The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  “If anyone comes looking for me,” Elsie added, “they can find me down there.”

  “Okay.” Stacie, still examining her makeup, didn’t take her eyes from the brass seal.

  “Noah is coming by. You can tell him where I am.” To the woman’s back, she added, “I’ve got my cell with me, too.”

  She sauntered down the stairs and peered into the coffee shop, but found no uniformed law enforcement professionals passing the time. Ordering her coffee to go, she rode the elevator to the third floor, thinking she’d see what was happening in Associate Circuit Court. There was an associate courtroom in three of the four corners, and she made the rounds of the courts, keeping her eyes peeled for a familiar tall figure in blue.

  Unable to find Noah on the third floor, she cruised the Circuit Court rooms on the second floor, but without success. It was fifteen minutes before eleven when Elsie returned to her office. As she passed by the receptionist’s desk, Stacie called after her and said, “Somebody was looking for you. There’s a note on your desk.”

  How did I miss him? she wondered. A single message lay on her desk; she snatched it up. See me ASAP. Madeleine.

  The door to Madeleine’s office was securely shut; she didn’t pretend to have a welcoming open door policy. When Elsie knocked, a moment passed before she was invited to enter.

  Madeleine sat behind her desk drinking coffee from a china cup. A bright lipstick mark stained the gold rim. Elsie wondered whose job it was to wash those cups each day; she was certain her boss didn’t do any kitchen patrol duty.

  “Sit down,” Madeleine said. “Did you have a chance to look at the Taney case?”

  “Yes, I’ve gone over it pretty thoroughly,” she replied. “It needs a lot of work.”

  “Like what?”

  “For starters, we need witness statements from the daughters—­all three of them. We need corroboration from the mom, too. It’d be a hell of a note if she tells a different story than they do. And what’s up with this girlfriend? Is she living under the same roof with them, like Sarah and Hagar and Abraham?”

  Madeleine’s face was blank. Elsie guessed she didn’t understand the Old Testament reference. Madeleine asked, “What else?”

  “So far, you’ve charged a ­couple of counts of statutory rape and a count of incest based on the defendant’s brother’s statements. We need to amend the complaint. I’m betting that once you do your witness interviews, they’ll reveal other incidents of criminal behavior. At least we know Mom wasn’t an active participant in all this behavior.”

  “How do we know that?”

  With effort, Elsie kept her eyes from rolling. She doesn’t know anything, she thought. “If she participated in the abuse, Social Ser­vices would have taken protective custody. She’s cooperating with the prosecution, so the Children’s Division didn’t take the girls away.”

  “Hmm,” Madeleine said, a nettled look on her face. She picked up a newspaper and unfolded it.

  Elsie persisted. “Check and see whether Social Ser­vices obtained medical exams on the girls. If they didn’t, we’ll want to. If nothing else, we can show that someone took their virginity, and that will corroborate their testimony, even if there’s no way scientifically to show that it was the defendant.”

  Madeleine looked up from her newspaper. Elsie noted that one of her eyebrows was higher than the other. “Why not?” Madeleine asked.

  “Because too much time has passed since the last sexual assault. He’s been in jail since right after Christmas, right? There’s only a seventy-­two-­hour window of time to get a sample from the victims for DNA analysis of the sperm. If they do a rape kit now and get a swab for DNA testing, it won’t show defendant’s DNA.”

  “Oh. Forget it, then.”

  “Forget what?”

  “The medical exams.”

  “Madeleine, we need some medical evidence. The jury will wonder why no one checked them out.”

  “Okay. But no DNA testing. No need to confuse the jury.”

  Though she was nervous about the ramifications of her boss’s decision, Elsie pressed on. “Check records at the P.D. and the school to see if we can find outcry evidence. But the most important thing is to talk to those girls.”

  “Any other recommendations?” Focused on the paper again, Madeleine didn’t look up.

