The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  She fought the urge to lash out at him, to blame him for the behavior of his client and the ­people on the courthouse benches. She was curt as she told him that she couldn’t give it to him because she hadn’t gone through it all yet.

  “You know what, Elsie, this is bullshit. That’s my client’s property and you’re depriving him of it. I gave you the damned handwriting samples, like you asked. I don’t want to fight this out in front of Judge Rountree, but if you jerk me around, I’m going to have to. You said I could have the stuff today.”

  “You’re a total whiner,” she countered, “and Judge Rountree isn’t going to want to hear it. Besides, you don’t have anything to complain about. I didn’t snatch this property from him; his wife gave it to me. She demanded that I take it. I don’t need a warrant to take what someone hands to me.”

  They glared at each other. For a long moment neither of them spoke. The silence gave her time to reflect; she was obligated, ethically bound, to give him the evidence he sought. Fighting a losing discovery battle in court, when she needed Judge Rountree to rule in her favor on the property bond, was unwise.

  “Tell you what,” she proposed in a more reasonable tone. “I can’t hand it all over today, because I haven’t seen it all. How about if I hand over the valentine? You can show it to your client; I’m certain he’ll have a perfectly plausible explanation. If I uncover anything else, you can have it on Monday.”

  He digested the offer. “Are you giving me the original?”

  “Hell no. How about a color copy? It’s at the crime lab across town, with the officer who does the handwriting analysis. We can go make the copy there.”

  “Well,” he said, “I guess so.”

  “Good. I’ll even drive.”

  “Okay, you drive.”

  “I’m at the very end of the parking lot. Story of my life.”

  Nixon loosened up, adopting a friendlier manner. “Ooh, long walk. Bracing. On second thought, maybe you could see whether Madeleine brought her golf cart from the country club, and we could ride in it.”

  The mention of Madeleine brought her up short. Madeleine wanted to see her, and after their morning exchange, the meeting would not be a happy one. She shook her head to banish the worry. Later, she thought as she dug her keys out of her purse, then headed to the parking lot with Josh Nixon.

  Outside, Elsie was glad to leave the courthouse behind. The sun shone bright and warm, a January day that teased ­people with the notion that winter was over, when in fact spring was many cold weeks away. Her mood improved as she and Nixon strolled through the lines of vehicles to her car. When they reached it, she stared at it without recognition for a moment. The car was where she left it, but its appearance had markedly changed. It had been pelted with dozens of eggs. Crushed brown and white shells speckled the vehicle, and it dripped a thick layer of egg white and broken yolks. The vile stench of sulfur assaulted her. The eggs were rotten.

  In the gelatinous mess on the hood of the car, someone had written a message, using the eggs like finger paint. It read, Deut. 22:5.

  Elsie closed her eyes, as if blotting out the image would make it disappear. “Again,” she whispered, more to herself than to Nixon, “they got me again.” Fear rushed over her in a wave, and blinking her eyes open, she jerked her head from left to right, as if the vandals were all around. She covered her nose to block the sulfur smell, but bile rose in her throat and she couldn’t swallow it back. She leaned over beside the car and vomited.

  As she retched, she felt Josh Nixon’s hand, patting her on the back. “It’s okay,” he said. Gently, he pulled her hair out of the way, so she wouldn’t heave on it. “Everything’s okay.” But his troubled tone belied the words.

  Chapter Twenty-­Nine

  JUDGE ROUNTREE SAT in his chambers in the old rolling chair that he had occupied for thirty years. It tilted at a dangerous angle, and he leaned back as he stared out the window at Elsie’s vandalized car. She and Josh Nixon sat across from him, waiting for him to speak.

  Sitting before the judge, she wished she’d dared to bring a cold drink into chambers with her. Though she had rinsed her mouth at the water fountain in the courthouse hallway, the acrid taste of vomit remained, and her throat burned from the caustic bile.

  The bitter taste matched her mood, but she tried to mask her feeling of violation as she kept her eye trained on the judge.

