The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  “Taylor has a home game at four-­thirty. Sixth grade varsity,” Breeon said with pride.

  Elsie nodded approvingly, roused a fraction from her gloom. “That’s great. I’m glad you’ll get to see her play.”

  “I promised I wouldn’t miss this one. I love to see those girls play. And,” she added, as she dug in her purse for her car keys, “I’m keeping an eye on that damned coach.”

  “How come?”

  When Bree looked up from her purse, she had a glint in her eye. “She’s a screamer. Chews those babies out like they’re playing pro basketball. Last week a girl spilled her water bottle on the court. You’d have thought the child took a piss, the way that woman carried on.”

  Elsie’s eyes widened. “Oh Lord, I get it. The coach sounds just like Abby Lee.”

  Bree gave her a doubtful look. “Who?”

  “Abby Lee. On Dance Moms.”

  Breeon groaned, rising from her chair. “Sweet Jesus, don’t tell me you’re watching more reality TV.”

  “Oh, Bree, it’s so fabulous. You’ve got to watch it. You need to see those moms fight.”

  Bree pulled on her winter coat, a tailored camel hair from Talbot’s. It was a shade too big, passed down from her sister, a lawyer with a big St. Louis firm. “You’ve got a taste for trash, girl. When I came in, you were on that TMZ Web site. I caught you in the act.”

  Embarrassed, Elsie blushed a little. She had in fact been browsing TMZ online, checking to see who’d been arrested lately in Hollywood. She needed to blank her head out, to escape into a mindless pursuit to recover from the Taney case and the chicken heads.

  “A TV star just got arrested in Hollywood for domestic assault on his girlfriend,” she said, trying to entice Bree into a show of interest. “I’ll tell you who it is, if you want to know.”

  “Don’t care,” said Bree, heading for the door.

  Elsie studied the story on the computer screen. “Why would a big star stoop to hitting a woman?”

  “Why would any man do it? Why do men knock women around? But it happens all the time, honey.”

  She nodded, thinking. “It’s a sick exercise of power.”

  “Of dominion,” Breeon agreed.

  “Okay, so why would that woman in Hollywood put up with it? With being slapped around?”

  “She’s got some issues. Just like your Mrs. Taney.”

  “Donita Taney is dirt poor. Uneducated.” After a pause, Elsie added, “Ugly. But this woman on TMZ is gorgeous. Rich. I don’t get it. Why would a woman stand for abuse if she had other alternatives?” As Bree paused in the doorway, pulling on her gloves, Elsie added, “You know what my mother says.”

  “What?”

  “Ever since I was a girl, my mother taught me: a man who hits a woman doesn’t get a second chance. Period.”

  Bree said, “Your mom is a wise woman. Hey, I’m out of here.”

  Nodding, Elsie reached for her computer mouse, but before she could research more Hollywood tragedies, the phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID as she picked up, she read, “Unknown.”

  “Elsie Arnold,” she said.

  “Well, hello there, Elsie Arnold,” a voice said through the receiver with a smug drawl.

  She couldn’t quite place the caller, though he sounded familiar. She didn’t like his tone, though, and she was in no mood to fool around with jokers or guessing games.

  In a brisk, businesslike voice, she responded, “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “ ‘May I ask,’ ” the caller piped in falsetto. Laughing, he said, “That’s real purty.” The voice lowered deep in its register. “We need to talk, little lady.”

  Elsie sat straight up in her chair. “Who the hell are you calling ‘little lady’? Do you know who you’re talking to? Harass me over the phone and I’ll file a criminal charge.”

  She didn’t get the opportunity to elaborate on the threat. The phone clicked and the line went dead.

  Hanging up the receiver, she studied the phone in silence. The man’s thick dialect was an accent she’d encountered recently. When she made the connection, she shook her head; she must be slipping, she should’ve recognized the voice immediately.

  The man on the phone sounded distinctly like Kris Taney.

