The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  The tears ran onto her sore lip, stinging. She wiped them away with a jerk, thinking, I’ve got him. The enormity of the realization took a moment to sink in. “Got him, got him, got him,” she whispered. She would bet a hundred dollar bill that the Polaroids bore fingerprints, and those fingerprints would belong to Kris Taney. Moreover, she was confident that his hair, his DNA, would be on the jacket that had held the photos. Her bare-­bones incest case had just become very solid. Most scientific.

  “We’re going to nail him to the wall, Charlene,” she vowed. She had pornographic pictures of her witness, which she could use to corroborate the girls’ testimony regarding the defendant’s conduct with his daughters. Maybe they would bring new charges based on the pictures. The possibilities filled her head as she took a swig of coffee from her cup. Elsie winced. “This is vile,” she said aloud. A cup of tea was in order, she thought.

  With renewed energy, she turned on the faucet to heat water in a saucepan, and stood by the stove waiting for it to boil. She needed another dose of caffeine, because the advent of the new evidence meant she needed to draft a Motion for Continuance. Much as she hated to delay the case, she knew that DNA analysis was beyond the abilities of local law enforcement. The jacket must be sent to the state lab at the Missouri State Highway Patrol, and the testing would take time. It would be worth it, though. To show the jury a pocket full of naked pictures bearing Kris Taney’s fingerprints from a pocket of Kris Taney’s coat was an evidentiary gold mine.

  She turned and checked the digital clock on her stove: 12:45 A.M. She opened her laptop and set to work.

  As she hoped, she was in bed by 2:00 A.M., but the discovery of the new evidence was so exciting that she couldn’t get to sleep. Her head spun with the things she needed to do: talk to Charlene about the pictures, find out whether he photographed the other girls, and see what Donita knew about it. She watched as the bedside clock clicked to 3:00 A.M., then to 4:00 A.M. When it hit four-­thirty, she decided that in a minute or so she would get out of bed and get an early start on the day.

  With that, she dropped off to sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-­Five

  ELSIE TRUNDLED OFF the courthouse elevator with difficulty on Monday morning, juggling the cardboard box of Taney’s possessions in addition to her usual burdens. She had managed to convey the double armload from her car to the courthouse without dropping anything onto the wet pavement, but only by luck. She was reminded of her mother, who would ask her to bring in the groceries and then reprimand her for attempting to bring all of the bags in at once. “Make two trips,” Marge would cry shrilly as canned goods rolled out of the bags and onto the kitchen floor.

  Nothing hit the floor until she reached her own office, where the Taney file slipped from her grasp and papers scattered. She set the battered box of Taney’s belongings carefully on the floor, between her file cabinet and the trash can. The contents were neatly folded and labeled, with the bag bearing the canvas jacket on top. The clear plastic bag containing the Polaroids of Charlene and the white envelope was tucked securely inside the box for safekeeping. She took the pictures out with a cautious hand and made a single copy of each one on the office copy machine, then slipped them back in the plastic bag and into the cardboard box, folding down the dirty cardboard flaps. She then knelt on the floor, swiftly gathering her scattered paperwork into a neat stack.

  She paused to check her reflection in the office mirror. Assessing the swelling on her mouth, she considered whether she should volunteer an explanation or wait for ­people to ask. Best to let others broach it, she decided. Just act like it’s no big deal.

  A blinking light on her office phone indicated voice mail. She picked up the receiver and pushed a button and a man’s voice came over the line: “This is Mitchell Holmes. I teach science at Osage Middle School . . . ”

  Elsie picked up a pen, prepared to scribble down any particulars.

  “The principal gave me your message—­the one about Charlene Taney. I’m the teacher who walked in on Charlene and three boys in the bathroom. I’d be glad to come down to the courthouse and tell you what I know, but it isn’t much. I didn’t see anything.”

  She dropped the pen, deflated.

