. Willow has been wondering since last night how one goes about asking an author to sign a book...”

  Willow put the books on the table, but wasn’t ready to look me in the eye. I took a seat, pulled the top book to me, and fumbled for the pen in my shirt pocket, “Usually, Willow, readers have to run and hide books to keep the author from adding his awful penmanship to the book in question. Am I writing these liner notes to you or are these going to be gifts?”

  “They’re mine; I’ve never met an author I admire before; I didn’t know...”

  Jan piped up from the sink obviously doing as much as she could to keep her mocking tone out of
her comment, “Willow, you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t show up from time to time in the years to come with other copies of his books, hoping once again to be invited to sign.”

  Her giggle caused Willow to look from one face to the other, and, finding mirth in both places, her own smile beamed at us. “Thanks to you both!”

  Chapter 36

  It was just after 1 when we found the partners at the Table of Grace huddled over a paper.

  “Hello!” Jan chirped, but neither Grace nor Elmo responded. Jan shot a questioning look at me, and I shrugged and went in search of coffee. I came back with four steaming cups, served Jan and sat one down for me, then took the others to the end of the counter.

  “Thanks,” Grace murmured, watching Elmo reading silently, moving his lips. “We have to let him have time to absorb the info.”

  I shrugged, sat next to Jan, sipped my coffee, and waited. After longer than it would take to read the Declaration of Independence, Elmo straightened into a stretch, his mouth curled into a grim look, and I could see that with his eyes closed, he was reciting a silent prayer.

  As they took stools on either side of us, Elmo slid the paper to where we could read it without touching it.

  “Oh, no,” Jan exhaled. “Can this be true?”

  “Not without a fight, it can’t,” Elmo said quietly.

  In essence, without the legal jargon, the paper was an official notice to cease and desist the operation of a not-for-profit social services establishment in a neighborhood zoned residential/commercial.

  After the boiler plate, the letter cited complaints of numerous “neighbors” conducting for-profit business establishments. The complaints charged the Table of Grace was attracting people of questionable status who loiter in the area, posing both health and legal threats to the residents as well as disincentives to shoppers and other lawful customers to the neighborhood.

  “How’d this come?” I asked.

  “Registered mail.”

  “When was the hearing before the zoning board?”

  “I wasn’t aware of one,” Elmo grumped.

  “That’s unusual,” I said, thinking it through out loud. “Most of the time when zoning issues are to be discussed, a hearing is called and all affected property owners are notified, usually by registered mail. Are you sure you didn’t miss something? Overlooked it?”

  “We survive on donations,” Grace snorted, “You think there’s any mail that goes unopened here?”

  That made sense to me. “I think God needs a lawyer.”

  “Like we can afford a lawyer,” Grace said, fighting back her tears.

  “Like you could afford a plumber or an electrician,” Jan said. I nearly fell off my stool, knowing how closely she held on to her agnostic leanings. “It’s supposed to be God’s ministry, right? If it’s His will and all?”

  “God is great,” Elmo and Grace recited in unison.

  I remembered why we’d stopped. “Elmo, if Ben had written the words ‘the man’ on a sheet of paper, how would he have spelled it?

  “What?”

  “Humor me, how would he have spelled it?”

  “Probably with at least a capital M, and more ‘n’ likely an exclamation point. What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “Do you ever recall him calling any person other than a policeman “the man?”

  “ ‘You da man!’ When something was going well or someone had pulled off a significant moment, like on a pool table... What’s that...”

  I interrupted him, “We met Willow Close this morning. She told us about a warning she and Ben had received, and she said she never heard Ben mention a name, but always called this guy ‘the Man.’ I think I’d like to know who that would be...”

  We related the rest of Willow’s story.

  “Maybe Ben didn’t know the big shot’s name?” Grace wondered.

  “That’s possible,” Elmo said, “but the old Ben would have made up one for him, Mr. Big or Mr. X; or he just would have called him ‘that guy,’ but I can’t recall him ever using ‘the Man’ except when referring to an officer or judge.” He changed lanes without a signal, “Jim, what would you do if you received this notice?”

  “I’d start by calling the newspaper and asking the city reporter if there were any stories in the past month concerning a zoning board hearing or upcoming zoning appeals hearings. If the reporter gets curious as to why you’re asking, drop down and show that letter.

  “Second, I’d call the council person representing this ward and ask if he/she is aware of this issue.”

  “Anything else?” Elmo asked.

  “If I were you, I’d set another place for dinner tonight or lunch tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “For God’s lawyer. You have to know one’s coming, right?”

  Elmo and Grace sat with a stunned look as we left them at the counter.

