By CP Staff
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
"Now this, this is a real important piece. Only 12 of them in existence," Tim Kornwolf says with a note of pride. Kornwolf, an art dealer, is pointing to an Ojibwe buffalo robe, which dates from the 1880s. The robe is laid out in an antique glass-covered display cabinet in the basement gallery of Kornwolf's Stillwater home, an old Victorian mansion. The gallery is filled to the brim with 19th-century Native American artifacts. Most are pricey.
A Sioux war club, also under glass, is going for $3,200. A beaded Crow shirt is priced at a cool $15,000. There is no price tag on the buffalo robe. "I'd have to negotiate that with the buyer," Kornwolf says. Now 55 years old, he has spent most of his life buying, selling, and trading Indian artifacts. He is proud of his collection and happy to discuss the pleasures of his work. But when the subject turns to the federal government, Kornwolf's demeanor shifts.
"Damn right, I've got my dander up," he says with a scowl. "They came in here, and they basically strip-searched my house, and it's been a nightmare ever since."
Kornwolf's troubles began on January 19, 2000. He was in the gallery, working on his computer, when he heard a sudden commotion upstairs. At first Kornwolf figured it was just the UPS man with a delivery. A few moments later, he was surprised to see three men--armed and wearing bulletproof vests--burst through his door. "They were yelling, 'Don't move! Don't move!' It was just like you see on the cop shows on TV," Kornwolf recalls.
The officers who raided Kornwolf's home weren't FBI agents looking for counterfeit money, or DEA agents hunting for drugs. They were, rather, special agents with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and they were on the trail of a very different sort of contraband: illicit bird feathers.
As he examined the search warrant, a shaken Kornwolf recognized the name of a recent customer--one Ivar Husby. Husby had come to Kornwolf's gallery a few months earlier, and bought an antique Dakota dance shield for $7,000. A few weeks later, Husby made a $5,000 deposit for the purchase of a Dakota headdress, priced at $15,000. Both items were adorned with feathers from a protected golden eagle. According to Kornwolf, he had not planned to sell either piece, which, he says, he inherited some 40 years ago from his great uncle, a former cowboy who traveled in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show around the turn of the century. But, Kornwolf says, Husby's offers were too tempting to resist. As it turned out, Husby was no collector. He was an agent of the Norwegian Ministry of Justice, working undercover for the Fish and Wildlife Service.
Kornwolf realized he was in trouble, because the sale of eagle parts is illegal under federal law, punishable by a fine of up to $10,000 and two years in prison. On October 31, the day he was scheduled to go on trial in U.S. District Court in Minneapolis, Kornwolf pleaded guilty to two counts of violating the U.S. Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act and two counts of violating the U.S. Migratory Bird Treaty Act. But the pleas were entered with a condition; Kornwolf reserved his right to mount a constitutional challenge to his conviction--a fight he now plans to take to the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals and, if necessary, the U.S. Supreme Court.
"My lawyers thought I had a pretty good chance to fight the charges based on entrapment. But if I won there, that would just be me. It wouldn't do anything about the law," Kornwolf says. "That's why I put my head on the chopping block. It's a bad law, and it should be overturned."
Rich Edwards, a law professor at the University of Toledo and a longtime collector of Native American art, agrees. In Edwards's view, the government's prosecution of Kornwolf violated the so-called just-compensation clause of the Fifth Amendment. Because Kornwolf came into possession of the items before 1962, when the Bald and Golden Eagle Protection Act was passed, Edwards argues, he ought to be allowed to sell them, or be compensated by the government.
"When he inherited these artifacts, they were worth money, probably substantial amounts of money, and he could have sold them," says Edwards. "But when Congress passed the eagle protection act, it destroyed their economic value. More importantly, the government's line of reasoning is out of line. They are taking a family heirloom, maybe even throwing Tim in jail, because that will theoretically protect eagles from being killed? Well, I think that's a highly doubtful connection."
Edwards, who is acting as a consultant and expert witness on Kornwolf's behalf, contends that the government's strict sale and possession laws produce prosecutorial excesses on a regular basis. In one well-publicized 1994 case, he says, an Illinois woman named Peg Barton was fined $1,200 after presenting Hillary Clinton with a hand-fashioned dream catcher that contained an eagle feather. Barton had found the feather, which was naturally shed, on the floor of an eagle cage, but legally it made no difference how she acquired the plumage.
In other instances, Edwards charges, the mere fear of federal prosecution has led to some perverse outcomes. A few years back, he says, he received a call from an attorney representing someone who had inherited a jacket that once belonged to Rain-In-The-Face, the legendary Sioux warrior reputed to have killed Custer. How, the attorney asked, could his client legally sell the jacket, which was adorned with an eagle feather and talon? "The heirs didn't want to give it to a museum. They wanted money, so they cut off the talon and eagle feathers and sold it for $14,000," Edwards says. "You tell me: how many eagles were saved by that action?"