Someone had propped open the door to the meeting room with a wooden wedge. The room looked as drab as Chee remembered. Beige walls, industrial gray carpet, florescent lights, no windows. The kind of space a person wanted to spend as little time in as possible. The brown metal folding chairs, some slightly bent at the seat or wobbling unevenly on three of the four legs, added to the sense that information would be disseminated quickly so life could resume.
Chee, Redbone, and Silversmith took the last seats in the prized back row. Officers from other jurisdictions: uniforms from the Havasupai people, a woman with Hualapai tribal law enforcement, Coconino County sheriff’s deputies, and even a couple of men from the Arizona Highway Patrol began to fill the room. Right before the captain stepped up to the podium, Chee saw Dashee enter by a side door and lean against the wall, followed by a blond man in the dark suit and perfect haircut that marked him as FBI.
Chee had met the officer in charge of the Tuba substation, Captain Bernard Ward, but didn’t know him well. Ward passed around a brief agenda.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m going to show you a video sent by the FBI about Save Wild America, one of the groups coming to protest. Agent Jerry Cordova, whom some of you know, had planned to attend, but he’s working on a fatal car bombing at Shiprock, which may be connected to the meeting here and the protest. We are joined today by two other FBI specialists from the domestic terrorism unit and representatives from the Arizona Department of Public Safety counterterrorism.”
Ward directed a round of introductions, then motioned to an officer to dim the lights. The video unfolded on the screen in the front of the room. It showed a protest in Yosemite, demonstrators going limp, taunting police, spitting, and several officers losing their cool. Except for the scenery in the background, it wasn’t pretty. It lasted about ten minutes and gave Chee an idea of what to expect.
“Cordova asked me to read you this.” The captain put on his glasses and looked at a sheet of paper on the podium. “‘The group that you will be dealing with has been in court many times on charges of ecoterrorism, destroying government property, arson, and other crimes. They’ve also brought numerous suits against law enforcement, federal, state, and local authorities. They don’t play nice. In response, we need to be careful and professional.’”
Captain Ward put the paper down, took off his glasses, and looked at the officers.
“From our perspective, the bad thing about this meeting is the timing. From the media perspective, it couldn’t be better because, except for basketball and Thanksgiving, nothing much happens in November. People who like to protest have time on their hands. Reporters in Phoenix and Flagstaff looking for news can trundle up here to make life interesting, even if most of them don’t know what the hell is going on.”
Chee thought about that. The idea that the Navajo Nation might allow development—some sort of tourist resort—on its land near the Grand Canyon had been brewing for years, through many elections for Navajo Nation president. If the project, or some facsimile, eventually managed to win approval of the Tribal Council and got the president’s OK, the decision would certainly end up in court. Before the tribal government could reject the idea in total or express some openness to modified alternatives, everything would be considered, debated, amended, and reconsidered. It had taken eons for the Grand Canyon to form, and in Chee’s opinion, any development or permanent end to the possibility of development that might be in the wind operated on that same timetable. But outsiders viewed the situation as urgent.
The captain said, “Maybe there won’t be any trouble, but plan for the worst, hope for the best, that’s my philosophy.”
Then a secretary passed around white cards with instructions on how to handle protesters and keep violence from accelerating. The title read “Planning and Managing Security for Major Special Events: Guidelines for Law Enforcement.” Chee skimmed the points.
Do not take comments made by protesters personally.
Be patient with your fellow officers and commanders.
While law enforcement must meet its duty to protect people and property during mass demonstrations and protests, it can never do so at the expense of upholding the Constitution and First Amendment–protected rights.
Use of equipment or weaponry should be restricted to limited situations that clearly justify their use.
He skimmed the rest of the list. Good ideas, but nothing he hadn’t heard before.
Captain Ward told them that the delegates would enter and leave the meeting from the rear of the building and that the audience would use the front door and be screened with the Justice Center’s metal detector and directed to the meeting room. Chee would do what Largo had already told him—keep a close eye on the mediator and provide security for the Navajo Nation president, who would officially welcome the delegates later in the week as his schedule allowed. In other words, he was a glorified bodyguard.
Chee and Dashee ordered an early lunch off the menu at the Tuuvi Cafe, a restaurant run by the Hopi tribe. The café occupied part of a gas station/convenience store complex that sold tourist hats and Tshirts, snack food, drinks, and DVDs. The business included video rentals and an attractive Hopi arts and crafts outlet in another part of the building. Dashee knew everyone who worked there.
Chee had met Dashee on one of his first assignments, a situation that started with sabotage to a windmill and ended up involving drug smuggling and murder. He couldn’t have done his job without Dashee’s help.
Chee ordered the Tuuvi taco, a plate-sized piece of fry bread topped with juicy pinto beans, shredded cheese, chopped lettuce and tomato, and a whole roasted green chile. Dashee ate the Hopi stew, a bowl of soft hominy spiced with chopped green chile and a bit of meat. The food arrived quickly, served by a plumpish girl with a lopsided smile.
The taco tasted as good as it looked. Chee took several bites, then put his fork down. “So how has life been treating you?”
“Can’t complain ’cause nobody listens.” Dashee patted his lips with the napkin. “How about with you? I heard you almost got to be a movie star.”
“Not quite. I got sent to Monument Valley and wrapped up with a film company making a movie about zombies, and it turned out to be an interesting case, but nobody offered me a role. So what’s new in Moenkopi?”
Dashee looked puzzled. “New? Nothing, same as always. That’s how we like it.”
Chee said, “I heard the Mormons want to set up some kind of monument there in honor of Lot Smith.”
“Who?”
“You know, the soldier, the big man in the Mormon settlement, the Circle S Ranch guy with a houseful of wives and kids? The one Atsidí killed for shooting his sheep way back when.”