  “No. Well, I take that back. Yes. We have to prepare the witnesses more carefully in this kind of case than any other prosecution. Kid witnesses are hard, Madeleine. They’re intimidated by the courtroom and by the defendant. Hell, we’re setting them against their own father; they’re bound to have mixed feelings, even in a case like this.”

  Madeleine rattled the page of the newspaper. Elsie edged up the volume of her voice a notch. “I think juries want to convict child molesters, but they like the certainty of scientific evidence, and we can’t give them that. The Taney case is a swearing match. So we better be sure it’s a good one.”

  Madeleine gazed at Elsie over the paper, her face impassive. “This isn’t my first time handling a case with children.”

  “I know.”

  “I am very concerned about protecting children. Deeply concerned.”

  “I know,” Elsie repeated. “I’ve heard you say that.” She swallowed the urge to add, I’ve heard you say it on TV. Never in a courtroom.

  “Is that it?”

  “Get someone good to work this up,” Elsie said earnestly. “This is not a case for on-­the-­job training. Get Bob Ashlock, if you can.”

  “Well,” Madeleine said, pushing her chair back slightly, “the preliminary hearing is Wednesday, isn’t it? We have our work cut out for us.”

  “Madeleine, about the prelim, you’ve got to subpoena some backup witnesses in case you can’t locate the defendant’s brother in time. You need to have Charlene or Kristy or Tiffany ready to take the stand.”

  Madeleine’s smooth forehead wrinkled a fraction. “Who?”

  Elsie tried to keep impatience from creeping into her voice. “The victims, Madeleine. Taney’s daughters. Their names are Charlene, Kristy, and Tiffany.”

  “Oh. Right. We’ll need to think about that.” There was a pause, followed by an uncomfortable silence, which was broken when Madeleine said, “Okay, then. I guess that’s all.”

  “Right. Here are the notes I made on the case. Talk to you later.” Placing a copy of her notes on Madeleine’s desk, Elsie walked out, feeling troubled. Madeleine hadn’t specified her role; did she want her to run with the ball, or sit back and watch? She knew that a case of this type required special handling or it would fall apart before it had even begun.

  She needed to be careful. She couldn’t let Madeleine lead her down that path again. Even after four years she shuddered whenever she thought of Patrice Moore.

  Elsie had come to the McCown County Prosecutor’s Office, fresh from law school and ready to realize her ambition of becoming the Ozarks’ avenging angel. In her third week on the job, Madeleine had sent her into court to dismiss a sodomy charge, with the explanation that the witness had recanted. “I’d do it myself,” Madeline told her, “but I’m all tied up. Just tell the judge we’re dropping the charge due to problems with the state’s witness.”

  Elsie, who at that point had handled nothing other than traffic arraignments, did as she was told. But she had a sick feeling in her gut when she read the charge: the victim was nine years old. As the defendant was brought before the judge, she saw the look that passed between him and his wife. Turning in her chair, Elsie spotted the child, a plump third grader with wispy blond hair, huddled in the courtroom, her posture a mix of resignation and misery.

  Shaking, Elsie had stood before the judge, who dismissed the case. The defendant’s shackles were removed and he left the courtroom with his wife and child. She opened the file, madly flipping through the pages, then stopped when she saw a handwritt
en confession, signed by the defendant, admitting he had been anally sodomizing the child for some time.

  Elsie had flown from the courtroom, desperate to show Madeleine the file, and camped at her office door until she finally returned.

  As she explained that a terrible mistake had been made, Madeleine regarded her with an impatient look. Then she calmly said, “It’s been decided. It’s out of our hands. The defense attorney took the child’s deposition, and he got it under oath. She said she made it up.”

  “She was coerced, don’t you see? They made her say that. Good God, Madeleine, look at this: he confessed. In his own hand. It’s signed.”

  “The case is unwinnable. She’s given conflicting accounts. The jury won’t believe her, it’s a waste of time.”

  Madeleine walked away, her departure a clear dismissal. Elsie had tried to broach the topic the next day, but with the same results. She had never mentioned it to Madeleine again. But the image of the girl slumped in the courtroom, her eyes dull, was a picture she was sure she’d carry for life. She’d let that child down, sealed her fate. Never again, she had vowed.

