Soul of Cole Read online

  “That’s why I’m here. It’s an old, old story. Lock up an Indian, then time permitting, you go look for another option. Let’s see what the real circumstances are. If it is as you say, we’ll have him out of here in a jiffy. Let me take it from here.” Selvin slapped his briefcase against his leg as he briskly approached the desk. “Sergeant, is it true that my client has been sitting here an hour?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “And why is that?”

  “I don’t know. It seems that everyone is pretty busy.”

  “Let me talk to the Chief.”

  “The Chief is a very busy man.” The sergeant was the gate keeper, and as such he was doing a good job, but he also managed to irritate Selvin.

  “Well, I’m willing to bet a crisp $100 bill he’s not too busy to see me.”

  The sergeant huffed and picked up the phone. “What was your name again?”

  “Selvin, Dick Selvin.”

  The sergeant pushed a couple buttons on the phone. After a bit of a pause he said, “Chief, I’ve got a Dick Selvin out here that says you’d be willing to talk to him.” The sergeant’s eyes shot up at Selvin. “Yes sir, I see, yes sir, I understand, yes sir.” He hung up the phone. “Please, come with me.”

  Selvin turned and motioned for Cole to follow. After a short walk down a well-lit hall, the sergeant opened the door into the office of Chief of Police Tuckman.

  The man behind the large, mahogany desk got up and moved toward the door. “Dick, how are you?”

  “I’m great, but my client here has been sitting out in your lobby for the better part of an hour waiting for someone to talk to him.”

  “You know about this, Sergeant?”

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  “And why is that, Sergeant?”

  “Uh, not quite sure, sir.”

  “Get Lieutenant Bishop in here right now.”

  The sergeant wasted no time leaving the room. Selvin and the chief exchanged pleasantries and a bit of small talk before there was a quick rap on the outside of the door.

  “Lieutenant, come right in. Seems this gentleman has been waiting out in the lobby to talk to someone involved with, what was the guy’s name again?”

  “Blackbear.” Cole turned toward the detective.

  “That’s right.”

  “What do you know about a Blackbear we’re holding?”

  The detective looked at the two men sitting in front of the desk.

  “This is a good friend of mine, Dick Selvin, he’s Mr. Blackbear’s attorney. This is Mr. Sage, Cole Sage, a friend of Blackbear’s.”

  “Ahh, I think I met your wife the other day at the Indian Children’s Center.”

  “I believe you did.” Cole couldn’t get a read on the detective.

  “Ok, here’s what we’ve got. We have two dead people, and we have a guy who wrote two very threatening letters to one of the victims.”

  “So you made the jump from angry letter to murder? Is that right, Lieutenant?” asked Selvin.

  “It’s not much of a jump sir, you get an Indian riled up and they’re likely to do anything.”

  “Are you aware, Lieutenant, that Michael Blackbear is a decorated veteran?” Cole injected.

  “No sir, I was not.” Bishop’s sheepish response made it clear he didn’t like being embarrassed in front of his boss.

  Selvin looked over at Cole and gave him a look that indicated he preferred to do the talking. “Are you also aware that my client was working the day of the murder?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “Well have you bothered to check?” Selvin was like a shark that smelled blood.

  “I was planning to send a man out, yes.”

  “The question was, have you bothered to check?” The chief could see where this was going and was getting uncomfortable in front of Selvin, his friend.

  “No sir, as of yet, we have not checked his alibi.”

  “I suggest my client be released since it will be quite easy to verify his employment, and his presence on the job, the morning of the murder.”

  The chief stood. “Can you gentlemen excuse us for a moment? I’d like to have a word with my detective.”

  “Not a problem.” Cole stood first and made his way to the door. Selvin nodded in the direction of his friend, the chief.

  Back out in the lobby Cole and the attorney were the recipients of vicious glares from the desk sergeant. “I have a feeling that our friend, the Lieutenant, is going to get one Grade A, first class, ass chewing.” Selvin looked toward the desk sergeant and returned the glares with a big smile.

