The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  “No, and I don’t expect him for a minute. Here,” she said, tossing a slim file across her desk, “you’ll need to review this quickly before he gets here.” As Elsie reached for the file, Madeleine stood up and pulled a bejeweled key chain from her handbag. She was exquisitely dressed in a winter white suit with a pearl brooch, not a hair of her smartly bobbed head out of place. Madeleine had been a beauty in her day, Elsie knew from the glamour shots in her office; but as she entered middle age, she had permitted a plastic surgeon to tinker with her face, and with her Botox-­injected forehead, collagen lips, and eyebrows pulled up a bit too high, she’d developed a scary look.

  Elsie looked at her with surprise. “Where are you going?”

  Madeleine paused just long enough to give her an imperious glance. “I have a meeting. I’m having brunch with the president of the Rotary. We’re planning a fund-­raiser for the Girls’ Club.”

  “But what about our case preparation?”

  “You need to get to work on it.” Madeleine pulled on a pair of expensive tan leather gloves, picked up the Burberry trench coat draped over a chair and gave it a shake. “Call me this afternoon and tell me how it’s going. I want to hear about the witness. But don’t interrupt me at this meeting.” Then she swept out of the room.

  Elsie had never really liked her boss, but now Madeleine dropped even lower in her estimation. Madeleine Thompson had obtained her political position through a gubernatorial appointment, which the prior governor bestowed out of gratitude to her husband, a generous longtime supporter. As a young attorney in the 1980s, Madeleine was the first woman to practice law in McCown County and showed great promise, taking on criminal appointments and representing them with panache. But then she’d married the local John Deere distributor. In rural Missouri, the only person with more money than the John Deere distributor was the man with two dealerships. Madeleine’s husband had three. She quit practicing.

  When middle age progressed and she tired of being a social matron, Madeleine wanted to toy with politics, and found her opportunity when the current state prosecutor was appointed to an opening on the circuit bench. The governor at the time, a young man with little experience and even less legal background, gladly handed the position to her and considered the political debt to her husband paid in full.

  Madeleine clearly enjoyed the spotlight, and the job of prosecutor certainly provided the attention she wanted; but she was not work brittle, and her trial skills were rusty. So she tended to take high-­profile cases for herself and plead them cheaply, which appalled Elsie. Is this what Madeleine had planned for the Taney case?

  After her boss’s exit, Elsie walked down the hallway to her office, acutely aware of how quiet the building was on a Saturday morning. She settled into her padded chair, rubbing her forehead and wishing she had some Advil. She wished, too, that Noah would call and clear the air; their spat was hanging over her like a dark cloud. She checked her phone just in case, but there were no texts or calls.

  She shook her head to clear it. I’ve got more to do than think about his bullshit, she reminded herself.

  Resolutely, Elsie pulled her chair to her desk and reviewed the file. There wasn’t much to it: an incident report from a police officer made reference to a juvenile court file, which was not duplicated for confidentiality reasons. From the police report she learned that Kris Taney lived at a residence in Barton with a wife and a girlfriend, had three minor daughters with his wife and an infant son by the girlfriend. She checked his DOB: he was thirty-­six years old. He had an older brother, Al Taney, who had cooperated with the police when they interrogated him as a witness.

  She studied Al Taney’s affidavit in preparation for the interview. His statement contained allegations capable of setting her hair on fire. He claimed that his brother regularly had relations with two of his young daughters, maybe all three; and that he also had a sexual relationship with the girlfriend he kept on the premises.

  Al Taney had told police that Kris was also involved in the production and distribution of controlled substances, but the police hadn’t found any evidence of illegal drug activity on the property when they took Kris Taney into custody. The report noted that Al’s face was battered and bruised; when the reporting officer asked about his injuries, he attributed them to his brother. Al had stated that Kris was dangerous and told the police they needed to step in before something terrible happened.

  Elsie checked the language of the criminal complaint that Madeleine had prepared and filed: it said the rapes occurred “at some time within the past five years.” She circled the language with a red pen. That would never stand up; they needed a date of offense. She’d have to pin Al Taney down when she talked to him, and amend the complaint before the preliminary hearing.

