When all the delegates were seated, Palmer walked to the microphone to officially open the session.
“Welcome, everyone. Yá’át’ééh. I am Aza Palmer and it is my pleasure to be here on this important day. I will be mediating this series of meetings to help resolve issues surrounding a proposed development for an area of the Grand Canyon at the confluence of the Little Colorado and Colorado Rivers, adjacent to the national park.”
He switched to Navajo and gave his “born to” mother’s clan as Irish and German and his “born for” father’s side as Towering House Diné. He detailed his Navajo grandparents’ lineage, then moved back to English.
“I am honored to have an opportunity to help these delegates come to agreement about an issue that will affect not only all of us in this room but also many generations to come.
“Before we proceed, the elders have requested that our session begin with a prayer. I ask you all to please stand.”
Palmer stepped back from the microphone. The Hopi Bear Clan man wearing a starched white shirt, new blue jeans, and freshly polished cowboy boots rose from his seat at the table. The other delegates and the audience stood. Chee felt his phone vibrate, but ignored it as he bowed his head. The elder began speaking, whisper soft at first and then a bit louder. Chee absorbed the spirit, rhythm, and music of the words, even though he couldn’t understand the Hopi. The wail of the ambulance provided an odd background.
The Hopi prayed long and hard. Palmer thanked the elder for the blessing, and moved back to the podium. “I will briefly explain how the mediation process works. After that, the delegates will speak, each taking no more than five minutes. Then I will open the floor for comments from the audience. We seek your input today.”
Chee glanced around the room. The audience was paying attention, not restless yet, although he noticed a few studying their cell phones. He hoped the worst thing that happened today was booing. He’d love to agree with Palmer that his services were superfluous.
Palmer said, “Mediations are done in private, with the resolution or lack of success announced later. But because of the tremendous interest in the possible resort, the delegates want to hear your ideas today before their work begins. Everyone at the table also has pledged to listen to every other delegate with respect and attention. When I look at the faces of the men and women around this table, I see commitment. People who want to do the right thing.”
The men and women at the delegate table did look serious, Chee thought. They looked worried, in fact. News of the bombing had spread throughout Indian Country as fast as a dust devil, and the police presence must have underlined the reality of the threat. If the Shiprock incident inspired these folks to work hard, settle the multitude of issues that surrounded the possible resort, and go home, it well might be an example of good springing from evil. He wondered if any delegates or anyone in the audience had been at the Shiprock game. He’d ask Bernie about that.
Bernie? Chee checked his phone and her text made him smile. He replied: Miss you too.
Palmer spoke articulately and with conviction. He had shed the quiet persona Chee had seen on the drive to Tuba as easily as he had changed clothes. Chee had noticed the same sort of transformation in Lieutenant Leaphorn when they had worked cases together, from a silent, self-contained listener to something bordering on charming, cajoling a subject into cooperating.
Palmer closed his notebook. “The delegates will now introduce themselves. I will welcome the speakers by reading the brief biography they put together for today.”
Palmer called the name of the elderly woman representing the Hualapai and read what she’d written about herself. She had a red folder in her hands. Palmer lowered the microphone so she could be heard. She greeted the audience in what Chee assumed was the Hualapai language. Then she switched to English, talking about the importance of the Grand Canyon as the place of the creation of the universe, the site of the tribe’s ancestral origin and their spiritual homeland.
Chee wondered if pure randomness accounted for her being first or if Palmer had stacked the deck. The delegates paraded to the microphone, said their bit, and sat back down. A diverse group of people, he noted, most of them thoughtful. The session dragged on.
The delegate from the Havasupai Nation, the youngest of the negotiators, was at the podium now. He referred to some note cards and, like the Hualapai representative, talked about the Grand Canyon’s profound importance: “We act as though we humans own the planet and that everything on it is for sale. That isn’t true. The world is not a marketplace but a holy place. My goal is to help keep the canyon and the land that surrounds it sacred.”
The delegate from the US Forest Service took the stage. He spoke with the jargon of an insider, talking about mitigating environmental impact and responding to concerned stakeholders.
The word stakeholders shifted Chee’s thinking to those metal platters that held a nice piece of beef. He pictured a thick steak, grilled crisp salty outside, juicy with the first cut of the knife. He’d buy some steaks to barbecue as soon as he got home.
He forced his attention back to Palmer, who jotted notes as the man in the green uniform droned on, his voice soft enough to soothe a restless two-year-old at naptime. Three of the delegates looked like they had drifted off, and Chee’s own eyelids were growing heavy.
Then his phone vibrated again. He pulled it from his pocket. Bernie. He responded to her call with a text . . . Will get back to you at the break.
After Mr. Forest Service finished, Palmer announced a twenty-minute recess. The delegates left through the stage door, but Palmer stayed at the podium. Chee saw the young man who had asked him about the mediator earlier come onto the stage through the side door. Palmer glanced up, startled.
Chee moved forward, on alert. Palmer stepped away from the podium to face the man, hands extended palms up. The young man headed back toward the side door. Palmer dropped his notes, grabbed his black bag, and hurried after him.
Chee raced to the stage and then to the delegate waiting room, searching fruitlessly for Palmer. He took the door that led outside.
Palmer was lighting a cigarette. The young man stood across from him, staring at the ground. If they had been involved in conversation, they weren’t talking now.
Chee approached. “Everything under control out here?”
“Chill, Sergeant. I’ll be in when I finish this cancer stick.” Palmer exhaled smoke as he spoke. “Give us some privacy. This is absolutely none of your business.” The expression on the younger man’s face reminded Chee of a harshly scolded puppy.