  “So this is the second incident, you say,” he said, swiveling around to address her.

  “It’s the second incident at the courthouse. After the arraignment, my car was vandalized with chicken heads. Today it was eggs. And two nights ago someone left a possum on my doorstep . . . ” She paused, wondering whether invoking the possum sounded frivolous. But she felt certain that the same villain had inflicted all of the damage.

  “Have you talked this over with Mrs. Thompson?”

  Like Madeleine would care, she thought, but she answered, “A while back, when it first happened.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She didn’t think too much of it.”

  A look of disapproval crossed the judge’s face as he brought his chair back to floor level. “How’s discovery going, Mr. Nixon?”

  “We’re working on it.” He stole a sidelong glance at Elsie. “The prosecutor has some stuff I haven’t seen, but Elsie says I’ll have it all on Monday. And we’re waiting on a handwriting report.”

  “I’ll turn the heat up on that, Judge.”

  “See that you do.” He wore thick glasses, and his expression as he looked through them was stern. “This case is starting to get out of control. I think we need a special setting. Mr. Taney is entitled to a speedy trial, and I’m inclined to give him one.”

  Shifting in his chair, Nixon looked uncertain. “What do you mean, Judge?”

  “I have a jury coming in on a civil case a week from Monday. It was specially set; they’re coming to try the wrongful death case from the car wash explosion on Cherry Street in ’08. I hear that the plaintiff and defendant are talking seriously about settlement. I think,” and he took the glasses off and rubbed his eyes, “I think State v. Taney will be my backup case.”

  Elsie and Josh were struck dumb. Judges occasionally placed cases on a fast track, but generally the opposite was true; cases languished as they crept their way up crowded dockets, dogged by continuances and delays.

  As she grasped the notion that the Taney case might possibly be disposed of in a ­couple of weeks, a weight rolled off her. Taking a deep breath, she sat up straighter in her chair. “The state is always ready for trial, your honor,” she said, with a shade of the old ring in her voice.

  The judge turned to Nixon; he appeared to be deep in thought. He glanced at Elsie. “Do you anticipate any further medical evidence?”

  “No.” She had received the reports of the girls’ medical exams a week ago; they held no surprises. The results were consistent with the claims that the two older girls had intercourse, but the state could not pursue DNA evidence.

  She asked Nixon, “Did you see the statement of JoLee? It’s in the file, but I attached it to an e-­mail so you’d be sure to notice.” Nixon nodded.

  The judge instructed Elsie to disclose her witness list. “I want it in defendant’s hands by five today.”

  “Yes, your honor,” she said. She nudged Nixon’s leg with the toe of her shoe. “Any alibi to disclose?”

  “Please.”

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  “What, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Don’t make me crazy.” His hair fell over his forehead. “If you haven’t even disclosed your whole case to me, how can I be expected to know whether I have an alibi defense? If we come up with one, after you do your job, I’ll let you know.”

  “Well, both of you better figure out your strategies,” Judge Rountree said, “because yo
u’re set number two for a week from Monday. In light of the special setting, I believe I’ll overrule the request for a property bond in this case. No need to prepare those suggestions after all.”

  His decision made, the judge’s humor improved. “That’s it for now, I guess. You young folks need to get to work. Miss Arnold,” he added, “you’d best head to the car wash. Eggs are hard to get off when they dry. That’s why pranksters like them.”

  As they rose, a large book on the judge’s shelf caught Elsie’s eye. “Judge Rountree, is that a Bible?”

  “It is.” The judge rose from his chair and limped over to the bookshelf. He pulled a worn black leather-­bound Bible out of the shelf and examined it. “This is the one my father used back in the old days, when ­people had to swear the oath to tell the truth with their hand on the Bible.”

  Elsie said, “There was a message smeared in the egg mess on my car. It was a Bible verse, I’m pretty sure. May I look it up in your Bible? Would you mind?”

