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Wilma Fleury wipes off a tear as she remembers and honors the life of her son Willy Pepion at her home in Browning on Aug. 10. Pepion, 22, died on May 10, 2022 — Mother’s Day — while in custody of the Blackfeet tribal jail after getting arrested by Blackfeet Law Enforcement Services for disorderly conduct for being involved in a fight at a party near Browning.

BROWNING — Last February, Wilma Fleury drove to the Bureau of Indian Affairs office on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation for what she expected would be an update on her son’s murder case.

She hoped the FBI officers would tell her that they had arrested suspects. She envisioned them giving her long-awaited answers. It had been more than a year since her son Willy Pepion, 22, died while in custody of the Blackfeet tribal jail. The coroner classified his death as a homicide.

“What was the status of the investigation? What work had they done since?” Fleury wanted to know. She needed to know.

Since her son had died, even the smallest tasks felt insurmountable for Fleury. She struggled to return to work. Even chores around the house were impossible. She longed for closure.

Instead, Fleury received news that mortified her.

Over a video call, representatives from the FBI told her they were dropping her son’s case because the U.S. Attorney’s Office had declined to prosecute it. 

“Closing the case?” Fleury remembers thinking in disbelief. “Why, why, why?”

Fleury was angry. Her son was being treated like “just another statistic.”

The FBI told her the Blackfeet Tribal Prosecutor’s Office could pursue the case, but Fleury knew that meant more bad news. The tribal court has far fewer resources than the U.S. Attorney’s Office, and it’s limited in its sentencing abilities. Even if it was to convict someone for her son’s death, the maximum sentence may only be a year.

A shrine filled with photos, a basketball signed by Pepion's teammates, stuffed animals and string lights remembering Willy Pepion's life is set at Fleury's home in Browning. The FBI was involved in the investigation of Pepion's death. However, in February FBI representatives told Fleury that they were dropping her son’s case because the U.S. Attorney’s Office had declined to prosecute it due to "insufficient evidence."

Because Pepion died on the reservation, his case was investigated by federal and tribal entities. Experts say this system was not designed with Native people or their communities in mind. As a result, deaths like Pepion's may fall into limbo.

In 2019, Native Americans in Montana were nearly four times more likely to be victims of homicide than the general population. Without justice, families struggle to move on and communities suffer.  

“Welcome to Browning where you can get away with murder,” Fleury’s daughter, Laura-Su Pepion, wrote on Facebook in February after the meeting. 

On the morning of May 10, 2020 – Mother’s Day – Blackfeet Law Enforcement Services received a call about a domestic dispute, according to documents obtained by Lee Montana newspapers.

Pepion had been fighting with multiple people, and they arrested him for disorderly conduct. The police transported Pepion to the Indian Health Service facility in Browning for treatment of a bloody nose and other signs of physical injury. The hospital cleared Pepion to go to jail.

Fleury looks over a selection of her favorite photos of Willy Pepion which she glued onto a poster board as a way to remember her son's life. Two years after Pepion's death, Fleury said she's still struggling with mental health and being able to return to work as a substitute teacher for Browning public schools.

Pepion was then transferred to the tribal jail, where he remained for 13 hours. Inmates reported he was moaning and crying for help in the fetal position — not letting his head touch the mat in his cell. At 7:20 p.m., a corrections officer opened the cell door and found Pepion had died. He had choked on his vomit while lying on his back. An autopsy later found his cause of death was a subdural hematoma stemming from a skull fracture on the left side of his head. The manner of death was declared a homicide.

After an NPR investigation exposed a pattern of neglect and misconduct that led to inmate deaths in tribal detention centers, the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) hired The Cruzan Group, owned by a former top cop, to review the deaths. In reviewing Pepion’s case, The Cruzan Group found that proper protocol was not followed. BIA policy requires cell checks every 30 minutes. According to the report, six correctional officers falsified cell check logs that day.

Then Glacier County Coroner Deputy David Spotted Eagle investigated Pepion’s case and followed leads that indicate before he was arrested, Pepion had been struck in the head. Some witnesses said he was struck with fists; others said Pepion was hit in the head with a shovel.  

