Of course, it was the casino managers to whom Ms. Redcorn had addressed her letter, and the ownership of the casino was the only substantive matter at issue here. Still, it did seem to Marjorie there was some hidden agenda at work in this proceeding, and if that were the case, she knew very well that Marjorie Dawson was not the one to ferret it out.
Cinda, the secretary she shared with Jimmy and Corinna, buzzed her at 2:28 to say, “Ms. Redcorn is here.”
“Yes, send her in,” Marjorie said, and stood to welcome her unusual and rather alarming client.
Who had dressed more demurely today, Marjorie was happy to note. In jail, Ms. Redcorn had been dressed like the girl singer in an old Western, though somewhat more daringly than a PG rating would have allowed. Of course, when she’d dressed that day, she hadn’t yet known she would finish the day in jail.
This morning, though there was still a strong western flavor to Ms. Redcorn’s outfit, at least her boots were black, her tan leather skirt knee-length, and her colorful shirt not absolutely formfitting. Her expression, however, was at least as wary as yesterday’s, and she entered saying, “I thought we were gonna meet this morning.”
“So did I, Ms. Redcorn,” Marjorie told her. “Sit down here, please. Let’s go over the situation.”
Ms. Redcorn remained standing. “Don’t we go see the judge?”
“Our appointment is at three. Do sit down.”
The two gray-blue vinyl armchairs in front of the desk were comfortable, but not too comfortable. Ms. Redcorn gave them a disapproving look, then sat in the nearest one as Marjorie took her own swivel chair, picked up the pencil she tended to toy with during interviews in this room, and said, “The judge phoned me this morning to say the meeting had to be delayed because the tribes’ lawyer had to come up from New York.”
This got no reaction except a nod.
Marjorie said, “Let me explain. I know the tribes’ lawyer. His name is Abner Hicks, and his office is around the corner from here.”
“You mean they’re bringing in the big guns,” Ms. Redcorn said. She didn’t seem at all troubled by the idea.
“And I don’t know why,” Marjorie admitted. “Tell me, Ms. Redcorn, is there anything else about this matter you think I should know?”
Ms. Redcorn cocked her head, like a particularly bright bird. “Like what?”
“Any cloud in your past that might cause us trouble, anything to explain why they’ve sent to New York for a lawyer to deal with you? In other words, is there more information I should have if I’m properly to represent you?”
Ms. Redcorn shrugged. “Nothing I can think of,” she said. “My guess is, they just don’t want to split the pot.” Then she grinned a little and said, “This New York lawyer scares you, huh?”
“Certainly not,” Marjorie said. Ms. Redcorn might be telling the truth about her forebears, and she might be the victim of unfair treatment by the Three Tribes, but she was not at all an easy person to like.
Dropping her pencil to the desk with a little disapproving clatter, Marjorie said, “Well, let’s walk over to the courthouse.”
The New York lawyer looked like a hawk who hadn’t eaten for a week. His beak of a nose seemed to be pointing at prey, his sharp, icy eyes flicked back and forth like an angry cat’s tail, and his hands were large and knobby and, when Marjorie shook one of them, cold. His name was Otis Welles and he wore a suit that cost more than Marjorie’s car, but somehow, instead of the suit giving some dignity to his bony, gristly body, his body seemed merely to cheapen the suit.
This menacing person was accompanied by Frank Oglanda, the Kiota representative on casino management, whose hands were uncomfortably warm as he murmured over Marjorie with his knowing little smile and impish eyes. Frank had made a pawing pass at her once, a grope really, but it had been done distractedly, as though gallantry required him to at least go through the motions. She’d found the experience distasteful in several ways, and made sure he understood that, and he’d been no more than smirkingly polite with her ever since, in those occasional social or business situations in which their paths crossed.
So that made five of them for the meeting, the two Native Americans, their two lawyers, and Judge Higbee, who started them off by saying, “Frank, have you looked into Ms. Redcorn’s claims any further?”
“As a matter of fact, Your Honor,” Frank said, “we have.”
“I believe, Your Honor,” Otis Welles said, “we should make it clear from the outset that the Three Tribes have found absolutely no proof positive to support the young lady’s claims.”
Judge Higbee looked at Marjorie, who belatedly realized she shouldn’t let that go without comment, so she said, “Nor, I take it, have you found proof positive to void her claim.”
“Not yet,” Welles said.
“Not ever,” Ms. Redcorn said.
Welles looked at the judge as though Ms. Redcorn hadn’t spoken. I think he’ll regret that later, Marjorie told herself as he said, “Your Honor, the tribes have found records of some of the names mentioned in the young lady’s letter.” Clearly, he meant to evade the name problem entirely by never calling Ms. Redcorn anything except “the young lady.” Of that tactic, Marjorie could only approve and regret it was too late for her to emulate.
Again, it was a look from the judge in her direction that made Marjorie remember she was here to work and not simply to observe. A few seconds late, but at least catching up, she said, “Counsel, were there any names in the letter the tribes did not find?”
“Other than the young lady’s,” Welles told her, “I believe not.”
Judge Higbee looked over toward Frank Oglanda, saying, “What have you got, Frank?”
To begin with, Frank had a beautiful briefcase, soft and dark and gleaming, much more desirable and wonderful than the mundane scuffed briefcase Marjorie lugged with her everywhere, and even glossier than the expensive briefcase Welles had carried with him from New York. Dipping into this lovely artifact, Frank came out with several sheets of paper stapled together; copies of documents, it looked like. “Joseph Redcorn,” he told them all, “did exist, as I think we already acknowledged.”
“The plaque was read to me,” the judge told him, deadpan. “Over the phone.”
“Yes.” Frank looked briefly sour, then recovered. “Very good of the Mohawks,” he commented. “I didn’t know they were capable of guilt feelings. In any event”—he flipped to the second sheet—“Joseph Redcorn did have a son named Bearpaw, who was reported missing in action in the Pacific Ocean while serving in the U.S. Navy in World War Two.” Flip to the next sheet. “There is a record that Bearpaw, in 1940, married one Harriet Littlefoot, also a Pottaknobbee.” Flip. “Harriet Littlefoot Redcorn produced a daughter, Doeface, in 1942.”
“My mama,” Ms. Redcorn said.
Ignoring that, Frank stood and took the sheaf of papers over to the judge’s desk, saying, “We have more copies, Your Honor. I brought this one for you.”
“I’ll need one as well,” Marjorie said.
Frank smiled at her. “I have one for you, Marjorie, if you need it. I’ll give it to you later.”
“Thank you.”
Frank sat down again, and Welles said, “The point should be made that these are public records. Anyone can obtain them. The Three Tribes, in fact, have a Web site, including all written histories of the tribes, genealogical details, and other matters.”
“I understand that,” the judge assured him.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I should also point out that in 1970 and ’71, the Three Tribes made every effort to find any Pottaknobbees still alive anywhere in the world. Frank has also brought along examples of the circulars and notices and press releases incident to that search. There was a particular effort to find Harriet Littlefoot Redcorn, who was known to have traveled to the West Coast but who had not been heard of for some years. All efforts failed. Harriet Littlefoot Redcorn and her daughter, Doeface Redcorn, have been presumed dead for many years.”