Between Earth and Sky(106)
Alma gritted her teeth. “I’m well aware of the ramifications.”
“Judge Baum’s going to be furious.”
“You can’t ignore Mr. Muskrat’s wishes.”
“Clearly he’s not in a right state of mind.” Mr. Gates turned around and began shuffling again through the papers. “There’s got to be something we can use in here.”
Alma glared at the back of his head. He hadn’t read one page of the brief Stewart had prepared for the court. He didn’t care about this case, about Asku. All he’d seen when Stewart walked through his door was an opportunity to better his record.
Behind her, the courtroom door shuddered open. Both she and Mr. Gates swiveled around. Two men entered. The first was a portly man Alma did not recognize. He strutted down the aisle with the affected confidence of a mid-level bureaucrat. Agent Taylor walked beside him.
He flashed Alma a cocky grin and tipped his hat. “Mrs. Mitchell. Always a pleasure. This is Mr. Raton.” He motioned to the larger man. “Head of the Indian Office here in St. Paul.”
Alma nodded at the man but offered no pleasantries. She turned back to Agent Taylor. “White Earth’s quite a distance hence. With all your agency attends to—intimidation, usury, illegal land transfers—I’m surprised you had time to come.”
His smile held but his blue eyes darkened. “Just here to make sure justice is served.” He followed Mr. Raton into the bench behind the prosecution.
She looked down at her knotted hands, then up to the courtroom’s vaulted ceiling. Electric lights dangled down like globes on a gilded string. She hated these men—the lot of them—all profiteering at the Indians’ expense. It wasn’t just money, but lives—hers, Minowe’s, Asku’s. Her blood turned cold at the thought of his name. Could she really let her friend die? Warm air rose from the brass floor registers spaced about the room, but Alma pulled the lapels of her coat tightly together.
Just before eleven, the bailiff entered through a side door at the front of the room. Twelve men—all of them white—sauntered behind. Alma scrutinized their faces as they seated themselves in the jury box. Their expressions were a checkerboard of curiosity and indifference, broken by the occasional puritanical scowl. What qualified these men to pass judgment on her friend? Without intervention, Mr. Gates would blunder through the trial, cheapening Asku’s bravery with every step, robbing him of his self-determination. And these twelve men, their latent prejudice inflamed, would in turn rob him of his life.
The bailiff left the room and returned a few minutes later. Asku shuffled behind, the chains fettering his ankles scraping over the maple floor. Another set of shackles bound his wrists. His face was calm, but his hands clenched and unclenched as he walked. Alma bit down on her lip, her teeth unyielding even as she tasted blood. He wore the same gray trousers and dirty white shirt she had seen him in on both her visits to Fort Snelling. Why hadn’t she the presence of mind to bring him a change of clothes? She remembered his fastidious attention to dress. Even the cheap wool uniforms at Stover, sent in crates from the Indian Affairs Bureau, he had tended and worn with impeccable care.
He stared forward as he crossed the courtroom, eyes fixed on some distant point, never veering toward Alma or anyone else seated in the whispering audience. But she wanted him to look at her; wanted to let him know she finally understood. A guard walked beside him, his meaty hand tight around Asku’s arm, steering him toward the defendant’s table. She expected the guard to remove the chains once Asku reached his chair, but he did not. If she reached out, the tips of her fingers would brush Asku’s shoulder. Yet the gulf between them felt impossibly wide.
Before Asku could sit down, the judge entered the courtroom and everyone stood. Alma glanced once more at the door behind her. Her last spark of hope fled.
The judge lumbered to his bench. “Be seated, everyone.”
His surly expression was just as Alma remembered from their first encounter, as if the rutted brow and compressed lips were etched permanently on his face. He glowered at the docket, then glanced in the defense’s direction. “Where’s our esteemed counsel from Philadelphia? Not lost on the reservation, I hope?”
Mr. Gates rose to his feet. “He did return, Your Honor, but I’m afraid . . . um . . . If I could just ask for a brief recess—”
“Recess? After ten days’ continuance?” Judge Baum chuckled. “I think not. The trial will progress as scheduled.”
Mr. Gates groped for his chair and sat down. Asku watched with a tight expression. Then his gaze flickered askance to Alma. The weight of it crushed her. Shoulders held wide and chin raised—he sat proud, assured, defiant, just like the color-plate images of warriors of old. But his eyes, deadened as they were, still resembled those of the little boy who’d leapt from the wagon, the childhood friend she’d dearly loved.
“I call the court to order in the case of the United States versus Harry Muskrat. Prosecution, you may—”
Asku stood, his chains clanking. “Your Honor, I would like—”
The judge rapped his gavel upon the desk. “This isn’t a free-for-all, Mr. Muskrat. If you wish to address this court, you may do so from the witness stand.” His pinched gaze shot to Mr. Gates. “Control your client, counselor, or I’ll hold you both in contempt.”