Between Earth and Sky(107)

“But Your Honor.” Alma was on her feet too, her hands throttled about her handbag. “The defense wishes to change—”

“Madam, you’re not entitled to address this court.”

Alma’s pulse beat in her ear. She pushed through the bar toward the bench. Mr. Gates grabbed her arm, but she shrugged him off. “And the defendant?” She gestured wildly at Asku. “Is he not entitled? You silenced him before he even began.”

“If you think I won’t throw a lady out of my courtroom you’re mistaken, Mrs. Mitchell.”

She didn’t care. What more did she have to lose? Too long she’d been silent. “This man has been denied a voice—his true voice—all his life. I won’t let—”

“Bailiff!” the judge shouted.

Before the bailiff could move, the rear door burst open, swinging so wide it struck the wall behind it. The windows rattled in their frames and the dangling lamps swayed.

Stewart marched down the center aisle, still wearing yesterday’s eveningwear. “I beg the court’s forgiveness for my tardiness.” He passed through the bar and stood beside her.

Judge Baum scowled, his narrow eyes measuring every inch of Stewart’s appearance. “I don’t know how they do things in Philadelphia, but in the great city of St. Paul, court convenes on time, and we reserve full evening dress for the dining hall and ballroom.”

Her husband’s lips spread into a boyish grin. “Good thing I opted not to wear my top hat.”

The relief that had transformed Mr. Gates’s face upon Stewart’s arrival melted into wide-eyed horror at the pert remark. The bailiff chuckled into his fist.

Judge Baum flashed him a withering look, then glowered back at the defense. “Your wife is edging upon contempt, Mr. Mitchell.”

Stewart turned to her. Stubble covered his tired face. His hazel eyes were bloodshot. He blinked slowly and breathed a ragged sigh. The adoration she’d seen a million times was gone from his gaze. Yet in its place was forgiveness. Acceptance. A love less perfect but more true. He squeezed her hand and she returned to her seat.

“Good,” the judge said. “Now, if the interruptions will finally cease, the prosecution may deliver their opening statement.”

Stewart threw his overcoat on the back of his chair, but did not sit. “Actually, Your Honor . . .” His voice broke off. He glanced down at the spread of documents they had compiled at White Earth. The interviews and land deeds. The tale of treachery, corruption, and greed. His jaw muscles tightened and he swallowed. He glanced at Asku and regarded for the first time the man who’d set their journey in motion. “Aaniin.”

Hearing the Anishinaabe greeting, a smile fluttered at the corners of Alma’s compressed lips.

Asku nodded, his expression guarded.

Judge Baum cleared his throat.

“The defense would like to withdraw its plea,” Stewart said, his voice solemn and steady. “And enter instead a plea of guilty.”

The judge’s nostrils flared. “If this is a stunt to garner concessions from the prosecution—”

“It’s not, Your Honor. We’re not angling for a plea agreement.” Stewart looked at Asku, who again nodded. “We accept the charges as they stand.”

Relief washed over Alma, leaving a tender rawness in its wake. Her hands still trembled with anger. Everything had been taken from Asku. His life . . . his death was all he had left to give.

She listened for an aftershock of murmurs, but silence gutted the courtroom. Mr. Gates slumped down in his chair and hung his head. The prosecutor scratched a few notes onto his pad with a dull pencil.

Asku’s face bore no emotion, but the knotted muscles in his back relaxed and he stood a bit taller.

“I see your trip to the reservation yielded no results.” The judge spoke with a note of amusement.

Stewart’s hands flexed. His chest rose with a deep inhale, but he said nothing.

“Very well. Bailiff, dismiss the jury.” The twelve men scuttled from the room, and the judge continued. “Harry Muskrat, known in Indian as Ask-you-wheat-eo, the United States District Court of Minnesota accepts your guilty plea in the murder of Mr. Blair Andrews.” His gavel struck the desk. “On to sentencing.”

The prosecutor adjusted his spectacles and rose to his feet. “Considering the savage nature of the crime, the state requests a sentence of death by hanging.”

Though she’d been expecting it, each word had teeth like a blade. “Who are you to call the murder savage?” she shouted at the prosecution. “You sit there with your tidy suit and—” A clap from the gavel, and Alma swallowed her words. Even seated, she felt dizzy with rage and wondered at Asku’s unflinching composure.

“Does the defense wish to contest this?” Judge Baum asked.

Stewart’s hand opened upon the desk, his fingers brushing the bottom edge of the documents scattered before him. He drank in three slow breaths and again looked to Asku. The Indian shook his head. “No, Your Honor.”

“You have nothing for the court’s consideration? So be it. Will the defendant please stand?”

Asku rose.

“Harry Musk—”

“I would like to say some words, Your Honor.”

The judge pursed his lips. He had risen slightly from his chair, as if he intended to pound his gavel and scurry off to lunch with its echo still resounding. His eyes flickered to Alma and back. He sank back down and waved his hand. “Very well.”