Between Earth and Sky(7)

“If he’s innocent, the courts will acquit him.”

Alma turned back to him. His tone was matter-of-fact, his steady gaze earnest. How could he be so unmoved? She yanked off her gloves and paced the length of the room. “What if he needs something? Money. A lawyer.”

“The court will appoint him a public defender.”

“Won’t you at least look into it?”

“The case is being tried in Minnesota.”

Alma waved her hand toward the brass-and-wire contraption on his desk. “Can’t you use that telephone machine?”

His lips flattened. “I don’t see what we can do.”

“Please, dearest.”

The hard lines of his face softened. He lifted the phone’s receiver from its cradle. “Hello, Central? Can you put me through to the Federal Courthouse in St. Paul, Minnesota?”

A pleasant female voice chirped out a response and the line went silent for a moment. Alma seated herself before his desk and scooted closer, trying again to be still.

“Hello?” Stewart said when the line went live again. “May I please speak to the district clerk?” A muffled response. More silence. “Stewart Mitchell, Esquire here, I’m trying to reach the attorney assigned the case of Mr. Harry Muskrat. . . . Not involved directly, no . . . I just told you, I’m a lawyer. . . .” Alma shifted in her chair as the clerk’s voice sounded in the earpiece. “Yes, a phone number will do.” Stewart jotted down the exchange and returned the earpiece to the switchhook.

His grip loosened from around the brass stem. A long breath whistled through his nose. His eyes probed Alma’s, as if to gauge her resolve. She nodded with such vigor her hat slipped forward over her eyes. She repinned it atop her chignon as he reconnected with Central. “Tri-State 5400, please.”

Alma leaned in, balancing on the lip of her chair. On the other end of the line, the man’s voice was squeaky, his vowels broad and pitch lilting. The cadence struck her like a long-forgotten song. A shiver skittered from the nape of her neck down her spine and through her limbs. She had laughed, as a girl, the first time she’d heard people speaking that way. Not today.

Unable to decipher the man’s muted words, she watched her husband’s face. At first, his expression was convivial. He introduced himself and explained the reason for his call. He nodded as he listened to Harry’s lawyer, and Alma found herself nodding in unison, hoping any moment he’d hang up and exclaim the conviction had been a mistake, the charges dropped. But then his brow furrowed. His head stopped bobbing. Alma stilled too. Her hands grew cold.

“I see, I see,” her husband said into the receiver. And then another pause. His lips pressed together. The creases in his forehead seemed to deepen with each passing second. “He won’t say anything?” Stewart asked. “Not one way or another?” His chin jerked back and eyes widened. “I see.” Alma held her breath. More nodding, this time slow and somber. Stewart thanked the man, hung up, and pushed the phone away. His gaze fell to his hands, which he folded atop his desk.

“Well?” Alma asked.

“I’m afraid the circumstances surrounding your friend’s case are rather bleak,” he said, not meeting her eye.

“What does that mean?”

“The prosecution has at least one witness who saw your friend in proximity of the agent just before the shooting.”

“That could be just . . . just coincidence.”

“And the sheriff’s report said a trader had recently sold Mr. Muskrat a gun of similar description to that found at the scene of the murder.”

Alma pushed back her chair. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

“True, it’s circumstantial, but—”

“These backwoods lawmen are trying to frame him.” She threw her gloves down on his desk and stood.

“Why would they do that, Alma? That’s perjury.”

“You don’t know what kind of twisted justice these men are capable of.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Being Indian is sin enough for them.”

Stewart blinked at her. She wished for once he’d get angry, too, leap to his feet with indignation. Instead, he rose slowly, crossed to where she stood, and took her gently by the shoulders. “Darling, you mustn’t let this upset you so.”

“He’ll die, Stewart!” A twinge of guilt twisted inside her as her voice echoed through the room, undoubtedly audible throughout the reception lobby and neighboring offices as well.

Stewart flinched and dropped his hands from her shoulders. “If he does hang, it will be his own doing.”

“How can you say that?”

“Your friend hasn’t said one word about the murder—not to the sheriff, not to his lawyer, not to anyone. He’s not talking at all.” He stalked to his desk and sat heavily in his chair. “The arraignment is tomorrow. His attorney is going to enter a guilty plea.”

Alma groped for the back of her chair, her fingers digging into the velveteen upholstery as she steadied herself against the sudden ache and nausea. When she was ten, she’d fallen off her horse onto the hard, dirt-packed road. For a moment all went black. She knew nothing but pain and air-starved panic. Then the world came back into focus—each color a shock to her eyes, each sound a sting to her ears. She’d rolled over and retched until there was nothing left in her stomach but bile. Now, hearing those words, Alma felt the same sensation. She couldn’t let him die. Couldn’t bear more loss. More guilt.