Bad News

by Donald E. Westlake

  They’re behaving, Marjorie reluctantly admitted to herself as 2:30 neared, as though they have something to hide. Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda, the casino managers, they were the ones who were handling this affair, not the Tribal Council. The Tribal Council didn’t even seem to be involved.

  Of course, it was the casino managers to whom Ms. Redcorn had addressed her letter, and the ownership of the casino was the only substantive matter at issue here. Still, it did seem to Marjorie there was some hidden agenda at work in this proceeding, and if that were the case, she knew very well that Marjorie Dawson was not the one to ferret it out.

  Cinda, the secretary she shared with Jimmy and Corinna, buzzed her at 2:28 to say, “Ms. Redcorn is here.”

  “Yes, send her in,” Marjorie said, and stood to welcome her unusual and rather alarming client.

  Who had dressed more demurely today, Marjorie was happy to note. In jail, Ms. Redcorn had been dressed like the girl singer in an old Western, though somewhat more daringly than a PG rating would have allowed. Of course, when she’d dressed that day, she hadn’t yet known she would finish the day in jail.

  This morning, though there was still a strong western flavor to Ms. Redcorn’s outfit, at least her boots were black, her tan leather skirt knee-length, and her colorful shirt not absolutely formfitting. Her expression, however, was at least as wary as yesterday’s, and she entered saying, “I thought we were gonna meet this morning.”

  “So did I, Ms. Redcorn,” Marjorie told her. “Sit down here, please. Let’s go over the situation.”

  Ms. Redcorn remained standing. “Don’t we go see the judge?”

  “Our appointment is at three. Do sit down.”

  The two gray-blue vinyl armchairs in front of the desk were comfortable, but not too comfortable. Ms. Redcorn gave them a disapproving look, then sat in the nearest one as Marjorie took her own swivel chair, picked up the pencil she tended to toy with during interviews in this room, and said, “The judge phoned me this morning to say the meeting had to be delayed because the tribes’ lawyer had to come up from New York.”

  This got no reaction except a nod.

  Marjorie said, “Let me explain. I know the tribes’ lawyer. His name is Abner Hicks, and his office is around the corner from here.”

  “You mean they’re bringing in the big guns,” Ms. Redcorn said. She didn’t seem at all troubled by the idea.

  “And I don’t know why,” Marjorie admitted. “Tell me, Ms. Redcorn, is there anything else about this matter you think I should know?”

  Ms. Redcorn cocked her head, like a particularly bright bird. “Like what?”

  “Any cloud in your past that might cause us trouble, anything to explain why they’ve sent to New York for a lawyer to deal with you? In other words, is there more information I should have if I’m properly to represent you?”

  Ms. Redcorn shrugged. “Nothing I can think of,” she said. “My guess is, they just don’t want to split the pot.” Then she grinned a little and said, “This New York lawyer scares you, huh?”

  “Certainly not,” Marjorie said. Ms. Redcorn might be telling the truth about her forebears, and she might be the victim of unfair treatment by the Three Tribes, but she was not at all an easy person to like.

  Dropping her pencil to the desk with a little disapproving clatter, Marjorie said, “Well, let’s walk over to the courthouse.”

  The New York lawyer looked like a hawk who hadn’t eaten for a week. His beak of a nose seemed to be pointing at prey, his sharp, icy eyes flicked back and forth like an angry cat’s tail, and his hands were large and knobby and, when Marjorie shook one of them, cold. His name was Otis Welles and he wore a suit that cost more than Marjorie’s car, but somehow, instead of the suit giving some dignity to his bony, gristly body, his body seemed merely to cheapen the suit.

  This menacing person was accompanied by Frank Oglanda, the Kiota representative on casino management, whose hands were uncomfortably warm as he murmured over Marjorie with his knowing little smile and impish eyes. Frank had made a pawing pass at her once, a grope really, but it had been done distractedly, as though gallantry required him to at least go through the motions. She’d found the experience distasteful in several ways, and made sure he understood that, and he’d been no more than smirkingly polite with her ever since, in those occasional social or business situations in which their paths crossed.

  So that made five of them for the meeting, the two Native Americans, their two lawyers, and Judge Higbee, who started them off by saying, “Frank, have you looked into Ms. Redcorn’s claims any further?”

  “As a matter of fact, Your Honor,” Frank said, “we have.”

  “I believe, Your Honor,” Otis Welles said, “we should make it clear from the outset that the Three Tribes have found absolutely no proof positive to support the young lady’s claims.”