  Now, back at her office, she toiled over paperwork, checking the front door twice to see if anyone was waiting outside. She plopped back into her chair with a scowl; Noah’s tardiness was beginning to seriously rankle. Spinning in her chair to face the computer screen, she checked her e-­mail: seventeen messages, but none from him. Next, she checked her texts and incoming calls: nothing. She shot him a quick text: Where are you? Then she stared at the silent phone as she ate a cup of blueberry yogurt at her desk and washed it down with Diet Coke.

  By mid-­afternoon her temper was flaring; it looked like he wasn’t coming by, after all. When she stalked to the third floor courtrooms, activity had settled into an afternoon lull. Not much was going on, and nothing was set after three o’clock. She knew there was no other explanation: he hadn’t come to see her, and he hadn’t called to cancel.

  Hell, hell, hell, she thought. Her spirits fell, and she trudged painfully back to her office, ruing her decision to wear boots with freaky high heels. A glimpse of an officer on the stairs raised her hopes for an instant, but when he turned toward her, Elsie’s hopes were dashed. It wasn’t Noah.

  She had experienced her share of disappointments, but this stung. She felt deflated. What kind of idiot was she, letting him stand her up like this? What self-­respecting grown woman would tolerate it?

  By the end of the day she sat at her desk in a funk, leafing through an old copy of Missouri Lawyers Weekly. Shortly before five, as she turned in her chair and stared out the window, the phone rang. She jumped, hastily grabbing the receiver.

  “This is Elsie Arnold,” she said.

  “Honey, it’s Mom. How’s your day?”

  “Oh, Mom,” she said, lowering her voice. “Not so good.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she lied. “Really, it’s no big thing. Just stupid stuff.”

  “Is that boss being mean? Did a judge bawl you out in court?”

  “No, nothing like that.” She checked the time again: five on the dot. Noah had blown her off. She swiveled in her chair. It was dark outside, and she saw her own reflection in the window.

  “Mom, am I fat?”

  “Don’t be silly. You are a beautiful girl.”

  “That’s not what I asked you.”

  “Well, you’re not a toothpick, if that’s what you mean. But you know what your grandfather used to say.”

  “Oh God, Mother, please.”

  “Your grandfather always said men like a girl who’s got some meat on her.”

  “Mother, he was born in 1920. He lived through the Great Depression. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Is this about a man? I could give you some good advice if you’ll just talk to me. Tell me what’s the matter.”

  “I don’t really want to go into it.” She switched the phone to her other ear, bracing herself; her mother was very free with her advice.

  “You know, it’s not what they look like, it’s how they treat you that counts.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re talking like I’m an eighth grader.” Her mother had spent the past forty years teaching middle school English, and Elsie suspected she would always regard her as a member of that age group.

  “Any girl can get married if she sets her standards low enough,” Marge Arnold advised.

  “Thanks, Mom. That’s helpful.”

  “What I’m trying to say,” Marge continued, “is that you shouldn’t set your standards low.”

  “I think I zeroed in on that.” She glanced at the clock. “Look, I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for calling, though.”

  “Come over for supper tonight. Dad wants to see you.”

  “Can’t make it, Mom.”

  “I’m making chicken and rice. I bet you haven’t had a thing to eat all day.”

  Elsie sighed into the phone. “With a can of cream of mushroom, I bet.”

  “Cream of celery.”

  “And Minute rice?”

  “Yes, with Minute rice,” Marge said, affronted. “You don’t need to take that tone. You’ve loved it since you were a little girl.”

  “I know, Mom. Thanks for the invite, but I really am tied up. I’m still catching up from last week.”

  “All right, then. I love you, baby.”

  Elsie’s heart tugged. “I love you, too, Mom. Tell Dad hi.”

  When she got off the phone, she felt a little better, much to her surprise. But she had blood in her eye for Noah.

