Wheels within wheels. I’m representing this woman, but I really don’t know what’s going on.
Frank was saying, “I don’t follow that, Judge. DNA testing. Bloodstains?”
“Not at all,” the judge told him. “This is the technique whereby it was established that the woman claiming to be Anastasia, the daughter of the last Czar, was, in fact, not related to the Romanovs.”
Frank looked at Welles. He seemed a little upset by this turn of events. He’s afraid, Marjorie told herself, that Ms. Redcorn really is who she says she is, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want her in the Three Tribes. Or in the casino.
Frank said to Welles, “How reliable is this stuff?”
“Perfectly reliable,” Welles told him, and turned at last to look directly at Ms. Redcorn. “You do understand what the judge is suggesting, do you not?”
“If it’s something that can prove I’m a Pottaknobbee,” she answered, “I’m all for it.”
“Or disprove.”
“Not a chance.”
Frank said to the judge, “Just explain it to me, Your Honor, okay?”
“We know of one guaranteed Pottaknobbee,” the judge told him, “whose grave we can find, and whom Ms. Redcorn claims as a relative. Joseph Redcorn.”
“My great-grandpa.”
“A sample is taken from Joseph Redcorn, probably hair,” the judge went on, “and a sample of hair is taken from Ms. Redcorn. Laboratory analysis of the DNA in the two samples can establish without any question whether or not they’re related.”
“Well, uh,” Frank said. His worry was evident now, and he blinked at his lawyer.
Who said, “In principle, Your Honor, the tribes would have no objection. But this is a new technology, after all, and I believe we should be given the opportunity to consult with scientists, experts in the field.”
“Of course.”
Frank said, “Wait a minute. You’re talking about digging him up.”
“Sufficient,” Judge Higbee said, “to obtain a hair sample. The coffin would be opened, but probably not even moved.”
Frank was determinedly shaking his head. “You can’t do that,” he said. “The Supreme Court is behind us on this one, the white people can’t come in and dig up Indian bodies on our sacred tribal lands. The anthropologists have been trying to pull that, but the courts find for us every time.”
Judge Higbee had been trying to stem the flow of Frank’s protests, and now, rather loudly, he said, “Frank!”
Frank shut up. “Yes, sir.”
“I’ve looked into the matter,” the judge told him, “and Joseph Redcorn is buried in a nondenominational cemetery in the borough of Queens in New York City.”
Frank blinked. “He’s not here? Why . . . why did they do that?”
“Apparently,” the judge told him, “the tribes were too cheap to pay to transport the body this far north, and the builder would pay the expenses if the interment were in New York.”
“Too poor,” Welles said.
The judge nodded. “One way or the other,” he said, “the effect is the same.”
“Well,” Frank said, rallying, “uh, for all I know, uh, that could be sacred tribal land around him just because he’s there. I’ll have to consult with the Tribal Council on this.”
“And Mr. Welles,” the judge added, “will have to consult with the law.”
“I will, Your Honor,” Welles agreed.
Ms. Redcorn said, “And I gotta have a new lawyer.”
They all looked at her with surprise, none more so than Marjorie. Ms. Redcorn gave her a friendly head shake and said, “You do your best, Ms. Dawson, but I need somebody who’s a specialist in this DNA business.”
Judge Higbee said, “Very sensible, Ms. Redcorn. As a matter of fact, you know, if we proceed and then the tests go against you, the penalties could be quite severe. No one wants to go to that expense on what could turn out to be a frivolous contention.”
“I’m not frivolous, Judge,” Ms. Redcorn said. “Trust me.”
“Yes, well,” he said, “I could, if you like, draw up a list of recommended counsel.”
“Thank you, sir, but no,” she said. “I’ve got some friends out west can help me.” Then she turned to Welles and said, “Which company you work for?”
“My firm,” he answered, “is Holliman, Sherman, Beiderman, Tallyman & Funk. You wouldn’t be able to use us, of course.”
“I know,” she told him, “that’s why I wanted to ask.” Turning back to Judge Higbee, she said, “I’ll be all right, Your Honor.” Beaming at the judge, she pointed toward Welles and said, “I’m gonna get me one of them.”
22
Roger Fox had never seen his partner so upset. “Calm down, Frank,” he said. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Well, it can’t be worse,” Frank told him, “so maybe it is as bad as all that. Roger, they’ve got a way to prove whether or not that damn woman really is Pottaknobbee.”
“What, that list of relatives she throws around? All right, they existed, but that doesn’t mean they have anything to do with her.”
“DNA testing,” Frank said. “I want a drink, and so do you.”
They were meeting this afternoon in Roger’s office, the one that had been shown on TV, and in his office the bar was a mahogany and chrome and mirror construction built into the corner to the right of the desk. (It had been out of sight, to the left of the camera, on television.) Roger had been seated comfortably at his desk when Frank came in from his meeting with Judge Higbee, but now he angled forward, his heavy stuffed swivel chair propelling him to his feet as he said, “DNA? That proves paternity, doesn’t it?”
“It can prove it in the other direction, too,” Frank said, taking down two of the heavy cut-glass whiskey glasses from the chrome shelf and placing them on the mahogany bar. “And prove whether you did the rape,” he said, opening the low refrigerator and adding two ice cubes to each glass, “whether you stabbed the person,” he said, reaching for the bottle of Wild Turkey on the back bar, “whether you had sex with the boss’s wife,” he said, pouring a very generous portion into each glass, “whether your goddamn great-grandfather is goddamn Joseph goddamn Redcorn!” he yelled, and pushed one glass toward Roger—a little slopped, no matter—then drained his own glass by a third.
When next his glass was away from his face, Roger had crossed the room to the bar and was standing there looking at him, but he hadn’t moved a hand toward his own drink. Roger said, “DNA?”
“You said it.”
“What does Welles say?”
“One hundred percent reliable.”
“No, no, I know that. What does he say about can they do it? Did you mention sacred tribal lands?”
“The son of a bitch is buried in New York City!”
Roger reared back, clasping tighter to the bar with both hands. “What the hell is he doing down there?”
“That’s where he fell off the building, the goddamn stumble-footed . . .”
“The rumor was, the Mohawks pushed him.”
“The Three Tribes blame the Mohawks for everything, they always have. He was probably drunk,” he decided, and drank another third of his Wild Turkey.
Roger said, “But why there? The Pottaknobbees, all of us in the Three Tribes, we’re buried here on the reservation. Unless somebody moves away, loses touch.”
“The builder would pay for the funeral,” Frank explained, “only if it was in New York. Nobody up here cared enough, apparently. And Roger, realistically, you know, a lot of the Three Tribes are buried way to hell and gone all over the place.”
Roger at last reached for his glass. “So much for sacred tribal lands,” he said, and drank, not quite as much nor as rapidly as Frank.
“I tried to suggest,” Frank said, “that Redcorn’s grave is sacred tribal land just because he’s in it, but Welles thinks that won’t fly. It could help us stall awhile, but sooner or later a court would order the test to go ahead. And we’ve gotta be careful not to push that stuff too hard, we don’t want to look like we’re trying to stiff-arm that woman, whether she’s Pottaknobbee or not.”