Celestial Mesa: 2012

By Sharon S. Delaney

So, for centuries your people have worked as farmers and hunters, knowing the future would roll down to the end days prophecied by the Mayan culture like a run-away freight train? Sue asked.
Yes, it is true, Frank replied. We didnt have much choice, we had to keep body and soul together until the end days. We rocked along for centuries working in the fields and hunting. We domesticated fowl, eating their meat and eggs. We were all small communities and lived in simple dwellings that were relatively easy to repair. If we suffered natural disasters like earthquakes and tornadoes that destroyed our homes, we cleared away the rubble and started over.
Then we came up on the twentieth century and everything got different. We went through a surge of creating new inventions. We learned to fly and made electricity, toilets that flushed, fancy cell phones and the internet. Suddenly there wasnt anything happening on the planet we didnt know about. Weve become complacent now, and a hundred years after the inventions came, our fancy inventions are beginning to crumble.
We got so we depended on the economy. The monetary system took over. Men became greedy and pulled and tugged at the proceeds from Wall Street until it all began to unravel.
They created bigger and better weapons not where you had your enemy in your sights, but you could take out whole cities at a time. The Hopi tell in their prophecies of villages in metal and glass canyons, where a man could walk all day and never see the horizon. One day someone would push a button and where a city had been there would just be steam. The people would have no choice but to just walk away if they survived. We are getting to be like the Olmecs and Mayans and Aztecs who couldnt feed their people because their population and their cities got too big, and they had to abandon them. Its not impossible New York could become an abandoned city. It could happen. They could just walk away.
In the twentieth century, for the first time skirmishes became world wars. The young men left the land their forefathers defended and went to lose their blood and their lives defending someone elses land.
One day soon we will lose all our fancy toys to the end of the age of electricity and technology and succumb to sunspots that will devastate communications. Our forefathers never knew sunspots existed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 6, 2011
• ISBN: 9781469131511

Sharon S. Delaney

Biography, Sharon Delaney Sharon Delaney spent over forty years supporting lawyers in the courtroom. She began her search and rescue work with her dog right after the bombing of the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City in 1995. Upon retirement she reinvented herself and has written three other books, The Grass Whispers, Near the Water’s Edge, and Blatant Sacrifice. Her greatest pleasure in life is to present her readers the stories of Sue Benson and a big German Shepherd Dog, Edgar. Sharon lives with her husband and their German Shepherd Dog in Alberton, Montana.

Book preview

PART I

LAWSUIT AGAINST

THE CHEROKEE TRIBE

CHAPTER ONE

Sue, I need you, he said. Dog Face sounded agitated, which was totally unlike him. Here was a man who never lost his cool—until today.

Now, this is a new twist, Sue said, her blond curls covering the receiver on the phone. It’s usually me who’s calling you for help. You got a search going or what? Ed and I could be on a plane in short order. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that Dick had appeared at the door to his office and leaned against the doorjam as he eavesdropped.

It’s not a search, Dog Face answered. There’s no run to find someone lost in the woods this time. It’s more serious than that.

More serious that finding someone who’s lost, she asked, before we find them dead? What’s more drastic than loss of life?

Dog Face hesitated. The tribe has been sued. I need your help. Put on your legal assistant’s cap and come.

The Cherokee have been what? Sue asked. By who—whom? Who would do such a thing? She looked up. Her blue eyes focused on Dick, her boss and District Attorney of Bastrop County. She and Mr. Donovan were nestled deep in the hallowed halls of the courthouse in little Smithville, Texas.

Dog Face, usually a quiet man, was talking fast. Gone was the usual deep, quiet voice. Dick could hear every word he said.

We’ve been sued by the federal government, Dog Face said. The head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs has brought charges against us to make us vacate our lands for use of the white man. It’s the same old controversy that sent my people on the Trail of Tears almost two hundred years ago. They’re bringing up the old accusation that the Cherokee destroyed the ancient Mound Builders’ civilization. The government took my people out of our homeland and sent us to Oklahoma without cause generations ago, and now they’re doing it again. Only this time they’ve skewed the facts.

