“Not that I noticed. He went inside.”
They walked together through the big doors and down a tiled hallway, the heels of Palmer’s boots clicking against the hard floor. He was slightly taller than Chee, but they fell into an easy cadence. Palmer moved like a man with a mission, as though he looked forward to serious work ahead.
Chee ushered him to the head of the line of people waiting to go through the metal detector. “Excuse us, folks.”
Palmer gave his bag to the guard, took off his smooth black leather belt with the sand-cast silver buckle. He put his hand to his bolo tie, a piece of turquoise framed with a thin band of silver at his throat. “Do I need to take off my bolo and the jacket?”
The guard looked at the string tie with its silver tips. “It will be fine. Any keys or metal in the jacket pockets?”
“No.”
“No gun or knife?”
“Nothing.” Palmer walked through the metal detector without setting off the alarm. The guard inspected the bag and belt, handed them back, and turned to the next person in line to repeat the process.
The building was new, part of the big judicial complex the tribe had constructed over the last few years. Chee had been inside before for hearings, and he liked it, a place to be proud of.
Mediation, as Palmer had explained it last night, was similar in some ways to the Navajo’s long-established Peacemaking process. But in Peacemaking there was no neutrality. A family matriarch might be the facilitator, and she had an interest in the outcome: getting her clan members to shape up. Unlike a mediator, she would offer suggestions for solving the problem.
Chee led him to the meeting room, a large, bright space filled with conversation. The door to the hallway had been propped open to make it easier for people to come in. The audience section, already half full, contained an interesting assembly, Chee thought. Men in cowboy hats and shirts with pearl buttons, women in tailored suits, Hopi people looking serious in their best outfits. A scattering of Navajo men in their best jeans and matriarchs wearing velvet blouses and silver necklaces, perhaps including a classic squash blossom and armfuls of turquoise bracelets. Weathered bilagaana men in hiking boots, probably Forest Service, National Park, or Bureau of Land Management retirees, he thought. He noticed Indians who didn’t look Diné or Hopi, maybe Havasupai or Hualapai, two other tribes with a direct and compelling interest in Grand Canyon issues. Behind the audience seats and off to one side, a uniformed Coconino County deputy had positioned himself against the wall near a microphone installed for audience comments.
After surveying the room, Palmer walked onto the stage, put his bag on the table, and studied the delegate seating arrangement, a set of narrow tables covered with white cloths and positioned in a semicircle, facing the audience. A podium with a microphone stood to the left.
He turned to Chee. “This will do for now.”
“I can get someone on the staff to rearrange it if you want a different setup.”
“It will work for introductions and audience statements. When we reach the time for the delegates to talk and listen to each other privately, we’ll create a circle.”
Chee looked at the folding chairs onstage. “Who will be here? I wasn’t expecting such a large group.”
Palmer counted them off on his fingers. “We’ve got Native delegates from five tribes. The Forest Service, the Park Service, the developer, the Grand Canyon Protectors, representatives from the EPA, and the Arizona Department of Environmental Quality.” He listed a few more groups Chee had never heard of, then opened his black leather bag and extracted a folder. Chee watched him take from it a couple of sheets of white letter-size paper, which he placed on the podium. Then Palmer pulled out some tent-shaped signs made of heavy white paper with each person’s name and agency.
“Want me to put those on the table?”
“No, I’ll do it. I’m considering where people will be sitting today. Relax, Sergeant. I’ll let you know if I think someone else wants to blow me up again.” Palmer walked to the podium. “I’m going to stand here, read over my notes before we start, and collect my thoughts for a few minutes.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“How about a bottle of water?”
“Sure.”
Chee had never been a bodyguard before. The closest he’d come was escorting prisoners to jail or to court. He’d never liked that much either, but it was more exciting than watching people come into an auditorium while Palmer silently read notes. He looked into the audience for the young man who’d wanted a word with Palmer but didn’t see him.
He had no idea where to get a bottle of water, but he figured he could find someone who could help with that. In the hallway he saw a county sheriff’s deputy talking to a group of people in Save Wild America Tshirts. Everyone looked peaceful; he didn’t interrupt.
He walked toward the entrance, checking the alcoves for vending machines along the way without success. He asked the security guard about it.
“There’s a machine down the hall to the right,” he said. “But I don’t think there’s water in it. Just sodas.”
The guard was wrong. Ever since the Navajo Nation had increased the tax on soda and junk food, vendors made an effort to stock machines with healthier choices. Bottled water took its place alongside the colas, diet drinks, and root beer.
Chee found change in his pocket, just enough for a bottle. As he was heading back to the meeting room, he felt his phone vibrate.
Bernie said, “Hi. How’s Tuba City?”
“Quiet and cold,” he said. “What’s new in Shiprock? Anything on the bombing?”
“Yes, actually. The man in the parking lot died and the feds already ID’d the body.”
“Anyone we knew?”
“No.” She saw no reason to say the name of the dead man and Chee didn’t ask. “A witness I talked to saw another person hanging out, looking suspicious. That guy—or maybe it was a female, too dark to tell—didn’t match the description of the victim but might have something to do with that bomb.”
“Ah, a homegrown conspiracy,” Chee said. “I bet Cordova loves that.”
“Shiprock is buzzing with agents and investigators. Acronyms I never heard before.”
“Same here in Tó Naneesdizí.”
“Have you talked to Dashee?”
“He bought me lunch. He wants me to help him with a job involving some trespassing livestock.” Chee summarized the details. “I told him I’d think about it. I’m not sure how involved this bodyguard stuff will be.”
“Guess what? I got a call from Palmer’s ex-wife.”
“Did she call to confess?”
“You’re funny. She said she was worried about him. I went to high school with her.”
“Were you friends?”
“Not exactly. Lona liked boys, and I liked basketball.”
“I’m glad you like this boy now. Did she say anything relevant to the bombing?”