  “They were in a stall. I heard a commotion, but I didn’t see an assault with my own eyes. That’s why the school wasn’t sure how to handle it; we had the boys saying one thing and Charlene saying another, and I couldn’t tell them exactly what went on.

  “It’s been a while, but I think Charlene went to the principal at some point and said she made it up. Seems like that’s what happened. So, I don’t know what else to tell you. Awful sorry.” The message cut off.

  Elsie hung up the receiver. “Damn,” she said aloud. “Good thing I’ve got those Polaroids. I couldn’t salvage Charlene otherwise.”

  Nedra leaned in the open doorway. “I have correspondence for you,” she said.

  “What is it?” Elsie asked, puzzled. Nedra never delivered mail. Stacie generally sorted the correspondence and dropped it on the attorneys’ desks.

  Nedra handed an envelope to her without comment. The return address was Missouri Supreme Court, Office of Disciplinary Counsel, and it was addressed to Elsie Arnold, Attorney at Law and marked “Personal and Confidential.”

  “Hey, Nedra,” she called, hopping out of her chair and addressing Nedra’s retreating figure. “This has been opened.”

  Nedra answered over her shoulder. “It came on Friday when you were in court. Madeleine wanted to take a look at it.”

  Elsie pulled the two sheets of paper out of the envelope. The cover letter, sent by the ethics counsel of the bar, stated that an ethics complaint had been lodged against her; a copy was attached. It directed her to respond to the complaint in writing within thirty days. “What the hell,” she said aloud, as a wave of anxiety rolled over her. She flipped to the second page. It was a copy of a document claiming that on January 13, Elsie Arnold had violated the Missouri Rules of Professional Conduct: specifically, Rule 4–3.8(f), which prohibits prosecuting attorneys from commenting on pending cases. The complaint said, “Ms. Elsie Arnold made extrajudicial comments that heightened public condemnation of the accused, when she made statements to reporters following the preliminary hearing in State v. Taney.” The Public Defender’s Office had signed the complaint.

  Elsie looked up and around, hoping someone could explain it away. Letter in hand, she walked to Madeleine’s office and was about to knock on the door when Nedra said from her cubicle, “Don’t bother. She’s meeting with the County Commission.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Dunno.”

  Elsie ran to Breeon’s office then, and not finding her there, kept going, searching the courts for her. She wanted someone to share her dismay.

  As she rounded the corner to the second floor stairway, she nearly collided with Josh Nixon.

  “You!” she said hotly. “How dare you?”

  “What?” he asked, backing away as he sensed the anger radiating off of her. “What’s wrong?” With a curious look, he added, “What happened to your face?”

  “Don’t change the subject. And don’t act so innocent. You’re trying to destroy my professional standing.” Her voice was shrill and cracked as she spoke. She was so agitated that she felt a little dizzy. She reached out for the brass handrail for support.

  “Elsie,” Nixon said, the picture of sincerity, “I don’t have a clue what you mean.”

  When she told him about the letter from the ethics counsel, he winced and looked away. To her it was an admission, but he denied lodging the complaint against her. It had come from his office, but not from him.

  “So you knew it was coming; you knew it was in the works.”

  “No, honest to God, I only knew they talked about it after the preliminary hearing. The Defender’s Office is tired of ­people in the Prosecutor’s Office working th
e press. Madeleine is forever calling some damn press conference where she wants to convict a guy without the benefit of a trial. Her predecessor played that game, too. The public defender has been planning to make an example of someone in the Prosecutor’s Office who shoots his mouth off about a pending case.”

  “You told them! You told your office that I commented about the Taney case.”

  Josh looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.

  “Elsie, I didn’t have to tell them. It was on the evening news. They got a copy of the newscast from the television station the next day.”

  “Oh. Huh.” He was right about that. Her statements were hardly secret.

  He had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Still dizzy, she sat down on the marble step and looked up at him. After a moment she said, “Hell, no. I wouldn’t take anything from you.”

