People of the Mist (3 page)

 
          
“In
other words, you’re saying the law is racist.”

 
          
“Isn’t
it? NAGPRA gives Native Americans legal precedence over other racial types. Any
Native American group can claim artifacts from a museum, but the State of
Virginia
, or
Maryland
—recognized by the American government as
political entities—can’t lay claim to collections in the
American
Museum
of Natural History. What would happen if
the State of
Ohio
asked to have Ulysses S. Grant’s bones returned to
Ohio
?”

 
          
“They’d
be whistling in the wind.” McCoy tapped his pen on the tabletop. He seemed to
be staring at nothing, expression blank.

 
          
“Further,
this law violates the separation of church and state. It gives precedence and
legal recognition to a Native religion. A Catholic can’t reclaim a burial from
a museum on religious grounds. Can a Jew?”

 
          
“No.”
McCoy studied his notes pensively. “Let’s get back to your specific problem.
Did your museum hold legal title to these artifacts? I mean, did you own them?”

 
          
“Most
of the artifacts were the property of the museum. Yes, we legally owned them,
mostly through donations over the years. We also cura ted archaeological
collections excavated by contract archaeologists working in the region. Many of
the artifacts taken by the Pian katank were the property of the landowners from
whose land they had been excavated. They allowed us to care for them with the
provision that they be displayed to the public. So, in that sense, it’s theft.”

 
          
“And
who actually owns your museum? You?”

 
          
“No,
it’s owned by the city of
Potomac Cove
. We have a board of trustees that works with the city council.”

 
          
“Do
they wish to file suit?”

 
          
Adam
winced. “I get the distinct impression that they’d rather just let it go.”

 
          
“Then
you’re thinking about a class-action suit?”

 
          
“I
suppose.”

 
          
McCoy
nodded as if fitting pieces together in his head. “Right offhand, I’d say that
litigating this would be like opening a can of worms. What’s at question is, at
its roots, a constitutional issue. A whole list of them.”

 
          
“Then,
I could win?”

 
          
McCoy
shrugged. “We’re talking about the law here. Mr. Jones, winning cases depends
on the legal tactics used, the presentation of the facts, argumentation by the
attorneys, and the persuasion of the judge. You know, don’t you, that your
opposition will be the entire Department of Justice? They keep their big guns
just down the street, and they’ll wheel them out just for you.”

 
          
“Uh-huh.”
Adam rolled the empty coffee cup between his hands. “Did I miss something in
civics class? Hasn’t the government become an accomplice in theft here?”

 
          
McCoy
leaned forward, one eyebrow lifted. “Let’s be blunt about this. You, as an
individual, can’t get the museum’s artifacts returned. That’s up to your town
council and board of trustees. You’ll have to convince them to tackle the
problem of the Piankatank. You, however, have the ability to file suit against
the government in an attempt to overturn NAGPRA.”

 
          
“I
see.” “If you decide to do so, my fee is three hundred dollars an hour, plus
expenses that include my research team, phone calls, paperwork, even travel
expenses if they become necessary. Let’s say that we win in District Court. The
government doesn’t like to lose—and they have you, along with about another two
hundred million taxpayers, to draw upon for financial resources. The case will
automatically go to appeal… and I can guarantee you, a case like this will be
fought all the way to the Supreme Court.”

 
          
“And
that means?”

 
          
“Five
or six years, Adam.” McCoy pushed back in his chair, eyes neutral. “And I’d say
about one hundred and fifty thousand in legal fees, minimum, to make it through
the legal thrust-and-parry to land it in the High Court’s lap. Do you have that
kind of money?”

 
          
Adam
slowly ‘shook his head. “I make twenty-two thousand a year, Mr. McCoy. I drive
a fifteen-year-old Blazer with one hundred and thirty thousand on the odometer.
I rent a trailer house.”

 
          
McCoy
watched him, face expressionless.

 
          
“What
about the ACLU? They do things like this, don’t they?”

 
          
McCoy
gave a dry laugh. “My suspicion is, Mr. Jones, that they’d be on the other
side. And prepare yourself for this. Right or wrong, this case will be
partially tried in the media. The nightly news will be happy to show evil
scientists intent on exploiting victimized Indians. Are you ready to be cast as
a thief stealing their cultural heritage?”

 
          
“I’m
not stealing anyone’s heritage! This is about fairness, not just to the Native
peoples, but to the dead as well!”

 
          
“Perhaps,
but this is the dawn of the twenty-first century. Moral dimensions a d
ramifications mean little-unless a big chunk of money is involved. Prepare
yourself. You’ll be cast as a white male seeking to retain control over another
people’s cultural heritage.”

 
          
“A
white male? My maternal grandmother was a registered Cherokee. Cherokees are
matrilineal, making me technically Cherokee.”

 
          
“You
have blond hair, Mr. Jones. I doubt your appearance would make much of a case,
no matter who your grandmother was.”

 
          
“Didn’t
you agree with me about all the problems with NAGPRA?”