  “I think you’re right. That was some pretty shoddy police work.” Cole neither smiled nor looked in the direction of the desk.

  “No, that was some pretty blatant, racist police work.”

  The door opened and Lieutenant Bishop came from the chief’s office and approached the desk. “Have Blackbear brought up here.”

  “Yes, sir.” The desk sergeant made a call, grumbled something about the prisoner and glared up at Cole and Selvin.

  Bishop turned and approached the two men. “There seems to have been a bit of confusion in our priorities regarding this case. I’m sorry you gentlemen had to come down here. This matter should have been settled earlier in the day.”

  “We are no longer at war with the Cheyenne people, Detective. Your misguided, racist antagonism toward them is not only antiquated but, quite frankly, disgusting and unprofessional.”

  “You think not? What do you call that out there?” Bishop shot his index finger at the front door, and turned and went back down the hall.

  Outside a group was gathering in front of the police station. Selvin looked from the door to Cole.

  “This doesn’t look good.”

  “What is it?”

  “Three of my clients have been brought in along with your friend. I will see to them next, same kind of ‘round up the usual suspects’ mentality that your friend got caught up in. These fellas raised a ruckus at the Children’s Center, and at Warren Poore in particular. Along with their salty language, I understand, threats against his person were made.”

  “Could any of them be connected to the murder?”

  “My gut says no. But, there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, black is not always black as it looks, and white can be mighty dark underneath. I won’t know until I see which one is most anxious for me to represent them.”

  It only took about five minutes for Michael Blackbear to be released through the front lobby. “Mr. Sage! Thank you so much.”

  “Don’t thank me, thank Mr. Selvin here.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “Good friend of mine called me and said you needed some help. I’m an attorney here in Orvin, here’s my card. If this matter should cause you any more problems, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

  “I’m sorry sir, I appreciate your time and trouble, but I really don’t have the money for an attorney right now.”

  “That’s quite alright, Mr. Blackbear. We’ll just consider this my pro bono case for the month. Selvin extended his hand to Blackbear. “I hope the next time we meet will be under more pleasant circumstances.” Selvin returned to the desk for round two with the desk sergeant.

  “I’d like my client to use the back door for his egress.”

  “His what?”

  “Exit, escape, way out, departure.”

  “It’s not available to the public. Anyway, what the hell does he need the back door for? He’s an Indian, they’re not gonna bother him.”

  Blackbear looked at Cole. “Let’s get out of here if you don’t mind. He’s right, we should be OK.”

  Cole paused with his hand on the bar across the front door. The scene outside was not welcoming. There were ten to fifteen men on the sidewalk in front of the police station. Some wore their hair braided; others wore it long and straight. In the time Cole lived in Orvin there were no gatherings of Indians in town, at least not that he knew
of. These men were angry and poised for confrontation.

  “What are you waiting for?” Blackbear moved in close behind Cole for a better look.

  The door opened to yells of “Free Tommy Running Dog! Let Samson Knight Go!” Several of the men carried makeshift protest signs. Upon closer inspection, Cole saw that the handles of the signs were not sticks, but two-by-fours and baseball bats.”

  When Cole pushed open the front door of the station it flew back at him, nearly breaking his wrist. He let out a howl of pain and shook his hand repeatedly.

  “What is going on?” Blackbear leaned forward and looked out the window. “I see. I think we have a problem. Maybe I should go out first. These guys look pretty riled up.”

  Behind them the desk sergeant laughed.

  Cole tried again to open the door, this time with success. The chants and yelling grew louder as Blackbear and Sage left the building. One man stepped up and shoved Cole hard against Blackbear.

  “Come on pig, why don’t you arrest me?” A fierce man about Cole’s height shoved him again, trying to get a reaction. Cole suppressed his urge to engage the angry man.

