The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  For a moment she didn’t answer, her thoughts focused on the man standing in front of her rather than the one handcuffed outside. She looked around the bar; Paige was nowhere to be seen.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “No, I don’t think so. He mostly just talked ugly to me.”

  Noah cut his eyes at her. “That oughta be a capital offense.” He squatted down so they were at eye level. In a teasing tone, he said, “Elsie, you get in a lot of trouble in this bar, you know that?”

  She grimaced. “Lord, it seems that way, doesn’t it? You’d think I was doing it on purpose. Looking for thrills.” Gratified by his coming to her rescue, she was finished ignoring him. “Thanks, Noah. Thanks for jumping in.”

  He laughed, adorably shamefaced now that his adrenaline had abated. “It shouldn’t have gotten that far. I was outside taking a piss. Bad timing.”

  “No, I’d say it was perfect timing. You saved my ass. Which he was determined to whup.”

  Noah shook his head. “Nobody’s fucking with you when I’m around.”

  “Well, I’m grateful.”

  Tina’s phone buzzed, and she slipped away to take the call. Noah scooted into the booth beside Elsie. They were both quiet for a moment as he studied the laminate tabletop. When he looked up, he gazed at her with an expression that made the blood rush to her pelvis.

  “You know what, Elsie? You need someone to take care of you.” Rising from the booth, he said, “Get your coat. I’m taking you home.”

  At that moment, the words were music to her ears. When he held out his hand, she didn’t hesitate. She clung to it like a life preserver.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ELSIE REPORTED TO Division 2 of Circuit Court on Friday morning, her spirits improved after a night of deep sleep pillowed on Noah’s shoulder. It was criminal day in Judge Rountree’s court, so she was responsible for representing the Prosecutor’s Office on all matters coming before the court.

  Typically, the judge would first handle the felony arraignments, where defendants entered their initial pleas of Not Guilty after hearing the charge read. The judge would then place the case on the criminal jury docket. Elsie’s only job would be reciting the state’s bond recommendation.

  Several cases were scheduled for the entry of a guilty plea to the charges, and Judge Rountree would examine those defendants closely to assure that the plea was knowing and voluntary. Elsie would relate the terms of the plea bargain and summarize the evidence against the defendant. If the judge accepted the plea, he would order a presentence investigation to be conducted by the Office of Probation and Parole.

  Two men were scheduled to be sentenced for armed robbery of a liquor store. She knew that one of the defendants had a shot at probation, because the Prosecutor’s Office was standing silent on the issue, under the terms of the plea bargain. But the other was likely to be sent to the Department of Corrections to do time.

  As defense lawyers straggled in, Elsie surveyed the files the secretaries pulled, arranging them in order. Some lawyers walked in with clients who were out on bond, while others were solo, waiting for their clients to be brought over from the county jail. A few consulted Elsie, anxious to see their spot on the morning docket.

  “Damn,” complained Roger Hancock, a middle-­aged lawyer who specialized in DWIs. “Look at that, they’ve got me dead-­ass last. Push me to the front, Elsie honey, won’t you? I’ve got to get out of here; I’m set in three different courtrooms this morning.”

  Elsie usually bristled at the condescending tone he used with her, but she was in an accommodating mood.

  “No problem,” she said, feeling magnanimous as she set his file on top.

  The bailiff Merle Lindquist, a cantankerous old coot in a suit so old it threatened to come back in style, came blustering up.

  “Elsie, do I have to pick up that Kris Taney for you today?”

  “I don’t know, Merle,” she said mildly. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  “Well, miss, you and me got to get something straight. I am not touching him if he doesn’t get cleaned up. That Kris Taney is the dirtiest stinkin’ man I’ve seen in forty-­three years working at the courthouse.”

  “Merle, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not in charge of his hygiene.”

  Ordinarily, fussing with the old bailiff about matters outside of her control could drive her over the edge. Today she just smiled, unruffled, and patted his sleeve.

