The Gambling Man

Editor's Note: This article on the Masphee Wampanoag and their leader was reported and written in June and July and sent to press on August 17, two weeks before reports surfaced that Glenn Marshall had lied about his military record and been convicted of rape in 1982. Marshall has since temporarily given up his duties as tribal chairman; however, other Mashpee officials have vowed to continue pursuing their casino plans.

Here and there throughout the Mashpee Wampanoag’s tribal council building hang photographs of tribe members at their annual powwow. In some of the images, men in brightly colored Indian regalia wear prominent earrings, an age-old custom that caught the eye of the first European explorers to stumble upon the Mashpee’s forebears roughly five centuries ago. But when Glenn Marshall, the tribal council chairman, welcomed me into his office one morning this summer, he had in his ear a more modern adornment: a plastic hands-free receiver for his cell phone. While we chatted, he made frequent and abrupt use of the device, interrupting a thought by raising an index finger and then bellowing a few words, seemingly to himself, before resuming our discussion. He considered none of his points too important to disrupt.

The conversation eventually turned to what Marshall described as the decisive moment that led his tribe to victory in its fight for federal recognition, and, with it, Massachusetts to the brink of casino gambling. “We did something so unique that when other tribal leaders heard about it, they took in our ability to—”

“Yeah?” Marshall said, turning his head to tend to the call. (Turns out the crucial “something” he was getting at was his decision to file suit against the government in 2001, compelling it to consider the Mashpee’s long-stalled petition for recognition. As he tells it, when his first lawyer balked at the idea, Marshall simply found himself some new attorneys to get it done.)

As much as Marshall’s cell-phone breaks added dramatic tension to his anecdotes, that wasn’t his goal. He was merely multitasking, something he’s had to do a lot of while leading the tribe in its contentious rush to bring full-scale gaming to the state. “Nation-building is tough,” Marshall enjoys saying, half smitten with the notion that he leads what is technically a sovereign people, half irritated by the hours that job requires. His frustration is shared by those who seek an audience with him at the tribal office, where Marshall’s predilection for trying to accommodate virtually all comers often creates a logjam outside his door. On the day of my visit, Dan Fireman, son of Reebok founder and golf course builder Paul Fireman—who donated land to the tribe a few years back—was hoping to get onto Marshall’s calendar. Nothing doing. Marshall’s morning was already triple booked.

Marshall’s voice is big and deep, and his stout chest makes him look bigger sitting down than when standing. When he leans back in his chair, his white Fu Manchu mustache can add both warmth to his wide grin and resolve to an intimidating stare. An ex-Marine and Vietnam veteran, he worked as a cop in Boston and a commercial fisherman on the Cape before he became the surprise pick for tribal chairman in 2000. Marshall’s dad was not a tribe member, and so it was his mother’s father who taught him the stories and customs of the Mashpee. Today, along with a turtle shell and some feathers, Marshall keeps a picture of his grandfather in his office. And in his mind, he keeps an objective that he says he turns over daily: to do right by the spirit of this man. To Marshall, the casino, which he describes as a project that will ensure the survival of his people, fits squarely into that mission. “You’re either going to be the king or the goat,” he says. “I’ve never been a goat in my life. I don’t want to start now. I want to accomplish things in my life that make an impact.”