BILL LAWRENCE SHUTS DOWN THE NATIVE AMERICAN PRESS

Indian watchdog newspaper issues its final bark
The Native American Press editor shuts it down to wage his last battle -- against cancer.

By CURT BROWN, Star Tribune
Last update: September 29, 2009 - 10:36 AM

Featured comment
Bill Lawrence never flinched from scrutinizing Minnesota's tribal governments, even when someone fired bullets through his newspaper office windows in Bemidji. But a battle with late-stage cancer has prompted Lawrence to fold the Native American Press/Ojibwe News after 21 years.

"I am no longer physically able to do the tasks -- computer searches, investigating, seeking ads -- that are necessary to put out an edition," he wrote in his recent final edition, under an editorial titled "A good day to die.'' His failing health, and the difficult publishing environment, "makes it impossible for me to continue."
Lawrence, 70, is receiving hospice care in Sun Valley, Idaho, where he is surrounded by close friends and family.

Since starting his newspaper in 1988, Lawrence has engaged in relentless legal efforts to open the books of the state's 11 Indian casinos. His tireless work as a watchdog helped send several prominent tribal leaders to prison. Among his final works was a definitive series on the effects of fetal alcohol syndrome on the Indian community.

"He simply had the guts to take a look at Indian country and tell the truth," said Jim Randall, a retired Minnesota Court of Appeals judge and Lawrence's longtime friend.

A celebrated athlete, U.S. Marine in Vietnam, lawyer and one-time taconite miner, Lawrence entered journalism to challenge the tactics of powerful Red Lake Reservation Chairman Roger Jourdain, who happened to be his godparent. His newspapers soon became his obsession, prompting him to mortgage his house to help finance his work when casinos pulled their ads in protest of his scrutiny.

I cannot say with certainty that ours will be a lasting contribution. But we sure as hell roiled the waters and made a lot of enemies," he wrote at the end of his final column. "I also know in my heart that we made a lot of friends, and that our work was important to the Indian people, especially in Minnesota."

Born a Red Lake Band Ojibwe member on Aug. 31, 1939, Lawrence grew up in Bemidji and received all-state honors in three sports. He led his school to the state basketball tournament in the late '50s, earned a football scholarship with the Minnesota Gophers and wound up pitching in the Detroit Tigers' minor-league system.

"He was a hell of a competitor and might have been the finest athlete to ever come out of Bemidji," Randall said.

After earning a business degree at Bemidji State University, Lawrence joined the Marines in 1962 and served in Vietnam. After returning from the war, he attended law school at the University of North Dakota, worked as a taconite miner and returned to Red Lake as a development specialist.

His work straddled the Indian and non-Indian worlds. He served as a business manager of the Fort Mojave Indian Tribe in Needles, Calif., and as a Bureau of Indian Affairs agent in Arizona. He returned to Minnesota to serve as the state's assistant director of Indian education in the 1970s and joined Honeywell in the early '80s.
He ran unsuccessfully in 1970 against Jourdain, who had controlled the Red Lake tribal government for decades. He also ran and lost in a Republican bid to join the Minnesota House.

In May 1988, he published his first edition of the Ojibwe News, which included an exposé on Red Lake financial irregularities. By the early '90s, he expanded his advocacy journalism to include the Native American Press, which covered all of Minnesota's tribes and published out of offices in Bemidji and St. Paul.
"He had a real deep commitment to integrity and the guts and business acumen to do it," said Clara NiiSka , a former editor. "He consistently put his life where his values were and stood up for native rights and honest government."

Lawrence said the tribal governments used their sovereignty to avoid scrutiny and maintain a status quo of high unemployment, poverty, civil rights abuses and social dysfunction.

"He loves Indian people so much that he couldn't stand all the abuse and corruption he saw and he had to do something about it," said his daughter, Sara Lawrence, who worked at the papers in the '90s.

Former U.S. Attorney for Minnesota David Lillehaug led a wide-ranging prosecution of tribal leaders in the 1990s, which culminated in prison terms for White Earth Chairman Darryl (Chip) Wadena, Leech Lake Chairman Alfred (Tig) Pemberton and former Leech Lake attorney and State Sen. Harold (Skip) Finn. All three were targets of Lawrence's reporting.

"Bill Lawrence and the Native American Press performed a valuable service in identifying corruption in tribal government," Lillehaug said. "Some of his stories provided leads for federal law enforcement, others were dry holes. But when he was right, he was really right."

In 2003, the Minnesota chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists awarded Lawrence its Freedom of Information Award for his legal effort to make public audits of Indian casinos, which Lawrence called "state-sanctioned monopolies that should be monitored, open and accountable."

Lillehaug called him "a force for transparency in tribal government."
His work came at the price of threats and attempts at intimidation. NiiSka said Lawrence often packed a pistol for security and recalled the time when someone drove by the office and shot out the windows.

