Bad News Read online

  They froze; well, they were already frozen. The three Indian lads standing in a row in the grave squinted into the glare, and out of it, like a scene in a science-fiction movie, came a lot of people in dark blue uniforms. Policemen. New York City policemen.

  And with them came a capering old man in a threadbare cardigan and a rumpled hat, who cackled, actually cackled, as he cried, “Gotcha this time! You think you can just traipse around in here with all your flashlights and I’m not gonna know about it? You come back once too often, you did! I gotcha!”

  30

  * * *

  When things got slow, Kelp liked to go to the safes. They were in the closet in the other room, which was all he could think to call a room with a bed in it that you didn’t sleep in. Anne Marie called it the guest room, but Kelp had never happened across any guests anytime he’d ever gone in there, if you didn’t count the occasional cockroach, which can happen in even the best-cared-for apartment in New York. So it was the other room. And in its closet were the safes; four of them at the moment, in a row on the floor.

  This is a kind of safe that isn’t much made anymore, but your better-quality house or apartment wall is very likely to contain one. They are round and black and made of thick iron, and are a little smaller than a bowling ball. They have a round steel door on the front with a dial in it, and they have little iron ears, pierced, that angle out for mounting the safe on the studs inside the wall.

  They are very hard to get into. Being round, they are almost impervious to explosives, and being thick black iron, they are impossible to crack or break with any known tool. The round door is also thick, and inset in such a way as to make it inaccessible to any lever or pry bar. The combination dial is cunning and clever and cannot be conquered in a matter of minutes. Most slickers coming across one of these safes just pass it by and settle for the television set.

  Not Kelp. His practice, if he had a vehicle handy when he discovered one of these coconuts, was to gouge it out of the wall, toss it into the vehicle, take it home, and fiddle with it from time to time when nothing much was happening. It was kind of a hobby, and also a way to keep his talents honed. Sooner or later, he managed to open every one of those doors, by which time, what he found inside was almost beside the point. And what he found inside ranged from a very nice line in jewelry all the way down through stocks of defunct corporations to absolute nothing. Still, it was the journey that mattered, not the destination.

  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. S
chreck 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.”

  Welles popped to his feet. “I do, Your Honor, thank you. As you know, we have an action in the appeals court in Albany at this moment, on your ruling that the Redcorn grave in Queens cannot be considered sacred tribal burial grounds. It has been our contention, not to resubmit the entire case in this venue, Your Honor, that the protections afforded Native American burial sites in previous court decisions are not limited to current tribal lands. As a part of our argument, we have made reference to the strong tribal and religious feelings among the Kiota and Oshkawa concerning the resting places of their ancestors. And now, bearing out that contention, three young lads from the Silver Chasm reservation have actually gone to the Redcorn grave in Queens to rescue their forebear from what they consider violated land. This entirely voluntary act, done without consultation with any of the tribal elders, simply—”

  Max Schreck lunged upward with opening mouth. Judge Higbee raised his gavel. Max Schreck saw that movement, clasped his left hand over his open mouth, lunged back down, and began to write slashingly on a long yellow legal pad.

  Meantime, Welles had continued to speak: “—serves to reinforce the contentions we have already made to the appeals court, and cocounsel down in Albany will be addressing that court today, to add this bit of evidence to our argument. Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Schreck took his hand from his mouth and his pen from his pad and waggled his eyebrows at Judge Higbee, who ignored him and said instead, to Welles, “You see this grave robbing as a further argument in your appeal?”

  “We do, Your Honor,” Welles said.

  “The three young men involved are all nephews of Roger Fox.”

  “And Mr. Fox,” Welles said, while Roger Fox tried to look stoic, “has confessed to me that although the part of him that is a mature adult of course deplores the young lads’ actions, the part of him that is always Oshkawa cannot help but be proud of their actions, however rash.”

  Roger Fox tried to look proud.

  Judge Higbee said, “Mr. Welles, I have the police report from New York City here in front of me. The van that was used was rented by Mr. Fox.”

  “The lads asked him to rent it for them,” Welles replied. “They told him they intended to go fishing.”

  “In a van with a sixteen-foot-long storage area?” the judge asked. “How many fish did they expect to catch?”

  “I believe they also intended to help a friend move some furniture.”

  “It will be interesting to watch you produce that friend, Mr. Welles,” the judge told him, “and his furniture. There is also the question of the second coffin, apparently removed from a grave on the reservation. I have a report that an open grave was found in the older cemetery on the reservation.”