Have they sued any of the other tribes that went to Oklahoma with your folks in 1839? Like the Choctaws or the Creeks or anybody? Sue asked.

"No, just us. Except for the Navajo, we are the biggest tribe by population in the country, and by far the one with the deepest pockets. The scariest part is if we go down, what will the Bureau of Indian Affairs do to the other tribes? I have a feeling if they can win this lawsuit against us, the smaller tribes will fall like a house of cards.

"They won’t even listen to us when we tell them they’re sitting on the very limb they are trying to cut off the tree. If they disburse the tribes, there will be no reason to even have a Bureau of Indian Affairs. They’re following some congressman who doesn’t have the best interests of either of us in mind—the tribes or the BIA.

"The truth is, when the Cherokee got to Georgia, the Mound Builders had constructed their cities and then were long gone. Even their cities in the Midwest and along the Gulf Coast were abandoned long before the Cherokee Nation came down from the Great Lakes. But the BIA now says the Mound Builders were there when we arrived, and we slaughtered them like dogs. We were the victims of tyranny and false accusations two centuries ago, and we are again today.

I have been uprooted from my cozy house to show up at a hearing in Washington to defend my tribe. There’s lots of people running around here, lawyers and legal assistants from the law firm the tribe has hired, but none of them will talk to me about what is going on. They just look at me like ‘You’re a dumb Indian, what could you know.’ They’re telling me basically to sit down and shut up and let them do their work, and I need someone here who’s on my side. The only advantage they have over me is I don’t know how courtrooms work. I’m living in their world now, a strange land for which I have no map. It’s unfamiliar to me. But you know about these things. I need you here to help me.

By then Donovan had reached over to Sue’s telephone and flipped on the speaker. He stood in front of her desk with his arms crossed and rocked back and forth on his heels, a frown on his face.

They have me stuck away in a little conference room in the far reaches of their offices, Dog Face said. They keep telling me it’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to the Supreme Court building if we want to take it to the top. They keep muttering something about sucking up legal fees from the oil reserves we weren’t supposed to get when we moved to Oklahoma. These people are disrespectful, and they aren’t protecting the interests of the Cherokee.

I haven’t done a whole lot of work in federal court, she said, but I had to do a little when I worked for that shady lawyer over on Birch Street a few years back. I can’t promise I can do much good, but I can be there by tomorrow night if Dick sees his way clear to give me a leave of absence. Her glance bounced up to her boss’s face.

Donovan cleared his throat. Let me sit down with Sue, and I’ll go over some strategy with her, he said. "How dare they try to keep you in the dark? After all, you are the client, and you are paying the bills. We may have grounds for filing ethics charges against them if they won’t talk to you. They’re forgetting who’s working for whom here.

If she can stay a little late tonight, I can get Sue to write notes in her files to keep us going while she’s gone and to help her get her feet on the ground when she gets there. Tomorrow’s Friday. You can have her by the weekend. Call me if you need anything, Paxton, and I’ll grab some vacation time to come up and help you. Sounds to me like you need somebody there with credentials who can back them down, he said.

Thanks, Dick, Dog Face replied. His voice seemed calmer. Call me when you’ve made reservations, Little Sister, and I will come get you at the airport.

I will, Dog Face. I’ll be there soon. I love you, Big Brother. We’ll get this worked out together.

Donovan turned and headed back into his office, calling over his shoulder as he went, Call your momma and tell her you’re gonna be late for supper, then grab your pad and get in here. We’re going to get some groundwork done, and then you can go home and pack.

When Sue walked into Donovan’s office, he was making some calls of his own. He looked over his shoulder at Sue as he waited for an answer at the other end of the line. Let’s call in the big guns, he said to her. We’ll get things tidied up here and get you home to pick up your gear.