"We served an important service in shining a light on the black deeds of those in power," Lawrence wrote in his final column. "I hated to be referred to as 'anti-Indian' because it was so opposite of my true feelings and mission. On the other hand, I was never offended to be called a muckraker or a contrarian."

Randall, the retired judge, became close friends with Lawrence after he wrote a dissenting opinion in a 1996 case that went against a woman who had filed suit against a tribe after she suffered a fall at a casino. Randall wrote that tribal sovereignty was "an illusion ... and a throwback to the separate but equal doctrine."
A few days later, a man walked into his chambers and extended his hand.
"I'm Bill Lawrence and I've been waiting 28 years for your opinion," Lawrence told the judge.

"There is an Ojibwe expression - ogema nedakwah migizi - which means 'sees far eagle leader,'" Randall said. "And that fits Bill well."

Born a Red Lake Band Ojibwe member on Aug. 31, 1939, Lawrence grew up in Bemidji and received all-state honors in three sports. He led his school to the state basketball tournament in the late '50s, earned a football scholarship with the Minnesota Gophers and wound up pitching in the Detroit Tigers' minor-league system.
"He was a hell of a competitor and might have been the finest athlete to ever come out of Bemidji," Randall said.

After earning a business degree at Bemidji State University, Lawrence joined the Marines in 1962 and served in Vietnam. After returning from the war, he attended law school at the University of North Dakota, worked as a taconite miner and returned to Red Lake as a development specialist.

His work straddled the Indian and non-Indian worlds. He served as a business manager of the Fort Mojave Indian Tribe in Needles, Calif., and as a Bureau of Indian Affairs agent in Arizona. He returned to Minnesota to serve as the state's assistant director of Indian education in the 1970s and joined Honeywell in the early '80s.
He ran unsuccessfully in 1970 against Jourdain, who had controlled the Red Lake tribal government for decades. He also ran and lost in a Republican bid to join the Minnesota House.
In May 1988, he published his first edition of the Ojibwe News, which included an exposé on Red Lake financial irregularities. By the early '90s, he expanded his advocacy journalism to include the Native American Press, which covered all of Minnesota's tribes and published out of offices in Bemidji and St. Paul.

"He had a real deep commitment to integrity and the guts and business acumen to do it," said Clara NiiSka , a former editor. "He consistently put his life where his values were and stood up for native rights and honest government."

Lawrence said the tribal governments used their sovereignty to avoid scrutiny and maintain a status quo of high unemployment, poverty, civil rights abuses and social dysfunction.
"He loves Indian people so much that he couldn't stand all the abuse and corruption he saw and he had to do something about it," said his daughter, Sara Lawrence, who worked at the papers in the '90s.

Former U.S. Attorney for Minnesota David Lillehaug led a wide-ranging prosecution of tribal leaders in the 1990s, which culminated in prison terms for White Earth Chairman Darryl (Chip) Wadena, Leech Lake Chairman Alfred (Tig) Pemberton and former Leech Lake attorney and State Sen. Harold (Skip) Finn. All three were targets of Lawrence's reporting.

"Bill Lawrence and the Native American Press performed a valuable service in identifying corruption in tribal government," Lillehaug said. "Some of his stories provided leads for federal law enforcement, others were dry holes. But when he was right, he was really right."

In 2003, the Minnesota chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists awarded Lawrence its Freedom of Information Award for his legal effort to make public audits of Indian casinos, which Lawrence called "state-sanctioned monopolies that should be monitored, open and accountable."

Lillehaug called him "a force for transparency in tribal government."
His work came at the price of threats and attempts at intimidation. NiiSka said Lawrence often packed a pistol for security and recalled the time when someone drove by the office and shot out the windows.

"We served an important service in shining a light on the black deeds of those in power," Lawrence wrote in his final column. "I hated to be referred to as 'anti-Indian' because it was so opposite of my true feelings and mission. On the other hand, I was never offended to be called a muckraker or a contrarian."

Randall, the retired judge, became close friends with Lawrence after he wrote a dissenting opinion in a 1996 case that went against a woman who had filed suit against a tribe after she suffered a fall at a casino. Randall wrote that tribal sovereignty was "an illusion ... and a throwback to the separate but equal doctrine."
A few days later, a man walked into his chambers and extended his hand.

"I'm Bill Lawrence and I've been waiting 28 years for your opinion," Lawrence told the judge.
"There is an Ojibwe expression - ogema nedakwah migizi - which means 'sees far eagle leader,'" Randall said. "And that fits Bill well."

Born a Red Lake Band Ojibwe member on Aug. 31, 1939, Lawrence grew up in Bemidji and received all-state honors in three sports. He led his school to the state basketball tournament in the late '50s, earned a football scholarship with the Minnesota Gophers and wound up pitching in the Detroit Tigers' minor-league system.

"He was a hell of a competitor and might have been the finest athlete to ever come out of Bemidji," Randall said.

After earning a business degree at Bemidji State University, Lawrence joined the Marines in 1962 and served in Vietnam. After returning from the war, he attended law school at the University of North Dakota, worked as a taconite miner and returned to Red Lake as a development specialist.

