William Krueger - Blood Hollow

“Yeah. In deep shit.” He spoke around a mouthful of eggs. “I’m thinking of going to Canada.”

“Your truck’s been impounded.”

“Hell, I could walk from here.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I’ll figure something.”

“Not much of a plan.”

Solemn stopped eating and for a moment poked idly at his food. “What do you think I should do?”

Cork looked at him, looked deeply into the eyes that were not quite Indian or quite white, into the face that was not quite that of a grown man. And he asked the question no one had bothered to ask yet. “Did you kill her?”

Solemn put his fork down. “No.”

“Then my advice is to turn yourself in.”

“Are you kidding?” Solemn’s look began to turn dark. “They’ve got enough right now to put me behind bars forever.”

“You run, it seems to me you’ll be putting yourself in a different kind of cage, one that’s not any better.”

“No way.” Solemn scooted his chair back and jumped up. He began to pace the room. “I need money.”

“If that’s what you came to me hoping for, you’ve made a mistake.”

“I wasn’t asking. But I’m in this mess because I listened to you.”

“You were already in this mess. Now, if you want my help, I’ll give it. That means going at this thing head-on, not running away.”

Solemn had a frightened look in his eyes, as if he were watching the door to freedom close on him. “It’s all lies. I didn’t do anything.”

“Then somebody’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like you did. I’ll do my best to find out who.”

“Your best?” His voice was tight, climbing in pitch.

“That’s all I can offer. But I’ll make you a promise. I’ll stay with you the whole way. You won’t go through this alone.”

Solemn looked as if he couldn’t decide between laughing or crying. “Is that supposed to mean something? Who the hell do you think you are? You make hamburgers, for Christ sake.”

Cork waited a moment, then said calmly, “So did Sam.”

Solemn spun angrily away.

“Do you see anyone else stepping forward, Solemn? I’m willing to help, but the choice is yours. This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to leave here and go get Jo. We’ll come back. If you’re still here, we’ll all head to the sheriff’s office together. If you’re not… well, Solemn, I guess you’re on your own.”

Cork got up from the table and headed to the door. He turned back with his hand on the knob. Solemn was watching him now.

“While I’m gone,” Cork said, “how about you do up those dishes.”

Cork parked in front of Pflugelmann’s Rexall Drugstore across from the county courthouse. He found Jo in the courtroom of Judge Daniel Hickey. She sat at the plaintiff’s table, jotting notes while Ed Mendez, the defendant’s attorney, argued something about “interpretation of the trust language.” Hickey looked bored. The clients weren’t present, and the courtroom was mostly deserted. Cork sat behind Jo, on a bench in back of the railing that blocked off the spectator area. He waited a few minutes for an opportunity to make his presence known to Jo. It came when the judge asked to have a look at a document Mendez held. As defense counsel approached the bench, Cork leaned across the railing and handed Jo a scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled a note. She read it and nodded.

When Mendez started away from the bench, Jo stood. “Your Honor, I apologize, but I’d like to request a ten-minute recess. A rather pressing personal matter.”

Hickey, a little man with a white billy goat beard, shook back the sleeve of his robe and glanced at his watch. “Any objection, Ed?”

Mendez thought a moment. “No, that’s fine.”

“All right. Ten minutes I think we can handle, Jo. Court is in recess until nine-forty.” He sealed his pronouncement with a tap of his gavel, and he yawned as he left the bench.

Jo turned to Cork.

“Not here.” He motioned her to an empty corner of the courtroom.

“Where is he?” Jo asked.

“At Sam’s Place,” he whispered. “He spent the night there. He’s ready to turn himself in.”

Jo shook her head. “I told you. I can’t represent him.”

“No, you said you won’t. That’s different. He needs our help.”

“I can’t just leave here. I’m in the middle of a hearing.” She waved toward the judge’s bench.

“Solemn’s just a kid, Jo, and he’s scared. He could bolt at any moment. Couldn’t you ask Hickey for a continuance or something?”

Jo pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead and closed her eyes a moment. “Look, talk to Oliver Bledsoe. He really is Solemn’s best hope. He’s here today. Courtroom B. Cork, I’m sorry, but I can’t help Solemn, not in the situation he’s in right now.”

“Will you at least go with me to talk to Ollie?”

Jo looked at her watch. “If he’s free.”

They were in luck. Bledsoe was standing in the hallway outside Courtroom B, consulting his Palm Pilot.

Cutting off a part of his foot had turned out to be a blessing for Oliver Bledsoe. He’d been a young man without much direction beyond earning a good paycheck and spending it having a good time. While recovering from the logging accident, he’d decided to make some significant changes in his life. The first thing he did was to enroll in college. He completed his B.A. at the University of Minnesota at Duluth in three years and applied immediately to law school. He graduated from William Mitchell School of Law in St. Paul, second in his class. He could have had his choice of law firms. Instead, he opened a storefront legal office on East Franklin Avenue in the Phillips neighborhood of Minneapolis, an area that at the time contained the largest population of urban Indians in the United States. He represented people who often had little hope and even less money. His practice ranged from simple wills to defending clients accused of murder. Eventually, he made a name for himself. His one-person law office grew over time to include half a dozen lawyers, some of whom had left lucrative positions to work in what they considered the front lines of American justice. After twenty years, Oliver Bledsoe had been persuaded to return home to head up the new legal affairs office for the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe. Because of the casino profits, he was better paid now, but his clients and their problems were little changed.

Bledsoe glanced up when Cork and Jo approached, and he smiled.

“Got a minute?” Cork said.

“Just.”

“You heard about Solemn Winter Moon?”

“You’d have to be deaf not to.”

“He wants to turn himself in. He’ll need representation.”

Bledsoe’s eyes shifted toward Jo.

She held up her hands in objection. “I can’t. I’ve never handled a criminal charge that serious.”

Bledsoe shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help him either.”

“You’ve got the experience,” Cork said.

“But I’m not in a position to help. Cork, I represent the Iron Lake Band of Ojibwe. I officially represent them. You know better than anyone how tenuous the relationship is between the rez and the rest of Tamarack County. Solemn’s antics feed into some of the worst stereotypes white people have about Indians. I can’t risk the possibility that people will associate him as an individual and the mess he’s got himself into with my official representation of the reservation. If Solemn’s civil rights were being violated, or, shoot, if I really believed he was being wrongly accused-”

“You don’t?” Cork said.

“It’s my understanding there’s plenty of evidence against him.”

“He’s still entitled to the best representation possible.”