View of the Bureau of Indian Affairs building on the Blackfeet Reservation. An NPR investigation found patterns of neglect and misconduct in tribal detention centers, which are under the jurisdiction of the BIA, that have led to the death of inmates in reservations around the country.

In a February statement, U.S. Attorney for the District of Montana Jesse Laslovich cited “insufficient evidence” in Pepion’s case as the reason the office had declined to prosecute.

“The (autopsy) report stated that the injury was consistent with an assault that occurred approximately two days before Pepion was arrested and placed into custody at the BIA correctional facility,” his statement reads.

“While there is evidence Pepion was assaulted in the hours before his encounter with law enforcement, that evidence is insufficient to prove beyond a reasonable doubt the elements of either felony assault resulting in serious bodily injury or assault with a dangerous weapon, as defined by federal law.”

But for Fleury, this doesn’t make sense. Pepion lived with her. He would have told her if he had hurt his head. She would’ve noticed if he was acting different.

Besides, Pepion had gone to work at Glacier Family Foods the week before he was arrested — Fleury has his payroll logs to prove it.

“It was a normal week,” she said. “He went to work. Clocked in, clocked out, came home. He was fine. It was a typical week.”

Laslovich said before his office decided to decline to prosecute, they sought and received validation from the medical examiner that the head injury occurred a few days before Pepion’s arrest.

“He concluded that the crack (in Pepion’s skull) seemed two to four days old, and I saw nothing in the documentation that said that it was exacerbated by the assault that occurred the night he died,” he said.

Laslovich said it’s clear Pepion’s death was a homicide.

“The question is who?” he said.

Fleury extends her arm showing a tattoo of an Indian Paint Brush with her son Pepion's name at the bottom. Fleury said she got the tattoo piece on her arm as a way to honor her son's life. An autopsy found that Willy Pepion's cause of death was due to a subdural hematoma, or skull fracture, on the left side of his head. The manner of death was declared a homicide.

Because Pepion’s case involved a major crime on a reservation, it’s the job of the U.S. Attorney’s Office and tribal court to prosecute. But it isn’t their responsibility to investigate the case. That task falls to the FBI and tribal police.

Blackfeet Law Enforcement Services are understaffed. Mark Pollock, former tribal council secretary, told Lee Montana newspapers in June that about 18 tribal police officers patrol the reservation, which spans 1.5 million acres. But because officers must take time off between shifts, he said sometimes two officers may be responsible for the entire reservation, which is larger than Delaware.

While the FBI has more resources to devote to investigations, Indigenous people in Montana often criticize the federal agency, saying it's not transparent and dismissive of their concerns.

Spotted Eagle, the former county coroner, investigated Pepion’s case. He wrote in his notes that he called the FBI agent assigned to the case to tell him that a witness saw someone hit Pepion in the head with a board.

According to Spotted Eagle’s notes, the agent stated that it was almost midnight and the call had woken up his kids.

When Spotted Eagle told the agent what he had heard from a witness, he said the agent “asked if we could do this another time” and said, “I don’t work the night shift.”

In his notes, Spotted Eagle characterized the call as “somewhat rude.”

A sign of the Blackfeet Tribal Court in Browning. Cases such as Pepion's are one of many that fall through the cracks of the criminal justice system. Tribal courts tend to be understaffed, have fewer resources and are limited in sentencing abilities.

A patchwork of laws braids criminal jurisdiction among federal, state and tribal law enforcement agencies when a crime occurs in Indian Country. In these cases, the severity and location of the crime matter. Whether the victim or perpetrator is Native or non-Native matters.

In Pepion’s case, Blackfeet Law Enforcement Services shared jurisdiction with the FBI.

“For us, it’s not us coming in and saying, ‘Alright, we got this. You stay put until we tell you otherwise,’” Laslovich said, referencing the U.S. Attorney’s Office. “It’s truly a partnership, and it needs to be a partnership with our tribes in order to hold people accountable.”

