Palmer held up the sign with “30.”
Mr. Swim Free talked a little faster.
She saw Palmer’s hand move to the “Thank you” sign. Then, suddenly, the microphone died and the windowless room plunged into blackness. Although she hadn’t heard an explosion, the protester’s reference to a bomb threat flashed in her mind.
13
Bernadette Manuelito rushed to the back of the room and opened a door to let in more light. Officer Silversmith followed her lead and opened the other back door. The weak afternoon sunlight reflected off the clock, an old-fashioned kind with hands stalled at 2:20.
Palmer went to the podium. His microphone was dead, but his lawyer’s voice filled the hall. “Ladies and gentlemen, as you’ve noticed, we’re having some technical difficulties. I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I find out myself. I hope to resume public comment in a few moments.
Most of the audience stayed put. A few made their way toward the exit.
A figure stepped onto the darkened stage from the side entrance. Bernie felt her instinct for danger kick in. She watched Chee step between Palmer and the man, briefly blocking his passage, then allowing the person to proceed to the podium. He looked at Palmer’s microphone, checked the connections. Then he fiddled with the light switches on the stage wall. Now that her eyes were accustomed to the dim light, Bernie could tell from the way the technician hunched his shoulders that he didn’t know what to do next.
Rightman, the TV reporter, thumped the malfunctioning microphone in the back of the room. “No power here either.” His voice resonated in the darkened hall.
The space slowly filled with the rumble of conversation. Power outages were common in the summer, often caused by lightning strikes. In the winter, more rarely, the weight of snow or wind toppling trees against the power lines took out the electricity. November incidents were ususual.
Captain Ward walked into the room toward Palmer and Chee. The people quieted. After a brief conversation, Palmer headed back to the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the entire building has lost power. Building maintenance is at work on the situation, but the captain is unsure of how long the situation will take to resolve. Rather than continuing in the dark—some would say this issue has already been in the dark too long—we will reconvene at nine a.m. tomorrow. If the power is still off here at the courthouse, the meeting will shift to a different location, perhaps the Tuba City Library, and a notice with a map will be posted outside. Thank you.”
Rightman focused on Palmer, the light from the camera serving as a mini spotlight.
Since she was already at the back door, Bernie walked toward the exit rather than struggle against the flow of the audience to reach Chee. She nodded to Officer Silversmith. “I’m a cop from the Shiprock station. Need any help?”
“No thanks. Everyone seems pretty mellow and Chee will pitch in if we need him. You’re his wife?”
“That’s me. Bernie Manuelito.” She introduced herself properly with her clans.
Silversmith did the same as he kept an eye on the crowd. “Chee said you were smart, but he forgot to say that you’re pretty, too.”
She observed the crowd move down the hall and out toward the parking lot. When the room had mostly cleared, she stepped back inside. The stage was empty and she figured that Chee, Palmer, and the delegates had left through the back door. She’d wait in the parking lot, she decided, and she noticed that the idea raised her level of anxiety. First she had watched the Lieutenant get gunned down in a Window Rock parking lot, and then she had seen the aftermath of the car bomb. She swallowed her nervousness and reminded herself she was a cop.
Outside, a group of protesters in Save Wild America Tshirts with the Grand Canyon smokestack design had gathered. She also noticed a well-built but otherwise nondescript man watching her watching them. She made him for FBI. Then she saw a red-haired woman in jeans that hadn’t come from Walmart. His partner? The Arizona Highway Patrol officers also were on alert.
The TV reporter stood by his white van, also studying the crowd, in no hurry to leave. She noticed two men in dark suits and ties chatting as they walked. Lawyers or bankers, perhaps, who’d come to speak at the meeting. But they didn’t seem quite old enough, and out here even lawyers and bankers wore boots and bolos. Maybe they were Mormon spokesmen who’d come to share their viewpoints on the possibility of alcohol or gambling at the resort. They were dressed for TV, she thought. But they headed to a gray jeep-like vehicle without being accosted.
She had no such luck. Rightman glanced her way, then picked up his equipment bag and walked toward her. “Hello, again. How about a comment now for the news tonight?”
“No.”
“Ah, come on. You look like a person who has some great opinions. It’s easy, I’ll just ask you a question or two, and we’re done.”
“No thanks.” She heard a vehicle honking around the back of the building. “Besides, you don’t want that irritating sound in your footage.”
She noticed a young Navajo man hurrying toward the cluster of protesters. She watched him pull the hood of his sweatshirt over his close-cropped dark hair and sprint toward the back of the building, where the honking originated, the area where the delegates parked.
When she first went into police work she gave everyone the benefit of the doubt. Now, after a few years on the job, civilian na?veté had been replaced with what she considered a more realistic view of humanity. She ran after the runner.
Bernie found the beginnings of chaos.
A man in a parka the color of desert sand and a hat that made his head look like it came to a point stood directly in front of a large black limousine. From the stoop of his shoulders, Bernie estimated that he was in his sixties or perhaps older. He pounded the car’s well-polished hood with his “Stop Development Now” sign. In addition to the car beater, a small group of people milled around, some with signs they’d made on their own, some with the slick-looking Save Wild America logo enlarged, printed, and stapled to a stick. The crowd provided an encouraging audience and blocked the other delegate cars from moving forward. The honking only encouraged them.
The driver’s-side door of the black limo opened and the driver got out. Bernie had never seen anyone wear a cap like his except chauffeurs on television. He approached the angry man.
“Sir, I don’t give a hoot about your politics, but get the hell away from my car. You don’t have the right to damage it.”
The man with the sign shouted back at him, “You’re part of the problem.”
“I’m trying to make a living.”