As Donovan got an answer on his first call, he said, Judge, I’m glad I caught you before you went home to Beatrice. Sue and I are rat-holed in my office, and we could use your advice. Can you spare us a minute? Then Donovan dialed again and summoned the sheriff.

Sue moved her chair around to the end of Donovan’s desk where she usually took dictation. It wasn’t a minute before she saw two dark figures appear behind the frosted glass of the district attorney’s outer door, one of them reaching for the doorknob. After all, Judge Morrison’s office was right across the hall. In walked the Judge, and hot on his heels was her cousin Tom, the sheriff.

Judge Morrison crossed the room, and she rose to her feet to kiss her godfather on the cheek. Even though it was late in the day, she could still detect the soft scent of his Old Spice aftershave. It reminded her of her dad, God rest his soul. They had been best of friends, Doc and Judge, and they’d always smelled the same. The stately black man was showing his age—gray hair was beginning to creep into the short-cropped fuzz at his temples, though his eyes were still clear, black, and piercing.

Sue’s been called by Dog Face to help him defend a lawsuit against the Cherokee tribe, Donovan began. The tribe has hired a cutthroat law firm in Washington who’s trying to railroad the Chief. Little do they know who they’re foolin’ with. Dog Face could cut them off at the knees with one soft-spoken word, and I think it’s about to come to just that. He wants Sue there to help interpret the legalese they’re throwing at him. She knows a little federal law, but this is going to be a case the likes of which we’ve never seen. The news channels will be all over this thing, and I mean soon. The feds are suing the Cherokees for killing off a previous tribe in Georgia—one that abandoned their tribal grounds before the Cherokees ever came down the pike.

Donovan’s glare nailed the judge. I need you to stand up with me against the County Commission if they figure out Sue’s not in the saddle here, and I need you behind me if I end up following her to Washington to help Dog Face. The Commission has tried to give her a boatload of crap in times past when she left to take care of issues outside the office. They even made snide comments when she worked on her own time to help you, Tom, in searches With her dog, looking for lost people. They seem to forget she is the daughter of the one doctor who took care of this town for decades. There are a couple commissioners who think she’s just in search work to showboat. I heard one of them say he thought she always showed up at searches looking camera ready, her bright blue eyes casting around to see if the TV crews had shown up yet. We three men know different. Donovan stopped and looked from Judge Morrison to Tom, waiting for their comments.

I have an extensive background in federal discrimination cases, the Judge replied, and this case seems to smack of it. We need to figure out what the federal government really wants. I suspect they have an eye on some of that Oklahoma oil money. This comes as no surprise since they moved the Cherokee out of Georgia in the first place because of government greed. When the government instigated the Trail of Tears in 1838, they did it because there was gold found on Indian land in 1837. When the desolate land they drove the tribe to turned up rich in oil deposits, they would just have soon run them off somewhere else as soon as they found out. They forgot Indian reservations are sovereign nations within the confines of American borders. Even before they discovered oil, the tribe bought up the mineral rights for a song a very long time ago. Somebody in Tulsa was thinking, whether they remembered the part about the gold they lost in Georgia or what. Congressmen have tried to figure out how to get those royalties before. It’s time the rest of us put a stop to it.

So what tack do you think Sue should take in her advice to Dog Face? Donovan asked. It seems like we’re sending a lamb to slaughter putting our legal assistant in harm’s way, not only in the face of the feds but also a high-powered law firm. I don’t like it. I don’t want her getting snowballed in Washington where we can’t watch her back.

Wait, guys, Sue said. You seem to think a legal assistant can be a pushover. You surely know me better than that. And Dog Face is no pushover either. Once he gets his feet on the ground, he can be a formidable foe. He’s out of his element working with those lawyers. He’s at a definite disadvantage now. But he will figure it out, and it won’t take him long to do it.

Yes, that’s true, Morrison said. But it’s up to us to make sure he doesn’t have to face them down alone. If we make a united front of expert knowledge, we can make sure they don’t take advantage of him. We can stand our ground with facts in this case. I remember when Sue had to deal with the feds against her crooked boss who tried to have her assassinated. She was no pushover then, and she won’t be one now. Neither am I. That’s why I’m going with her.

