I chew on that in silence.
Frankie: “But how’d you get them to hear you out?”
Sam shifts in his seat, glances uncomfortably at Ma, and chuckles. “You buy a man a few rounds, he ends up coming around.”
Will sits back. “You got them drunk and then made a deal?”
Sam grunts. “Something like that.”
And now I remember Mr. Halleck’s words the other night.
The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
The council building sits right smack dab in the middle of town: a castle of dull red stone with fake battlements and a blocky tower that holds an enormous clock. There’s not room enough in the parking lot, so we scatter to find what space we can along Main Street, then hurry our way up to the main doors.
Dad is somewhere inside, alone, waiting for us, keeping an eye out and making sure council doesn’t vote before everybody can speak their piece.
Ma asks Crash to join us, and he signals his men to wait outside as we slip through a pair of glass doors and head down a hallway with walls the color of old vomit. Ma’s high heels echo off the marble floors as we pass closed office doors with stenciled names like SANITATION and FINANCE. A giant corkboard tacked full with yellow notices and bulletins suddenly flutters at us as we pass, as if we’ve tripped some sort of secret alarm, and a pair of double doors opens at the end of the hall and a man in shirtsleeves steps out. His bushy black eyebrows go up at the sight of us boys and Ma, Pastor Fenton and Anna May, and all the church ladies in their floral dresses. Then he spies Crash and his bushy eyebrows climb even higher.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he says to Ma. “There’s no more room left in chambers. Full house, I’m afraid.”
“We’re glad to stand,” Ma tells him and without stopping walks right on by, through the double doors and into the council hall. Anger clouds the man’s face, and he seems about to say something when Pastor Fenton touches his arm and tells him in a firm but gentle voice that he’s glad to stand too. “Be cool, man,” Crash says, and he strides past.
The next thing I know our troop is inside a high-ceilinged room with a sea of metal folding chairs. There’s no more than a dozen people sitting among them.
“But there are plenty of seats here!” I blurt.
“So it seems,” Ma says tightly.
Dad sits in the very front row. Directly across from him is a long table. Seven men sit behind it, all in light-colored suits and patterned ties.
“You boys go up to the gallery,” Ma says. “You’ll see more from up there.” Without waiting for any of us to answer, she walks down to where Dad sits in the first row. As the rest of our crew files in, the four of us boys and Anna May climb a set of creaking wooden stairs to the gallery overlooking the room.
We find Mr. Halleck sitting on a bench there, hands folded over the handle of his cane. He is dressed in a seersucker suit with a yellow bowtie. He looks distinguished. Elegant. He lifts a finger to his lips as we shuffle down beside him while below one of the council members taps the table with a tiny wooden hammer.
The nameplate in front of him reads, in blocky gold letters: COUNCILMAN TRAVERS.
“Council will come to order. Please stand for the pledge.”
Metal chairs scrape over floorboards as everyone below turns to the flag hanging from a pole in the corner. We are almost through the pledge when Frankie elbows me in the ribs.
An eighth man has pulled up a seat at the table: Kemper.
“But he ain’t on council!” I whisper.
Mr. Halleck bends to my ear. “He is their lead counsel.”
I look at Will.
“He’s their lawyer,” he explains. “It’s all rigged.”
That anger hits me again. A cold, cold wave. Down below, everyone finishes the pledge and takes their seats again. Kemper settles himself just behind Travers’s shoulder, at ear level.
Travers is talking now, reading a list of names of people who will be allowed to speak. He points to a podium in the middle aisle of the folding chairs. Anybody wanting to talk has to do it from there.
“Council will now hear testimony from those wishing to speak on the topic of Proposition 22, ‘Requisitioning Appropriate Water Resources for the Municipality of New Shiloh and Surrounding Regions.’”
“What’s all that mean?” I ask.
Mr. Halleck sighs. “It’s the proposal to take your land and flood your home. Now hush!” He leans forward.
A pack of three men in suits moves to the front of the room. One goes to the podium while the others set up an easel with a map of the town and the valley. I recognize Apple Creek right away. A big blue oval is drawn over it: the reservoir.