I nodded. “Obviously,” I said, “the 1790 act of Congress superseded the 1794 treaty with the state of Massachusetts.”
Smith grinned. “Why, sure. Simple law. And on that basis, the Indians filed a relatively small claim in the Federal District Court of Maine. Claimed the 1794 treaty was null and void. Laid claim on a relatively small hunk of land.”
“That was Passamaquoddy v. Morton, right?”
“Good for you, Mr. Coyne. June 22, 1972. Very important date for the good folks in Maine. Morton settled for the Indians. Gave them one hundred and fifty million bucks.” Smith rubbed his scarred hand. “I worked for Morton on that one.”
“For the state,” I said.
“Right. The state’s attorney general. I told them we were going to lose. I recommended we settle. The law was against us. So was the temper of the times, if you understand me.”
“Those were good days for minorities,” I said.
“They sure as hell were. Flushed with victory, as the fella says, the Penobscots and Passamaquoddies filed another suit in 1976. This was the blockbuster. They figured, what the hell, if that 1794 treaty ain’t any good and if that was the one that cost us the state of Maine, let’s get that sucker back. Their claim was for a mere twelve point five million acres. That’s nearly sixty percent of the state, Mr. Coyne.”
He paused, and I nodded appreciatively. “As an afterthought,” continued Smith, “they claimed an additional twenty-five billion in what they called back rents and damages. And they had the backing of the United States Departments of Interior and Justice. Now, the thing was, the tribes were perfectly willing to negotiate. They expected to bargain. No dummies, those Indian lawyers. They knew how it worked. Give a little, take a little. Right, Mr. Coyne? Ain’t that the way they do law in Boston?”
I smiled. “Exactly.”
“It was my position right along,” said Smith, “that we should bargain with them. Play the damn game. Give them some respect. After all, they clearly had legal precedent in Morton.” He paused and cocked his head at me. “You familiar with the concept of laches, Mr. Coyne?”
I hastily flipped through the musty, dog-eared law book I kept in my head. “Long-neglected rights lose their standing, I think. Something like that.”
Smith nodded. “Close enough. Rights that have been consistently and uniformly neglected cease to be rights and cannot later be invoked. That was the position of the state. If you rest on that principle, you can’t turn around and negotiate. Fact is, even after Morton, folks figured the claim was just too outrageous to take seriously. So they refused to bargain. The state litigated. Congress finally settled it.”
“I see,” I said. “But the Indians did give up their prerogative for further suits.”
“Well, yes and no. They can’t litigate on the basis of the 1790 treaty, or Morton, anymore. But there’s nothing to stop them from finding new approaches.”
“Like the special status of sacred land.”
“Exactly.” Smith stared out the window at the deepwater harbor in the distance. There was very little maritime activity on the water that I could see except for the brightly colored sails of pleasure craft. “There are some precedents for this. Other tribes in other states have made some headway based on similar claims. That’s why it’s my job to try to find out just what kind of evidence there is that this claim falls outside the Morton settlement.”
“You think there’s some other agenda?” I said. “Some other reason they want Raven Lake?”
“Well, the obvious thing is they just want it and they’re gambling that the Wheeler brothers won’t risk going to court.”
“Is that likely?”
Smith shrugged. “Probably that’s the most likely. Straightforward real estate deal, with just the hint of a threat tossed in for bargaining purposes. Also likely is just what they’re saying. They want to set up some kind of shrine or park or reservation. A memorial to their heritage. The Indians aren’t all cynics, Mr. Coyne.”
“And third?”
He flapped his one-and-a-half hands in the air. “Third is one of those things I’ve got to check out. Third is they want the place for something else. I don’t know what.”
I glanced at my watch. It was eleven-thirty, and I faced close to a five-hour drive to Greenville at the foot of Moosehead Lake. I pushed myself back from the table. Seelye Smith stood up.
“I’ve got a plane that’ll be taking off at five this afternoon in Greenville,” I told him. The extra loudness in my voice by now had become habit. “I appreciate the information, Mr. Smith. We’ll keep in touch. I hope you can find out just what’s behind this thing.”
He came around the table and began to walk me toward the door. “Sorry I can’t buy you some lunch, Mr. Coyne.”
“Next time.”
We paused at the door. He looked up at me, his eyes twinkling. “Well, tell me.”
“What?” I said, frowning.
“Did I pass?”
I laughed. “If you don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Smith, you sure as hell have fooled me. Takes a good lawyer to fool me. So I guess either way, you pass.”
He chuckled. “I fooled you on one thing, I reckon. You noticed my hearing aid.”
I nodded.
“Best damn hearing aid there is. This wire here—you probably think I got it hooked into a battery, right?”
I shrugged.
“Look.” He pulled the end of the wire out of his pocket. It wasn’t hooked into anything.
I frowned. “What good does that do?”
“Well, I had no trouble hearing what you had to say to me, Mr. Coyne.” He grinned. “People see this thing in my ear, they just naturally talk louder. So I hear them fine. Helluva hearing aid.”
Seelye Smith accompanied me through the reception area. I nodded to Kirk, the receptionist, and turned to Smith. I held out my hand, and he stuck his own mangled appendage into it.
“Good fishing, Mr. Coyne,” he said.
“And good hunting to you. I’ll be in touch soon. I hope you can scare up some answers.”
“I expect I will,” he drawled.
I walked out into the crisp June sunshine, climbed into my BMW, and pointed it at Greenville, nearly two hundred miles to the north and west. I was heading into the vast, still largely untracked Maine wilderness. I couldn’t wait to get there.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
MY THANKS ONCE AGAIN to Betsy Rapoport, my estimable editor, Rick Bayer, my good friend, and Cindy, my dear wife. Their contributions to this story—and to this writer’s spirit—have been beyond measure.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
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Copyright © 1986 by William G. Tapply
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