Between Earth and Sky(33)

Now, watching him at the curb, she fought to hold that shared delight, but it slipped from her grasp as quickly as it had come.

“Impressive!” Stewart said, finally mounting the steps toward the entrance.

“Impressive,” she echoed. On another day, she might have meant it. But today, still frazzled from her trip to Stover and with so much riding on the judge’s decision, the massive granite building with its towers and turrets, dormer windows and gables made her feel small and anxious. She took a deep breath and passed the threshold.

Inside, the Federal Courts Building opened up into a grand interior courtyard. Sunlight streamed in through skylights more than a hundred feet above, splashing against the marble walls and columns. People of all standings bustled by—men sporting finely tailored suits, youths in grease-stained uniforms, families dressed in homespun cotton.

Mr. Gates gestured to the glass and mahogany elevators at the far end of the hall. “Are you coming, then?”

Alma reached back and found Stewart’s hand. He stroked her fingers, then tucked them into the bend of his arm. She could tell his initial frustration over Asku’s declination had faded along with the deep-set exhaustion around his eyes. In its place, a quiet but steadfast resolution had settled.

On the third floor, they waited for nearly an hour on one of the polished wooden benches in the hallway outside of the judge’s chambers. Mr. Gates filled the time with a constant stream of banter. Stewart offered the occasional ah and how interesting, while Alma managed only a distracted nod. She adjusted and readjusted her hat, straightened her gloves, smoothed her green rep day suit, and tried not to think of Asku in his tiny cell. His coldness gnawed at her. Had she been wrong this entire time? Had Stover really done more harm than good? She thought of little Benjamin Franklin Redtail, of all the children she’d seen on her return visit. They were well fed, well clothed, learning useful skills and trades. But had any of them smiled, just once, during her stay?

A clerk greeted them without apology for the wait and showed them to the judge’s chambers. A dusty yellow globe on a brass chain lit the windowless room. Disheveled bookcases stood against the wall. The smell of smoke and mildew choked the air.

Behind a broad oak desk sat Judge Baum. “You’d better have a good reason for this disruption. I’ve piss-little time between hearings,” he said without looking up, then bit off a large chunk of ham sandwich. A cigar smoldered in the ashtray beside him. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his jacket hung on the back of his chair.

The clerk cleared his throat.

Judge Baum’s eyes widened when he glanced up. He swallowed his sandwich, wiped his hands on a handkerchief, and stood. “Madame.”

“Your Honor, this is my wife,” Stewart said.

Alma dredged up her best smile and bowed. “Thank you for seeing us.”

The judge did not return the smile. “Get her a chair, Fitzsimmons,” he barked to his clerk as he yanked down his shirtsleeves and shrugged on his jacket. Then he turned his scowl on the two lawyers. “Well?”

Mr. Gates’s gaze fell to the floor while Stewart adjusted his necktie and stepped forward. “Pardon the intrusion, Your Honor, we’re here regarding the case of Mr. Muskrat.”

“I know who the devil—forgive me, ma’am—I know who you represent, Mr. Mitchell. How many Philadelphia lawyers do you think I have running around here?”

“We’ve come to ask for a brief continuance.”

“How brief?”

“Three weeks.”

“What in tarnation for?” The judge winced apologetically at Alma, then turned back to her husband. “Mr. Muskrat won’t even open his mouth to assert his own innocence.” He took a long pull on his cigar and blew a cloud of smoke in Stewart’s direction. “He’s all but hanged himself.”

Alma’s hands curled around the armrests, her nails digging into the wood. This man cared nothing of the trial, felt no stir of gravity or urgency.

Stewart waved away the smoke. “Seven people were claimed to have seen Mr. Muskrat within the hours surrounding Agent Andrews’s murder, but only one was interviewed.” Her husband withdrew a sheet of paper from his bag. “Furthermore, numerous complaints had been filed against Mr. Andrews over the years. I’d like a subpoena to review the agency’s records and investigate these complaints.”

“Just what are you hoping to get out of this, Mr. Mitchell?”

Stewart glanced back at Alma. “Proof of his innocence. Reasonable suspicion that someone other than Mr. Muskrat might have committed the crime.”

The judge took the paper from Stewart’s hand with a dark chuckle.

“Your Honor, this is life or death for this man. Due diligence is required.”

“And how do you expect to uncover this proof? Travel up to the red man’s reservation and play detective?”

“I just want to interview the other witnesses.”

“Look at these names, Mr. Mitchell. Mis-sah-bay, Oge-mah-we-guan. . . these are backwoods, teepee-building savages. You speak Indian? Or were you expecting to converse with them in your Harvard English?”

Stewart’s face hardened and the tips of his ears grew red. “Princeton, Your Honor, and I do not—”

“Nindanishinaabem,” Alma said, standing. The men turned and stared. “I speak Chippewa. A little, anyway.”