The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  Judge Rountree waited for Merle to close the door on the empty gallery and take his chair behind the bailiff’s desk. The room was silent. The judge nodded at Nixon. “Proceed.”

  As Josh launched into his argument, Elsie drew a vertical line down the center of her yellow legal pad. She made notations of his arguments on the left side of the line and jotted her rebuttals and counterarguments on the right. The points he raised were nothing new; she had heard it all before, in other cases. Nixon recited the Constitutional prohibition against excessive bail or fine. He turned up the volume dial on his voice as he declared that a bond amount of $250,000 was totally out of line, considering the defendant’s means. Nixon reminded the court that the purpose of bail was to ensure appearance at trial, not to keep defendant behind bars. He paced up and down before the bench as he talked, pushing back stray locks of hair that fell over his brow.

  Nixon stopped pacing and stood behind his client. He made an offer of proof that Taney was no flight risk because he had no money to travel and nowhere to go. As Nixon concluded, he placed a sympathetic hand on the shoulder of his client. Taney shrugged his hand off with an abrupt jerk.

  Elsie wrote furiously while Nixon made his argument; then sat quietly, waiting for her turn. When the judge nodded, she jumped to her feet and rebutted the defense arguments one by one: that defendant’s bail was far from excessive, considering the nature of the offense; that defendant was most assuredly a flight risk, as he had no job, no property, no home, and no intact family relationships; in short, he had no reason to remain and every reason to flee. She reminded the judge that Taney faced the possibility of life imprisonment, which was, she argued, a most pressing motive for a criminal defendant to run. In addition, she urged, he was a threat to the safety of the state’s witnesses.

  Pausing, she checked her notes, but didn’t find anything she’d missed. She wrapped it up then, urging the court to overrule the defendant’s motion.

  The judge turned his gaze back to the defense table. “Anything further in support of your motion, Mr. Nixon?”

  “Yes, your honor. The prosecution just said that defendant’s motion should be overruled because Mr. Taney is not employed. I’m prepared to call a witness who will testify that he will offer Mr. Taney employment if he’s let out on bond.”

  “Where is this witness, Mr. Nixon?” the judge asked.

  “He’s in the hallway, I think. He’s one of the ­people that, ah, that left the courtroom earlier.”

  The judge looked skeptical. He tossed his pen down on the docket sheet. “Call him,” he said shortly.

  Nixon called Martin Webster to the witness stand. Webster entered the courtroom with the tentative step of a person who had previously been thrown out. The judge beckoned to him to come forward and be sworn. After taking the oath, the man took his seat in the witness box.

  Elsie watched him closely as he answered Nixon’s questions. Webster was an unremarkable fellow, ordinary in appearance, and if she encountered him on the street, she would not look twice. His short cropped hair and dark suit were certainly not exceptional in outstate Missouri. But something was wrong, she knew. It didn’t make sense that this evangelical Chris­tian would be so fervent in his support of Taney.

  His demeanor on the witness stand was smug, sanctimonious. When Nixon asked him his occupation, he responded that he owned his own business. Nixon then asked him to describe his business, and Webster loftily said that it was a Chris­tian plumbing business. He then claimed that he was willing to hire Taney to work for him.

  Nixon asked, “How soon can you put him to work?”

  “As soon as he can get there. We’re always in need of a good hand.”

  “No further questions.”

  Elsie rose. “May I inquire, your honor?”

  The judge nodded.

  “Mr. Webster,” she began in a conversational tone, “what is the nature of your Chris­tian plumbing business?”

  “Just what it sounds like.” He spoke with scorn, as if he addressed someone with limited understanding. “We do plumbing ser­vices in homes and businesses.”

  “What background does Mr. Taney have in the plumbing business?”

  Webster paused before he answered. “We have employees who aren’t plumbers. Someone has to answer the phone, deal with the public. The plumbers need helpers on some jobs.”

  “So you can’t put him to work as a plumber—­-­because he isn’t a plumber.” She smiled at the witness. “Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you see the defendant as your receptionist? To ‘deal with the public,’ I think you said?”

  Webster colored and became visibly angry. “We can train him. We’ll find work for him to do.”

  Elsie advanced on him; she needed to show him who was boss.

  “Please answer yes or no: will he be your receptionist, employed to deal with the public?”

  Webster glared at her, refusing to answer.

  Glancing at Judge Rountree, she said, “Your honor?”

  “Answer the question, Mr. Webster.”

  “No. I don’t know.” Webster said shortly.

  “Did you investigate his employment background before you made this generous offer? Are you aware that he has not had gainful employment for several years?”

  “I don’t put any stock in anything you say,” Webster said, and he rose from his seat as if he meant to depart.

  Judge Rountree swiveled in his hair and addressed him. “You’re not done quite yet,” he told the witness, not unkindly. “We’ll let you know when you can step down.”

  Webster reddened as he sat back down.

  Elsie said, “I’ll repeat the question. Are you aware that he hasn’t had gainful employment for several years?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t talked about that.”