His work straddled the Indian and non-Indian worlds. He served as a business manager of the Fort Mojave Indian Tribe in Needles, Calif., and as a Bureau of Indian Affairs agent in Arizona. He returned to Minnesota to serve as the state's assistant director of Indian education in the 1970s and joined Honeywell in the early '80s.
He ran unsuccessfully in 1970 against Jourdain, who had controlled the Red Lake tribal government for decades. He also ran and lost in a Republican bid to join the Minnesota House.

In May 1988, he published his first edition of the Ojibwe News, which included an exposé on Red Lake financial irregularities. By the early '90s, he expanded his advocacy journalism to include the Native American Press, which covered all of Minnesota's tribes and published out of offices in Bemidji and St. Paul.
"He had a real deep commitment to integrity and the guts and business acumen to do it," said Clara NiiSka , a former editor. "He consistently put his life where his values were and stood up for native rights and honest government."

Lawrence said the tribal governments used their sovereignty to avoid scrutiny and maintain a status quo of high unemployment, poverty, civil rights abuses and social dysfunction.

"He loves Indian people so much that he couldn't stand all the abuse and corruption he saw and he had to do something about it," said his daughter, Sara Lawrence, who worked at the papers in the '90s.

Former U.S. Attorney for Minnesota David Lillehaug led a wide-ranging prosecution of tribal leaders in the 1990s, which culminated in prison terms for White Earth Chairman Darryl (Chip) Wadena, Leech Lake Chairman Alfred (Tig) Pemberton and former Leech Lake attorney and State Sen. Harold (Skip) Finn. All three were targets of Lawrence's reporting.

"Bill Lawrence and the Native American Press performed a valuable service in identifying corruption in tribal government," Lillehaug said. "Some of his stories provided leads for federal law enforcement, others were dry holes. But when he was right, he was really right."

In 2003, the Minnesota chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists awarded Lawrence its Freedom of Information Award for his legal effort to make public audits of Indian casinos, which Lawrence called "state-sanctioned monopolies that should be monitored, open and accountable."

Lillehaug called him "a force for transparency in tribal government."
His work came at the price of threats and attempts at intimidation. NiiSka said Lawrence often packed a pistol for security and recalled the time when someone drove by the office and shot out the windows.

"We served an important service in shining a light on the black deeds of those in power," Lawrence wrote in his final column. "I hated to be referred to as 'anti-Indian' because it was so opposite of my true feelings and mission. On the other hand, I was never offended to be called a muckraker or a contrarian."

Randall, the retired judge, became close friends with Lawrence after he wrote a dissenting opinion in a 1996 case that went against a woman who had filed suit against a tribe after she suffered a fall at a casino. Randall wrote that tribal sovereignty was "an illusion ... and a throwback to the separate but equal doctrine."
A few days later, a man walked into his chambers and extended his hand.

"I'm Bill Lawrence and I've been waiting 28 years for your opinion," Lawrence told the judge.
"There is an Ojibwe expression - ogema nedakwah migizi - which means 'sees far eagle leader,'" Randall said. "And that fits Bill well."

Born a Red Lake Band Ojibwe member on Aug. 31, 1939, Lawrence grew up in Bemidji and received all-state honors in three sports. He led his school to the state basketball tournament in the late '50s, earned a football scholarship with the Minnesota Gophers and wound up pitching in the Detroit Tigers' minor-league system.

"He was a hell of a competitor and might have been the finest athlete to ever come out of Bemidji," Randall said.

After earning a business degree at Bemidji State University, Lawrence joined the Marines in 1962 and served in Vietnam. After returning from the war, he attended law school at the University of North Dakota, worked as a taconite miner and returned to Red Lake as a development specialist.

His work straddled the Indian and non-Indian worlds. He served as a business manager of the Fort Mojave Indian Tribe in Needles, Calif., and as a Bureau of Indian Affairs agent in Arizona. He returned to Minnesota to serve as the state's assistant director of Indian education in the 1970s and joined Honeywell in the early '80s.
He ran unsuccessfully in 1970 against Jourdain, who had controlled the Red Lake tribal government for decades. He also ran and lost in a Republican bid to join the Minnesota House.

In May 1988, he published his first edition of the Ojibwe News, which included an exposé on Red Lake financial irregularities. By the early '90s, he expanded his advocacy journalism to include the Native American Press, which covered all of Minnesota's tribes and published out of offices in Bemidji and St. Paul.

"He had a real deep commitment to integrity and the guts and business acumen to do it," said Clara NiiSka , a former editor. "He consistently put his life where his values were and stood up for native rights and honest government."

Lawrence said the tribal governments used their sovereignty to avoid scrutiny and maintain a status quo of high unemployment, poverty, civil rights abuses and social dysfunction.

"He loves Indian people so much that he couldn't stand all the abuse and corruption he saw and he had to do something about it," said his daughter, Sara Lawrence, who worked at the papers in the '90s.