The other three stared at the judge in astonishment. He was the only one in the room still breathing.

No Washington bureaucrats are going to give my Suzie a bad time, Judge concluded. "I’m going to be right there with her. I made a promise on her daddy’s grave I would take care of her, and it’s high time I stand by my word.

I’ll call my clerk at home tonight and have her get a continuance on my cases or move them to Larson’s court. It’s time to circle the wagons around our own. That includes our friend Dog Face Paxton.

And what am I here for? Tom asked.

You, Sheriff, will be in charge of the last line of defense, said Donovan. If anyone tries to retaliate against Sue by harassing your Aunt Hazel, you will be standing right there between them and Sue’s mother.

I’d be doing that anyway, he said. I always drop in on Aunt Hazel when Sue’s gone to make sure she’s all right. Sue reminds me at least once a week about the law enforcement creed—to serve and protect. She really doesn’t have to, though. I’d take care of Aunt Hazel anyway.

Also, would it be possible for you to get Sue to Washington as soon as possible? Donovan added. Is your Cessna gassed up?

Yup, he said. I can be ready to roll as soon as I file a flight plan. Are you taking your dog with you, Sue?

Guess I better, she said. I hear Washington is full of thugs. Those not in the Capitol building are on the streets. From the sounds of it, I think I could use some protection, too, against our own lawyers.

Judge, you and Sue get your stuff pulled together, Tom said. I’ll meet you in the airport lobby as soon as I get clearance from the FAA. Just head me to the tarmac when you’re ready to go.

CHAPTER TWO

David Jamison, the junior congressman from the state of Nebraska, bounded up the steps of the Thomas Jefferson Building only blocks from the Capitol. The blustery wind whipped the tails of his overcoat around his knees. He was headed for his accustomed place in the Library of Congress, the last table in the back. He had an office somewhere in the far reaches of the Capitol complex, but he’d never been there. He had a secretary ensconced in it, but the only time he ever saw her was when he went to her apartment to get cleaned up and partake of her fine scotch she kept on hand just for him.

He liked his secretary’s apartment. It had a lovely view of the Washington Monument, subtly lit at night against the backdrop of twinkling lights of the city. Her bed was covered in satin sheets. She had the finest Egyptian cotton towels. She was soft and smelled good, could hold a decent conversation, and she looked just fine on his arm as he sidled into parties thrown by the highest-profile officials in the US government.

Last night was just such a night—a cocktail party for the Swedish Embassy at the home of the vice president. The Victorian-style Admiral’s House in the quiet neighborhood along Thirty-Fifth Street was ablaze with lights in every window from top to bottom. The grounds were lit up with lanterns and indirect lighting aimed up into the trees.

When they got back to her place, Angela eased the zipper down her black linen dress laid softly over her alabaster skin, and she moved into the only bedroom. When he followed, her auburn hair lay in billows against the pillow.

You are lovely, he said, the kind of woman I should have married right out of college instead of that fat cow I left back in Omaha with our four squalling kids and a dog with bad breath.

Now, David, she replied. She’s so busy with the children, she doesn’t even have any time to take care of herself. In essence, she’s living like a single mother with you here in Washington, eleven hundred and fifty miles away. She can hardly look like a diva when she’s the only one who can shovel the dog poo out of the yard and mow the lawn.

Angela had no pets. She said their dander made her sneeze. He didn’t make her sneeze, though. She moaned blissfully when he pressed her lithe body into the sheets. This was more like it, no matter how she defended that woman back home.