  “So you have a plumbing business—­a Chris­tian plumbing business. And you’re going to hire the defendant to work for you. But he doesn’t have training or skill as a plumber, and you haven’t talked about his employment history. Is that right?”

  “Right.”

  In an incredulous tone, she asked, “Mr. Webster, would you tell the court why on earth you would make this generous offer.”

  Mulishly, Webster spoke. “Because that’s what family does.”

  Elsie paused, surveying Webster with a wrinkled brow. “Family? You mean church family?”

  “Family.” Webster’s chin was up; he looked combative, resentful.

  She spoke slowly as realization dawned. “Mr. Webster, are you and the defendant related? Kin?”

  Webster turned to the defense table, as if waiting for an objection, or instruction of some kind. When none came, he said, “We’re cousins.”

  Elsie shook her head in amazement. Nixon threw his pen on the counsel table and looked daggers at his client. The judge eyeballed Webster, then Taney, then back again, as if looking for the family resemblance.

  “How close? First cousins?”

  When Webster nodded, she said, “You’ll have to answer. The court reporter can’t record a nod.”

  Webster said, “We’re first cousins. His mother and my father was brother and sister.”

  “Well,” said Elsie in a congenial tone, “that explains a lot.” Finally, it made sense to her. The witness was unmasked.

  Nixon barked irritably: “Is the prosecutor up there to testify, judge? I believe she’s supposed to ask questions, not make a commentary.”

  “Miss Arnold, ask a question,” the judge said mildly.

  “Is the defendant related by blood or marriage to any other members of your group out there? The church, the Earthly Fathers?”

  “My wife’s out there.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “No. My folks were members, but they’re in the nursing home now. And Kris is from the Bo
otheel.”

  “Ah.” The Bootheel. Wouldn’t you know. She ruffled through her notes for a minute, then said in a friendly tone, “No further questions.” Webster continued to glower as the judge released him and he took a seat in the courtroom behind Taney.

  Nixon declined to produce further evidence in support of his motion, and the judge summarily overruled it, announcing that the defendant’s bond would remain at $250,000. Elsie exhaled with relief, although she hadn’t even been aware that she was sweating the judge’s decision; she could not believe that Judge Rountree would be so foolish as to inflict Kris Taney on the public pending trial. She felt positively jolly about connecting the dots between Taney and the Pentecostal Our Earthly Fathers. At least the support made some sense to her now: families were notoriously blind.

  She capped her pen and shuffled her notes into an untidy pile. The deputies entered to put additional constraints on Taney for his walk back to jail. The courtroom was silent but for the clank of metal when Elsie heard Martin Webster speak again.

  “Your honor?”

  She twisted in her seat to look at him. Webster stood, flagging his arm. “Judge. Your honor, sir?”

  Judge Rountree was on his feet, a pace away from the door to his chambers, but he paused and squinted over his glasses at the gallery. “Mr. Webster?”

  “I’ve got to get my cousin released somehow. It’s shameful to leave family locked up in jail.”

  “I’ve already ruled, Mr. Webster,” the judge said, with a hand on the doorknob.

  “There’s a farm.”

  Elsie stared at Martin Webster, momentarily confused. When his meaning struck home, she blanched. Jumping to her feet, she cried, “Don’t even think about it!”

  She bounded to the bench to protest Webster’s implicit proposal. “Your honor, this is not a proper case for a property bond. The state objects, I absolutely positively object.”

  Nixon followed on her heels. “Judge, if a relative is willing to post property as surety, it’s the court’s duty to permit it.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Taney rise from his chair, facing Webster, who had walked up to the defense table. Webster draped a supportive arm around the defendant as the two men talked in low voices. She heard Taney say, “If you can just get me out of here, I know I can clear this whole dang mess up.”

  Elsie turned back to the bench, fighting to keep the panic from her voice. She said, “Judge, if you want to assure the defendant’s appearance at trial, a property bond won’t do the trick. Who will go after him if he fails to appear? There won’t be a bail bondsman in the picture, to find him and bring him in.”

  Judge Rountree addressed Martin Webster. “Mr. Webster, if you post a property bond, you’ll forfeit that farm in the event your cousin fails to appear. Do you understand that?”

  “I do.”

  “Now Mr. Webster, I see you’re willing to make a sacrifice on your cousin’s behalf. But wouldn’t it make more sense for you to work with a bail bondsman? Then you wouldn’t risk your property.”

  Webster’s nose wrinkled, as if he detected a mighty stink. “We don’t need no bail bondsman. I’ll not do business with anyone who profits from another man’s sin and iniquity. So the Book says.”

  Elsie’s mind was racing. “Judge, this is all hogwash anyway. The bond amount is $250,000. Where in these parts can you find a farm that’s worth a quarter of a million dollars?”

  “I’ll inquire. Attorneys and defendant will be seated. Mr. Webster, approach the bench, if you please, sir. What manner of farm are we talking about?”

  “Livestock operation. It’s been in the family a long time. About ninety years.”

  Livestock, Elsie jotted on her pad, thinking they were raising some chickens out on the farm, too. Not hard to find a possum.

