“Jonathan Relevant!” Cutting Pigbaigh off, one of the men boomed out the name in a voice as beefy as he was himself. “Yes?” Jonathan Relevant acknowledged his identity.
“I hereby serve you with this subpoena ordering your appearance before the Senate Sub-Committee on Un-American Indian Affairs at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” He handed Jonathan Relevant an official-looking document. “I further inform you that we are empowered to escort you to Washington immediately.”
“But who are you?” Jonathan Relevant asked mildly.
“Here are my credentials, sir.” He whipped out his wallet and shoved a card under Jonathan Relevant’s nose.
“Official Special Investigator for the Sub-Committee.”
“But this is an A & S credit card,” Jonathan Relevant observed.
“Are you questioning our authority, sir?” Despite the automatic deference Jonathan Relevant evoked from him, there was an ominous note in his voice.
“It’s ’ficial awl right, Colonel,” Pigbaigh told Jonathan Relevant in a resigned tone of voice.
“But an A & S credit card?”
“See-curity reasons. They got theah methods same’s we got ouahs. The thang is, they’s yew-surpin’ Cee Ah Aih ’thority. Strom’s gonna heah ’bout this!” Pigbaigh told the special agents.
“He already knows.” The special investigator pulled the rug out from under Pigbaigh.
“Alla same, Ah’m ’sponsible foah the Colonel heah, an’ Ah’m goin’ ’long with him to protec’ Cee Ah Aih int’rests.”
“All right. There’s a car waiting outside.”
“Just a minute,” Jonathan Relevant said. “Nothing’s been settled here. If we leave now, what’s going to happen at Harnell?”
“That’s not our concern. Let’s go.” The first investigator led the way outside. The second one brought up the rear, gently prodding Jonathan Relevant.
A moment later, he was seated in the back of a limousine, between Leander Pigbaigh and one of the investigators, on the way to catch the special plane waiting to take them to Washington. As the car pulled away, Jonathan Relevant noticed a group of students assembling outside the Administration Building. He remembered that the statue was still inside. The students were all dressed in Indian costumes and carrying protest signs. “GIVE THE INDIAN BACK HIS MANHOOD!” summed them up. They were chanting loudly and forming into a circle for a war dance. Jonathan Relevant did a double-take when he recognized the leader of the group. It was the CIA agent.
“Ouah boys are always on the job!” Leander Pigbaigh had spotted him too. “Ah find that reassurin’. America nevah sleeps!”
Insomnia! Jonathan Relevant sighed. That’s some domestic policy!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
At nine o’clock the next morning, an hour before the proceedings were due to start, Jonathan Relevant was escorted to an anteroom outside the Senate chamber where the sub-committee’s hearings were being held. He was left alone there. The two special investigators stationed themselves outside each of the doors leading to the anteroom. That they were functioning as guards was obvious.
It was about a quarter past nine when one of the doors opened and the civvy sentry admitted a man in his late fifties with a mane of flowing, rather long gray hair. The newcomer’s demeanor was dignified; he was simply dressed. He wore a breechcloth and a headband with one feather sticking up from it. He carried an attaché case. His build was muscular, the features of his face right off a one-cent piece, circa 1900.
“How do you do?” He greeted Jonathan Relevant in a voice that was both warm and cultured, a voice that lent each syllable its full, clear weight. “I am Judge Tutored Foot. I am to act as your counsel before the sub-committee -—with your permission, of course.” His blue eyes studied Jonathan Relevant. “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I see that you are.”
“Are what?”
“An Indian. We weren’t really sure, you know.”
“We?”
“The Board of Chiefs elected to govern Alcatraz. I’m one of them.”
“I’m a little confused,” Jonathan Relevant confessed.
“Perfectly understandable. Things have happened so fast that I’m a little confused myself. Let me tell you what I know—-which isn’t much—and then you can fill me in on your involvement.”
“All right,” Jonathan Relevant agreed.
“Some time last night a message reached Alcatraz,” Judge Tutored Foot began.
“A message?”
“Yes. It had been relayed by drum from San Francisco—”
“By drum--”
“-—and passed on by smoke signal to Alcatraz.”
“By smoke signal-—-”
“Yes. . . . Anyway, according to the message, there was a confrontation between the Indians at Harnell and the white power structure shaping up. It also mentioned that you had been spirited away by US. government agents. It was unclear as to whether or not you were an Indian. Well, you can see the position that put us in!”
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Well, you know that Alcatraz is an independent country?”
“Oh . . . yes.” Jonathan Relevant was noncommittal. “Yes. It’s been some time now since the Indians reclaimed Alcatraz and subsequently issued our Declaration of Independence from the white colonial rule of the United States government. However, our position is ticklish, and this has a bearing on your case. You see, there is still no official recognition of our sovereign status by the United States government.”
“I see.”
“Yes. We recognize them, but they don’t recognize us. Therefore, there has been no exchange of ambassadors. There are no official channels of communication between us. Unofficially, our envoys in Luxembourg hold talks. But officially, the United States won’t even admit that the talks take place. To do so would be to grant the Alcatraz diplomats a status which by inference would acknowledge the legitimacy of our government. Do you understand?”
“No.”
“Neither do we. Presumably the U.S. State Department which sets the policy understands—-but I have my doubts. Anyway, since the United States doesn’t grant the fact of our independence, it is forced into the position of not granting the fact that American Indians on Alcatraz have voluntarily given up their citizenship in the United States. Officially, then, we are still U.S. citizens and free to move about the country. In a way, this works to our advantage. You see, it’s a one-way street. We have very strict immigration laws on Alcatraz. Under no circumstances do we grant citizenship to white aliens. Even the rules allowing white aliens to visit are very strict. This may seem harsh, but history has shown us the unwiseness of permitting the white race free access to our territory. An old Cherokee proverb sums it up: ‘Hospitality to the white man is like setting out food to feed the cockroaches. They quickly return with all their friends and relatives and eat all of your food as well as the food you have set out for them.’ And then, I might add, they level the growing place of the food, suck the oil from the ground, and make a motion picture to show how brave they are in the face of the atrocities committed by the savage, heathen redman. . . . So our immigration quota for whites is zero.”
“That sounds sensible,” Jonathan Relevant granted.
“However, to get back to your case, when the Board of Chiefs heard that an unliberated Indian had been seized by the U.S. government under circumstances that are still confused in my mind, it was decided that I be sent here to offer help and advice.”
“Why you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Prior to becoming a citizen of Alcatraz, I sat on a high bench of the federal court system—just below the Supreme Court, as a matter of fact,” Judge Tutored Foot told him. “It was felt that my reputation might be an asset in any proceedings you face.”