His mind got back to business as he settled into the uncomfortable wooden chair in the bowels of the library. Its discomfort was what kept him awake into the evening hours, working on federal budget outlines he was making of his own volition. No one knew he was preparing an epistle that would rock the administration back on its heels. It was his intention to create a financial bill that would embarrass the Oval Office. The administration would be exposed for not thinking of it first. Jamison would single-handedly bring the country back into fiscal line. And he was going to make sure that everyone on the Hill knew it was Jamison who had done it. He was going to use this gargantuan effort to create a political future for himself that no one else could take credit for. His personal agenda was his first priority, and he never lost sight that he wanted to be in a position soon to control every aspect of American life. This case against the Cherokees was just a predecessor of future endeavors to see if he could pull off not just a coup on the Hill, but perhaps the next thing to a dictatorship in years to come.

He had run into the tally of figures about the Cherokee expenditures when he was going over the president’s proposed budget right after the first of the year—an amount paid out to the Native American tribes. It occurred to him that the tribes were making a great deal of money off the federal grants and stipends given them every year. The government paid for education of young tribal losers and health care subsidies for the elderly and infirm drunks, far more than they should be entitled to. Who cared if they lived a long, secure life?

What was the point of dumping a ton of money on people who were basically indigent? They lived on what should be federal land, their schools were built with federal money, they ate game they hunted year round on wildlife preserves. Most of them were hauling down big bucks from casinos, probably skimming tax dollars off the top. Their kids went to school until they were well into their twenties, mostly because they weren’t smart enough to pass their exams the first time. The squaws didn’t work except for little cottage industries like weaving and making jewelry they sold from blankets laid out on the sidewalks of the nearest town squares. The uneducated men followed closely their avocations of swilling cheap booze and raising scrawny cattle. In the evenings they went home to a lean-to or a hovel to do more of the same and breed more brats, who in turn would grow up to suck the federal government dry. They lent about as much support to their country as cockroaches.

But this new budget would address that issue. He had noticed on his last trip home an article in National Geographic about the Indians. It had pictures of smiling flat-faced, unwashed people sitting in darkened living rooms with pictures of their forefathers lined up high on filthy walls illuminated by only a single lightbulb hanging exposed from the ceiling.

Of particular interest to him were the Cherokees. The government had zeroed in on them before. In the winter of 1838-1839, the government drove them off their lands in South Carolina and Georgia and relocated them to a reservation in Oklahoma. The whole effort was designed to acquire mining rights on their lands. And what happened? After they got settled in on the new reservation in Oklahoma, they up and discovered massive oil deposits under the reservation. Their Great Spirit seemed to smile on them at every turn.

Jamison contemplated long and hard on how he could become the great American hero by putting the proceeds from those reserves into the coffers of the federal treasury. He would stand as s junior congressman no more; he would be known as the man who single-handedly pulled America back from the brink of financial ruin. With any luck at all, he would send the proud Cherokee far and wide into the everyday slums of Harlem and Watts without a land of their own. They were already on the dole. What difference would it make if they were getting organized welfare from the tribe or government handouts along with their new black and Hispanic neighbors? With any luck at all, in another generation there would be no more Cherokee tribe. They would just interbreed with the country’s lowlifes, and their offspring would pass into oblivion, never to be heard from again. The government’s responsibilities for their welfare could easily be swept under the rug. With any luck at all, the government would starve them out of existence.

Jamison knew just the man to handle this little escapade. He had worked with the man before when the issues with the Inuit tribe in Alaska came up. He was Phineas Vickers, the deputy director of the Bureau of Indian Affairs. He was just the right kind of man to hold the reins of control over the Indians. Vickers was none too bright and hated redskins more than anyone on the planet, and he was in just the right place to serve Jamison’s purposes. He had been just the one to file suit against the Cherokees to get their land wrangled out of their hands. The suit would scare the bejesus out of those heathens, and they would roll over before the sun went down again.

It didn’t take Jamison a month to set the wheels in motion. He did it without getting his hands dirty. All it took was knowing who would do his dirty work for him.

CHAPTER THREE

The plane landed in Washington just before daybreak. There was a chill in the air, the beginnings of fall frost. Washington would be experiencing winter snow soon enough.

