James Tiger said, “Or a tribe. That’s the way we think of ourselves now. Pretty soon, it’s gonna be official. Egret Seminoles, that’s the name we voted to take. Only Joseph wouldn’t’a liked that, ’cause he always knew he weren’t really no Seminole.”
Tomlinson had been following along, nodding, understanding the implications of it all more quickly than I, because he said, astonished, “My God, I understand, now. Your own tribe. You’re filing to become designated as a tribe. Joseph’s offspring; his extended biological family. The Egret Seminoles. You really are petitioning the government?”
Jenny said, “Uh-huh. We got every reason in the world to do it, too. And the right. My father had different blood than most of the ’Glades Indians. He passed that blood on to a bunch of us. After more than two years trying to get it done, the federal government’s only a month or two from making it official.”
Tomlinson said, “Congratulations. That had to take a lot of time, a lot of work,” showing her that he knew something about the process.
“When you’re dealing with the government, nothing’s easy. Especially if you’re Indian. In the last three, four years, other Florida tribes, like the Tribe of East Creeks, the Okle waha Band of Seminoles, the United Tuscola, they’ve all been denied-but they keep right on pushing, filing their petitions. Their clans have been together for hundreds of years. They got their customs, their tribal leaders, but the federal government says they don’t exist, so they don’t. Not legally.
“But the Egret Seminoles, ours is almost a done deal. That’s what our attorneys tell us, and the people in Washington, the folks at the BIA’s Branch of Acknowledgment and Recognition. They say it like they’re doing us a favor. But they got no choice because we proved it.”
Tomlinson said, “You proved it using Joseph’s DNA.”
James was nodding, not looking at us, his right hand tugging at the brim of his hat. “The DNA didn’t prove it outright. But it sure helped. Maybe you can tell us something about that. We heard rumors that you and Dr. Ford are the ones who did the testing. Yanked out hair from Joe’s head and took it to some laboratory up north.”
Then he added quickly, as if to reassure us: “It’s not something we talk about with outsiders. We don’t use people’s private names ’less they says it’s all right.”
I told him, “Tomlinson’s the one who did the DNA stuff. He tested Joseph’s hair, not me. He’s the expert.”
Tomlinson said, “I’m no expert, but a friend of mine is. I took the samples to Mass-Labs, near Boston. They have a Preliminary Chain Reaction processor there; a complete computerized system for testing DNA. Later, if you want, I can tell you the details. What surprises me is that you knew.”
“So you are the ones?”
“We’re the ones,” Tomlinson said. “Joseph and Tucker were in trouble. We wanted to help.”
Jenny considered that for a moment before she said, “Oh, we knew. From the rumors, yes, but that’s not the only way we found out. Nearly three years ago, a man showed up here with some papers. They were copies of the DNA report. His lawyers found them in some file up in Tallahassee, and he was all excited. He said there were certain genetic markers that proved Daddy wasn’t Seminole or Miccosukee. He said, legally, they were strong evidence that Daddy came from the old Florida Indians, the ones here when Ponce de Leon came sailing in. The ones who built the shell mounds up and down this coast that Miami, St. Pete, Lauderdale-a lot of big towns-are built on.”
Naomi asked, “Do you know about them? The old ones?”
Smiling at her, Tomlinson said, “Tell us.”
“They called them the Calusa,” she said. “The scientists say the Calusa are extinct now. But they’re wrong.”
She added, “The Calusa lived here a thousand years before the Seminoles showed up. They didn’t have chiefs. They had kings, like the Maya. Only, all the archaeologists, like I said, think they’re extinct, killed off by disease. But they aren’t all dead. Joseph had the blood. Now we’ve proved that we got the Calusa blood, too. A bunch of us sent pieces of our hair off in little plastic tubes, and paid for the same kind’a test. We all had the same genetic markers. DNA.”
Tomlinson asked, “The man who brought the papers from Tallahassee, was it the same one who developed Sawgrass?”
Jenny was nodding. “Um-huh. This was more than three years back. Before they even broke ground. He told us Sawgrass was going to be a great thing for the area. Some joke.”
“The man’s name was Geoff Minster.”
Once again, James, Naomi and Jenny exchanged a long, communal look, before James answered, “Oh, we know Minster. He wasn’t too bad. Didn’t lie to us no more than most men who want to see this part of the ’Glades developed. Could be, some of us liked Mr. Minster okay. We heard he died. Fell off a boat one night.”
DeAntoni said, “If you have the time, I wouldn’t mind asking you a few more questions about Minster,” but James ignored him, listening as Tomlinson pressed, “If it wasn’t Minster, the man who approached you had to be Shiva. The man who claims to be a religious teacher. Or maybe he called himself Jerry Singh. He controls Sawgrass now.”
Jenny said, “Yeah, it was Shiva. Came driving up in some kind of big blue car-”
“A Rolls-Royce,” Naomi said.
“Yeah, that was the kind of car it was. A tall man wearing robes. Told us God had sent him. That he’s a meditator, a mystic, and he said he had a way we’d never have to worry about money again.”
James said quickly, “We don’t want to talk too much about that now, do we?”
Jenny used a mild undertone to snap at him. “You ever hear me say more than I’m supposed to?” Then she continued, “Shiva was the one who came to us with those papers, saying that, legally, we had a right to form our own tribe. Like it was his idea, but it wasn’t. He didn’t tell us anything we hadn’t already thought of before. But it takes lawyers to file all those forms, to keep pushing the government, and lots of money.”
“Shiva promised to provide the money?”
Jenny addressed the implication: “His church has already provided the money. Lots of it, too. Four lawyers, one in Florida, two in D.C., and one out in Oklahoma tryin’ to prove there’s no Seminoles out there with the same blood as us. But don’t think we’re stupid. Shiva isn’t the first to try and take advantage of us getting tribal status. We know why he’s doing what he’s doing.”
Tomlinson said, “He wants to build a casino.”
“It’s more than that. When we get confirmed, we’ll be our own nation. On our land, if you open a restaurant, a hotel- name it-you don’t have to worry about state inspectors, getting permits, state codes, all that red tape. No unions, no Social Security business. Plus no taxes. Or almost no taxes, depending on the kind’a deal you work out with the government.”
“But a casino, that’s where he’d make his money back.”
Jenny was becoming animated, opening up some to Tomlinson, building a rapport. “A little Las Vegas, that’s what the man wants to build. A whole city with tall buildings and bright lights out here in the ’Glades. Only he never told us that. We found out slow, from other people. Geoff Minster-he was honest, at least, about what was going on.”
“You trusted him?”
Jenny shrugged. “Not much. I liked him better than Shiva. Minster, at first, was just another money man, a developer. No matter what he told us, we knew what he really wanted-profit. But then he began to get interested in us, Joseph’s history, some of the ’Glades religions. I believe that about him. He was trying to open up his heart.”
She said, “Shiva, though, is different. Even when he’s telling you the truth, he’s lying, because he wants something more. Something deeper.” She thought for a moment, touching fingers to a blemish on her cheek-a touching vanity from a woman her size and shape. “That man, it’s like he wants to reach his hand inside you and pull something out of your chest. Something to steal away for himself.”