  Judge Higbee looked at Marjorie, who belatedly realized she shouldn’t let that go without comment, so she said, “Nor, I take it, have you found proof positive to void her claim.”

  “Not yet,” Welles said.

  “Not ever,” Ms. Redcorn said.

  Welles looked at the judge as though Ms. Redcorn hadn’t spoken. I think he’ll regret that later, Marjorie told herself as he said, “Your Honor, the tribes have found records of some of the names mentioned in the young lady’s letter.” Clearly, he meant to evade the name problem entirely by never calling Ms. Redcorn anything except “the young lady.” Of that tactic, Marjorie could only approve and regret it was too late for her to emulate.

  Again, it was a look from the judge in her direction that made Marjorie remember she was here to work and not simply to observe. A few seconds late, but at least catching up, she said, “Counsel, were there any names in the letter the tribes did not find?”

  “Other than the young lady’s,” Welles told her, “I believe not.”

  Judge Higbee looked over toward Frank Oglanda, saying, “What have you got, Frank?”

  To begin with, Frank had a beautiful briefcase, soft and dark and gleaming, much more desirable and wonderful than the mundane scuffed briefcase Marjorie lugged with her everywhere, and even glossier than the expensive briefcase Welles had carried with him from New York. Dipping into this lovely artifact, Frank came out with several sheets of paper stapled together; copies of documents, it looked like. “Joseph Redcorn,” he told them all, “did exist, as I think we already acknowledged.”

  “The plaque was read to me,” the judge told him, deadpan. “Over the phone.”

  “Yes.” Frank looked briefly sour, then recovered. “Very good of the Mohawks,” he commented. “I didn’t know they were capable of guilt feelings. In any event”—he flipped to the second sheet—“Joseph Redcorn did have a son named Bearpaw, who was reported missing in action in the Pacific Ocean while serving in the U.S. Navy in World War Two.” Flip to the next sheet. “There is a record that Bearpaw, in 1940, married one Harriet Littlefoot, also a Pottaknobbee.” Flip. “Harriet Littlefoot Redcorn produced a daughter, Doeface, in 1942.”

  “My mama,” Ms. Redcorn said.

  Ignoring that, Frank stood and took the sheaf of papers over to the judge’s desk, saying, “We have more copies, Your Honor. I brought this one for you.”

  “I’ll need one as well,” Marjorie said.

  Frank smiled at her. “I have one for you, Marjorie, if you need it. I’ll give it to you later.”

  “Thank you.”

  Frank sat down again, and Welles said, “The point should be made that these are public records. Anyone can obtain them. The Three Tribes, in fact, have a Web site, including all written histories of the tribes, genealogical details, and other matters.”

  “I understand that,” the judge assured him.

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I should also point out that in 1970 and ’71, the Three Tribes made every effort to find any Pottaknobbees still alive anywhere in the world. Frank has also brought along examples of the circulars and notices and press releases inci
dent to that search. There was a particular effort to find Harriet Littlefoot Redcorn, who was known to have traveled to the West Coast but who had not been heard of for some years. All efforts failed. Harriet Littlefoot Redcorn and her daughter, Doeface Redcorn, have been presumed dead for many years.”

  Marjorie said, “Do you have death certificates? Newspaper obituaries?”

  “There are no records of any kind,” Welles told her.

  “Which is why,” Frank said, “the Three Tribes are willing to discuss a compromise. It might be that this, er, young woman sincerely believes the history she sent us. We think it’s very unlikely she really is a Pottaknobbee, but there’s always that one chance in a million, so we’re ready to make an offer.”

  “No,” Ms. Redcorn said.

  Frank gave her a baffled and exasperated look. “You haven’t heard the offer yet,” he said.

  “I told the judge the last time I was in this room,” Ms. Redcorn answered, “this chamber, whatever you call it, I told the judge then I wasn’t interested in getting bought off. The Oshkawa and the Kiota are the closest thing to people I’ve got, and I want to be a part of them and accepted by them.”

  Frank and Welles looked at each other. Welles said to Marjorie, “Would the young lady be willing to waive her putative interest in the casino in return for acceptance into the Three Tribes?”

  Before Marjorie could respond, Ms. Redcorn said, “Why should I?”

  “If all she wants,” Welles went on, still talking to Marjorie, “is acceptance by her people—”

  “I’m Pottaknobbee,” Ms. Redcorn announced. “And that means one-third of the casino is mine. Why shouldn’t I wanna keep it?”