  She checked her watch, frowning; it was way past ten. Al Taney was supposed to ring the bell that sounded in the Prosecutor’s Office when he arrived at the courthouse, and there was no way she could have missed him. You could hear that bell in the next county. She reread the file, pulled out a clean legal pad and jotted down questions to ask him.

  Engrossed in her work, she lost track of time. After preparing several pages of interview questions and an outline of the reports, she remembered to check the clock. It was nearly noon. This guy wasn’t showing up.

  Well, she thought, if Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, and gathered up the file with her notepad. She had Al Taney’s address. She’d just pay him a visit.

  But first she had to get her damned car.

  Chapter Two

  ELSIE’S GRAY 2001 Ford Escort waited for her right where she’d left it in the parking lot of Baldknobbers bar, several blocks from the courthouse. It sat under a weathered painting on the side of the bar, depicting a grinning hillbilly smoking a corncob pipe. It was a historically inaccurate image; the Baldknobbers, Elsie knew, had been a secret band of vigilantes living in the Ozark hills over a century ago who covered their heads with scary-­looking bags to hide their identities. They purportedly organized to fight lawlessness in the Ozarks, meeting on the bald knob of a hill to don their horned masks, turn their clothes inside out, and warn off pig thieves and other wrongdoers with the threat of a flogging with hickory sticks. Predictably, the men who claimed to combat lawlessness became the problem as the Baldknobbers’ acts of vigilante justice escalated to murder. Elsie sincerely hoped she wasn’t descended from them, but there was no telling.

  She shut herself inside the car in a hurry. The January wind blew cold, and she’d lacked the presence of mind that morning to bring a scarf or gloves. The Ford started right up; though Elsie often fantasized about driving something red and sleek and foreign, her car was as dependable as clockwork.

  Dependable though it was, the Ford was too old to feature GPS, and her phone sometimes proved unreliable for navigation, so she kept a city map torn from an old phone book in the glove box. She took it out and studied it for a minute, searching for the unfamiliar address. It was on the wrong side of the tracks, sure enough, but she didn’t feel too apprehensive about making a visit at this hour of the day. She had her county ID, and anyway, she wasn’t the timid type. She got her bearings and drove out of the parking lot headed north.

  Now that she was on the road, the gnawing feeling in Elsie’s stomach captured her attention. She hadn’t eaten all day, but was reluctant to lose her momentum. The McDonald’s down the road presented a solution, and she pulled into the drive-­through lane.

  “I’ll have a cheeseburger and a forty-­two-­ounce Diet Coke,” she told the voice inside the speaker box.

  “Do you want fries with that?” the box inquired.

  “No,” Elsie said, then amended that. “Oh, what the heck. Yes, I’ll have a small fry. The size that comes in the little bag.” It was justified—­she needed some grease and salt to fortify her.

  She ate while she drove, keeping a sharp eye out as she searched for her witness�
��s neighborhood. Barton was not a big town, but she wasn’t familiar with this area. She pulled up in front of 985 North High Street.

  It was a peeling white American foursquare that had once been stately but clearly had suffered neglect and fallen into disrepair, and at some point was chopped into apartment units. Elsie pulled her county badge out of her purse, shoved the purse under the front seat, and grabbed her file. Taking care to lock the car, she thrust her keys in her pants pocket. She felt a little flutter of nerves; she considered herself a plucky gal, but something about this tumbledown house conjured up an image from an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Hopefully, her witness would not channel Norman Bates.

  Screwing up her courage, she headed for the door, nearly tripping on the cracked pavement path. She had to step carefully toward the sagging porch, where a jumble of makeshift mailboxes hung beside the door. She studied them, trying to determine which one might belong to her witness. The boxes bore peeling layers of Scotch tape and hand-­scrawled names, signs that the tenants did not stay at this High Street residence for long.

