Bad News

Clearly, Max Schreck had sniffed the prevailing breeze this morning and understood that the court this week, though it had the same perso

Learned cocounsel? Some other specialist up from New York, full of obscure citations? Judge Higbee prepared himself for boredom. But then, Schreck turned to bow to Marjorie Dawson, who flickered a nervous smile and rose as Schreck sat down.

Oh, I see, the judge thought. He’s throwing her out of the sled. So I’m the wolf, am I? Smiling as though Marjorie were Little Red Riding Hood, he said, “Good morning, Marjorie.”

“Good morning, Your Honor.” That smile flickered again, and she glanced down at her note-riddled yellow pad. “Judge—Your Honor. In attempting to remove the body of Joseph Redcorn from its legitimate—and presumably final—resting place, the casino managers have—”

“Your Honor, I pro—” called Welles.

“Thirty-minute recess,” Judge Higbee declared. Thock went the gavel, and off went the judge, to watch thirty minutes of soap opera in chambers.

“Proceed, Marjorie.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. In attempting to remove the body of Joseph Redcorn from its legitimate—and presum—” She coughed, having remembered she’d already made that feeble joke “—legitimate resting place, the casino managers have made it clear that they believe Little Feather Redcorn is Pottaknobbee, and their actions since she first arrived in this area to press her claim have not been based on their belief in her fraudulence, but in their belief in her veracity. They want to keep her from her proper share in the casino even though they know full well she is Pottaknobbee. By their actions, they demonstrate that their presence in this court is a sham, meant to gain time while they protect themselves by more devious measures. Since they have demonstrated their belief that Little Feather Redcorn is what she claims to be, and since there is no one else who disputes her claim, we see no reason for this action to go forward before the Court, and we therefore request dismissal of all charges against Little Feather Redcorn.”

“Very nice, Marjorie,” the judge said.

Now her smile was real, and surprised. The judge could see that Schreck was surprised, too, having expected him to give the proposer of dismissal of all charges a rough time indeed, which is exactly what he would have given Schreck himself: a brusque dismissal. But what Schreck didn’t yet understand was that not only are all politics local but so is all law. When this farrago was finished, Schreck and Welles and all their cocounsels and their briefcases and their red neckties would go hallooing back to New York City, but Judge T. Wallace Higbee and counselor Marjorie Dawson would be dealing with each other in this courtroom for years to come.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Marjorie said. “I hope this means you will give our motion strong consideration.”

“Henry David Thoreau,” he told her, and everybody else in court, “said, ‘Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.’ There is definitely a trout in the milk this morning—you’re right to that extent—but so far, we do not have anything like proof positive that Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda are the ones who watered the milk. Marjorie, if you interrupt me, we’ll recess until after lunch. Good. It is up to the officials in New York City to decide who is responsible for the trout in this morning’s milk, Marjorie, and if they decide Fox and Oglanda are the diluters, I will be happy to entertain your motion at that time.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Marjorie said, and sat.

Welles stood. “Your Honor, may I speak?”

“Of course, Mr. Welles.”

“Since Your Honor himself has pointed out,” Welles began, “that the matter of the prank by the three lads is in another venue, and since the process of our appeal is in yet a different venue, it might be best to hold these proceedings in abeyance until decisions are made, in one venue or another.”

“Oh, I don’t think we need wait, Mr. Welles,” the judge told him. “In fact, my main purpose in calling this session today is to order the DNA test to proceed at once, without delay.”

Welles looked astonished. “But Your Honor! That’s the very issue before the appeals court!”

“No, I don’t believe it is,” the judge corrected him. “You are not disputing DNA tests in your appeal. You are disputing the right of the Court to order the exhumation of the body of Joseph Redcorn. But that is now moot, Mr. Welles. Mr. Fox’s nephews, all full-blooded members of the Three Tribes, have already done the exhumation, presumably within the strictures of their native religion. The grave is open, Mr. Welles. The cat is out of the bag.”

Judge Higbee smiled at the silent turmoil in front of him. Life among the stupid could be so sweet sometimes. “Marjorie,” he said, “arrange with your client for the taking of a sample for the test.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Thock went the gavel.

32

Everybody rose, including Marjorie. Everybody, including Marjorie, watched Judge Higbee stride from the room, smiling like a cat full of cream. But what Marjorie was thinking was, what’s wrong here?

This was the second time she’d picked up a secret reaction from Little Feather Redcorn, and once again it had to do with DNA. When the prospect of a DNA test was first raised, in chambers, Marjorie had been the only one close enough to Little Feather to realize the idea wasn’t new to her. She’d been waiting for it, and she was relieved and pleased when it finally arose, but she didn’t want to admit it. Marjorie hadn’t been able to figure that out, and now, just as strongly, when Judge Higbee made that startling a

Was Marjorie imagining all this? How could Little Feather have been expectant and eager and already aware of DNA tests last Thursday, and then dismayed at the prospect today? I have to find out about this, she told herself.

Across the aisle, Otis Welles and his associates packed their briefcases, Welles now like a broken Exercycle in a suit, Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda yattering away at the lawyers with demands, questions, outrage. On this side of the aisle, Max Schreck smiled like a coyote as he packed his briefcase and whispered an encouraging word to Little Feather, as though this morning’s outcome were his own work, cleverly and agilely accomplished.

Marjorie stood silent beside Little Feather until Schreck turned away, and then she said, “Well, Little Feather, this is wonderful news, isn’t it?”

“It sure is,” Little Feather agreed, but Marjorie could see the panic deep in Little Feather’s eyes and knew the woman could hardly wait to get alone somewhere by herself, so she could scream and stamp her feet and tear her hair.

No, not yet. “Little Feather,” Marjorie said, “let me take you to lunch.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you, Ms. Dawson,” Little Feather said, smiling to beat the band, “but I think I ought to just—”

“I think,” Marjorie told her, “you should accept my invitation to lunch. I’m speaking as your attorney, Little Feather.”

Little Feather frowned at her. Marjorie could see the calculations going by behind those shrewd eyes, and then, all at once, Little Feather switched on the su