Winter Counts(49)
It was what I’d suspected. The culture against working with the police was strong with them—even the rap songs they listened to hammered home that message.
“Hey, I get you don’t want to be a rat, or like we used to call them, a narc. But listen: the lawyer said the case against you is strong. I don’t want to think about you going to prison. Not juvie, real prison, federal prison, with grown men.”
I looked him straight in the eye.
“I can’t—won’t—force you to do anything you don’t want to do. But this is serious shit. The jury finds you guilty—and guess how white juries feel about Indians—you could go away for a long stretch. Doing hard time. You hear me? I believe your story, but I don’t know if a jury would.”
Did I believe him? I wanted to, but there were so many things that didn’t make sense. Like Nathan trying heroin in the first place, and just days after that, morphine pain pills are found in his locker. I wanted to trust him, but it was hard to escape my suspicions. I looked over at him, and could tell by his face he was starting to understand the gravity of the situation.
“What do you think I should do?”
The moment I’d dreaded.
“I think you need to wear the wire.”
19
I awoke the next morning to the smell of fried wild turnips. Marie was already awake and cooking, her pillow vacant. The aroma was sharp, nothing like the pleasant smell of hash browns and bacon. It was like a cross between boiled cabbage and burned popcorn, and I crawled out of bed, still partially enmeshed in my dream.
Then the events of the previous day came flooding back. After my conversation with Nathan, I’d been disturbed, worried that I’d given him bad advice. When I got home, Marie had seen the trouble in my face. She didn’t say a word, just took me in her arms, and I’d felt some peace then, a calm amid the storm winds.
I sat down at the table, and Marie poured me a cup of coffee. “Sorry, these are taking forever to cook. It’s my first time frying them, and I’m trying to get them to caramelize. I threw in some wild onions and a little garlic salt I found in your cabinet.”
I didn’t know what caramelizing was—it sounded like adding sugary sauce to a dish—but the fried turnips were excellent, a sweet and nutty flavor balanced with a little bitterness.
“I could get used to these,” I said.
“See? Told you they were good. Speaking of food, you going to join us for lunch today? Lack will be there, remember? I should warn you, though, my mother is going to come.”
Oh boy. It made sense that Marie’s mother would want to meet the celebrity chef. Anastasia Freeman Short Bear, Ann to her friends. A light-skinned Osage from a wealthy family in Oklahoma, she’d met Ben at some Native conference and then followed him to South Dakota, which she detested. Tall, thin, elegant, she wore her short hair styled in a modern bob cut and shopped for her clothes in Santa Fe, San Francisco, and Dallas. Marie once told me that she’d demanded a monthly clothing allowance from Ben in excess of what most people made here in a year.
Needless to say, she’d never liked me and hadn’t been shy about expressing her opinion. She felt Marie should follow in the footsteps of her older sister, who’d left the rez and worked in banking somewhere on the West Coast. I suspected that Marie’s med school applications were largely driven by Ann’s maneuverings. I had no desire to eat lunch with Ann, but I thought I’d better meet this Chef Lack.
“Yeah, I’ll meet you guys there. Sounds fun.”
I HAD ONE CALL to make before I did anything else.
“Charley? It’s Virgil Wounded Horse.” I’d called his direct line and was surprised that he picked up on the first ring.
“Virgil, how you doing? I’ve got about five minutes before I head out for a deposition.”
“Won’t need that much time. I’m calling to let you know I spoke to Nathan. He’s willing to wear the wire. Go ahead and set it up.”
I heard rustling noises in the background, like he was moving papers around.
“That’s great, I think it’s the right decision. Hold on, let me take some notes. First step, let’s get Nathan out of the detention center. I’ll call the ADA right away, get everything going, and I’ll nail down the terms in writing. This may take a couple days, but I’ll be in touch as soon as the agreement is finalized. We’ll need a judge to sign off on the PR bond, but that won’t be a problem. Worst case, he has to stay in there for a few more days.”
“That’s great,” I said, “but will there be something in there about keeping Nathan safe during the buy? You know, what they’ll do to protect him?”
“No, these agreements never specify the details of how the CI will be utilized. They probably don’t know themselves yet. Don’t worry, these guys know what they’re doing. They follow a safety protocol, and they’ll be even more careful given his age. They have every incentive to keep him safe so he can testify in court. Trust me, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Trust me. I kept hearing those words.
I NEEDED SOME SMOKES, so I rode my motorcycle into town early. After stopping at the gas station for supplies and nicotine, I pulled over. A new coffee spot had opened up in the old warehouse building, the one with the ghost sign, the former owner’s name still visible in the fading paint. GRABLANDER, it said. I’d never grasped the bitter irony of the long-dead wasicu’s name on the sign before, and I stared at the lettering, trying to remember when I’d first seen it. It was one of those familiar sights, the kind that you stop noticing until something makes you see it in a new way. I leaned on my bike and lit up. The coffee shop—called Buffalo Brew—was crawling with teenagers. As I smoked, I watched the kids inside gossiping and chattering with each other, and wished Nathan was one of them.