  She finally made out the name Taney on the mailbox for apartment 1B. In the building’s entryway and found a door marked 1B in black marker, gave the door a decisive rap and waited. No response. She knocked again, and waited again, to no avail. She counted to ten, then knocked a third time. Then a small commotion behind her, the rattle of a doorknob and angry murmurs.

  Hearing a harsh voice whisper “Hush your mouth,” Elsie whirled around as the door across the hall opened briefly and the occupant of Apt. 1A peeked out at her. “Can you help me?” she began, but the door closed as quickly as it had opened.

  Stepping across, she knocked briskly. When she got no response, she called through the door: “I don’t want to bother you, but I need to talk to your neighbor. Can you tell me who lives across from you? Please open the door.”

  She heard a hushed exchange within, followed by silence. After another moment, the door opened again and a woman stood in the doorway, glaring at her suspiciously.

  “Well, hello,” Elsie said in her friendliest tone. “I’m so sorry to trouble you on this awfully cold day, but I have an appointment with Mr. Taney, and I’m having trouble reaching him. Do you know him?”

  The woman looked at her as if she’d inquired after the devil. “What do you want him for?” she asked, an unmasked note of dread in her voice. Her face was skeletal, with an unhealthy pallor, and her long dark hair was lank. The smell of mildew in the woman’s apartment hit Elsie like a fist. “He’s not in here,” she added, though Elsie had not asked.

  “Al Taney is a witness in a court case next week,” she said, “and I want to talk to him. See, I’m an attorney at the Prosecutor’s Office; this is my badge.” She offered her ID to the neighbor for her inspection. The woman took it and gazed at it for a long minute. When she looked up at Elsie, her expression was less hostile.

  “So it’s Al you’re looking for. You’re not here for Kris.”

  “No,” Elsie assured her. “Kris Taney is the defendant. I’m looking for Al; he’s the witness for the prosecution. I want to run through some facts that Al will cover in his testimony next week.”

  “Well, Al won’t give no testimony,” the woman said as she handed Elsie back her ID, “because he’s gone.”

  “I know; I knocked and knocked, but he didn’t answer. Would you have any idea when he might return?”

  “He ain’t gonna return, because he done gone.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a phone number where I could reach Mr. Taney?” Elsie ventured. The police reports had not listed a phone contact for him.

  The woman’s laugh was a short hoot low in her throat. “Al ain’t got no phone. He’s gone.” She shut the door in Elsie’s face.

  Elsie stared blankly at the door. It was covered with old white paint, cracked and peeled like an alligator’s hide; a sure sign of lead paint, her mother had taught her. This was a house where important matters were neglected. She turned on her heel and walked back to the car.

  She settled into the driver’s seat and fished her phone out of her bag. Man oh man, this was a call she didn’t want to make. She took a breath, held it, and blew it out. Then she called Madeleine, to tell her that she couldn’t find the star witness.

  Madeleine’s casual reaction surprised her. “Oh, well, if he’s not there, he’s not there. We’ll have to get somebody else. What other witnesses did we subpoena for the hearing next week?” Elsie could almost see her shrug.

  “That’s just the problem, Madeleine,” she said, pressing on. “We need Al Taney to make our case at the preliminary hearing. The only other witness we’ve called is the Social Ser­vices worker, and she can’t testify about the elements of the offense because she wasn’t there.”

  After only a brief pause Madeleine said, “We’ll just have to use the social worker. She can testify about the allegations that were made to her.”

  “No, she can’t; that’s hearsay. The judge won’t let her testify about what someone told her.”

  “Well, then,” Madeleine said impatiently, “we’ll introduce her report.”

  “But we can’t, Madeleine; that’s hearsay, too. The judge won’t make a probable cause finding based on that.” Elsie silently cursed the governor for appointing a lawyer whose trial experience had been cut short decades ago.

  “Well, we’ll figure something out by Wednesday. Look, I’m at the hairdresser and I’ve got to get off. I’ll see you at the office Monday morning.” Then Madeline ended the call without waiting for her response.