  “Why don’t you pull rank on somebody?” she suggested with a wink. “Get some young guy to do it.”

  “Why doesn’t he just stay in his cell?” Merle grumbled.

  “Due process, Merle,” she explained with a shake of the head. “We can’t deprive Mr. Taney of his liberty without due process of law. He gets to hear the charges against him.”

  The court reporter entered and settled in her seat. Elsie checked her watch; it was almost showtime. Judge Rountree was never late.

  A cluster of citizens walking into the courtroom caught her eye. She watched them idly as they filed in and took their seats. The group was largely male, easily identifiable as buttoned-­up Chris­tian evangelicals, sporting church clothes and televangelist haircuts. The few women in their company wore modest ankle-­length dresses, their long hair pinned up on the back of their heads. It looked like a time machine had zapped them from the 1950s into the twenty-­first century. Maybe they’re here to see Taney get his just deserts, she thought hopefully. She would be glad to have a support group behind her. Like MADD, but against child molesters.

  Judge Rountree entered through the chamber door, and old Merle shouted, “All rise! The Circuit Court of McCown County, Missouri, is now in session, Judge Rountree presiding.”

  The judge sat at the bench, looked out at the assembled crowd, and invited them to be seated.

  Elsie always enjoyed appearing in Rountree’s courtroom. The judge, a man in his late sixties, had thinning white hair and knees that were due for a replacement. He spoke in a slow Missouri drawl, thought deliberately, and moved painfully. But though he was near retirement and showing signs of age, he was still sharp as a tack; he knew more law than all the younger judges put together, and there was no fairer jurist in the state of Missouri.

  “Miss Arnold,” the judge said with his customary courtesy, “what matter shall we take up first?”

  She called out the name of the defendant represented by the DWI lawyer who begged to go first. The judge arraigned the client, and his attorney scooted out of court in a hurry.

  “Next?” asked Judge Rountree.

  “We need to arraign Kris Taney, your honor,” she said. “I see his lawyer in the courtroom.”

  Josh Nixon stood and came forward. “Judge, my client needs to be brought over from the county jail.”

  The bailiff rolled his eyes but stopped short of uttering a groan. Judge Rountree asked, “Mr. Nixon, isn’t your client the fellow who caused a disturbance yesterday?”

  Nixon nodded. “There was some trouble, yes.”

  Elsie almost snorted; only a massive exercise of self-­control kept her in her seat. She had a suit headed for the dry cleaners that could illustrate some of the trouble Taney had caused the day before.

  Rountree swiveled in his chair and addressed the bailiff. “Merle, what do you propose? Are you getting some help from the county to walk that fellow over here?”

  Merle walked over and leaned on the bench. “Judge, maybe the jailer ought to bring him. Seems like he’s a threat. I could make the call.”

  The judge chuckled. “Merle, I’m afraid the day you or I ask for a younger man to do our job, that’s the day they’ll tell us to move along.”

  The bailiff looked sullen, like a child who had been ordered to wash the dishes.

  “Tell you what, Merle,” the judge continued. “You call old Wantuck at the jail and tell him you’re coming. Tell him
I want two extra men for Taney. Tell him I’m asking as a favor, and I’ll be by later to thank him personally.”

  The bailiff looked only half satisfied, but he headed off to do as he was told. The judge asked Elsie to call the next case.

  “Judge,” said a man at the back of the courtroom, “I need a word with you.”

  Curious, Elsie turned around to see what was up. The man who spoke was one of the church ­people. He stood, clutching a leather-­bound Bible with gold lettering stamped on the front. It took her a minute to place him as the man who had shown up at the preliminary hearing in support of Taney. Oh, great, she thought.

  Other judges would have cut short any attempt at interruption, but Judge Rountree’s native courtesy extended to everyone who entered his courtroom.

  “We’re handling our criminal docket this morning,” the judge said. “What is it that you want to tell me?”