Former Blackfeet Tribal Prosecutor Josh Lamson said that in theory, this setup affords “two attempts to get it right.”

But he added, “in practice, it can sometimes be like in volleyball where the ball just falls exactly in the middle between two people’s zones and neither one of them go for it.”

When the U.S. Attorney’s Office declined to prosecute the case, Lamson said he knew the declination meant that if Pepion’s case was going to progress, “it was going to be a tribal case.” But the puzzles the Attorney’s Office identified in the case — including conflicting witness statements and the medical examiner’s report — don’t get easier when the tribe investigates.

The tribal court is also understaffed and under-resourced, and by design, it’s underpowered — meaning it’s not intended to handle cases involving major crimes. Those cases are supposed to remain under federal responsibility.

“We’re in constant triage,” Lamson said. He estimates the court handles between 50 and 100 cases each month.

Because the tribal court is not run or staffed by lawyers, Lamson said all cases must go through him, and the court must follow a “streamlined” system to ensure cases are processed in a timely manner. If an investigation isn’t tailored to the streamlined nature, Lamson said it can be hard to pursue.

“It’s like fitting a square peg in a round hole,” he explained.

Because Pepion’s case involved the Bureau of Indian Affairs and Indian Health Service, and because it was handled by the FBI initially, Lamson said it’s become “a black box for the tribe.”

“The fact that this case is so complicated and was out of the tribe’s hands for so long makes it really hard to go forward,” he said.

Even if the tribal court were able to investigate and prosecute Pepion’s case, per the Tribal Law and Order Act and Indian Civil Rights Act of 1978, the highest sentence a tribal court can administer is up to three years imprisonment for one offense. One year is the common maximum.

Laslovich said when the U.S. Attorney’s Office decides to decline to prosecute a case, it doesn’t assess the tribal court’s ability to handle the remaining investigation.

“There’s unmatched respect for a tribe’s sovereignty,” he said. “So it’s not our role, in my view, to judge what they’re doing well or not doing well. For me, what’s most important is that we are a collaborative partner.”

A tattered basketball hoop which used to belong to Pepion still hangs from the top of Fleury's garage. Fleury recalled that her son's favorite sport had always been basketball and he loved passing time shooting hoops outside their home.

While respect is critical in federal-tribal relationships, tribal courts were designed to handle DUIs, speeding tickets and other small-scale offenses. The Blackfeet Tribal Court is not equipped to handle high-complexity homicides, especially ones that involve the alleged negligence of the Bureau of Indian Affairs and Indian Health Service, as in Pepion’s case.

Laslovich said while it’s among the office’s highest priorities to hold people accountable and obtain justice in Indian Country, the process can be “frustrating because we’re not always able to do it."

Fleury knows her son’s case may never be investigated, and a perpetrator may never be convicted.

“It’s on the back burner,” she said. “I don’t know if they’re going to let it fade out, but it’s low burning, and it’s crap.”

Lamson said the impact on a community is “tremendous” when families don’t see justice.

When major crimes are handled federally, the process is slow and unclear. And with tribal courts overwhelmed and understaffed, crimes can get overlooked. As a result, Lamson said, people who commit crimes feel like they can get away with it. And people seeking justice can feel excluded from the process, frustrated and hopeless.

“When it comes to violent crime, people have this assumption — that it will be tossed out in tribal court and the feds aren’t going to take it, so I need to take this into my own hands,” Lamson said. “So many people say, ‘I don’t feel like anything is going to happen. I just need to get my relatives together and we need to go handle this.’ Vigilante justice is a real thing, but the thing is, it’s not really justice. It winds up being beef between families … that can metastasize for generations.”

Studies show that globally if people have low confidence in law enforcement’s effectiveness or have high levels of insecurity in their community, they are more likely to support vigilante justice. Conversely, wealthy people, who have greater access to power, are less likely to pursue this kind of justice. The median household income on the Blackfeet Reservation is $34,731. In the U.S., it's $67,521, nearly double. 

Fleury thinks she knows who struck her son in the head before he was arrested. The Blackfeet Reservation is a tight-knit community of about 10,000, so it’s not uncommon for Fleury to run into this person at the store, doctor’s office or around town.

