“I don’t know.” Chee nodded in the direction of the man standing by the signs. “That guy in the short sleeves has an attitude problem.”
Anderson exhaled. “So, we’re off to a good start.”
His partner, Dan Rivera, said, “At least it’s not snowing.”
“Not snowing yet, anyway.” Anderson zipped up his coat and turned to Chee. “Any bigwigs here yet?”
“I don’t know. They’re parking by the back doors and assembling in a room there. Palmer wants them to come into the hall all together.”
“A grand entrance,” Anderson said. “I can hardly wait. How come this meeting is here instead of Phoenix, where it’s warmer?”
“The Navajo Nation thought you guys needed a road trip. The site for the potential resort is only half an hour from here, and Palmer plans a field trip at some point.”
More vehicles began to trickle in. Mostly Navajo and Hopi people now, he noticed, along with a few non-Natives and Indians whom he couldn’t pigeonhole. A handful of new faces joined the protesters. Most of the folks headed inside, and Chee considered that himself. He could stand in the atrium and watch for Palmer without freezing his toes off. But he’d be inside for hours once the meeting started. Best stay here and soak in some sunlight. He’d give Palmer another few minutes and then call him again.
He heard the rumble of a vintage Volkswagen engine. The pumpkin-colored camper van he had visited in the hotel parking lot last night found a spot along the side fence. After some minutes, a man emerged wearing sunglasses, a parka, and a brown knit hat pulled over his ears. He walked to the pile of signs and stopped, talking to the men there. He was carrying something. Something white. Not a gun, Chee thought. At least not a gun like any he’d ever seen.
Then a black limousine pulled into the lot and slowly rolled up to where Chee stood. The driver lowered the window and stopped. “Where is the entrance for the delegates?”
Chee walked toward him. “Head on around the back and use the door there. You’ll see another Navajo cop like me. You can park there, too.”
“I’m just dropping off my clients, but thanks.” The man wore a cap like chauffeurs in the movies. Chee noticed two men in suits in the backseat. One of them leaned toward him.
“Does the session still begin at two?”
“That’s what the schedule says.” Chee knew from experience that Indian Country meetings started when they started, when the time was right regardless of what the agenda suggested. He wondered how Palmer would handle the inevitable discussion over that.
Then he heard an amplified voice. “This is Bebe Durango. Save Wild America to the front. Hustle up now.”
Chee turned toward the noise. The device the man in the brown hat had with him was a bullhorn. People sitting in the cars climbed out and headed toward the front of the building and the limo.
The passenger in the limo who had asked Chee the question said, “Let’s get out of here,” and rolled up the window. Before the big car could move, Durango appeared, blocking the way. He put the bullhorn to his face and started to yell.
“Shame, shame, shame on Canyonmark.” He bellowed it out. The chant became a mantra. Other protesters joined, surrounding the car, waving their signs. The driver inched along, the crowd swarming around the car.
Just as Chee began to think he should do something, the Arizona Highway Patrol officers moved in. Anderson and Rivera stayed calm and professional, and most of the protesters moved back so the car could pass. Chee radioed Redbone, whom the captain had posted at the delegate entrance. “A black limo, a man with a bullhorn, and a bunch of protesters headed your way. Everyone seems calm enough now.”
“I hear them. A few protesters are back here, waiting for the car.”
Bebe continued yelling at the limo. He and the sign people followed the car out of Chee’s sight.
As Chee headed to the front doors of the Justice Center, a young Navajo man, short and slim in jeans and boots, walked up to him.
“Yá’át’ééh, Officer.”
“Yá’át’ééh.”
“Do you know if Mr. Palmer is here?”
“I haven’t seen him yet.”
“But he’s supposed to be here, right?”
“You bet. He’s the guy running the sessions. What do you want with him?”
“Oh, we know each other from way back. I’m hoping to talk to him for a minute or two before the meeting begins. Thanks.” The young man pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his ears and walked past him through the big doors and into the building.
Chee stood in the sun, enjoying its faint warmth on his face. He liked the contrast to the frigid November air. The man with the bullhorn must have put it down, because he didn’t hear the shouting anymore.
People continued to arrive. Some greeted him with a nod and looked slightly familiar from his time working at the local substation. Most of the people he remembered vividly wouldn’t be at the meeting, he thought. They were in prison.
A pickup truck pulled into the lot and drove close to the front doors. He noticed an attractive Navajo woman sitting tall behind the steering wheel, her hair pulled into a ponytail. The passenger door opened, and Aza Palmer climbed out wearing new jeans, black boots with a shine to them, a Pendleton jacket, and a cream-colored cowboy hat. He looked more like a rancher than a lawyer, Chee thought, and the look was probably the perfect persona for the people gathered inside. He carried the black leather briefcase he’d had in Chee’s unit over his shoulder with a strap.
“Hey there. Good afternoon,” Chee said.
“Yá’át’ééh.” Palmer waved at the truck as it left. “My clan sister, Katie. I’ll introduce you next time.” He looked around the parking lot. “Not many protesters.”
Chee said, “Most of them are around back, chasing a limo.”
“A limo?”
“One of them recognized the developers inside.”
“You’d think those people would try to blend in with the common folks a little better to limit the antagonism, wouldn’t you?” Palmer turned toward the building. “Let’s go in. I want to check the setup of the space and see if I can tell what the climate of the room is.”
“All the heating is centrally controlled. So are the lights. State-of-the-art.”
“I meant, is the audience curious, angry, restless, worried? Who wants to make a scene? I know some of these people have come a long way, given up their weekend because what happens with the resort, with the Grand Canyon, matters to them. The delegates and I get to practice listening. That’s a great skill to hone for the sessions to come.”
“How many people will you let talk?”
“All of them who’d like to, but I might have to impose a time limit.” Palmer moved the briefcase higher on his shoulder and started for the building.
Chee said, “There was a young man here who wanted to see you.”
“That’s interesting. He didn’t have a suicide vest, did he?” Palmer grinned.