“Thank you, Your Honor,” Marjorie said. “I hope this means you will give our motion strong consideration.”
“Henry David Thoreau,” he told her, and everybody else in court, “said, ‘Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.’ There is definitely a trout in the milk this morning—you’re right to that extent—but so far, we do not have anything like proof positive that Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda are the ones who watered the milk. Marjorie, if you interrupt me, we’ll recess until after lunch. Good. It is up to the officials in New York City to decide who is responsible for the trout in this morning’s milk, Marjorie, and if they decide Fox and Oglanda are the diluters, I will be happy to entertain your motion at that time.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Marjorie said, and sat.
Welles stood. “Your Honor, may I speak?”
“Of course, Mr. Welles.”
“Since Your Honor himself has pointed out,” Welles began, “that the matter of the prank by the three lads is in another venue, and since the process of our appeal is in yet a different venue, it might be best to hold these proceedings in abeyance until decisions are made, in one venue or another.”
“Oh, I don’t think we need wait, Mr. Welles,” the judge told him. “In fact, my main purpose in calling this session today is to order the DNA test to proceed at once, without delay.”
Welles looked astonished. “But Your Honor! That’s the very issue before the appeals court!”
“No, I don’t believe it is,” the judge corrected him. “You are not disputing DNA tests in your appeal. You are disputing the right of the Court to order the exhumation of the body of Joseph Redcorn. But that is now moot, Mr. Welles. Mr. Fox’s nephews, all full-blooded members of the Three Tribes, have already done the exhumation, presumably within the strictures of their native religion. The grave is open, Mr. Welles. The cat is out of the bag.”
Judge Higbee smiled at the silent turmoil in front of him. Life among the stupid could be so sweet sometimes. “Marjorie,” he said, “arrange with your client for the taking of a sample for the test.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Thock went the gavel.
32
Everybody rose, including Marjorie. Everybody, including Marjorie, watched Judge Higbee stride from the room, smiling like a cat full of cream. But what Marjorie was thinking was, what’s wrong here?
This was the second time she’d picked up a secret reaction from Little Feather Redcorn, and once again it had to do with DNA. When the prospect of a DNA test was first raised, in chambers, Marjorie had been the only one close enough to Little Feather to realize the idea wasn’t new to her. She’d been waiting for it, and she was relieved and pleased when it finally arose, but she didn’t want to admit it. Marjorie hadn’t been able to figure that out, and now, just as strongly, when Judge Higbee made that startling announcement that the DNA test could proceed right away, Little Feather’s reaction, no matter how much she tried to hide it, had been dismay.
Was Marjorie imagining all this? How could Little Feather have been expectant and eager and already aware of DNA tests last Thursday, and then dismayed at the prospect today? I have to find out about this, she told herself.
Across the aisle, Otis Welles and his associates packed their briefcases, Welles now like a broken Exercycle in a suit, Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda yattering away at the lawyers with demands, questions, outrage. On this side of the aisle, Max Schreck smiled like a coyote as he packed his briefcase and whispered an encouraging word to Little Feather, as though this morning’s outcome were his own work, cleverly and agilely accomplished.
Marjorie stood silent beside Little Feather until Schreck turned away, and then she said, “Well, Little Feather, this is wonderful news, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” Little Feather agreed, but Marjorie could see the panic deep in Little Feather’s eyes and knew the woman could hardly wait to get alone somewhere by herself, so she could scream and stamp her feet and tear her hair.
No, not yet. “Little Feather,” Marjorie said, “let me take you to lunch.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you, Ms. Dawson,” Little Feather said, smiling to beat the band, “but I think I ought to just—”
“I think,” Marjorie told her, “you should accept my invitation to lunch. I’m speaking as your attorney, Little Feather.”
Little Feather frowned at her. Marjorie could see the calculations going by behind those shrewd eyes, and then, all at once, Little Feather switched on the sunny smile once more and said, “I think that would be really nice. Just us girls.”
Traditionally, the lawyers had lunch at Chez Laurentian, half a block from the courthouse, so Marjorie took Little Feather the other way, a block and a half to the County Seat Diner, where the bailiffs and clerks and police ate. Over at Chez Laurentian, the smoking section was two tables at the back, by the kitchen, while here in the County Seat Diner, the nonsmoking section was two booths down at the left end, with windows on one side and the rest rooms on the other.
Having their choice of booths, Marjorie and Little Feather took the one marginally farther from the rest rooms, and while they waited for the waitress to bring their menus, Little Feather said, “That Judge Higbee is quite a card.”
“He doesn’t usually get to show what he can do,” Marjorie said. “I think he’s probably having fun.”
Then the menus came, and they didn’t go on with their conversation until after they’d given in their orders. Then Marjorie said, “Little Feather, you know I’m your lawyer.”
“One of my lawyers,” Little Feather said.
“Your first lawyer.”
“Court-appointed lawyer.”
“Little Feather,” Marjorie said, beginning to be exasperated, “I’m your lawyer, all right? Will you at least accept that?”
Little Feather shrugged. “Sure.”
“And as your lawyer,” Marjorie went on, “I am required to keep in confidence anything you tell me. The lawyer-client privilege, have you heard of that?”
Another shrug. “Sure.”
“Unless you tell me you’re going to commit a crime,” Marjorie explained, “which I don’t expect you to do—”
A crooked grin from Little Feather. “You can pretty well count on it.”
“Well, barring that,” Marjorie said, “which, as your attorney, I wouldn’t, in fact, be bound by law to report, but, barring that, everything you say to me is strictly private between us and will go no further.”
A nod. “Good.”
“So tell me what the problem is,” Marjorie said.
Little Feather cocked her head, like a bird deciding if that thing in front of her is a twig or a worm. She said, “What problem? Everything’s great.”
“I’ve been watching you,” Marjorie told her. “I know you don’t think much of me—”
“Hey!” Little Feather cried, showing surprise and anger. “What gives you that idea?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Marjorie said, “nobody thinks much of me. But I can see, and last Thursday, when Judge Higbee first mentioned DNA, you already knew all about it.”
“I thought it was terrific,” Little Feather said. “I was happy.”
“You were relieved,” Marjorie told her. “You’d been thinking about DNA, and waiting for somebody to mention it, but you didn’t want to be the one who brought it up yourself. I suppose that’s because you don’t want people to think you planned this all out beforehand.”