CHEE PUSHED THE up button of the elevator in the Albuquerque Federal Building a little after ten thirty. He looked like a man who had spent a sleepless night walking out in the snow, which he had. The minuscule amount of nighttime traffic that Navajo Route 33 normally carries had been cut to zero by the storm. A disappointing storm as it turned out, depositing less than two inches of snow across the arid Four Corners landscape, but enough to keep people at home. Chee had finally reached Red Rock Trading Post and got to a telephone a little after dawn. He’d called the station at Ship Rock and reported everything that had transpired. Then he called Mesa Airlines and reserved a seat on its nine A.M. flight. Finally he’d persuaded an early-rising Navajo rancher who’d stopped for gasoline to give him a ride to his trailer and from there to the airport. From the airport, he’d tried to call both Janet Pete and Hugh Dendahl, who was prosecuting this case for the U.S. attorney. Both of them had already left for the courthouse. He left messages for them both.
A U.S. marshal in a suit that had been big enough last year spotted Chee as he headed for the courtroom door.
“Where the hell you been?” he asked. “Dendahl has been looking for you.”
“He get my message?”
The marshal looked blank. “No message. He was making sure all his witnesses were ready.”
“He said he wouldn’t need me until this afternoon,” Chee said. “Maybe not then if they had trouble getting a jury.” Maybe not at all when he finds out about Redd, Chee was thinking. They’ll have to start over on this one.
“They got themselves a jury,” the marshal said. “Opening arguments this morning. He may need you right after lunch.”
“Well, I’m here,” Chee said.
The marshal was looking him over. No sign of approval.
“You live close?” he asked. “Maybe you could go home and clean up a little. Shave.”
“I live at Ship Rock,” Chee said. “Let me borrow your pen. And have you got a piece of paper?”
The marshal had a notebook in his coat pocket. Chee wrote hurriedly. Two almost identical notes to Janet Pete and Dendahl. He was thinking that as a witness they wouldn’t want him in the courtroom now. But what the hell. This trial wasn’t going to be held now anyway.
“Thanks,” he said, and handed the marshal his pen. “I have to get this note to Dendahl.”
The bailiff stopped him at the door.
Chee folded the notes, handed them to the bailiff. “This one goes to Dendahl,” he said. “This one to Janet Pete.”
Something was going on in the courtroom. The jury was being brought in. Janet, Dendahl, and another assistant district attorney who Chee didn’t know were huddled in front of Judge Downey. The judge looked irritated.
“What’s going on?” Chee asked.
“I don’t know,” the bailiff said. “I think the old man’s going to change his plea, or something. But he demanded that the jury be in here to hear it. He wants to make a statement.”
“Change his plea?” Chee said, incredulous. “You mean plead guilty?”
“I don’t know,” the bailiff said, giving Chee a “you dumb bastard” look. “She has him pleaded not guilty, so if he changes it, I guess that’s what you’d get.”
“Look,” Chee said. “Those notes are important, then. They have to get that information right away.”
The bailiff looked skeptical. “All right,” he said, and waddled down the aisle.
Chee moved inside, found a back-row seat, and watched.
Hosteen Ashie Pinto was sitting, too. Waiting. He noticed Chee, looked at him, nodded. The conference at the bench ended. Janet sat next to Pinto, whispering something to him. Pinto shook his head. Judge Downey tapped tentatively with her gavel, looking out of sorts with it all. The bailiff waited patiently for the proper opportunity to deliver his messages.
“The record will show the defendant wishes to change his plea,” Judge Downey said. “Let the record show the defendant, after consultation with counsel, requested that the jury be brought in. The record will show defendant wishes to make a statement to the court.”
Janet Pete motioned to Ashie Pinto. He stood, looked around him, wiped his hand across his lips.
“I am an old man, and ashamed,” Hosteen Pinto began. His voice was surprisingly strong. “I want everybody to know, all of you to know, how it was that I killed that policeman. And how it was?”
Pinto’s interpreter signaled him to stop. He stood, looking surprised and uncomfortable, and converted Pinto’s confession into English, and nodded to Pinto when he was finished and said: “Go on now.”
Chee sat stunned. Did the old man kill Nez? Not Redd? He’d presumed Redd was lying. He’d presumed?
“And how it was when I was a young man,” Pinto continued, “I killed a man in my father’s clan at a sing-dance out at Crooked Ridge. Every time it was the same thing. Every time it was whiskey.” There are several words in Navajo for whiskey in its various forms. Pinto used the one that translates to “water of darkness.” Then he stopped, stood, head slightly bowed, while the interpreter translated.
Chee was watching Janet Pete. She looked sad, but not surprised. Pinto must have finally confided in her. He had wanted to do this and she had arranged it. When?
Pinto was talking again, to a silent, intent audience.
“
When they came out of the rocks there, Mr. Redd and the man I would kill, that man had a pistol in his hand. He was pointing that pistol at Mr. Redd. Now that man with the pistol was the man who gave me the whiskey. He