  Elsie sat back and rubbed her temples. That was it, then. She started the car and drove home, looking forward to her warm apartment. She was weary and bone-­tired, and more than anything, wanted to wrap up in a quilt and stretch out on her sofa.

  Chapter Three

  ELSIE’S APARTMENT WAS small and snug, just as she liked it. The living room window looked out onto a schoolyard and the Ozark hills rising in the distance. The cozy kitchen was filled by her grandmother’s red and gray linoleum kitchen table and chairs, while the bedroom barely accommodated the double bed and dresser from her childhood. The rooms were sparsely furnished with an eclectic mix of old and new: she had purchased a green velvet couch and easy chair for her living room, and a flat-­screen television with all the bells and whistles, but the remaining pieces were hand-­me-­down odds and ends, blond and maple furniture that relatives no longer wanted.

  By nine o’clock her wish for a quiet Saturday evening on the couch was finally coming true. Dressed in a soft flannel nightshirt and her old blue terry-­cloth robe, she curled up under a patchwork quilt. Her hair, damp from a hot shower, smelled of coconut shampoo. The television remote was at hand, resting on the coffee table next to a bag of Lay’s potato chips and a dish of Hershey’s Kisses. She drank from a tall glass of iced tea, holding an open copy of The National Enquirer on her lap. Underneath that was the Taney file.

  She turned the pages of the tabloid, idly reading, too distracted to pass judgment on the fashion mistakes at the Golden Globes. She still hadn’t heard from Noah, and the resounding silence troubled her. She picked up her cell phone and toyed with it; she could dial his number and put an end to the wait but rebelled against the idea. Noah was the offender, she thought, and so he should be the one to initiate the call. She just wished he’d hurry up and do it.

  Elsie turned on the screen and checked her texts, just in case. A new message had escaped her notice, from Ashlock: You okay?

  The question made her face flush, reminding her of his grip as he pulled her to her feet the night before. She hit Reply, but stared at the phone, wondering whether she owed him a lengthy explanation. After a moment, she responded, Fine! Thanks! and hit Send.

  Setting the phone and gossip rag down, she took a swig of tea and began to examine the Taney file. As she read, digesting the case, her focus narrowed and her personal c
oncerns faded. The file didn’t reflect a thoroughly investigated case, and she realized that the three sex charges against Kris Taney had been filed prematurely. The allegations didn’t sound fabricated; everything rang true, but it all seemed incomplete. Madeleine had rushed to file before the case was ready, and that could lead to disaster. If their errant witness—­the mysterious Al Taney—­failed to appear and testify at the preliminary hearing on Thursday, the case would be dismissed and Kris Taney would walk free. The rape and incest charges would disappear like smoke. And she couldn’t let that happen again.

  She examined the notes she’d made at the courthouse that morning. At the top: FIND AL TANEY. Underneath: police interviews—­daughters, wife, girlfriend—­in that order. She needed specific recollections of acts by the defendant that constituted sexual assault and child abuse, and they had to pin those acts to dates and places. Shuffling through the pages of the reports, she checked the social worker’s statement again, to see if the woman heard the allegations in the daughters’ own words, which the report confirmed.

  Elsie wondered what event precipitated the accusations against the father, since the report didn’t reference any particular family crisis. As a prosecutor who had handled many of these cases, she knew that a strict code of silence generally accompanied a family history of abuse, and something must have happened to crack it. She knew all too well the ways in which terrible wrongs could be hidden from the world.

  Elsie had first learned about the tragedy of incest in seventh grade, when a friend from school, Angela Choate, accused her stepfather of sexual abuse. Angela had confided in her mother, who reported it to the police. The stepfather was charged with statutory rape, and the local paper followed the case with breathless fascination because he was a prominent businessman, a big shot in the Shriners and the Chamber of Commerce. But ultimately the case crumbled. Angela became a reluctant witness, traumatized by the media attention and the stress of public testimony. Her mother filed for divorce, moved with her daughter to Kansas City, and the charge against the stepfather was reduced to misdemeanor assault.