  He handed her the book and she flipped to Deuteronomy. Verse five of chapter twenty-­two was short, and she read it aloud.

  “ ‘A woman shall not wear a man’s apparel, nor shall a man put on a woman’s garment; for whoever does such things is an abomination to the Lord your God.’ ”

  “You have pants on,” the judge said kindly, as if she needed him to explain. “Some conservative sects don’t hold with women wearing pants.”

  Staring at the text on the page, her vision blurred. The idea of her foes using the Bible to condemn her injured something deep inside her. “I guess I’m not their feminine ideal,” she said, trying in vain to keep her voice level. She handed the book back to him.

  The judge patted her shoulder. “Keep a watch out, for now.”

  “I wish I knew how to do that. I don’t know much about self-­defense; always did my fighting in the courtroom.” In a troubled voice, she said, “I don’t want to get a gun.”

  The judge shook his head as Elsie continued, thinking aloud, “Lord knows I’m antigun. I hate guns. But should I be armed, if there’s a threat?”

  Judge Rountree dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “Don’t be fooling with a gun. Guns are dangerous in the hands of ­people who don’t know how to use them.” Sighing, he added, “What you need, Miss Arnold, is a husband.”

  Her temper flared and she couldn’t hold her tongue. “Why don’t you tell Nixon to get a wife?”

  The judge looked taken aback. “I meant no offense, Miss Arnold.”

  She stood, still affronted; how dare he attribute her vulnerability to her marital status? Stiffly, she said, “If that’s all, I need to go.”

  He nodded, and did not try to pat her again. “Let’s get this one tied up. Then we’ll all sleep better.”

  As Elsie and Nixon left the judge’s office, Nixon whispered, “God damn! They think you’re an abomination.”

  “Back off, Nixon,” Elsie snapped.

  Chapter Thirty

  ELSIE TUGGED AT the bottom drawer of the file cabinet behind the receptionist’s desk. “Stacie, I need blank subpoenas, and I need them right now. Please don’t tell me we don’t have any.”

  Stacie spun her chair around and regarded Elsie with an anxious face. “I need to tell you something weird.”

  Elsie knelt before the cabinet with a room temperature can of Diet Coke, a remnant from an earlier day. Though it was flat and hot, she drank it in a desperate bid to clear the taste from her mouth. She took a swig, swished it around in her mouth and swallowed as she flipped through a folder that contained, to her relief, a handful of pink subpoena forms behind a stack of criminal background check forms. “Okay, Stacie, so what’s weird?”

  “You have a mystery witness. He keeps calling. He called while you were in court.”

  Elsie straightened to a stand, holding tight to her subpoenas. Eyes trained on Stacie, she took another sip of flat soda before asking, “Who called?”

  “He didn’t leave a name. He won’t tell me who he is.” Adopting a defensive tone, Stacie said, “I can’t help it if ­people won’t leave a name. It’s not like I can make them.”

  Wary, she asked, “What did he say?”

  “He said he knew you’d want to hear from him. He said, ‘Tell the little lady I want to talk to her.’ That’s what he called you. ‘Little lady.’ ”

  The message started a chill up Elsie’s spine. This man was not one of the egg-­throwing rabble; he represented a different problem.

  “Did he have a hick accent?”

  “Yeah. I mean, most ­people do. But this guy creeps me out. It’s the Taney case, isn’t it?” Stacie demanded, in a voice that held an accusatory note.

  “If I had to guess right or die.”

  Stacie’s face was unhappy. Standing up behind her desk, she leaned over and peered through the glass doorway. “That Taney case is spooky. It’s pulling in a bunch of weirdos. I’m afraid something will happen here. I’m the one at the front door of the office. I’m like a sitting duck.”

  For once, Elsie felt a bond with the receptionist. “Stacie, I hear you. I really do,” she said. “I’m in the same boat. All of a sudden, I’m looking over my shoulder all the time.”

  “At least you’ve got a boyfriend who’s a cop. He’ll watch out for you.”