  “It is my understanding,” Welles said, “that the person in question was not a member of the Three Tribes, and the lads felt the protection afforded by sacred tribal lands was of little or no moment to him. As they needed a grave in the proper area for the late Mr. Redcorn, they merely intended to reverse the positions of the two decedents.”

  “Thereby,” Judge Higbee pointed out, “invalidating any DNA test that might be done.”

  Shaking his head, Welles said, “Your Honor, I doubt those lads have ever even thought about DNA.”

  “Their uncle thinks about DNA,” the judge said. “However, this is a police matter in New York City, and not to be adjudicated by this court. I was interested to hear what your explanation of those events might be, Mr. Welles. Thank you. And now, Mr. Schreck, I believe you have a premature application you wish to make.”

  Clearly, Max Schreck had sniffed the prevailing breeze this morning and understood that the court this week, though it had the same personnel in the same physical location, was not the same as the court last week. It was a more dangerous court this week. Therefore, Schreck did not pop to his feet, but rose cautiously, even rustily, to say, “Your Honor, obviously we don’t believe our motion is premature, but I’m happy to hear you at least acknowledge its potential, and I hope my learned cocounsel will be able to convince you that its time is not later, but now.”

  Learned cocounsel? Some other specialist up from New York, full of obscure citations? Judge Higbee prepared himself for boredom. But then, Schreck turned to bow to Marjorie Dawson, who flickered a nervous smile and rose as Schreck sat down.

  Oh, I see, the judge thought. He’s throwing her out of the sled. So I’m the wolf, am I? Smiling as though Marjorie were Little Red Riding Hood, he said, “Good morning, Marjorie.”

  “Good morning, Your Honor.” That smile flickered again, and she glanced down at her note-riddled yellow pad. “Judge—Your Honor. In attempting to remove the body of Joseph Redcorn from its legitimate—and presumably final—resting place, the casino managers have—”

  “Your Honor, I pro—” called Welles.

  “Thirty-minute recess,” Judge Higbee declared. Thock went the gavel, and off went the judge, to watch thirty minutes of soap opera in chambers.

  “Proceed, Marjorie.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. In attempting to remove the body of Joseph Redcorn from its legitimate—and presum—” She coughed, having remembered she’d already made that feeble joke “—legitimate resting place, the casino managers have made it clear that they believe Little Feather Redcorn is Pottaknobbee, and their actions since she first arrived in this area to press her claim have not been based on their belief in her fraudulence, but in their belief in her veracity. They want to keep her from her proper share in the casino even though they know full well she is Pottaknobbee. By their actions, they demonstrate that their presence in this court is a sham, meant to gain time while they protect themselves by more devious measures. Since they have demonstrated their belief that Little Feather Red
corn is what she claims to be, and since there is no one else who disputes her claim, we see no reason for this action to go forward before the Court, and we therefore request dismissal of all charges against Little Feather Redcorn.”

  “Very nice, Marjorie,” the judge said.

  Now her smile was real, and surprised. The judge could see that Schreck was surprised, too, having expected him to give the proposer of dismissal of all charges a rough time indeed, which is exactly what he would have given Schreck himself: a brusque dismissal. But what Schreck didn’t yet understand was that not only are all politics local but so is all law. When this farrago was finished, Schreck and Welles and all their cocounsels and their briefcases and their red neckties would go hallooing back to New York City, but Judge T. Wallace Higbee and counselor Marjorie Dawson would be dealing with each other in this courtroom for years to come.

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Marjorie said. “I hope this means you will give our motion strong consideration.”

  “Henry David Thoreau,” he told her, and everybody else in court, “said, ‘Some circumstantial evidence is very strong, as when you find a trout in the milk.’ There is definitely a trout in the milk this morning—you’re right to that extent—but so far, we do not have anything like proof positive that Roger Fox and Frank Oglanda are the ones who watered the milk. Marjorie, if you interrupt me, we’ll recess until after lunch. Good. It is up to the officials in New York City to decide who is responsible for the trout in this morning’s milk, Marjorie, and if they decide Fox and Oglanda are the diluters, I will be happy to entertain your motion at that time.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Marjorie said, and sat.

  Welles stood. “Your Honor, may I speak?”

  “Of course, Mr. Welles.”

  “Since Your Honor himself has pointed out,” Welles began, “that the matter of the prank by the three lads is in another venue, and since the process of our appeal is in yet a different venue, it might be best to hold these proceedings in abeyance until decisions are made, in one venue or another.”