Tom had rented a larger plane than the one he owned to keep his passengers happy, and as it pulled up to the Pace Terminal at Reagan National Airport, not only Dog Face but also Sam Lassiter were standing behind the glass of the lobby. They had their coats off, and the glass was steamed up on the inside. The folks at Pace had obviously turned up the heat in the building to fend off the chill.

Tom helped Sue and Judge Morrison get their luggage off the plane as Edgar bounded out onto the tarmac to address a friendly bush after his long flight. The dog was a big German Shepherd, black and tan, and he was obviously very glad to see his old friends Dog Face and Lassiter. He went first to one and then the other, wagging his tail and smiling up into their faces.

As the two men walked out of the building to gather up the luggage, Lassiter approached Tom and wrung his hand. Sue got a peck on the cheek from Dog Face and a deep hug and a face-sucking kiss from Lassiter. Sam, a special agent with the FBI, had been the love of her life for quite some time.

Coming back to the house to join us for breakfast and get some rest before you go back? he asked Tom.

No, I gotta get back to Smithville today, he answered. I’m supposed to be in court this afternoon to testify on a DUI charge I know will be contested. I know this guy would use any excuse to get out of it. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s finished with sliding by because of legalities. I need to send him to that lovely gated community in Huntsville before he kills someone on the highway. He got back in the plane and taxied over to a gas pump to fill up and was gone before Lassiter drove away from the airport.

Lassiter had brought one of the FBI vans, knowing it would be more comfortable than his SUV, especially with the dog in the back seat. Edgar parked his wagging tail in the third-row seat while Judge Morrison and Sue climbed in behind Lassiter and Dog Face.

Edgar was obviously happy about the field trip. He kept pushing his nose over the back of Sue’s seat to give her a whiskered nudge on the cheek. He soon reached into a side pocket of Sue’s backpack and pulled out his Binky, a stuffed rabbit, then settled down in the seat for a quick nap. No one noticed.

If you can drop me off at a hotel downtown, Judge said, I’ll see if I can talk them into giving me a room for the next few days. I didn’t have time to make reservations.

If you don’t mind commuting with the rest of us, I have a guest room all ready for you at my house in Alexandria, Lassiter said. Dog Face is staying with me, and we’ve got four bedrooms to deal with. We’ve been driving into the law firm together every morning, and then I drop by the Bureau office downtown for the day. That way I can work remotely without going to Langley, and we can talk over what’s happening while we get some supper. We’ve been eating out, but now that there’s a little cook in the house— He looked over at Sue and winked.

Dandy, she said. Got any TV dinners?

Dog Face didn’t say a word all the way back to Lassiter’s house. Sue could tell he was deep in thought, and the turmoil of the lawsuit was getting to him. Sue was in the seat directly behind his.

Dog Face, she finally said, reaching up to rub his shoulders, do you have some paperwork at the house we can look over before we go in this morning?

I have most of it with me. I’ve read legal documents every day of my working life, but these briefs are anything but brief, and they make hardly any sense to me. I’m glad you’re here, Judge Morrison, to help me decipher what they mean. I’m sure Sue could translate them for me, but the more help I get, the better.

Sue is very good at what she does, the judge replied. From what I understand, you’re fighting not only the federal government, but your own lawyers. I thought I could lend some credentials to the conversation that they might not be so willing to ignore. Besides, we are all family here, and who better to turn to in an emergency? Sue can stay to help you a while, but hopefully I can get things rolling in your favor and then get home and back to work.

I appreciate your help, Dog Face replied. I am more than just a little concerned about this. I have no confidence in this legal mob.

Sue was in the kitchen preparing bacon and eggs when the sky started to glow in the east. They were at the law firm when the doors opened. Sue was introduced to the assistant assigned to take care of Dog Face, and the young lawyers in the room rolled their eyes at each other when Judge Morrison was introduced. They hadn’t counted on interference. This did not bode well for the firm, especially when Judge Morrison’s bellowing voice asked for details of the representation of the tribe.

