“If all she wants,” Welles went on, still talking to Marjorie, “is acceptance by her people—”

“I’m Pottaknobbee,” Ms. Redcorn announced. “And that means one-third of the casino is mine. Why shouldn’t I wanna keep it?”

“Now it’s in the open,” Welles said to the judge, as though Ms. Redcorn had just made an extremely damaging admission.

“And one thing more,” Ms. Redcorn said, her cold, hard face turned toward Welles, regardless of where he was looking.

“Don’t, Ms. Redcorn,” Marjorie murmured, but this was not a very controllable client, who continued, “I’m no longer young, and I never was a lady. I have a name, and it’s Little Feather Redcorn.”

Still looking at the judge, Welles said, “I believe that is the matter at dispute.”

“I am Little Feather Redcorn,” she repeated, and then turned her head to glare at the judge as she added, “and I want justice.”

“Everyone does,” the judge told her.

“And I think there’s more than justice,” Frank said, “in the very generous offer we—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Ms. Redcorn said.

Frank spread his hands. “Your Honor . . .”

Judge Higbee nodded. “Marjorie,” he said, “I think you should advise your client at least to listen to the offer before rejecting it.”

“Fine,” Ms. Redcorn said, and folded her arms like Geronimo. “Weasel away,” she urged Frank.

“Marjorie,” Judge Higbee said warningly, and Marjorie said, “Yes, Your Honor, I apologize,” and to her fractious client, she murmured, “You shouldn’t be disrespectful in judge’s chambers.”

Ms. Redcorn looked surprised. Apparently, she’d thought she was insulting Frank, not the judge. Unfolding her arms, she looked toward Judge Higbee and said, “I’m sorry, Judge. It won’t happen again.”

Marjorie saw Judge Higbee come very close to smiling. He quashed it, though, and merely said, “Thank you” before turning back to Frank: “Go ahead.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Frank said, and, as Ms. Redcorn folded her arms like Geronimo again, he brought another multipage document out of his exceptional briefcase. Holding the pages in his lap, not looking at them, he said, “The Three Tribes are prepared to pay, uh, Ms. Redcorn one hundred thousand dollars now, if she relinquishes any claim she might want to make on tribal property, plus ten thousand dollars a year for ten years. We were suggesting in this contract that she might like to live in some other part of the world, but if she would prefer to live on the Chasm Reservation, we can work that out, no problem.”

Welles said to the judge, “We will adapt the wording to suit the claimant and her attorney.” With a wintry smile, he added, “I’m sure the Three Tribes would be pleased to have living among them such an attractive person, and one so well-off.”

“Your Honor,” Marjorie said, “it might be a good idea if Ms. Redcorn and I were to have some time alone to—”

“No need,” Ms. Redcorn said. “That’s about the size of the offer I expected, a little bigger but a little more stretched out. I don’t want to sell my birthright for two hundred thousand dollars, or any amount of money. All I want, and I said this before, Judge, is justice.”

Welles said, “I’m afraid, Your Honor, we are at an impasse. If Ms. Dawson wishes to institute an action against the Three Tribes on behalf of her client, the matter may be settled in a court of law.”

Oh golly, Marjorie thought, knowing full well she wasn’t up to the kind of lawsuit Welles was offering, as one might offer a poisoned goblet. But before she could respond, Ms. Redcorn said, “Judge, there’s got to be some way I can prove who I am. I’ll get private detectives, I’ll talk to everybody in the tribes, I am not gonna give up.”

Judge Higbee turned on her an expression that managed to be both caring and stern at once. “Ms. Redcorn,” he said, “there is a way to prove or disprove your claim. I’ve had it in mind for some time. However, it would be expensive.”

“I’ll be able to afford it, whatever it is,” Ms. Redcorn promised.

“If,” the judge told her, now more stern than caring, “the evidence turns out to be against you, there would be more than expense involved. There would be criminal penalties as well.”

“It won’t go against me.”

Frank said, “Whatever you’re talking about, Judge, I don’t know what it is, but if it’ll settle this, I’m sure I speak for the Three Tribes when I say, let’s do it.”

Welles, more cautious, said, “Frank, I believe we’ll wait to hear what Judge Higbee has in mind.”

“DNA testing,” the judge said, and Marjorie was startled to sense an immediate relaxation, a loosening, in her client, who was seated next to her. No one else in the room would be aware of it, but Marjorie was, and she carefully did not look at Ms. Redcorn’s profile. She’s been waiting for this, Marjorie thought. She didn’t want to bring it up herself, but she’s been waiting for this.

Wheels within wheels. I’m representing this woman, but I really don’t know what’s going on.

Frank was saying, “I don’t follow that, Judge. DNA testing. Bloodstains?”

“Not at all,” the judge told him. “This is the technique whereby it was established that the woman claiming to be Anastasia, the daughter of the last Czar, was, in fact, not related to the Romanovs.”

Frank looked at Welles. He seemed a little upset by this turn of events. He’s afraid, Marjorie told herself, that Ms. Redcorn really is who she says she is, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want her in the Three Tribes. Or in the casino.

Frank said to Welles, “How reliable is this stuff?”

“Perfectly reliable,” Welles told him, and turned at last to look directly at Ms. Redcorn. “You do understand what the judge is suggesting, do you not?”

“If it’s something that can prove I’m a Pottaknobbee,” she answered, “I’m all for it.”

“Or disprove.”

“Not a chance.”

Frank said to the judge, “Just explain it to me, Your Honor, okay?”

“We know of one guaranteed Pottaknobbee,” the judge told him, “whose grave we can find, and whom Ms. Redcorn claims as a relative. Joseph Redcorn.”

“My great-grandpa.”

“A sample is taken from Joseph Redcorn, probably hair,” the judge went on, “and a sample of hair is taken from Ms. Redcorn. Laboratory analysis of the DNA in the two samples can establish without any question whether or not they’re related.”

“Well, uh,” Frank said. His worry was evident now, and he blinked at his lawyer.

Who said, “In principle, Your Honor, the tribes would have no objection. But this is a new technology, after all, and I believe we should be given the opportunity to consult with scientists, experts in the field.”

“Of course.”

Frank said, “Wait a minute. You’re talking about digging him up.”

“Sufficient,” Judge Higbee said, “to obtain a hair sample. The coffin would be opened, but probably not even moved.”

Frank was determinedly shaking his head. “You can’t do that,” he said. “The Supreme Court is behind us on this one, the white people can’t come in and dig up Indian bodies on our sacred tribal lands. The anthropologists have been trying to pull that, but the courts find for us every time.”

Judge Higbee had been trying to stem the flow of Frank’s protests, and now, rather loudly, he said, “Frank!”

Frank shut up. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ve looked into the matter,” the judge told him, “and Joseph Redcorn is buried in a nondenominational cemetery in the borough of Queens in New York City.”

Frank blinked. “He’s not here? Why . . . why did they do that?”

“Apparently,” the judge told him, “the tribes were too cheap to pay to transport the body this far north, and the builder would pay the expenses if the interment were in New York.”

“Too poor,” Welles said.

The judge nodded. “One way or the other,” he said, “the effect is the same.”

“Well,” Frank said, rallying, “uh, for all I know, uh, that could be sacred tribal land around him just because he’s there. I’ll have to consult with the Tribal Council on this.”