  Regretfully, Nixon said, “I hate this, I really do. I’m going to get you that coffee. I’ll bring it up here. Wait for me.”

  Elsie didn’t reply. She stared at the letter in her hands and thought about the work involved in three years of law school, passing the bar examination, all so she could receive a license to practice law in Missouri. A license that could be revoked, if the bar association wished.

  Elsie buried her head in her hands. Since she was nineteen years old, all she’d wanted to do was practice law. She wanted to fight injustice, stand up for the underdog, and change things for the better. Her goal was the guiding force throughout her education, spurring her to study criminology and political science in college, to burn the midnight oil in law school. She wasn’t qualified to do anything else. And yet, her profession could disappear with the stroke of a pen.

  After a while her breathing returned to normal. Her perch on the marble steps blocking traffic, ­people looked at her askance as they stepped around her. With an effort, Elsie rose and made her way to a hallway bench on the third floor.

  She sat alone on the bench until Nixon, bearing a cup of coffee, managed to find her.

  “Here,” he said, offering it to her.

  She shook her head.

  “Okay. You don’t have to take the coffee. But we’ve got to talk. You haven’t made me a plea bargain offer yet on Taney.”

  “I don’t intend to. Especially now. The backstabbing public defender is getting no buddy treatment from me today. Besides, I don’t have any reason to give you a break. My case is airtight. I’m holding out for the maximum penalty.”

  With her confidence returning, she told him about her discovery of the photos.

  “If it even is his jacket,” Nixon argued, lifting the lid from the coffee he’d brought for her and taking a swig. “She could have thrown her boyfriend’s jacket in that box, for all we know. Anyone could have taken the photos.” Despite his protests, Elsie could tell he was rattled by the discovery.

  “So we’ll send it to the state lab,” she said. “They’ll tell if it’s his jacket. Their hotdog fingerprint man can look at the photos and that envelope. But we can’t get all that done by Monday. I’ll need a continuance.”

  “Great.”

  “So now you can think about your other hundreds of clients,” she said, rising from the bench. She knew that overload at the Public Defender’s Office in Missouri had reached crisis level. “Come down to my office for copies of my new motion and the Polaroids. I want you to take them right now. I don’t want you filing an ethics complaint against me for failing to disclose evidence.”

  When they reached Elsie’s office, the Taney file, along with the copies she’d made for Nixon, rested where she’d set it on her desk that morning. The box of Taney’s possessions was missing.

  “Well, that’s weird,” Elsie muttered, looking under her desk. “It was right here.”

  “I’m going to take my copies.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said as she searched. She poked around her office and looked in the reception area; it was a big enough box that it wouldn’t be easy to overlook, but she couldn’t find it.

  “Someone took it,” she said, but only to herself. She stalked down the hallway, panic and indignation driving her. “Nedra,” she hollered, “where the hell is that Taney stuff?”

  The door to Madeleine’s office flew open, and she stood in the doorway, a look of cold displeasure on her face.

  “I need to talk to you,” Madeleine said.

  “Later, Madeleine, okay? I’m looking for my evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “My Taney evidence. It was sitting in my office and now it’s gone.” She poked her head in an empty office across the hall but it was not there.

  “Why would anyone take it? Was it in a file folder?”

  Elsie blanched. “It was in a box. A cardboard box.”

  “Was it secure? Was your office locked?”

  “I always lock it up. But I dropped my file on the floor. Then I got this letter,” she finished lamely, holding the letter out where Madeleine could see it.

  Madeleine shot her a frigid look. “The letter. We need to talk about that.”

  “After I find my box. It has crucial evidence inside, my smoking gun.”

  Shouldering Elsie out of the way, Madeleine walked down to the reception area. Elsie followed, her breathing shallow. “Stacie,” Madeleine said, “did you see anyone go into Elsie’s office?”

  “No.”

  Elsie shook her head with confusion; how could it disappear into thin air? Who would even want it, other than her and Josh Nixon?

  “Just Ed Montee.”