The partner in charge of the case, a rotund short man by the name of Anderson, arrived and hemmed and hawed in an attempt to sidestep the request, declaring attorney-client privilege.

Might I remind you, Mr. Anderson, Judge said, frowning at lead counsel, that you are required by law to keep your clients apprised of the details of their case. Mr. Paxton is not an attorney, and he may not be aware of the nuances of how the case will be handled. But I am a different breed of cat. I have worked in litigation cases for over forty years and am very well aware what you are doing—both beneficially and not—for your clients. Now, stop blowing smoke and start spilling your guts before the US Attorney General, who, by the way, is my old roommate at Harvard Law School, has to be brought into this matter.

That was the end of the subterfuge attempt around the conference room table. Files were dragged out of boxes, research results were shared with Dog Face, and the real work of defending the tribe began. Sue was very glad she wasn’t on her own.

CHAPTER FOUR

Vickers walked into Jamison’s office, which was at the far table in the Library of Congress. He sat down across from the congressman.

The Cherokees are beginning to appear on the horizon. The law firm they hired seems to be on our side, Vickers reported. They are going through the motions and cashing the checks rolling in from Oklahoma, but the firm doesn’t want to ruffle any feathers on Capitol Hill. Anderson has other cases the government has handed him, and he wants to keep them coming in.

How do you know? Jamison asked.

I have a mole on the inside, he replied. Apparently there is some big honky with the tribe in town, and they’ve just stuffed him in a conference room, and the lead counsel is keeping him in the dark. They don’t have any intentions of taking any directions from a stupid breed, so they’re just not telling him anything. One of his buddies, a woman, just hit town, and she’s got a dog with her. She dresses in suits, but having a traveling flea circus with her looks pretty unprofessional. She brought some broken-down old black man with her to nose around in what the firm is doing. Apparently Cochise doesn’t trust his own lawyers, and they’re checking up on what’s going on.

Do you think they’ll have any success stripping information from Anderson? Jamison asked.

I doubt it, Vickers replied. You know Anderson. He’s pretty raw when you give him a bad time.

Does your mole have any idea where they are on the case? Can he give us any idea what our chances are?

I doubt the tribe has a snowball’s chance in hell, he said. They aren’t even smart enough to know when to ask questions. Apparently Mr. Braids is just looking at them with a blank stare on his face. Even if he has any questions, I doubt he’s getting any answers. He might as well have stayed in Oklahoma. The firm’s people are working at a level so far over his head, they can’t even communicate. The squaw man is just sitting there like a bump on a log and seems oblivious to what’s going on around him.

Is he staying downtown?

Naw, he comes in every day with some big man in an SUV, and now the whole lot of them come in together. The guy in the truck just drops them off and disappears. We can’t figure out where they’re bunking in.

Find out who that guy is, Jamison said. I want to know if they have any connections in town we need to be nervous about. I don’t think there are any concerns, but I just want to know. You don’t have to spend any money on this thing, just have someone from your office follow that guy in the SUV and find out who he is. See where he goes and run his plates. Report back to me.

Vickers disappeared quietly. When he came back the next day, he was edgy about telling Jamison what he’d found out.

We followed that guy who drops them off. He’s some big special agent with the FBI.

That doesn’t bode well, Jamison said. What else do you know?

That old black man? He’s some judge in a backwater town down in Texas, same place the girl hails from, Vickers said. But he’s being a pain in the butt. He’s no milk toast—he’s backing down Anderson right and left. Every time Anderson makes an attempt to sidestep an issue, this old scudder nails him to the wall. I smell trouble in the hallowed halls of Remington & Anderson. We may see some fireworks before it’s over.

How is the legal team from the attorney general’s office doing? Jamison asked. Are they on top of everything and ready to try the case?

They seem kind of in a quandary, Vickers said. "They’re really not spending much time on the case. They’re having a devil of a time finding expert witnesses. After all, when they browbeat the Cherokee into leaving Georgia in the first place, they did it by blunt force. There was no legal action, so there’s