  What are they doing over there at the county jail, letting him call me on the phone? She shouldn’t have any contact with him whatsoever, except through his attorney. It was for his own benefit, to protect his rights.

  Moreover, she didn’t want to have any contact with him. His voice on the phone was creepy, even creepier than when he shouted at her in the hallway of the courthouse. He made her skin crawl. She didn’t want to be alone with him, ever, not even on a phone line.

  She was obligated to notify his attorney about the call. And she needed to alert the county jail. Elsie reached for the phone, ready to dial, when she paused. Maybe she’d call Bob Ashlock first. He would have good insight on the phone privileges and policies of inmates in lockup. He understood the legal impropriety of a phone call from a defendant to a prosecutor. He’d have some good advice.

  She picked up the phone and dialed the Detective Division of the Barton City P.D. When Patsy, the longtime receptionist at the division, answered, Elsie didn’t stop to make small talk.

  “Put me through to Ashlock, please.”

  “Is this Elsie?” Patsy asked in her cracked voice. “You just missed him, honey.”

  Disappointment made a fist in her stomach. “Where’d he go?”

  “Over to the county jail. He’s taking a statement. There’s an inmate over there wanting to snitch out his buddy.”

  “Great! Patsy, that’s just great. Call him and tell him I’ll meet him over there.” She hung up abruptly, grabbed her coat and ran for the door.

  ELSIE HAD TO walk briskly to keep up with Ashlock as they strode the narrow green hallway leading to the administrative offices of the McCown County jail. He wore a no-­nonsense expression as he pushed the security buzzer for admittance; when he didn’t gain entry immediately, he pressed it with the heel of his hand until the jailer in the office hastened to let them in.

  “Where’s Vernon?” Ashlock demanded of the deputy who served as assistant to the head jailer, Vernon Wantuck.

  “He’s upstairs.” the young man said. “With the sheriff,” he added, as if the information would impress the detective. “Do you’uns have an appointment?”

  “Nope. You get on the phone and tell him to get down here straightaway. I’ve got some questions for Vernon, about how he’s running his show here.”

  “Who’s down here raising a ruckus? Ashlock?” boomed a voice behind him.

  Elsie turned to see the jailer slowly approaching. Vernon Wantuck was a huge man; he could have easily qualified as a contestant on The Biggest Loser had he been interested in weight reduction, which he wasn’t. She scooted against the wall to give him room to pass.

  “Got a bone to pick with you, Vernon,” Ashlock said.

  “We better get to the bottom of it, I reckon.”

  Wantuck shuffled through the door to his private office and grunted as he settled his girth into his chair. The jailer gestured toward a pair of chairs across from his desk, upholstered in dingy woven fabric. As Elsie settled into the seat, it gave off a smell of dirty underwear.

  Ashlock got down to business. “Why are you letting the inmates harass ­people on your phones?”

  “Well, that’s easy. I ain’t.”

  She exchanged a glance with Ashlock, and turned to the jailer with a skeptical expression.

  Vernon continued, “What big idea got hold of you all? You think they got cell phones? Because I don’t let them have no cell phones.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Elsie said. “Vernon, they’re making calls on the pay phones here.”

  “Sure they do.”


  “And I think you need to know that an inmate called me at the prosecutor’s office from inside the jail.”

  “Didn’t happen. Ashlock, you ought to know the policy, even if she don’t. They can use the phone lines in the jail to call their bondsman, their lawyer, their immediate family. That’s it. Period.” The man placed his meaty hand on his desktop, to rock his chair back and forth. “Why are you riding me? How come the Prosecutor’s Office wants to kick my ass?” He winked at Elsie, laughing, and said, “Was it that old broad they got in charge? She send you to do her dirty work, little sis?”

  Elsie broke in, an impatient edge to her voice. “Kris Taney. He got to a phone somehow, and called me this afternoon. I recognized his voice.”

