13
At nine o’clock that morning, Harry Colbert, administrative assistant to Senator George Russell, knocked on the door to the senator’s private office. Without waiting for a response, he stepped inside and stood still, arms at his sides. The brown envelope with the printed report brushed against the pant leg of his navy blue suit. The senator lay sprawled on one of the twin sofas arranged in an L-shape in the far corner. His mouth hung open, his snoring was jerky and erratic. A little line of saliva glistened at the corner of his chin. The comb-over of his dyed brown hair had slipped, revealing slices of pink scalp.
Seventy-two years old, the senator’s last birthday, and not on top of things the way he used to be—well, who could keep up with everything these days? Legislative papers and folders littered the surface of his desk across the office. It was doubtful that the senator had made his way through any of them. No matter. It was Colbert’s job—and he prided himself on doing it well—to read all the bills, steer the senator onto the floor with instructions on how to vote on anything that might either benefit or harm the senator’s constituency. Senator Russell had held on to his seat for almost twenty-three years by casting the votes the way his supporters expected.
And the senator’s supporters wielded a great deal of influence in the state. Russell hailed from one of the old Colorado families—the oligarchs, as Russell himself referred to them. There was no hint of irony because, as Colbert understood, the old man believed there was still a place in the modern world for oligarchs who understood what was best for everybody else.
Colbert had boned up on Colorado history when he went to work for the senator halfway through his third term. What he’d learned had impressed him. Ethan Russell, the old man’s great-grandfather, had arrived in Denver in the 1860s, after pulling a cart with the entirety of his belongings across the plains by hand. Denver was a collection of tents and log cabins, populated by gold prospectors, saloon keepers, ladies of the night, and refugees from the law and normal society. Ethan decided to give the town its first bank. He organized investors among some of the prospectors who had struck gold, opened the bank in a shop on Larimer Street with a safe in the back that a shopkeeper had hauled across the plains and, rather than haul it back when the shop went under, had left in place. Ethan put up flyers around town urging folks to leave their money with him—in the only safe in town—and soon he had enough deposits to make loans to other prospectors heading into the mountains. When the lucky ones struck gold, Ethan paid small dividends to his depositors and large dividends to himself and his investors. Within ten years, Ethan Russell ran the largest bank between the Mississippi and California. Eventually he moved into the Equitable Building on Seventeenth Street, in which he held a silent partnership, along with John Evans and Leland Stern, and several other oligarchs.
They controlled Colorado for almost a hundred years—transportation, water, electricity, gas, roads, ranches, farms, most of the land and buildings in downtown Denver, and the best real estate throughout the state. And all that control had impressed Harry Colbert, who had grown up in North Dakota on a pig farm with a mortgage that his father had never been able to pay off. After repossessing the farm, the bank had sold it to a large agribusiness company which had dotted the farmlands with metal buildings the size of football fields, where they raised the pigs. Pig farms, they called the buildings.
After World War II, things changed for the Colorado oligarchs. The state’s population began to grow beyond anything the oligarchs could have imagined. They no longer had control. Outside money poured in. Entrepreneurs started new businesses that broke the monopolies of the oligarchs. National corporations built factories that employed the newcomers crowding the new suburbs. Everything happened quickly. The oligarchs found they were no longer the wealthiest families in the state; they no longer owned the politicians; they could no longer run things their way. Colbert had wanted to cheer when he’d reached that part of their history—cheer for the ordinary people like his own family. Still the remnants of the old families tried to hang on, like Senator Russell, still looking out for the people that mattered.
Colbert cleared his throat, then cleared his throat again. The senator was as deaf as a post. Finally he walked over and touched the senator’s shoulder. Russell shook himself awake and blinked into the office. Then he smoothed his hair back into place across the pink scalp and shifted upright. “Little cat nap, waiting for you,” he said.
Colbert smiled down at the man who thought he could snap his fingers and toss Colbert into the cold when, really, it was the other way around. Russell didn’t know that, and that was what made it amusing. It was Colbert who kept the old man’s reputation intact, placated the supporters, steered the right legislation forward. Without Colbert working behind the scenes, the old man wouldn’t have had a prayer of getting reelected to his fourth term.
He sank onto the middle cushion of the sofa across from the senator. “I’m afraid the casino plan has become public knowledge.”
“Spill it.” Russell planted the heels of his Ferragamos against the sofa and sat up straight. Every once in a while, he showed the spark of his younger years, a hint of formidability, and Colbert realized that, had he known the senator then, he wouldn’t have been the one in charge.
“I’m afraid Norman Whitehorse arranged a rally on the land by the airport. My sources say at least three hundred people, most of them Indians, attended. Norman got up and announced that the tribes intended to settle the land claims for a casino. Arcott spoke on how he was going to make it happen.”
“Fools, all of them.” Russell spit out the words. “Indians are their own worst enemy. Always have been.” He shook his head, and his eyes took on a dreamy look, as if he were watching a movie in his head. “God, my granddad used to say that if those Indians had ever gotten together—instead of fighting one another—they could’ve whupped all the whites coming onto their lands. History would’ve told a different story. Why the hell did Arcott get involved?”
Colbert blew some air through his teeth. “Haven’t been able to reach him yet. I can guess . . .”
“I don’t pay you to guess.”