  “Now it’s in the open,” Welles said to the judge, as though Ms. Redcorn had just made an extremely damaging admission.

  “And one thing more,” Ms. Redcorn said, her cold, hard face turned toward Welles, regardless of where he was looking.

  “Don’t, Ms. Redcorn,” Marjorie murmured, but this was not a very controllable client, who continued, “I’m no longer young, and I never was a lady. I have a name, and it’s Little Feather Redcorn.”

  Still looking at the judge, Welles said, “I believe that is the matter at dispute.”

  “I am Little Feather Redcorn,” she repeated, and then turned her head to glare at the judge as she added, “and I want justice.”

  “Everyone does,” the judge told her.

  “And I think there’s more than justice,” Frank said, “in the very generous offer we—”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Ms. Redcorn said.

  Frank spread his hands. “Your Honor . . .”

  Judge Higbee nodded. “Marjorie,” he said, “I think you should advise your client at least to listen to the offer before rejecting it.”

  “Fine,” Ms. Redcorn said, and folded her arms like Geronimo. “Weasel away,” she urged Frank.

  “Marjorie,” Judge Higbee said warningly, and Marjorie said, “Yes, Your Honor, I apologize,” and to her fractious client, she murmured, “You shouldn’t be disrespectful in judge’s chambers.”

  Ms. Redcorn looked surprised. Apparently, she’d thought she was insulting Frank, not the judge. Unfolding her arms, she looked toward Judge Higbee and said, “I’m sorry, Judge. It won’t happen again.”

  Marjorie saw Judge Higbee come very close to smiling. He quashed it, though, and merely said, “Thank you” before turning back to Frank: “Go ahead.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Frank said, and, as Ms. Redcorn folded her arms like Geronimo again, he brought another multipage document out of his exceptional briefcase. Holding the pages in his lap, not looking at them, he said, “The Three Tribes are prepared to pay, uh, Ms. Redcorn one hundred thousand dollars now, if she relinquishes any claim she might want to make on tribal property, plus ten thousand dollars a year for ten years. We were suggesting in this contract that she might like to live in some other part of the world, but if she would prefer to live on the Chasm Reservation, we can work that out, no problem.”

  Welles said to the judge, “We will adapt the wording to suit the claimant and her attorney.” With a wintry smile, he added, “I’m sure the Three Tribes would be pleased to have living among them such an attractive person, and one so well-off.”

  “Your Honor,” Marjorie said, “it might be a good idea if Ms. Redcorn and I were to have some time alone to—”

  “No need,” Ms. Redcorn said. “That’s about the size of the offer I expected, a little bigger but a little more stretched out. I don’t want to sell my birthright for two hundred thousand dollars, or any amount of money. All I want, and I said this before, Judge, is justice.”

  Welles said, “I’m afraid, Your Honor, we are at an impasse. If Ms. Dawson wishes to institute an action against the Three Tribes on behalf of her client, the matter may be settled in a court of law.”

  Oh golly, Marjorie thought, knowing full well she wasn’t up to the kind of lawsuit Welles was offering, as one might offer a poisoned goblet. But before she could respond, Ms. Redcorn said, “Judge, there’s got to be some way I can prove who I am. I’ll get private detectives, I’ll talk to everybody in the tribes, I am not gonna give up.”

  Judge Higbee turned on her an expression that managed to be both caring and stern at once. “Ms. Redcorn,” he said, “there is a way to prove or disprove your claim. I’ve had it in mind for some time. However, it would be expensive.”

  “I’ll be able to afford it, whatever it is,” Ms. Redcorn promised.

  “If,” the judge told her, now more stern than caring, “the evidence turns out to be against you, there would be more than expense involved. There would be criminal penalties as well.”

  “It won’t go against me.”

  Frank said, “Whatever you’re talking about, Judge, I don’t know what it is, but if it’ll settle this, I’m sure I speak for the Three Tribes when I say, let’s do it.”

  Welles, more cautious, said, “Frank, I believe we’ll wait to hear what Judge Higbee has in mind.”

  “DNA testing,” the judge said, and Marjorie was startled to sense an immediate relaxation, a loosening, in her client, who was seated next to her. No one else in the room would be aware of it, but Marjorie was, and she carefully did not look at Ms. Redcorn’s profile. She’s been waiting for this, Marjorie thought. She didn’t want to bring it up herself, but she’s been waiting for this.

  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.