Winter Counts(38)
“Marie?” His face lit up. “Sweet!”
“So, they treating you okay here?” I asked, not wanting to answer any questions about Marie just yet. She and I hadn’t discussed our relationship, if that’s what it was. For now, we’d simply enjoyed being together again.
“Yeah, it’s all right,” he said. “The food’s pretty bad, but they let us play b-ball in the afternoon. Have to do schoolwork, too. It’s weird, I know one of the other guys here; I was in fourth grade with him, I think. Maybe, I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”
His voice changed, and he stared straight at me.
“Leksi, I really want to go home.”
The look on his face was heartbreaking.
“Soon,” I said. “I promise you.”
THE NEXT MORNING, I left early for my appointment with the lawyer in Rapid City. Indians called it Racist City, due to the countless stories about Natives being harassed by locals or the police for the crime of being indigenous. Just a few years ago, a group of middle school kids from Pine Ridge had gone to a minor-league hockey game as a reward for making the honor roll, but a group of fifteen white men sitting in a corporate box above them poured beer on the kids and shouted nasty slurs at them. The children were humiliated and left the arena in shame. They identified the men that did the deed and charged one of them—just one—with disorderly conduct. To no one’s surprise, the jury acquitted the man, and the kids learned a bitter lesson in how the justice system works in the good old USA. And people wonder why Natives want to stay on the reservation.
The lawyer’s office was in the small downtown area of Rapid City, where there were life-size statues of every US president, and also two sculptures of anonymous Native Americans. A few years ago there had been a statue of an Indian with his hands tied behind his back, but protesters had forced its removal, and a more generic artwork of a Native mother and child had been set up in its place. Walking down the street, I saw some graffiti in an alley—a spray-painted picture of Sitting Bull and the words THIS IS NDN LAND below it.
Charley Leader Charge greeted me in the reception area and led me back to his office. He was an older man, tall and expensively dressed in a dark-gray suit and striped red necktie—no bolos here. His gray hair was cut short and gelled, and his handshake was direct and firm. He radiated an aura of authority, reinforced by his voice, which lacked the usual rambling rez cadence and intonation.
I looked around his office, which was dominated by an elegant mahogany desk and an old-fashioned bronze banker’s lamp. Various diplomas and certificates were hung on the walls: Georgetown University Law Center, Supreme Court of South Dakota, United States Court of Appeals for the Eighth Circuit, Sicangu Oyate Bar Association.
“Thanks for driving up here,” he said. “I’ve talked to Ben Short Bear a few times about—is it Nathan?”
I nodded.
“Nathan, right. Ben told me what’s going on, and I made some calls over to the Rosebud Juvenile Court and the prosecutor’s office. He hasn’t been formally indicted yet—that should happen soon—but the tribal prosecutor filled me in on what he’s looking at. It’s not good. They found a substantial amount of narcotics in his locker, and there’s potentially a class three felony charge. At best maybe class four. If they use the federal schedule, it’s a class C charge—that’s a minimum of ten years in prison, no parole. Either way, it’s a serious charge, and the tribe doesn’t have jurisdiction over major felonies.” He leaned back in his chair. “That means he’d be transferred to the federal system and possibly tried as an adult. We don’t want that, of course. We want to keep him in tribal juvenile court, but it’ll take some fancy footwork to persuade the feds.”
No one had yet explained to me what sort of evidence they had. “How do they know it’s his drugs? What proof do they have?”
“I don’t have his documents and can’t get them unless I enter an appearance as his counsel. I don’t have any idea how strong a case they have or what probable cause they had to search those lockers. It’s tricky in school cases, but we’d likely be looking at a motion to suppress in court. But I can’t do anything unless you sign an agreement for me to represent him.”
This was the moment I’d been dreading. “Uh, what sort of rates do you charge? I don’t have too much cash on hand, but I could possibly—”
“Not to worry,” he said. “Ben asked me to help out, so I’d be taking this case pro bono. For free. I just need you to sign this agreement, if you approve. You’re his legal guardian, right?”
I nodded.
“Then you’re authorized to retain me as his counsel. But let me explain a few things. Juvenile justice is different in some ways from other cases. Even though you’re the one retaining me as his lawyer, he’s the actual client. That means that I represent his interests, not yours. I’ll have an obligation to protect any confidential information he tells me because of attorney-client privilege. I can’t even let you see any documents in the case unless he consents. If all that sounds acceptable, read over the agreement and sign it. You have any questions, fire away.”
I skimmed the document and signed it. What choice did I have? Here was a solid defense lawyer—and Native to boot—willing to fight on behalf of my nephew and not charge me for it. I was lucky, and I knew it.