Colbert shrugged. Fair enough. He didn’t like this side of Russell, but every once in a while the old man reared his back. An annoying habit left over from the old days that usually passed as quickly as it came on. He was aware of the muffled sound of keyboards in the outer office. “Arcott agrees with Whitehorse that the best defense is offense,” he said. He was trying to get into Arcott’s viewpoint, see things his way. “They think the public will get behind the casino plan now that the tribes are bringing up the genocide at Sand Creek. People will say, ‘Let the Indians have whatever they want. They deserve a casino.’ ”
“It was your job to prevent any public announcements until we had the matter under control.” Russell pushed himself to his feet. “This isn’t the time for public rallies. What the hell were you doing?”
“Look, Senator,” Colbert began, but Russell’s hand sliced the air.
“Don’t give me excuses. You said Norman Whitehorse was on board with our plans.”
“I’m not the first person to lose control of the Indians.” Colbert tried for a joking tone, but he could feel the burning in his chest. He had only a handful of people in the Denver office, most of them just out of college and starry-eyed about making a difference in politics, whatever the hell that meant. And how were they expected to handle a bunch of damn Indians with their own ideas on how to do things? Besides, they were up to their asses in phone calls and complaints and requests for tours of the White House from the rest of the senator’s constituents.
Senator Russell was glaring at him.
“Whitehorse and Arcott could be right,” Colbert said, making an effort to inject the accustomed seriousness into his tone. “The public could be our best ally against the governor, make him look like a heartless bastard for opposing any casino, not wanting to see that the Arapahos and Cheyennes get justice. It could work in our favor.”
That seemed to catch the senator’s attention. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his gray suit pants and started pacing back and forth in front of the desk. He kept his head bent, his eyes focused on his steps. A long piece of brown hair slid forward again, like a strand of yarn breaking loose from the pink scalp.
“How’s the press going to play this?” he said.
“Last evening’s TV news and this morning’s Mirror covered the rally and played the story straight. Looks like the press is willing to give the proposal a chance. Political correctness, you know. They’re not going to take a stand against justice for the Arapahos and Cheyennes. Governor Lyle probably went ballistic when he got the news. But we’re in the stronger position. We have to hammer the Sand Creek genocide and the need for justice, lean on the public’s sense of fairness and political correctness. The governor will start to look like one of the Third Colorado that marched into Sand Creek.”
“You’ve prepared a press release?”
“It will be ready within the hour. I’ll call a few reporters—the ones we might be able to control—and assure them of your concern that the tribes receive overdue justice. I’ll fax the others a press release. Should run in tomorrow’s papers and go out on the Internet. It won’t hurt to get people around the country behind this. Everyone’s in favor of justice for Indians.”
The senator was still pacing, his hands clasped behind his back now.
“Don’t worry,” Colbert said. “I’ll manage the press. The public will be behind us.” He gave the senator a moment to chew on this, then he said, “There may be one . . .” He searched for the right words. “. . . potential problem.”
The senator swung around. “Out with it!”
“The Journal has been on the story from the beginning. Catherine McLeod’s the reporter, a pain in the neck. She’s written two articles so far. One of them an interview with tribal elders on the Sand Creek Massacre. She has a reputation for being pretty independent. She may not be easy to keep in line.”
“McLeod.” The senator had drawn out the name, as if he were gathering tobacco juice before he spat it. “Ex-wife of Lawrence Stern, is she not? The bitch went after him for five million dollars.”
“I believe that was the ex-wife of Jonathan Norton.” Also oligarchs, the Norton family, Colbert was thinking. God, they all knew one another’s business, looked out for one another.
“And what was she before she married Jonathan? A cocktail waitress?”
“I believe she owned a shop in Cherry Creek.”
“She wasn’t one of us. Neither was Catherine McLeod, if I recall. Elizabeth Stern was most unhappy when Lawrence married her. Who was she?”
“Denver native. A general assignment reporter at the Journal when she met Lawrence.”
“Oh, my God. Shopkeeper, reporter. Those boys deserve a whipping, getting mixed up with girls like that. Gold diggers is what they are.”
“It’s my understanding that Catherine McLeod took a modest settlement. She’s not interested in money.”
“Not interested in money?” Senator Russell tipped his chin into the folds of his neck and laughed softly. Then he seemed to have another thought. He threw his head back and fixed Colbert with a hard stare. “Independent, you say? A crusading reporter, interested only in the truth? You manage her, Harry. You understand?”
Colbert nodded. “Don’t worry.”
“Anything else?”
“I suggest we move fast on the proposal. With the press following the story, we don’t have the luxury to line up enough votes for legislation to settle the claims.”
The senator walked over and sank back onto the sofa. “Go on.”
“There are a number of noncontroversial bills moving through Congress at present. They have majority backing and will doubtless be approved. The president is certain to sign them. I suggest we prepare a rider and attach it to one of those bills. Other senators and congressmen have used this tactic to get settlements for tribes in their states. The moment the president affixes his signature, the Arapaho and Cheyenne land claims will be settled. The matter will be out of the governor’s hands. The use of land acquired by tribes as part of a federal settlement doesn’t fall under state jurisdiction. As long as the secretary of the interior gives the okay, the tribes will be free to construct and operate a casino. We have assurances that the secretary will sign off on the casino.”
A smile was working its way across the senator’s face. “Prepare the rider,” he said.