Sins of Our Fathers (9781571319128) (41 page)

“It's not an ‘ass-whooping,' by the way,” the guard said as he ambled along beside JW. “You got a couple visitors. Totally unscheduled. They got the Warden to let 'em in. Couldn't fucking believe it.”

They walked past the door to D-block on the right. The entrance to the visiting room was ahead, just before the corridor ended at the main entrance. Most inmates initially expected to get a lot of visitors, but only a few had any at all. Carol and Julie had visited twice, but Carol knew you couldn't just show up unannounced and expect to get a visit, unless something urgent dictated it. He hoped nothing serious had happened.

The last time he had seen them was in the early summer. What he remembered most was sitting across from them, five feet away, and wishing he could hold Julie. He looked forward to seeing her again.

He waited in front of the steel door that led to the visiting room. It buzzed and opened and he headed through another metal detector, then stood for another pat-down. He turned left down a smaller corridor and was buzzed through another locked door and into the visiting room.

Johnny and Jacob Eagle were waiting for him. His heart was suddenly racing. Jacob shot up a hand in a sort of wave. JW glanced at the guard, who motioned him in. He felt his knees and hands shaking as he sat down opposite them. He cupped his hands together and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He didn't know where to begin, what to say. He breathed and smiled and rocked up and down on his toes.

“I didn't expect it to be you two,” he finally got out. He laughed and wiped his eyes on a sleeve.

Eagle shook his head, frowning and smiling at the same time. Jacob showed his teeth as if the whole scene were funny, but then JW realized that his eyes were watering.

“How are you?” he asked Jacob.

Jacob ducked his head to wipe his eyes. He nodded. “Fine.”

JW nodded back. He felt powerfully moved but also awkward, intimate and yet a distant stranger. Time had passed and things had changed, and there was more flowing between them than could be put into words.

“I'm so sorry,” JW said, and a wave of grief washed up in him.

Eagle leaned in. “We want to go back to the FBI.”

“Don't,” barked JW, before he could even think out his
reply. Guards shifted off the wall and began to watch him. The Native inmate next to him glanced over, then at Eagle.

JW softened his tone. “It won't turn out well.” He met Eagle's gaze. “They'll assume you were in it with me, and they'll come after you as an accessory, or as an accessory after the fact. Frank's got a lot of friends. That's the last thing you need right now.”

“But we know you didn't do it,” said Jacob.

“There's no way to prove that.”

Eagle met his gaze, then looked at the floor. “I hadn't considered that possibility,” he said. He leaned in, obviously set back. Then he forced a smile, trying to soften the mood again. “Well, shit.”

“I'm stuck, my friend,” said JW. He looked at Eagle, then at Jacob. “I do appreciate the thought though, I really do. But I knew what I was in for.” His voice broke a little. “It just means so much to me knowing that you know, and that you are both all right.”

Jacob looked at him and shook his head. “It's not right.”

“Life isn't fair. You of all people, know that. And look at you! You must be a half a foot taller! You ever sell that horse?”

“No. I couldn't. I show him.”

JW smiled and nodded.

“I'm sorry we didn't let you know we were coming,” said Eagle. “We wanted it to be a surprise, but I didn't realize they can't accommodate that very well here, and they said the paging system doesn't work well in—”

“Metal shop.”

“I'm sorry we didn't answer your letters. It took me a long time to see past things.”

JW nodded. “It's okay.”

A black female corrections officer walked down the row
behind the prisoners, distributing inspected visitor gifts from a gray plastic mail cart. She handed a manila envelope to the Indian next to JW and a white one to JW, and then she laughed. “You like this?” she said. “We got a red man with a red envelope, and we got a white guy with a white envelope. Now we just need a few black envelopes for all the black dudes in here and we be all set.”

“Open it!” Jacob commanded.

JW turned the envelope over in his hands. It glowed white in a shaft of milky light that had begun to fall across him from the high windows.

Eagle leaned in close, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped. “I want you to know that we bought the North Lake Bank assets for three million. We haven't got the final audit yet, but I'm guessing that means Jorgenson lost at least four.”

JW looked at him. “Five,” he said, not breaking his gaze. “At a minimum. They bought the bank for eight, and it was worth over twelve before all this.”

Eagle nodded. “And they fired him.”

JW felt a thud and a release. He frowned and laughed and wiped his eyes on his shoulders, then smiled at Jacob, who nodded at the envelope. “Open it.”

He reached inside and found a thick piece of paper. He pulled it out and unfolded it. It was his hundred-thousand-dollar second mortgage, stamped PAID in big blue letters across the top. He looked up sharply.

“Anything you need—for you, your daughter, her college—you just let me know,” said Eagle. “We owe you so much more than that.”

JW frowned and nodded. “Thank you.” His breath shook as he inhaled.

“There's more,” said Jacob.

JW finished unfolding the document as if it were a holy relic, and a bald eagle feather fell out onto his lap. He caught it by its red horsehair tie.

“The band had a little ceremony for you,” explained Eagle.

Attached to the end of the horsehair was a business card: John White, Tribal Adoptee; Honorary President, Nature's National Bank.

“Hold up, hold up,” the female corrections officer said. “It looks like the censors got stuff back in the wrong envelopes.”

JW turned the items over in the milky light.

“No,” he said. “They got it right.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel owes its life to many voices. It is impossible for me to list every helpful influence and contributor, but there are a few people to whom I owe very large debts of gratitude. Daniel Slager, my editor and publisher, was an incredibly thoughtful, incisive, and helpful partner as I shaped and polished the marble, as was his amazing team at Milkweed Editions. Friend and mentor RD Zimmerman gave generously of his time and insight as a novelist. Sidra Starkovich and Rose Berens, each in their own ways, helped me to take my stumbling grasp of the truth and shape it into a truer depiction of Ojibwe culture and the struggles Native people still face in many places around the world, but especially in Minnesota. Terry Janis generously read and commented on an early draft for similar purposes. Cathy Chavers spent two long afternoons with me, teaching me how to hand-process wild rice (it really is the best), while the excellent Fed Gazette provided (believe it or not) key inspiration. My brilliant literary agent, Joy Tutela, and everyone at the David Black Agency were extremely supportive and creative in helping me find the right partners. My mother Lilly, an immigrant American, brought me up in a house full of foreign students and instilled in me the perspective of the outsider, together with the conviction that communicating across cultural divides is not only wonderful and enriching and family-making, but absolutely
essential to success in our shrinking world. My father Allan read like a monster throughout my childhood and instilled in me a love of books. The He-men book club laid the foundation for a beautiful partnership. The members of the Loft Literary Center have provided years of support and friendship. And my amazing wife, Rebecca Otto, encouraged me to write this novel until I finally listened to her. There are many others, and I am grateful to you all.

SHAWN LAWRENCE OTTO
is the award-winning writer and co-producer of the Oscar-nominated film,
House of Sand and Fog
. He also writes for film and television's top studios, including DreamWorks, Lions Gate, and Starz. An award-winning science advocate, and humanitarian who co-founded and co-produced the US presidential science debates, his nonfiction book Fool Me Twice was honored with the Minnesota Book Award. He lives in Marine on Saint Croix, Minnesota.
Sins of Our Fathers
is his first novel.

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