This morning, around ten, with Anne Marie off to the New School at her course on the history of constitutional law in the Balkans, Kelp was seated lotus-style, more or less, on the floor in the other room, in front of the open closet, one of the safes having been drawn out and tilted back, so that it now looked up at him with its one skeptical eye, when the phone rang. Deep in communion with this dial before him, he almost didn’t answer, but he could never resist a ringing phone—except in a doctor’s car, when he knew it would only be the doctor, wanting his car back—so he finally sighed, shifted so he could reach into his pants pocket, brought out the little cordless, and said dubiously, “Hello?”
He’d been right to be dubious; it was Fitzroy Guilderpost. And he was excited, agitated, upset, blowing bubbles in the middles of his words: “Andy, we’re coming down! We’ve got to meet, we’ll meet at your place, call John and Tiny, we’re leaving now, we’ll be there no later than three, Irwin’s ready, we must fly, see you then!”
“Fitzroy,” Kelp said, “what are you talking about?”
There was a startled silence down the phone line, with bubbles, and then Fitzroy said, “You don’t know?”
“If you’ll think back, Fitzroy,” Kelp said, “you’ll realize you haven’t told me yet. And if you don’t tell me, Fitzroy, I can pretty well guarantee I won’t be here at three o’clock.”
“It was on the news!” Fitzroy jabbered. “Surely, if it was on the news up here, it was on the news down there!”
“It may be on the news,” Kelp pointed out, “but I don’t have the news on. So why don’t you just tell me?”
“The Indians were caught!”
This sounded like something from the world of sports, but Kelp knew that couldn’t be right. He said, “More, Fitzroy. Open it a little wider.”
“The Indians,” Fitzroy said, damping himself down, obviously as though he thought he were talking to a nincompoop, “took a coffin to the cemetery in Queens last night to switch bodies, just the way John said they would.”
Then Kelp saw it. “Oh, oh,” he said. “And they got caught?”
“Right in the middle of it, the hole dug, the three of them in the grave, standing on the box.”
“This is bad news, Fitzroy,” Kelp said.
“Yes! It is! I know it!”
“We better talk this over,” Kelp decided.
“Irwin and I are on our way, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!”
“And Little Feather?”
“She has to stay here, be in court, there’s a great coruscation over this.”
Kelp assumed that word was a legal term of some sort, and let it go. He said, “Okay, we’ll see you and Irwin then.”
“Because, Andy,” Fitzroy said, “because of what those idiots did, there is now a guard on that grave.”
“Oh boy.”
“The tribes have been trying to stall the DNA test,” Fitzroy said, “but this will certainly accelerate the process.”
“Uh-huh.”
“When they take that DNA sample out of that casket,” Fitzroy complained, “it will not be Little Feather’s grandfather in there.”
“It will be Burwick Moody.”
“I think I hate Burwick Moody,” Fitzroy said.
“Aw, naw, Fitzroy,” Kelp said, “he’s as much an innocent victim in this as we are.”
“I did not get involved in this operation,” Fitzroy told him, “to be an innocent victim.”
“Yeah, it does feel a little odd,” Kelp agreed. “Okay, Fitzroy, we’ll see you this afternoon. I’ll call John now, though I don’t think he’s gonna thank me for it.”
31
Judge T. Wallace Higbee felt a lot better this morning. Last week, it had looked as though he would be sucked relentlessly into the vortex of the kind of case that law schools later use in moot court, but by now, Tuesday morning, he could see it was going to be all right. It was just the usual stupidity after all.
They were all in court this morning, at three minutes past eleven, when Judge Higbee took his seat on the raised platform to gaze fondly down upon his people. The high-powered New York lawyers, Max Schreck of Feinberg, Kleinberg, Rhineberg, Steinberg, Weinberg & Klatsch, for the Redcorn woman, and Otis Welles of Holliman, Sherman, Beiderman, Tallyman & Funk, for the casino, were in position at their flanking tables, both this morning with assistants up from New York, and masses of briefcases, and flaming red neckties, obviously ready—nay, eager—to do intricate and arcane legal battle on Judge Higbee’s turf, but as far as he was concerned, they had become toothless tigers.
Little Feather Redcorn was also here, looking more and more like an unvarnished seeker of justice, hard though that might be to believe. Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda, whose stupidity had rolled the clouds away from over Judge Higbee’s head, were here, trying not to look sheepish, which made for a change; usually, they tried not to look lupine. Even little Marjorie Dawson, Ms. Redcorn’s first and extremely local lawyer, was here, blinking in the glare of all this high-wattage legal talent, and serving by her presence, her dimness, her simplicity, to reassure Judge Higbee that it is still the meek who will inherit the earth. After everybody else dies, of course.
In the expectant silence, after he settled himself at the bench, everybody looked at Judge Higbee, and Judge Higbee contentedly gazed back upon them all. Then he lifted a hand, palm upward, and crooked a finger. “Counselors,” he said.
Schreck and Welles immediately got to their feet to stride shoulder-to-shoulder toward the bench. Schreck as tall and skinny as a crane, or some darker bird of ill omen, Welles as bony and angular as an Exercycle in pinstripes, they were physically unalike but, nevertheless, obviously twins in their souls. Neither would ever give an inch, and neither would ever become emotionally involved in the work at hand.
Judge Higbee crooked his finger again, so the two lawyers would lean closer and their conversation could be private. Then he said, “We have a changed situation this morning, gentlemen.”
Welles said, “I hope to speak to that, Your Honor. The depth of feeling in the Indian community is now manifest. We—”
The judge held up a hand. “Save the speech, Mr. Welles,” he advised. “You’ll want it on the record.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Welles said, without apparent irony.
Schreck said, “I would also like to address the changed circumstances, Your Honor, by requesting summary judgment in Little Feather Redcorn’s favor. By their actions, the casino owners have—”
“Not their action,” Welles interrupted. “Those young lads—”
“Stop,” the judge suggested, and they stopped. He looked from one to the other, and then he said, “The reason I called you to this preliminary off-the-record discussion is because I’m afraid emotions may run high today, and I would prefer that nothing disturb the tranquillity of my court. Mr. Welles, just now you interrupted Mr. Schreck. You will not do that again. Nor will Mr. Schreck interrupt you. When I want one of you to speak, I will tell you so. Is that clear?”
Before Welles could speak, Schreck said, “Your Honor, there are those occasions when one’s honorable opponent makes a misstatement that requires a timely response.”
“If either of you interrupts the other, ever,” the judge told him, “I will declare an immediate thirty-minute recess. And what will happen to your timely response then? I suggest you take notes as we go along.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Schreck said, without apparent irony.
“We’ll begin,” the judge said, and made a little shooing gesture that sent the lawyers back to their respective tables. Once they’d gotten there and seated themselves, Judge Higbee said, “Mr. Welles, I believe you would like to make a statement to the Court concerning some recent events.”