Fleury holds on to the collar of Pepion's dog Scooter, center, outside her home in Browning. Fleury said having Scooter around her home can be tough but still brings back endless memories of her son. Her son's dog serves as a reminder to continue fighting for justice for Pepion.

Reminders of Pepion are everywhere in Fleury’s house. A memorial stands tall in the corner of her living room, complete with framed photos, a basketball signed by his teammates, stuffed animals and string lights. Pepion’s dog, Shooter, still lives with Fleury, and Pepion’s basketball hoop still hangs over her garage. Her car’s license plate reads “myW1ly.”

Fleury won’t rest without closure. She’s addressed the tribal council, penned letters to the FBI and Interior Secretary Deb Haaland. She’s networked with other families who have lost a loved one. She’s contacted lawyers, support organizations and media outlets. She’s requested videos, time stamps and documents from public agencies. And she filed a lawsuit in federal court against the U.S., alleging negligence through the Bureau of Indian Affairs, Indian Health Service and Detention Center.

In a February letter to the U.S. Attorney’s Office and FBI, Fleury begged them to prosecute her son’s case.

“My son’s life mattered, he was loved, he mattered!” she wrote. “It puzzles me that we must live like this because we live on a reservation. We must live with ‘street justice’ because murderers go free and are allowed to commit crimes as they feel they are justified to do so.

“Ask yourself, how would you feel if this was your child?” Fleury implored. “His life may not have mattered to the federal government that is entrusted to provide justice on the reservations, but he mattered to me.”

Three weeks later, the U.S. Attorney’s Office replied, again saying there is “not sufficient evidence” in Pepion’s case.

“I can’t move on,” Fleury said. “I’m stuck in a hole and can’t get out.”

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Nora Mabie is the Indigenous Communities reporter for Lee Montana.

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Wilma Fleury wipes off a tear as she remembers and honors the life of her son Willy Pepion at her home in Browning on Aug. 10. Pepion, 22, died on May 10, 2022 — Mother’s Day — while in custody of the Blackfeet tribal jail after getting arrested by Blackfeet Law Enforcement Services for disorderly conduct for being involved in a fight at a party near Browning.

A shrine filled with photos, a basketball signed by Pepion's teammates, stuffed animals and string lights remembering Willy Pepion's life is set at Fleury's home in Browning. The FBI was involved in the investigation of Pepion's death. However, in February FBI representatives told Fleury that they were dropping her son’s case because the U.S. Attorney’s Office had declined to prosecute it due to "insufficient evidence."

Fleury looks over a selection of her favorite photos of Willy Pepion which she glued onto a poster board as a way to remember her son's life. Two years after Pepion's death, Fleury said she's still struggling with mental health and being able to return to work as a substitute teacher for Browning public schools.

View of the Bureau of Indian Affairs building on the Blackfeet Reservation. An NPR investigation found patterns of neglect and misconduct in tribal detention centers, which are under the jurisdiction of the BIA, that have led to the death of inmates in reservations around the country.

Fleury extends her arm showing a tattoo of an Indian Paint Brush with her son Pepion's name at the bottom. Fleury said she got the tattoo piece on her arm as a way to honor her son's life. An autopsy found that Willy Pepion's cause of death was due to a subdural hematoma, or skull fracture, on the left side of his head. The manner of death was declared a homicide.

A sign of the Blackfeet Tribal Court in Browning. Cases such as Pepion's are one of many that fall through the cracks of the criminal justice system. Tribal courts tend to be understaffed, have fewer resources and are limited in sentencing abilities.

A tattered basketball hoop which used to belong to Pepion still hangs from the top of Fleury's garage. Fleury recalled that her son's favorite sport had always been basketball and he loved passing time shooting hoops outside their home.

Fleury holds on to the collar of Pepion's dog Scooter, center, outside her home in Browning. Fleury said having Scooter around her home can be tough but still brings back endless memories of her son. Her son's dog serves as a reminder to continue fighting for justice for Pepion.

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