  “We’re here about the Taney case. We want to make sure fathers got rights in Missouri,” the man said. “I’m Martin Webster, and I represent Our Earthly Fathers. We come together when false claims are made against the head of the household.” The man fumbled in his Bible. “I got one of our pamphlets right here.”

  Judge Rountree digested the statement. “I see.”

  Webster held the pamphlet aloft. “Can I bring this up for you to look at?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” the judge said.

  “It has a lot of facts about our mission, and our jailhouse ministry, too.”

  The judge adjusted his eyeglasses. “Are you with the Promise Keepers?”

  “No, we’re not connected, but we sure do support the sacrament of marriage, like they do. We’re local, a part of the Westside Apostolic Pentecostal Church. I got some church members with me today. You want them to stand up?”

  “No. Please. We’re arraigning Kris Taney in this court today,” Judge Rountree explained. “I’ll read the felony complaint to him and he’ll enter a plea of Not Guilty. His case will be placed on the criminal trial docket. There will be no testimony, no other activity today. You will have no occasion to address the court about his case this morning, sir.”

  “That’s okay. We’re here to watch. We got our eye on the government. On her,” and the man pointed at Elsie.

  Oh, that’s just swell, she thought.

  The judge rose on his arthritic knees and struck his gavel for the benefit of the assembly.

  “Ms. Arnold is a fine young woman. She represents the state in an exemplary way. Anyone who attempts to harass her in this courtroom will be held in contempt.”

  Elsie flashed him a grateful look. My hero, she thought. No wonder he was her favorite judge.

  After a few moments two deputies ushered Taney into the courtroom, with the bailiff following at a safe distance. When Elsie saw Taney enter through the glass doorway, she did a double take; someone had given him a makeover. He had showered and shaved, and his tangled mane of reddish brown hair was gone; he had buzzed his head before coming to court. While he was still a far cry from a Chris­tian evangelical poster child, Taney looked significantly more respectable and mainstream than he had twenty-­four hours before.

  The arraignment took place without incident. Taney did not speak. His attorney waived the formal reading of the charges and entered a plea of Not Guilty on his client’s behalf. Elsie was sorry that the charges in the felony information were not read aloud; she thought Taney’s new church friends would benefit from hearing the exact nature of the charges.

  The docket concluded easily enough. Four defendants were arraigned, other defendants entered guilty pleas, and the two robbers were sentenced for their crimes. One man was sent away to be incarcerated for twenty years, but even that pronouncement produced no drama; the defendant, a hard-­boiled persistent offender who had done time in several states, looked relieved that the sentence wasn’t longer.

  While Elsie represented the state’s interests, she couldn’t keep her mind off of Taney’s cheering section. Even after Taney returned to jail, they remained in the courtroom, where she fancied they watched her every move. Why don’t they just go home? she wondered impatiently. Granted, the courtroom was a public forum, but it wasn’t a circus. Why were they hanging around?

  After they’d exhausted the files and disposed of all court matters, court was adjourned for the morning. Elsie sat and scribbled in her files, but out of the corner of her eye she watched the Taney supporters; they still sat at the back of the room. Nearly everyone else had filed out. She grew increasingly nervous, and decided to get the hell out of there before someone spat on her again. Or threatened to whup her ass.

  Hastily gathering her files together, she dashed for the door. The evangelical following rose when she did, and followed her out into the rotunda. In haste to return to the safety of her office, Elsie tripped over her own feet and had to catch herself to keep from falling. She heard one of the women snicker at her stumble. When she reached the door to the Prosecutor’s Office and slipped inside, her heart beat like a drum. As she passed into the reception area, she stopped to catch her breath, leaning against the counter. She didn’t understand why these ­people would target her. Didn’t they realize she wore the white hat?

  Stacie looked up from her computer. “Who are those ­people?” she asked.

  “My fellow citizens,” Elsie said, then amended her answer. “My critics, actually. They are my critics.” But Stacie had already lost interest and was back at her computer screen.

