Look at me when I talk to you. Yeah, that’s right. Look at me! I want to see your face! Is that a frown I see? Why aren’t you smiling? You look frightened. Why is that? Are you afraid? What are you afraid of?
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August 2007
This pathetic excuse for a man – oops, err, I mean lawyer and judge – appears to be a steaming pile of the color of his own excrement.
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Yesterday I rode south to the Blackfeet Nation, where warriors on horseback guard the northern entrance to the rez.
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This is probably only the tip of the iceberg.
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Fay lived on a ranch about 15 miles from Cardston. At the age of three, her family moved south to America, where her mother had been born.
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