On the walls were posters of Wounded Knee, the Alcatraz occupation, and a host of Indian chiefs, a framed photo of Geronimo with a rifle being the most prominent.
In the middle of the room was an old photo-offset printer that started operating as Ozay and Marina entered the room. From underneath crawled an indian-tan-skinned man, wiping black grease off his hands.
“Michael Sawtooth Bragg?” Ozay said, loud enough so he could hear.
“That’s me,” he said. “What can I do for ya, bro?” Ozay gave the wrap around thumb and hammer fist exchange.
“Ozay Broussard’s the name, and this is Marina James.”
“Pleased to meet you. Do you always rhyme?” Sawtooth said in a low smooth voice accompanied by a smile.
“No, I don’t,” said Ozay, giving a big smile back. “Joe Bates thought you might be able to help us.”
“Good man, Joe. He fights our legal battles, sometimes not knowing whether he’ll ever get paid.”
“Lincoln Kennedy? You know where I can find him?”
“Lincoln? Yeah, sure! He’s been working with some of the more radical Indians on the land grant issue. They’re a bit cloak-and-daggerish about their activities. My sources tell me that they’re pushing for some retaliatory act in case of a defeat in the courts.”
“What do you think they have in mind?” Ozay pushed for clarification.
“I wouldn’t venture to speculate on that one, bro,” Sawtooth replied, shaking his head and turning toward a wall map of the greater Eureka area—the Trinity and Klamath River valleys. Michael Sawtooth Bragg pointed at the map. “River valleys! That’s where trade and commerce take place, that’s where people grow their food, market their goods, travel, fish, play, and get their power and water—and the politics of the water is everything up here. Who gets the water, the whites, the Indians, or LA?” Sawtooth said, smiling.
Marina approached Sawtooth with a photo of Lenny. “Have you ever seen this man?” Taking the photo and holding it up for editorial scrutiny, Michael Bragg squinted, trying to focus.
“You know, when you aren’t looking for someone, your mind takes in the information but doesn’t place any special value on it. I’ve seen this man, but my mind didn’t place much value on it at the time. I think I’ve seen him with that Lincoln guy, but I want to be sure. Can I have this photo? It’ll come back to me. Where can I reach you while you’re here?”
“Yes, you can have the photograph. As to where you can reach us, we’re at the Charter House.”
As they walked toward the door, Ozay had to ask: “Where’s the name Sawtooth come from? You hardly seem as sinister as your name.”
“I was told it had to do with the way I ate. Now I find it appropriate for the work I do: investigative reporting. Which reminds me, I did a background check on this Kennedy guy, and turned up a blank—as if he didn’t exist.”
“That’s ‘cause he changed his name,”Ozay revealed. “His real name, or the one he had before Lincoln Kennedy, is Jason Frank, and he may be a police informant.” Then turning to Marina he added, “My friend Paul Ferris knew this guy years back when he was chasing a degree. He was the kind of guy who had some progressive ideas, but would never act on them. So it was rather surprising that later he got arrested with Weather people in a bomb plot and then mysteriously got off with no time served.”
“How could he manage to convince other radicals, who I’m sure read the papers, that he didn’t make a deal with the D.A.?” Marina asked.
“Good question,” said Sawtooth.
“He convinced the D.A.’s office enough to get himself off,” Ozay said.
The phone rang. “Ozay Broussard? It’s for you.” Sawtooth handed Ozay the phone. Marina and Michael started sharing a cigarette. Marina, feeling a little guilty, said, “I stopped years ago but now the circumstances are compelling. Besides they’re filtered.” She mistakenly inhaled too much smoke, violently coughing it out. Sawtooth had a chuckle.
Ozay hung up the phone. “That was Bates on the line. My friend Paul called him and he confirmed my suspicions about Lincoln—or should I say Jason Frank. Paul talked to White Cloud, who’s a union organizer and has taken a special interest in the Weather Underground. White Cloud says his sources know for sure that Kennedy is a police informant. He got recruited with COINTELPRO funds in the mid-sixties. He had some drug priors, and that’s their hook on him. He sold his butt to the Man to feed a drug addiction.”
Jeffery Tool, Robert Bearclaw, Lincoln Kennedy—alias Jason Frank—and now Lenny James all lived in an old two-story house about ten miles east of Arcata on a piece of Mad River property that belonged to Jeffery Tool and his elder brother Christian, who wasn’t there at the moment. Because of his British passport and import business, it was easy for Lenny to get across the Canadian border. As a chemical supplier to various American firms, he had no problem buying and then importing explosives, ostensibly for construction projects. Lenny had arranged to have the explosives delivered to a temporary business address in Eureka. When the shipment arrived, he and Robert picked up the load and brought it back to the house.
“They’re not going to give the land back,” Jeff said to Lenny. “You know it and I know it! Everything is here, so why don’t we just let loose on a couple of stations now?”
Lincoln was using coke as a lure, so Jeff was already starting to mouth Lincoln’s position. Lincoln wanted the group to act before the land grant case was settled. They had been toying with a retaliation plan for about two years. This was ’76 and COINTELPRO funds for this kind of operation were tight under President Carter. From the Bureau’s point of view, Lincoln’s operation showed little progress, and they threatened to terminate the operation unless there was some serious movement. Initially, Lincoln had convinced everyone that he was an ex-Weatherman and got them discussing a plan to attack a power station. As the lawsuit progressed, the toying turned to serious consideration. Agents were known to set up an operation, provide funds if necessary, then bust everyone just before the scheduled action.
“Right on, Jeffery,” Lincoln said in support. “Are we so timid that we can’t seize the time and be part of what’s happening all over the country? Now’s the time, brothers! If we wait, we’ll just find excuses not to act.”
“Jesus!” Robert said, aggravated. “What a bunch of hotheads! Lenny and I, and I hope your brother Christian, are committed to the original plan.”
“This is war!” Jeffery jumped up, seeing himself, like many other young Indian warriors before him, as an instrument of a calling or a compulsion. “Commitment, hell! Our commitment is to our people and our ancestors who had this land stolen from them! From the very first European who set foot on these shores, ‘til now, it’s been a war against our people for our land. Let’s be real! If they were ever going to return our land, there wouldn’t be a lawsuit! And the longer we keep the explosives on our hands, the greater the danger is to us!”
Lenny’s thoughts drifted to Marina—how such a good thing had faded and left him with a gaping void that had yet to be filled. Lenny was a moderately successful small businessman. He and Marina liked most bourgeoisie comforts and had lived well. Now he lived in a room in a remote forest, waiting to commit a felony. He thought things had gotten very serious. He didn’t even have a social life any more. He heard everything Jeffery said. Lenny didn’t need to yell; his voice, low in volume yet clear, made others listen. “A year ago I never would have dreamed that I would be involved on this level of the struggle. Shit, from non-violence back in the early sixties to now, I’ve bloody gone 180 degrees. You lads know of my commitment, but I have to agree with Robert about waiting.”
Robert thought deeply about most things. “You forget that we’ve arranged for our brothers in the BLA to have a corresponding attack in Detroit and Atlanta. Right? If we allow ourselves the luxury of impetuousness, we’re screwed. We’re just radicals trying to make a statement,