  The jailer threw his head back and laughed out loud, a reaction that made his belly shake like Santa Claus. “Now I got you. Taney. I seen you on TV last week, sis, talking about that case. You look good on camera,” he said, looking her up and down, “but I’ll be goddamned if you don’t look even better in person. Well, this is starting to make some sense to me now, yes sir. You’re the little cutie that’s got Ashlock here running around like Prince Valiant.” He laughed again, delighted with the comparison he’d created. “Just like Prince fucking Valiant in the funny papers.”

  Ashlock sat in the sagging chair, unamused. “Watch how you talk in front of Ms. Arnold, Vernon,” he said.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about. You’re going on like you’re sniffing her drawers.”

  Ashlock was on his feet in an instant. “One more word,” he said with gravity, “and I’m gonna have to teach you some manners. And it’s been a long day. But I’ll do it.”

  “Well,” the jailer continued, dropping the leer, “you wasted your time coming over here. Taney ain’t calling nobody.”

  “It was his voice,” Elsie insisted.

  “Maybe it was an impersonator act. Like they do in the Branson shows, in them big theaters at Table Rock Lake. Elvis. The Beatles. Marilyn Monroe. Maybe one of them Branson impersonators got on the phone and done an impression of him, huh? All’s I know is, it wasn’t Taney.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she persisted.

  “Taney got no privileges. He’s trouble. I don’t let him mix with the population. He ain’t nowhere near a phone.”

  Ashlock shook his head. “I should’ve thought to ask this first. How do your phones come up on caller ID?”

  “McCown County jail.”

  “But what about the pay phones? The ones the inmates use to talk to their attorneys and families?”

  “Same thing. McCown County jail. Gives ­people on the other end a heads-­up. Good for security.”

  Ashlock and Elsie exchanged glances. “Did you dial Star 69?” he asked her.

  “Yeah. It came up ‘pay phone.’ ”

  Ashlock looked contrite. “Well, doggone,” he said. Rising from his chair, he offered the jailer his right hand. “Guess I came tearing in here like a dang fool. Somebody’s doing a number on us.”

  “Who?” Wantuck asked.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Ashlock said, signaling his departure with a wave. He held the door open for Elsie, and as they left the jail a moment later and walked into the winter evening, they both inhaled the cold air gratefully.

  “Sorry about that back there,” he said, bunching his shoulders against the cold.

  “You’re sorry?” she exclaimed in disbelief. “I’m the one who’s sorry, leading you on a wild goose chase. I could’ve cleared it up with a phone call.”

  “Wantuck wouldn’t return your phone call on a bet. Sometimes, ­people who work around the criminal element forget how to behave. Wantuck gets the big head, being in charge of inmates. Makes him think he’s king.”

  Elsie turned so the cold wind was at her back. “Really, I’m sorry to drag you into this. I don’t think my head’s been working right, ever since my car got vandalized.”

  Ashlock’s brows came together. “Somebody key your car?”

  “No, shit, I wish that was all it was. Somebody made a hell of a mess on it. I filed a report, though. Then I had to clean the damn mess up.” Shivering, she said, “I’m freezing, Ash. I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “It’s just across the lot.”

  “I’ll walk you anyway.”

  “Oh, Ash. You are such an old-­fashioned guy. Don’t you think I can make it there by myself?”

  Shaking her head, she walked down the sidewalk toward her car. When she opened the car door she glanced back at the jail and saw that Ashlock was leaning against a concrete pillar, watching her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A COLD DRIZZLE pelted the front windows of the old brick house where Elsie’s parents lived. The room where the Arnolds spent most of their time was a parlor on the first floor, a spacious room looking out on the front yard. Beneath the windows, hot water rattled in the coils of a cast-­iron radiator as it battled the frigid weather.

  Marge Arnold, Elsie’s mother, sat in her easy chair, grading papers. A potion of grape juice and apple cider vinegar sat in a juice glass nearby; Marge needed to bring her high cholesterol down, but she scoffed at pharmaceutical remedies. Elsie stretched out on the sofa in sweat pants and a worn University of Missouri sweat shirt. She hugged a sofa pillow to her chest.