  “He’s not police.” Michael Blackbear stepped between Cole and the angry Indian. “He just got me out of jail. Maybe you should try thinking before attacking someone.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be so friendly with the whites.” A man was in Blackbear’s face.

  “What’s your problem?” Blackbear found himself facing four men. “What’s going on here anyway?”

  “They’ve arrested Tommy Running Dog, Richard Armendez, and Samson Knight.”

  “For what?”

  “For the murder of that preacher. They didn’t have anything to do with it. Somebody gets killed and they start rounding up Indians. We’ve had enough.”

  Cole tried to speak but was cut off by one of the men. “We don’t need to hear from you. This is an Indian matter. You have no right to speak. We will handle this ourselves.”

  Suddenly a projectile flew past Cole’s head and smashed hard against the door of the police station. As he turned, Cole saw a big splash of red paint running down the glass. From both sides of the crowd police officers approached the group. “Y’all need to go home. You’re not helping anyone’s case. If you don’t disperse you’ll find yourselves cellmates with ’em.”

  There were shouts, taunts, and curses, in response to the police demand that they leave.

  Michael turned to Cole with a worried look. “We need to get out of here, this is gonna get ugly.”

  Cole took two steps toward his car and was hit hard with the handle of a protest sign. Blackbear threw a crushing right hand blow to the man’s head, knocking him to the pavement. Cole staggered and was leaning against the wall.

  “Move, hurry.” Cole hesitated and Blackbear grabbed his arm and half pushed, half dragged him running down the sidewalk. Neither man looked back until they were nearly to the car.

  Cole leaned against the front of a car, trying to catch his breath.

  “You OK? That looks pretty bad.”

  Cole reached up and touched the knot rising on the side of his head.

  Blackbear was looking back at the disturbance. The police waded into the crowd with night sticks, and began zip tying the protesters hand’s behind their backs. The intent of the bats and two-by-fours of the protest signs became apparent as the Indians swung hard fighting back the police. Several men hit the ground after stumbling over another man on the sidewalk.

  “Will they never learn? Broken heads, broken bones, locked up for days. Probably jail time. They lose their job if they have one. For what? Those three in there don’t care about them. They’re thugs, trouble makers. They’ll get out, probably before the fools that are getting beat.”

  Cole looked at Michael for a long moment before he spoke. “I’ve seen this before, a lot, other places, other races. It’s a form of venting. You think rioters and looters care about anything other than themselves? Pent up anger, rage, frustration, hopelessness, are just looking for a way out. You remember that. We may have a long road ahead trying to get your family out of Iraq.”

  “You’re right. I’ve seen it all my life. These guys won’t listen to the tribal elders at all. They blame it all on the white man. They came here looking for a fight.” Michael turned from the violence down the street, both physically and emotionally. “Look, I’m really sorry I had to call you, but I didn’t know of anybody else that could possibly help.”

  “No problem, but here’s an important lesson to learn. Rest assured, anything you put in writing that you shouldn’t, will come back to bite you.”

  “Understood.” Blackbear nodded.

  “Good.” Cole reached out and slapped Blackbear on the shoulder. “No problem, I’m beginning to see how things work around here. By the way, I got a call from the State Department from my contact there. I missed the call, but the message sounded promising. It was too late to call back, so I’ll return the call in the morning.”

  “Why must everything take so long? Maybe there’s another way.”

  Cole disregarded the remark. There is no other way he knew of, and if this didn’t work, he knew of no other solution. “Sometimes when things feel like they’re taking too long, that’s when suddenly things start to happen.”

  “I’ve never heard that one before.” Michael looked at Cole and thought to himself, ‘I do have another way’.

  “We both learned a lesson today. What did you learn?”

  “That it doesn’t pay to be an Indian in Orvin.”

  Detective Bishop was still stinging from the dressing down he received from the Police Chief and the words of Dick Selvin rang in his ears. Now he would face Selvin again.