  Your probation is hereby revoked, shithead, she thought.

  Chapter Five

  EARLY TUESDAY MORNING the Taney sisters emerged from the old white house on High Street and started down the steps to the cracked front walk. Charlene, a thin fifteen-­year-­old, led the way, pulling her worn nylon jacket tightly around her. The wind whipped her long brown hair into her face. She pushed it back with an impatient gesture, revealing her pointed chin and sharp jaw.

  Following behind, Kristy stepped carefully down the icy steps. At twelve, she was nearly as tall as her sister Charlene, her dark hair the same shade, but Kristy’s features were softer, her face rounder, a pronounced dimple in her chin.

  Tiffany, a child of six, maneuvered the slick steps with difficulty, stumbling before she made it safely to the cement sidewalk. Her hooded coat revealed tendrils of red hair that curled in unruly waves. Looking around in the cold morning air, Tiffany froze, gazing up in delight.

  Fat snowflakes drifted from the gray sky, and Tiffany twirled around, arms upraised to catch them. Her brown coat, recently purchased from the Disabled American Veterans’ thrift shop, was much too big for her, with sleeves that hung well below her fingertips. She waved the oversized sleeves in the cold air, her bare fingers reaching for the sky.

  Charlene tugged the loose shoulder of Tiffany’s coat. “Come on, crazy thing. If you want me to walk you to school, we got to get a move on.” When Tiffany didn’t respond immediately, Charlene gave her a little shove. “You don’t want to miss school breakfast, do you?”

  Tiffany fell into step with her sisters. The girls walked three abreast down the narrow street, because the sidewalk was so broken it was sure to trip them up. They jumped to avoid frozen puddles along the rutted curb. Tiffany’s long sleeves flapped at her side.

  A frost-­covered beer can appeared in Kristy’s path and she kicked it. It skittered up the road ahead of her, and she ran after it and kicked it again, using the instep of her foot. Kristy chased the can, leaving her sisters behind.

  Charlene thrust her bare fists deep into the pockets of her old jacket. She nudged Tiffany with her elbow. “What they having for breakfast at your school today, you think?”

  Tiffany answered with a shrug.

  “Bet it’s cinnamon rolls
,” Charlene said. “Wouldn’t that be something? Cinnamon rolls and milk.”

  Tiffany smiled but didn’t reply.

  Charlene continued. “Everything good at school? Teacher nice?”

  Tiffany nodded, still smiling, studying the snowflakes that clung to the fabric of her coat.

  “How about the kids in your class? Are they being nice?” Charlene regarded the child with fierce affection. She took a cold hand from her pocket and pulled Tiffany to her side. “Anybody don’t treat you nice, you tell them your big sister will come looking for them. Tell them I’ll pop a cap in they ass.”

  Tiffany covered her mouth with shock and delight. Kristy turned on the pair, abandoning her pursuit of the Old Milwaukee can. With a hard look, she said, “I heard that. You cussing again.”

  “Am not.”

  “I heard it. You got a filthy mouth. I’ll tell.”

  “Who you gonna tell? Daddy’s in jail. Ha.”

  “I’ll tell Uncle Al. Or Roy.”

  “Aw, go kick your stinking can.”

  The elementary schoolyard came into view. Charlene walked Tiffany through the chain-­link fence and dropped a kiss on the top of her tousled head.

  “You remember what I said.”

  Tiffany watched as her older sisters walked away. She whispered, “Slap a cat in your ass,” and then covered her mouth with the long sleeve of her coat.

  DONITA TANEY WATCHED her daughters from the window. The dirty glass allowed only a hazy view. If snow was falling outside, Donita couldn’t see it.

  She was glad they’d found that warm coat for Tiffany at the DAV thrift shop. Winter was hard this year. She wished she had a better coat for Char. Seemed like Char got the short end often as not.

  Char was tough, though. Whatever got dished out, thrown her way, Char could take it. And Charlene hadn’t had to suffer anything that Donita hadn’t been through herself. She survived. Her girls would too.