  We found Pete Boyd at his desk, and as usual he tolerated me, but beamed welcome to Jan. I couldn’t help but wonder just how great it would have been if I could have had her with me when I did this kind of thing for a living.

  “Jim’s found a hint of a trail, and he wants to pick your brain,” Jan explained our presence.

  “What’s on your mind, Jim?”

  “I need to find a local law enforcement officer – city or county, I think – with powerful, perhaps political or maybe rich, father or father-in-law. I figured you’d know enough background on the local troops to register that general information.”

  “What’s this in conjunction with?”

  I filled him in on Chance’s research in the most general terms. I then shared my current track based on Willow Close’s comments and Elmo’s knowledge of Ben Travis’ speech patterns.

  “Pretty thin, I’d say.”

  I nodded, but said nothing. Jan appeared mesmerized by the upper pane of the office’s lone window. After some delay, Pete roused himself. “Don’t know much about the one guy who might fit that picture; you know him too.”

  “I do?”

  “Well, maybe ‘know’ is a bit strong; but you met him the same night I did...”

  “One of the three...”

  He was nodding, “The big guy with the big mouth, yep. Patrol Deputy Martin Shore.”

  “What’s his daddy’s story?”

  “Not certain, but he carries a lot of clout with the Sheriff. Kid was raised in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho; attended Oregon State, served two tours in the Army. His dad’s a big political fundraiser, and the legend goes that young Marty was in some kind of scrape while overseas, and then came home looking for work. As luck would have it, the kid had nearly completed the state’s mandatory minimum coursework for sworn service, and our sheriff had an opening, so he hired the kid contingent on his completing the Academy.

  “He’s been on staff with the county for six or seven years. Popular with the other deputies; I’ve never heard his name mentioned by our folks, but that’s not all that abnormal.”

  “Brothers of the badge don’t mingle?”

  “Some, but my folks know I have a low tolerance for gossip, and to hear any you have to give a little. Not a career enhancing situation for our troops.”

  I chuckled at that insight. “What’s the disposition look like on Ahmed’s case?”

  “Marty’s on paid suspension pending outcome. His lawyer and the sheriff are pressing hard for a misdemeanor public disturbance, drunk and disorderly; suspended sentence, one year probation, unpaid time off pending completion, then probationary reinstatement to his duties ’til the year’s up.”

  “You’re pretty up to speed on this.”

  “Been keeping my ears open; figured I’d be called as a witness for the prosecution, but there doesn’t seem to be much appetite in the courthouse for a felony trial on this matter.”

  “Anyone talking to the victim of that attack?”

  “I’m told Ahmed is amenable to a settlement in this issue.”

  “His medical costs?”

  Pete n
odded and shook his head at the same time. “That kid just isn’t interested in suing that family for whatever. I heard he told the county attorney, ‘If God forgives him, I will.’”

  Jan spoke up, “There’s a lot of that ‘God’s will’ sentiment running amok this summer.”

  Boyd was thoughtful as he spoke, “You think there’s more to this?”

  I tried to be careful in responding. “I’m weird this way: You say a politician is part of the ‘Christian right,’ and I hear code for Taliban. You say Coeur d’Alene, and I hear Aryan Nations, and I remember Art Truman, the guy I claim shot Ahmed, told me he represents ‘a cause that knows the will of God is for the White Race to rule the world.’”

  Boyd reacted like a man who smells something putrid, “And this all centers in Pendleton, Oregon, the oasis of liberal, progressive thinking in Eastern Oregon? C’mon, Jim.”

  “You have any idea where a guy could find Deputy Shore on a regular basis?”

  “Like where he lives?”

  “Like that, yeah.”

  “So I give it to you, you do what you think is right, and I’m left holding the ‘accomplice prior to the fact’ bag?”

  “If you think I’m going to make you an accomplice to anything, you really don’t know me. I might want to chat with Mr. Shore, but I assure you, I’m not near that point right now.”

  “If you approach that point, give me a buzz, maybe I’ll tag along, you know, to protect my interests.” He was laughing quietly, and I figured it was as good a time as any to truck my butt up on the mountain.

  Chapter 37

  I was just double checking the house in preparation for going to bed when my phone buzzed. “Stanton here.”

  “Jim? Sorry to call you so late, it’s Elmo.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Oh, sure, but I had to call you. Did you ever hear of a lawyer by the name of Mary Elizabeth Rooker?”

  I felt faint for just a second, and plopped myself into my chair as a memory washed over me, “I know Mary Elizabeth; works out of Portland, no it’s Lake Oswego, I think. I met her a few years ago, but haven’t seen her since.”