Winter Counts(39)
“All right, I’ll have my assistant file the papers. Now, the first order of business is to get your nephew out of detention. He’s really very fortunate to be in the Rosebud juvenile center. They’re one of the best—good programs, decent conditions, not like some I’ve seen.”
I jumped in when he paused. “Yeah, I got a tour by the director. Lots of classes, sure, but he’s still in a cell. What do we got to do to get him out?”
“I’m getting to that. At the detention hearing, I’ll request a PR bond—that means no bail—but it’s unlikely the judge will grant it. Given these charges, I’m guessing the judge will set bail at twenty thousand dollars, maybe more, which means you’ll have to come up with two thousand for the bondsman.”
“Look, I’m not sure I—” The look on my face must have been evident, because Charley stopped me.
“Let’s not panic; maybe I can convince the judge to issue a reasonable bond. Nathan doesn’t have any past offenses, does he?”
I shook my head, and he wrote something down on a yellow legal pad.
“That’ll be my argument. The hearing should be held in the next day or two; sometimes jurisdictional issues slow things down, but the court has a duty to set a bond right away. Two things I need to tell you.” He leaned in closer to me. “First, as the legal guardian, you must appear at all court appearances for Nathan—without fail. If you miss even one, the court can issue a warrant for your arrest. We don’t need that right now, so you better stay in touch with my office for settings. Second, when Nathan is bonded out, don’t let him make any statements to anyone—and I mean anyone—unless I’m there. That goes for searches too. I don’t care if some friendly cop comes sniffing by, seems like the nicest guy in the world, just wants to help; do not let them search your residence or vehicle and especially his cell phone, unless they have a search warrant. You call me on my direct line if they show up with a warrant.”
“I get it. We don’t let the cops in the house,” I said. “But what if Nathan doesn’t have anything to hide? Shouldn’t we show that we’re cooperating?”
Charley smiled like I was an idiot.
“The police are not your friends. Especially the feds. Right now there’s only one person you trust, and you’re looking at him. If you haven’t figured this out yet, Indians get the short end of the stick when it comes to white justice. I’m going to do my damnedest to make sure it doesn’t happen to Nathan.”
AFTER THE MEETING WITH THE LAWYER, I needed to unwind for a few minutes, so I headed for the Black Hills, known in Lakota as He Sapa. As usual, the roads were crawling with tourists speeding to see Mount Rushmore, or, for those who considered themselves to be more progressive, the Crazy Horse Memorial. Few of these people knew they were traveling on sacred ground, lands that had been promised by treaty to the Lakota people forever but were stolen after gold was discovered in the 1860s. Adding insult to injury, Mount Rushmore had been carved out of the holy mountain previously known as Six Grandfathers as a giant screw-you to the Lakotas. Kind of like Indians building a casino in the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem.
Even the Supreme Court agreed that the Black Hills had been illegally seized, and the Lakota nation won a big lawsuit against the government in 1980, with hundreds of millions of dollars awarded in damages. But the leaders of the Lakota nations refused to accept the settlement, stating that they wanted the land back, not the money. The government wouldn’t hand over the Hills, and the Lakotas wouldn’t take the blood money, and so the settlement sits in a bank account earning interest, over $1 billion. If the seven Lakota nations were to accept the money and divide it equally among the people, every man, woman, and child would get about $25,000 each. For a family of four, a hundred grand could ease a lot of financial suffering. But aside from a few complainers, there hadn’t been any real pressure from the Lakota people to accept the money. I admit, I’d daydreamed about what $50,000 could do for Nathan and myself. A decent place to live, good food, a chance at college for Nathan. As I drove through the Hills, I felt guilty for thinking about the money again, but I resolved to wise up. What did I care about some rocks and valleys?
I took the back roads to stay away from the tourists, driving past one of the longtime tourist traps, the Cosmos Mystery House. I’d loved that place when I was a kid, and even Nathan had a good time when I took him there. It was a wooden cabin built on the side of a mountain at a crazy angle, so it seemed like the law of gravity was suspended. Water appeared to run uphill, people looked like they were standing at a 45-degree angle, and trees seemed to curve in strange ways. The tour guides told a hokey story that powerful magnetic fields created a gravitation vortex, but the whole house was a giant optical illusion. The best part was the Cosmos Truth Chair, a wooden seat that seemed to be suspended in midair by only its back legs. The tour guide said that anyone sitting in the chair who told a lie would cause it to fall down. A few tourists sat in the chair and appeared extremely nervous as the tour guide asked corny questions like “Have you ever run a red light?” or “Have you ever cheated on a test?” I wondered what questions someone would ask me if I was in the Truth Chair. Maybe “Did you ever stop loving Marie?” or “Do you think you’ll ever forgive yourself for the things you’ve done?”
After a while, I pulled off the road and found a quiet spot away from all of the people. I listened to the wind and the birds and the sound of some water off in the distance, then looked at the mountain across from me, rising up into the sky. It was crazy, but the shape of the rocks—the fractures, fissures, and crevices—looked like the wrinkled face of an elderly Native man. In fact, I thought it looked a lot like my grandfather, who’d lived to be ninety years old. He’d died when I was young, maybe eight or nine. He’d spent most of his later years in a small shack without running water or electricity. And now that shack was demolished, just a pile of old lumber on a deserted road. I thought about him and the kindness he’d shown me, even when he could barely walk or move around. He’d endured so much trauma in his life, and yet he’d survived and found some peace, some acceptance. I stared at that mountain—the rock that looked like my tunkasila—for a long time.