  “Oh, Mom, good God, what a week,” she groaned, reaching for an Oreo from a stack of cookies on the coffee table.

  Marge shook her head as she made checkmarks with a red pen. Looking over the top of her spectacles, she regarded her daughter with a keen eye. She listened intently as Elsie recounted the events of the past week: the struggles with the Taney case, the defection of Madeleine, the difficulty of putting the hearing together under the gun, and Taney’s personal attack upon her. She didn’t leave out the chicken heads or Taney’s evangelical support group, or the pigtailed character’s confrontation at Baldknobbers. As Elsie talked, she felt her anxiety abate. Unburdening herself to her mother eased the load that had been weighing her down.

  “Baby, I’ve always told you that you can do anything you put your mind to,” her mother said, “but I confess that I’m worried about your job right now. This Taney case is putting you at risk.”

  “I don’t know about that. It’s making me crazy, that’s all.”

  “Is it a good case?”

  “It’s a can of worms. The oldest daughter ran out of the prelim, and now I’ve got to unravel some veracity problem with her. And the middle sister flipped out before the hearing. The youngest sister doesn’t talk at all. And the mother’s a piece of work; I don’t know what’s up with her.” As Elsie talked, she pulled a bright crocheted afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her.

  “Isn’t this supposed to be Mrs. Thompson’s case?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then let her fix it. I don’t understand why you always have to work these sex cases.”

  “Mother. That’s why I became a prosecutor.”

  “But this case, Elsie, the facts in this case are so terrible.” Marge rubbed her eyes behind her spectacles. “I can’t bear to think about what that vile man put those girls through.”

  “I know. And I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like I’m hauling around a maggoty bag of trash all the time.”

  The women sat in silence for a moment, until Marge sighed and said, “You have to wonder why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why he would do such terrible things. So hard to understand.”

  Elsie sat up, still wrapped in the afghan. “Not my job. I don’t have to understand him.”

  As if Elsie hadn’t spoken, Marge went on. “He may have been a victim of abuse, too. Those patterns get passed down. Someone is violated as a child and they do it to the next generation.”

  “Don’t care.” Elsie
’s dander was rising. “Let the defense attorney worry about whether Kris Taney had a miserable childhood. He’s an adult now, he had a choice. And he chose to rape his children.”

  “I know. You’re right, honey.”

  “I have the responsibility—­the duty,” she said, her voice growing strident, “because I view it as a personal duty, to see to it that he is held accountable for what he did to those girls. I don’t have to be his therapist.”

  “You’re right. I’m on your team, Elsie. And I may not have it right, anyway. The things this man did: it’s more perverse than sex.”

  “Rape isn’t about sex. It’s about power.”

  “Well, I think that’s it. He was showing his family he had power over them. Power to do anything he chose.”

  Elsie lay down again, satisfied that she and her mother were on the same wavelength. She shut her eyes when she heard Marge say, “When a person has too much power over other folks, things get twisted. That’s the problem with that whole ‘men are the head’ family structure. Gives them too much feeling of entitlement.”

  “Daddy’s not like that.”

  “I wouldn’t have married him if he was.”

  Marge leaned over to the couch and pressed her hand to Elsie’s forehead, as if checking for a fever. “So what are you going to do about all this? It doesn’t sound like you’re getting enough support from your office. Could you turn to someone with more experience? I know that Thompson woman couldn’t shoot fish in a barrel.”

  “Mother, I am not punting the Taney case. And I’m not crying around to someone else, like I’m incompetent. I’ve been at this for four years.”

  “You’ve always been stubborn. Ever since you were a little girl.” Marge made scratches in red ink. “Why don’t you move back home for a while? Just sleep in your old room.”

  Elsie put a sofa pillow over her face. A moment of silence passed.

  “Now you’re being ridiculous,” Marge said.

  The air grew stuffy under the pillow, and Elsie tossed it on the floor.

  Marge said, “Well then, stay here this weekend. Just till Monday morning.”