EXHIBIT G

Chippewa River Casino

Eastern Ojibwe Reservation, Minnesota

Sunday, 16 September^[56]

Celia wonders if humidity can shrink your jeans. If it can, she could be in trouble. A mosquito could bite her through these jeans. Pop them like a balloon.

There’s a curtain of rainwater falling just a few feet in front of her face, coming off the overhang of the roof. She has to keep her back pressed into the cement block wall to stay dry.

Even so, it’s a good spot. The wall’s well lit but doesn’t have any windows, and this time of year there’s no one parked on this side of the casino except employees and people looking for trouble. The lighting makes it a little too easy for men to see her without her being able to see them, but some guys get turned on by that, or need the low-pressure time to make up their minds.

She hears footsteps. A man coming down the narrow space between the water and the wall. Well dressed, good posture, expensive overcoat. Wingtips. Celia always notices wingtips, because her grandmother once told her they’re made to be durable, so men who wear them are cheap. Celia’s not sure anyone born after 1940 is aware of that, but still.

“Excuse me. You work here?” the man says. Smiling. Not out here for his car.

“I’m working right now,” Celia says.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

He stands with his hands at his sides, not too close, like he’s trying not to scare her. It makes her back crawl.

Celia remembers Lara, who taught her how to do all this, telling her If it feels wrong, it is wrong. Get the fuck out of there.

Like Celia has that luxury.

At least the man’s too well dressed to be a cop. An honest one, anyway.

“Why?” she says. “You need some work done?”

“I was thinking about it.” He turns to look out into the rain. “Do you have someplace we can go?”

“I got a van right over there. It’s clean. It’s nice. What kind of work were you thinking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the man says. “Nothing too weird.”

Celia wishes just one of these creeps would say that what he wants is too weird. It would probably involve space aliens or something.

The guy says “You know: you blow me, I fuck you from behind, maybe with a little choking, you call me John, I call you Sarah. You don’t act too Indian.”

“You’re in luck, John. My name is Sarah.” Celia checks it off on her fingers. “You want me to suck your cock, you want to do me doggy-style, and you want to choke me, and I keep the wigwam talk to myself.”

His eyes narrow, not sure if she’s making fun of him.

“It’s good you know what you like,” she says to reassure him. “Are we talking bareback?”

“Yes, on both. How much would you charge for something like that?”

“For double bareback with choking? Two sixty. Nonnegotiable. I got a kid.”

“Two sixty?”

“Up front, baby. Can’t take promises outside a casino.”

“Fine.” The man reaches inside his overcoat.

“Not here. We don’t want to get busted.”

She turns her back on him and runs to the van, holding her collar up against the rain. She’s wearing hooker shoes, and the jeans are ridiculous, but having her back to the man inspires her to move as quickly as possible. At the van she turns around. Says “All right. Show me.”

The man leans over to keep his flat European-style wallet dry while he counts, and to keep her from seeing how much is in there. “Two forty?”

“Two sixty.”

The bills are crisp and mealy, like they’re fresh from an ATM. Celia counts them and fans them up to the light. The rain causes blooms to form on them. She sticks them in her pocket.

“We’re good to go,” she says. “We’ve gotta be careful, though. Okay?”

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

“You know this is illegal, right?”

“Of c—” The man stops himself. “Why would you ask that?” he says.

“You do know this is illegal,” she says flatly.

For a moment she thinks the guy’s going to hit her. But instead he just turns and runs, splashing through puddles toward the front of the casino.

“Stop! BIA!” she says, pulling her badge and gun out of her jacket pockets. “You’re under arrest for soliciting on property patrolled by federal agents!”

He doesn’t stop. Whatever. The back door of the van’s already open, and Jim and Kiko—both Hispanic, like Celia—played football in college.

She watches them tackle the creep face-first into the asphalt. Sees no reason to go over and help with the arrest.

Jim and Kiko are in Asics and tracksuits. But in these shoes and pants?

Negro, please.