  The door of interview room #3 creaked a bit as Bishop pulled it closed. Sitting at the table with their backs to the door were Samson Knight and his attorney Dick Selvin.

  “Detective, this is a complete and utter waste of my client’s time.” Selvin was out of the gate with a hostile tone and a volume unnecessary for the size of the small room.

  “Afternoon, Samson.” Bishop completely ignored Selvin.

  The detective took a seat at the table and pressed the red button on the digital recorder, starting both an audio and video record of the proceeding.

  “Interviewing Samson Knight. Present: Lieutenant Martin Bishop, the accused, and his counsel Mr. Dick Selvin. For the record, please state your legal name.”

  “Richard Cowell Selvin.”

  “Mr. Knight, please state your date of birth.”

  “Méanéeše’he, sóohtoha, na'no'ena'nóhtoha.” Samson answered in his native Cheyenne tongue and gave Bishop a defiant grin.

  “Look, we can stay here for the full seventy-two hours or you can cut the crap and tell me your birth date.” Bishop didn’t look up from his note pad.

  Selvin leaned over and whispered in Knight’s ear.

  “July 9, 1980.”

  “Lieutenant, we can all save ourselves a lot of time, and you another embarrassing blunder for the day, if you will simply check the booking log for the day before the unfortunate deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Poore, as well as the release record for the day after. You will find my client was incarcerated during that time, making his participation in their murder impossible.”

  The metal chair grated across the tile floor as Bishop scooted back. He stood clenching his teeth for a few seconds while he glared at Selvin, then left the room. He did indeed check the logs, and to his dismay, Selvin once again had him. Not being able to bear Selvin’s I told you so smirk, or another of Samson Knight’s moon faced grins, he sent the nearest patrolman in to inform him he was free to go.

  The revolving door of Indians arrested and released for public drunkenness, disturbing the peace, as well as more serious infractions of the law, left few of the tribe’s troublemakers unknown to Bishop. Richard Armendez held the distinction of the only arrest Bishop ever made where a suspect drew blood from him. Bishop hated him and the feeling was more t
han mutual.

  Making sure that Samson was out of the building, Bishop spent several minutes making and sipping a cup of coffee in the break room. There were bad days and then there were days like today, when he wished he had become a shop teacher at the high school. He loved working with wood, fixing cars, and even Ag shop and welding broken pieces of farm equipment, and it would be better than what he faced today.

  “This will be your third strike for the day, Bishop.” Selvin popped off before the door clicked shut.

  “Mr. Armendez.” Bishop nearly choked having to address ‘Snake Armendez’ formally. “I suppose you have an explanation for your whereabouts on the morning of the Poore’s deaths?” Bishop decided to forgo the formalities rather than face more humiliation at the hands of Dick Selvin.

  “I was working.”

  “Working? That’s a first. And where might you have been gainfully employed?”

  “Sooner Moving. I helped move some people to Tulsa.”

  “I suppose you have proof of this?”

  “What chu mean?”

  “A pay stub, a contract, some kind of a verification of this employment?”

  “I got cash.” Armendez thought he was boasting.

  “That is illegal without a paystub of some sort.” Bishop pursed his lips and looked at Selvin for the first time. “Counselor can you provide this documentation?”

  “I’m sure we can.” Selvin leaned over and whispered to Armendez.”

  “Hell, I don’t know. We met in a bar. He said you want to make some money? I said sure. He paid me, I came home.” Armendez didn’t bother to whisper.

  “So, you can’t prove it.”

  “We will provide verification.” Selvin was a bit less self-assured.

  “Will. Meaning at some undisclosed time in the future.”

  “Soon as possible.”

  “Richard Armendez, until your attorney can provide a concrete alibi for your whereabouts the morning of the murders, I will be holding you on suspicion of murder.” Bishop stood. “This interview will be resumed at the convenience of this department.”