  “Who owns the property?”

  “Me, your honor. It was passed down to me by my daddy, and to him by his.”

  “Where is it located?”

  “Douglas County.”

  Oh, Lord: not Booger County. Douglas County was infamous in the Ozarks for its hostile treatment of outsiders. Historically, if someone in Douglas County mysteriously disappeared, the local explanation was “the Booger Man got him.”

  “How many acres?”

  “Two hundred.”

  Nixon jumped up. “Your honor, a farm of that size should be worth close to a quarter of a million dollars. I’d like the court to commence proceedings for approval of defendant’s property bond.”

  Elsie stood, scoffing. “We’re in the middle of an economic recession, last I heard. And we haven’t even seen this property, or conclusive evidence of ownership, or its condition, or anything else, for that matter. Defense counsel is getting way ahead of himself.”

  Nixon brushed off her argument. “We can get all the information online, through the recorder’s office. It won’t take twenty minutes.”

  Her palms grew clammy as the possibility of Taney’s release hit home. She left the counsel table and marched up to the bench without asking leave.

  “Flight risk! Judge Rountree, stop and think, a bond must effectively deter the defendant from running off. This property bond, which for some reason the court seems to actually be considering, it’s the pledge of some cousin’s farm. And it’s property outside the county, property in which defendant has no ownership interest. What’s that to Kris Taney? What power, what hold, could it possibly have on him?”

  “Family pride,” declared Webster, stepping over to stand hip-­to-­hip with Elsie at the bench.

  “Will you please move?” she asked with irritation, shoving Webster with her shoulder before returning her focus to Judge Rountree. “Judge, this is a dangerous discussion. Perilous. Setting the defendant free will disrupt the state’s case. Our witnesses will feel threatened.”

  “We’ll agree to bond conditions,” Nixon offered.

  Making a scornful face, she demanded, “Why should we believe that the defendant will comply with bond conditions when he doesn’t comply with the Missouri Criminal Code?”

  “Allegedly,” Nixon said.

  The judge studied them in silence. After a moment, he shook his head. “I’ll have to give this some thought,” he said. “I’ll take the matter under advisement while defendant gets his paperwork in order.”

  Elsie had a flash of inspiration. “I’ll need to request an appraisal.”

  The judge nodded. “That’s reasonable.”

  “And a survey of the property,” she added, wracking her brain. “And a title search. And an environmental audit to make sure the property’s not contaminated.”

  “Oh, come on,” Nixon protested. “The state is just trying to create unnecessary delay.”

  Judge Rountree sighed as he pushed his chair back from the bench. “We’ll see. In a case of this type, it seems wise to approach the request for property bond with caution. Make your recommendations in writing and see that it’s filed before the end of the day.”

  “Yes, your honor.”

  “And Mr. Nixon, I’ll need to see an amended motion from you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The judge exited through his chambers door. As the door shut, Taney demanded, in an aggrieved tone, “So am I getting out of here today or not?”

  “Hell, no,” Elsie muttered at the prosecution table. She sneaked a look at the counsel table to see whether she’d been overheard.

  Nixon was huddled in consultation with Martin Webster, but Kris Taney returned her stare. Taney made a kissing noise at her, then stuck out his tongue and flicked it back and forth. As the deputies hastened to take him away, Taney puckered his lips and whistled a tune. Elsie placed it after a moment; it was “Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead” from The Wizard of Oz.

  “You wish,” she said aloud, but he had disappeared.

  As she left the cour
troom, she saw that the Taney group still waited in the wings. They clustered on the benches that lined the walls of the courthouse rotunda. As she walked by, trying in vain to act as if she didn’t notice them, she was fleetingly reminded of Suzanne Pleshette and Tippy Hedren fearfully eyeing Alfred Hitchcock’s birds, watching from the telephone wires.

  The high heels of her shoes clicked and clacked on the marble floor, and as she passed the men and women perched on the benches, Martin Webster began to stomp his feet. Following his lead, all the men and women who occupied the benches rapidly stomped their feet on the marble floor in unison. After halting a moment in confusion, she strode purposefully for her office door. She was well aware that they were making fun of her, but she put on a brave face. The stomping continued until she passed into the protection of the Prosecutor’s Office. Once inside, her shoulders dropped and she exhaled, unaware that she had been holding her breath as she walked through the stomping crowd.

  “Madeleine said she wants to see you when you’re done with that hearing,” Stacie told her.

  “Thanks,” said Elsie, who had no intention of heading down the hallway to Madeleine’s office door. She entered her own office and sat down abruptly, breathing out like a deflating balloon.

  She closed her eyes, drawing strength from the quiet, when Josh Nixon stuck his head in the door. “Can I have that exhibit yet?” he asked.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you up? You sleeping on the job?”

  “No,” she said irritably, “I have never slept at work,” which was not quite true. “What do you want?”

  “I said I want the original of that valentine card. And whatever else you found in my client’s property. And I want your ridiculous demands for the property bond, just as soon as you give it to the judge.”