  After dropping the files off with Nedra, Elsie limped to her office and sank into her chair. She checked the clock; it was nearly lunchtime. Well, she thought, maybe she should fortify herself with food. She would see if Breeon was free. Bree was always good with advice; maybe she could help her get a handle on the cyclone she was currently trapped in. She picked up her phone and made a date with Bree to eat Mexican, leaving without delay to beat the lunch crowd.

  “I’ll drive,” Elsie offered as they headed down the stairs. “I cleaned the trash out of my car last week, because it nearly gave my dad a heart attack when he saw that I was just throwing empty soda cans in the floor of the passenger seat.”

  “You make a bigger mess than my daughter,” Bree told her, and they were laughing as they headed to the parking lot.

  “Hey,” said Bree, pointing at Elsie’s car in the lot reserved for courthouse employees, “what’s that on your antenna?”

  “What are you talking about?” Elsie asked, but then she saw it, too. A chicken head impaled on the car antenna stood at attention like a faithful watchman. It looked comical, like a rubber chicken, except that as she drew closer it became apparent it was the real thing, dribbling a slow stream of gore down the metal pole that held it. And it wasn’t the only one. Chicken heads were stuck into the door handles and under the windshield wipers, smearing the car with entrails and chicken blood.

  Elsie was speechless. Her vision tunneled as she stood gaping at the mess, and for a moment she felt like she might pass out.

  Breeon said, “Who’s pissed off at you, Elsie?”

  Shuddering at the sight of the chicken heads, she tried to remain composed. “Everyone, I think. Everyone in town. The list is long.”

  Bree said, “Well, it looks like somebody who’s got a grudge against you is working at the poultry processing plant.”

  Elsie reached for a door handle, then recoiled. Tears stung her eyes and panic bounced in her chest as she tried to divine the reason for the vandalism.

  “What do you think I should do?” she asked Bree, tension giving her voice a tremor. “Should I call the Barton P.D.?”

  “Hell yes.” Breeon turned to gaze at the back of the courthouse, where it adjoined the county jail. “It’s a shame there’s no security camera back here. The jail blocks the view from the courthouse, or else someone might have caught them in the act.”

  Elsie was dial
ing Noah’s number with an unsteady hand. She let it ring nine times before she gave up. “He’s on patrol,” she said, as much for her own benefit as Bree’s.

  She next tried the Detective Division and got through to Patsy. “Let me talk to Ashlock, Patsy,” she said.

  “Honey, he’s in a meeting with Vernon Wantuck, over from the county jail. They got the door shut.” In a doubtful tone, she added, “Want me to break in?”

  “No,” Elsie said, turning away so she wouldn’t have to look at the blood-­spattered vehicle. “No, just connect me with the front desk downstairs. I need to report a crime.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE MENTAL PICTURE of the chicken heads was still locked in Elsie’s head when the clock in her office reached four-­twenty. Thankful that she was only forty minutes away from the end of a crazy week, she swiveled in her office chair while Bree made a list on a legal pad.

  “What else?” asked Bree.

  Elsie rubbed her eyes. “Oh,” she mumbled, “bread.”

  “Nah, I’ve got some.”

  “Milk.”

  “I already put that down.”

  “Cereal.”

  “That’s good. I need that. Fruit Loops for Taylor, Raisin Bran for me.”

  Elsie was in no mood to ponder Breeon’s grocery needs. She was edgy and distracted, still wondering which adversary made a mess of her car. Her contact with the Barton Police Department earlier that day had done nothing to allay her concerns. The woman who took her report over the phone didn’t anticipate a speedy resolution.

  “Why do you need my help with your grocery list?” she groused.

  “I don’t. I’m just killing time.” Bree stretched in her chair. “I’m cutting out of here in a minute. I need to leave early. Cover for me if anyone comes looking.”

  “Okay. I’ll say you’re in the evidence room at the police department; no one would check that out.” She watched as Bree folded her list into a square and dropped it in her purse. “Where are you headed?”