 
          
“Definitely.
But as an attorney, I can tell you that knowing right, and proving it in a
public forum or court of law, are two very different things.” Adam sank back in
the chair, a sick sensation in his gut. McCoy watched him impassively. Finally
Adam shook his head. “You know, I’ve spent all of my life trying to learn about
the people who were here before
Columbus
. Everything we know about them is because
of archaeologists, ethnographic sources, and Native oral traditions. We don’t
teach their history in our schools. Students don’t read about
Cahokia
when they study pyramids. We know more
about ancient
Mexico
,
Egypt
, and
Iraq
than we know about our own country.”

 
          
“I
suppose.”

 
          
“Now,
with a stroke of a politician’s pen, that’s all swept away.”

 
          
“It
happens.” McCoy shrugged. “The Indians would tell you that it has happened for
a long time.”

 
          
“All
those artifacts that I dug out of the ground were made by people, Mr. McCoy.
They were being carefully preserved so that future generations could see them,
learn from them, as I have. It has nothing to do with controlling another
person’s cultural heritage, it’s about disseminating it. It’s part of a human
heritage that we all share. Now those artifacts have been loaded into a truck
somewhere and hauled off. To what? Reburial? Resale on the collector’s market?
And what of the fragile netting, the bone, and bits of copper? They’ll be
thrown away as junk by the people who took them, who’ll never know they were
more precious than gold to the prehistoric Algonquin.”

 
          
“In
that case—assuming your Piankatank are actually Indian—the only people they’re
hurting are themselves.”

 
          
“No,
Mr. McCoy, it’s hurting all of us. Everyone loses in the end.” Adam stood, an
empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. “We still have a great deal to learn
about ourselves, about who and what we are as humans. I think we can respect
the dead for what they can teach us today, as well as respect them for who they
were when they were alive.”

 
          
“That’s
an enlightened perspective.”

 
          
Adam
sighed. “I don’t feel enlightened, Mr. McCoy. What is happening is wrong—and I
can’t do anything about it by myself.”

 
          
“Then
you don’t wish to pursue this matter legally?”

 
          
Adam
spread his arms wide. “On twenty thousand a year? I could offer you my soul in
exchange for your legal services. That ought to be worth something. The ancient
Algonquin people would think so.” At the blank look in McCoy’s eyes, Adam
smiled ironically, “Well, thanks for your time … and the coffee.”

 
          
“I’m
sorry I couldn’t help. Good day, Mr. Jones.”

 
          
McCoy
rose, stepping over to open the door. In silence, they walked down the plush
corridors toward the tall glass doors.

 
          
At
the same moment, at a specialty store in affluent
Georgetown
, a young woman held the door open for her
tall companion. Navajo flute music gave atmosphere to the crowded shelves filled
with dream catchers and art depicting feathered Indians and buffalo. Turquoise
jewelry, beaded leather bags, and painted
Northwest
Coast
masks caught the bright light, each
displayed to the best advantage. A row of buffalo skulls, bleached and white,
had been painted with scenes of mounted warriors shooting arrows into galloping
herds. Along one wall, behind glass, rows of brightly painted katchinas danced.
Beneath them, expensive Southwestern pots were categorized by pueblo and maker.

 
          
The
young woman wore her honey-brown hair long, a single turkey feather tied neatly
in the silky locks at her shoulder. Her Eddie Bauer denim shirt accented the
pale blue of her eyes. A beaded belt snugged tight Levi’s to her hips, and
Minnetonka
moccasins covered her dainty feet.

 
          
The
tall man, blond hair close-cropped, wore a T-shirt emblazoned with “Ban the
Washington Redskins.” Below faded jeans, Luchese boots rapped hollowly on the
tiled floor. He carried the big box with ease as they approached the counter.

 
          
The
middle-aged clerk wore a dark suit, a magnificent squash-blossom necklace
draping her blouse. A beaded brooch confined her silver-streaked black hair.
She used a thin white finger to press horn-rimmed glasses onto a straight
narrow nose.

 
          
“May
I help you?” She greeted them with a practiced smile.

 
          
The
tall man placed the box on the glass counter and returned her smile, but it was
the young woman who spoke: “We’re from the Piankatank Confederacy.” She offered
a card. “Our medicine man has just gone through our collection, and these
artifacts no longer have importance to our people. They’ve been killed by the
Whites, their Power broken. We were wondering if your store would be interested
in acquiring them.”

 
          
The
clerk watched with interest as the blond man began removing pieces one at a
time and laying them carefully on the counter. Items of carved shell, bone, and
stone were placed in neat rows.

 
          
“Algonquin
and Iroquois manufacture,” the clerk stated, recognizing the workmanship. “I
see museum accession numbers on some of them. Are they authentic?”

 
          
“They
are.” The young woman withdrew a folded paper from her pocket. “And this is an
affidavit drawn up by our tribal attorney, documenting that the Piankatank
tribe legally owns these items. None of these artifacts falls under the
jurisdiction of the Antiquities laws. You may check with Judge Kruse’s office
if there are any questions.”