  “Guess you’re right,” Elsie said as she made her way past Stacie’s desk. I’m a liar, she thought. She knew that she couldn’t trust Noah to be there for her.

  Before unlocking her office, she stopped to examine a message Stacie had taped to the door, a pink memo bearing the receptionist’s handwritten addendums: IMPORTANT!!! CRAZY CALL!!!! It was punctuated with stars and exclamation points. The caller line was filled with a big question mark. Underneath, the message read: Said he’ll call back at two!!

  Inside, sitting in her chair, as Elsie logged onto her computer she felt compelled to peer out the window at the street below. Nothing was amiss; she only saw a trickle of traffic and a pedestrian making her way into the courthouse. Satisfied, she turned back to the computer screen.

  With a possible trial date fast approaching, her worries about Charlene’s school controversy needed to be put to rest; it was time to make an important call. A quick computer search turned up the phone number of the school Charlene attended in eighth grade.

  She picked up the phone at her desk and dialed. The line was picked up and a woman said, “Osage Middle School.”

  Elsie sat up straight and readied her pen. “Afternoon,” she said in a cordial tone. “This is Elsie Arnold at the county prosecutor’s office, and I need some information regarding a criminal case.”

  “The guidance counselor is at a meeting.”

  “Well, fortunately, I don’t need to speak with the counselor. I need to talk to a teacher who witnessed an assault at school last year, or it may have been the year before. An assault involving an eighth grade student named Charlene Taney. Can you help me out?”

  “I wasn’t here last year.”

  Closing her eyes, she counted to ten.

  “Put me through to the principal, please.”

  “He’s at a meeting.”

  A flush washed over her face. “Would you give him a message, please?”

  “I’ll put you through to his voice mail,” and with that the woman was gone. Elsie listened to the recorded voice of the Osage Middle School principal, directing her to leave her name, her student’s name, her number, and the reason for the call.

  Working hard to keep the impatience from her voice, she related the particulars of the court case and explained the information she sought. She barely recited the digits of her return phone number when a buzz terminated the message.

  Slamming the phone receiver into the cradle, she told the phone, “I’ll subpoena your ass down here if you don’t get back with me pretty damned quick.”

 
A glance at the clock revealed that it was almost two. Elsie muttered, “Let’s talk, Brother Taney.”

  Since the day Ashlock had stormed the county jail on her behalf and learned that Kris Taney was not her anonymous caller, she’d figured out who the caller must be. She hoped it was Al Taney resurfacing, and that he would come forward and testify. She could use him.

  The insistent ring of the phone on her desk interrupted her thoughts. Before reaching for the receiver, she paused for just a moment to don her mental armor.

  “Elsie Arnold,” she said in a smooth voice.

  Silence greeted her. She waited it out, refusing to speak again before the caller did. Finally he broke the silence. “You ready to talk, little lady?”

  Elsie wrote ready to talk? on her notepad as she answered, “Sure.”

  She heard the man cough into the receiver, a phlegm-­filled retch. When he recovered, he said, “I got something you need.”

  “Tell me what that might be.”

  “Information. Testimony. You got a case you need me on.”

  “What case?”

  “Taney.”

  She leaned back in her chair, studying the stained ceiling without seeing it. “What information can you provide about the Taney case?”

  “I’m the dude who busted the whole case wide-­open. Wouldn’t be no case if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Right. Al Taney.”

  “You got it.” He spoke with a note of satisfaction. “Guilty as charged.”

  Al Taney was already getting under her skin, but she tried to keep her voice neutral. “You were subpoenaed to come testify at the preliminary hearing in your brother’s case, Mr. Taney. You didn’t appear.”

  “That’s right. Guilty as charged.”

  Though the repetition grated on her, she hid it; he might supply something she needed.

  “I’d like to have a chance to meet you,” she said. “The case may be going to trial soon.”

  “You’ll need me at that trial, I bet.”

  “Well, I’d like to hear what you might contribute.”