  Elsie gasped. Ed Montee was the janitor. Running into her office, she picked up her waste basket. Earlier that morning it held a brown apple core and empty soda cups. Now it was empty. “He took it,” she wailed. “He took it out with the trash.”

  Madeleine appeared at her shoulder. “Was it marked?”

  “No,” Elsie said, shaking her head with horror. “It was in a cardboard box, from the Taney house.” Wildly, she made for the door. “I’ve got to find Montee. I’ve got to stop him.”

  “Come to my office; I’ll call,” Madeleine ordered, turning on her heel and walking down the hall with a military step. Elsie had no choice but to follow.

  Picking up her office land line, Madeleine dialed the McCown County operator. “LaDonna, connect me with the custodial office.”

  Standing beside Madeleine’s desk, Elsie waited to hear the fate of the evidence box, twisting her hands as Madeleine waited on the line. Closing her eyes, she offered up a frantic prayer. Dear God, please let me get the evidence back. I’ll do anything, just let me get it back.

  Elsie opened her eyes when she heard Madeleine say, “That’s it, then. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

  She hung up the phone with a click. Fixing Elsie with an accusatory glare, she said, “Monday is trash day.”

  “Oh?” Elsie croaked.

  “The trash from the second floor has already been incinerated. Checking her watch, she added, “Fifteen minutes ago.”

  At the word “incinerated,” Elsie nearly blacked out. She heard Madeleine’s voice as if it were coming from a tunnel, asking, “What did you lose?”

  She whispered, “Pictures. Polaroids of one of the Taney victims. Naked.” In a shaking voice, she said, “I guess I should’ve taken it to the property room at the P.D.”

  “You think?” Madeleine responded with venom. Leaning back in her chair, she said, “Close the door.”

  Uh-­oh. Even through her fog of dismay, she smelled trouble. She walked to the door, gave it a push, and walked away without waiting for it to click shut.

  When she took a seat, Madeleine was staring at her. “What’s wrong with your face?”

  “Nothing. I ran into a cabinet.” Elsie stopped as soon as the w
ords were spoken, realizing she had borrowed Donita Taney’s excuse.

  Madeleine surveyed her over crimson reading glasses studded with little crystals. “When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it.”

  Elsie didn’t respond immediately. The women stared at each other. Finally, Elsie broke the silence. “Madeleine, I’m not getting you-­—­maybe because all I can think about is losing that evidence. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I sent word on Friday that you were to come see me, and you never showed. That’s insubordination.”

  Elsie rubbed her forehead with her fingers. She had a dull ache that threatened to grow severe. “Friday was a pretty crazy day, Madeleine. I had that bond hearing in Circuit Court, and a conference in chambers with Rountree, and I ran over to the Taneys’ to serve subpoenas. I didn’t really have an opportunity to come and see you.”

  Madeleine folded her hands together on the desk, and Elsie studied her boss’s pale pink manicure and the eye-­popping diamond adorning her left hand. When Madeleine cleared her throat, it struck Elsie that this conversation had been rehearsed in Madeleine’s head in advance.

  “Your explanation doesn’t wash. I don’t buy it. But this is only one of a long list of complaints I have. For example, the Disciplinary Committee of the Missouri Bar has commenced an ethics investigation of you.”

  Elsie fidgeted in her chair. “Hey, Madeleine, I don’t mean to be overly sensitive, but wasn’t that marked ‘Personal and Confidential’? I’m not sure I understand why you opened it Friday.”

  “Friday, when you were too busy to talk to me,” Madeleine said in a mocking tone, then turned on a voice that was deadly serious. “It came to the Prosecutor’s Office. I am the Prosecuting Attorney of McCown County.”

  “Well, I got to the bottom of that whole ethics thing this morning. The public defender is trying to make an example of me, to shut us up in the Prosecutor’s Office. They’re tired of us talking to the press; they hate it when you call press conferences. This is as much about you as it is about me.”