by Nancy Allen
Elsie never saw Angela again. But during her junior year of college at the University of Missouri, her mother had called with tragic news she’d heard at church—that Angela was dead, of an apparent suicide. It was whispered in Barton that the stepfather had remarried and was abusing the teenage daughter of his new wife. The theory was floated that when word reached Angela, she’d blamed herself.
Though it had been years since Elsie thought about Angela, the news sent her into a deep funk. There weren’t many girls who grew up and left Barton, and remembering Angela as a quiet but intelligent classmate, she’d hoped her old friend had found happiness after leaving Barton. Stricken and angry, thinking about Angela’s suicide, and sick to death of the secrets kept in towns like Barton, Elsie had gotten drunk on cheap wine at the Heidelberg bar across the street from campus, stumbled home, and slept through her morning classes the next day. But as she lay numb on the worn sofa of her student apartment, she’d had what she felt qualified as an epiphany, given the aimlessness of her college life till then: she had a calling. She would go to law school so she could fight to protect children like Angela, trapped in abusive homes. For real change to happen, abusers like Angela’s stepfather had to be penalized.
Now, concentrating on the Taney case, Elsie scribbled another note: Check old police reports for domestic disturbance calls on Kris Taney. Then, after a moment’s thought, she added: Talk to daughter’s teachers—did they see or hear anything that corroborates the charges? She wondered if anyone had made a mandated reporter call. A Missouri statute required teachers to report signs and allegations of abuse to Social Services. She looked again at the language of the three-count complaint that bore Madeleine’s signature and realized it would never stand up. Taney might be the worst kind of child molester, but they’d have to flesh out the case and amend the language of the charge to make it fly.
Her spurt of productivity was interrupted by the buzz of the cell phone. Elsie snatched it up and looked at the caller ID; Noah, at last. She wondered how she should sound. Mad? Hurt? Forgiving?
The phone buzzed again and she quickly answered, lest he give up.
“Hey,” she said, keeping her tone noncommittal.
“Hey, there,” he replied.
There was a pause, one she was determined not to break. Finally, he spoke.
“How you feeling?”
The question irritated her; she did not intend to serve up any hangover angst for his entertainment.
Tersely, she said, “I’m okay. A little tired. I worked today.”
“I thought you’d be laid out all day, after last night.”
She decided to grab the bull by the horns. “Yeah, about last night. What was the matter with you? Why on earth did you run off like that?”
She heard him sigh into the phone. “I got pissed off.”
“I could see that.”
The phone was silent for a long moment, before Noah said, “You want to know why?”
She was starting to simmer, but she said, “Sure. Tell me.”
“I didn’t see you all week, not one damn time, because you were all tied up. Then we finally meet up at Baldknobbers, and all you wanted to do was talk shop with your witnesses.”
Pressing her cold tea glass against her forehead, she said, “Noah, I was in trial for a week. I have to come down after it’s over.” When he didn’t respond, she added, “You know what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “How’d you get home? Did you drive?”
“No. Ashlock drove me home,” she said, intentionally omitting the circumstances.
“That’s good. That you didn’t drive.” After a pregnant pause, he said, “Sorry I wasn’t there to do it.”
At the word “Sorry,” the tension in Elsie’s chest began to ease. “Okay.”
“Really, I am. I think I must have been kind of drunk, to go off like that.”
“Well, that makes two of us,” she offered, as a concession.
“And you know that you don’t have to worry about Paige.”
She didn’t follow. “What?”
“The woman I was playing pool with: Paige. She works at the crime lab.”
“Oh, yeah. Her.”
Switching topics, he said, “I wish I wasn’t working tomorrow, but I’m pulling the second shift.”
“Yeah, I figured.”
“So I guess I won’t see you till Monday.”
“Monday?” she repeated. “What are we doing Monday?”
“I’m set to testify at the courthouse. I’ll come and see what you’re up to. We’ll get a bite to eat later on.”
Her mood lightened at the prospect. She was tired of eating alone. And they could catch up on some other activities that she’d been missing.
“Okay,” she said with enthusiasm. “I’d really like that.”
“See you Monday, then,” he said.
Once they hung up, she tossed her phone on the table. She was a sucker, she knew. But it was hard to hold a grudge against a man who looked like he could be in movies.
Sometimes Elsie thought that when it came to romance, she had been born under an unlucky star. She wondered, and not for the first time, how she managed to reach the ripe old age of thirty-one without even coming close to a walk down the aisle. Once she stumbled through her awkward adolescence and moved beyond those years of nearsighted angst and acne, she attracted her share of attention from men; she’d been told she was very attractive, and she knew that she had a winning smile and a shining mane of blond hair. Maybe she was built more like an hourglass than a waif, but she found that a buxom girl had plenty of appeal to the opposite sex. Nonetheless, she was still waiting to be lucky in love.
Lots of things came easy to Elsie: academics were a breeze, public speaking was natural, and she could make people laugh. But beneath a veneer of confidence, she battled self-doubt. Was she good enough to ensure that the guilty were convicted? Were her instincts keen enough, was her courtroom advocacy convincing? And on the personal side, did she lack some essential quality men looked for in a mate? Because it seemed to her that finding the right man was like hunting for treasure without a map.
Admittedly, she had a long history of targeting the wrong guy; from high school, when she chased after the star of the basketball team and ignored the star debater who pined for her, through her undergraduate years, partying with frat boys. And in law school, she’d bypassed the quiet scholars in the law library to lounge with a flashy guy in the student bar association office. It never quite worked out.
Four years ago, when she’d returned to her hometown, Elsie had resolved to forget about romance altogether, to keep her nose to the grindstone and hone her professional skills. Barton didn’t offer a generous population of eligible partners anyway. Most men were married, and none of the few singles who remained could be considered a diamond in the rough.
So she wasn’t looking for love when Noah came on the scene. She’d heard some buzz about him from the courthouse clerks: a new cop was in town, fresh from the farm country in the Missouri Bootheel but looking like he stepped off the movie screen. Elsie didn’t credit the reports until she saw him in the flesh, when he appeared as a witness in a liquor store burglary. Putting Noah on the stand, she had the chance to engage with him, and sparks flew. She’d always felt most confident when she was in the courtroom, and with him on the stand calling her ma’am and answering every question with a lopsided grin, the electricity was so hot, she had trouble remembering the direct examination questions she’d prepared. While the defense attorney cross-examined Noah, Elsie sat at her counsel table with her legs tightly crossed and couldn’t stop herself from eye-fucking him between his answers.
They went out for drinks that night. Charmed by his easy “aw shucks” manner and his sheer physical magnificence, she eagerly went home with him and tumbled into his bed
that night. He ate her like ice cream, and she thought: this is it.
But she had learned a lot about Noah since then. A man who’d initially appeared simply perfect was, like everyone, neither simple nor perfect. She could overlook some of his shortcomings, but after passing the milestone of her thirtieth birthday, and then her thirty-first, she began to worry a little. Maybe she was just marking time with Noah; and time was slipping away. Thirty-one years might be regarded as youthful in some places, but in the Ozarks a woman past thirty was over the hill.
Satisfied by the phone call, Elsie peeled the foil from a Hershey’s Kiss. At least Noah Strong looked like a treasure. And she was still hungry for romance. “I think you’re on probation, Noah,” she said aloud. “We’ll see how you behave on Monday.”
Chapter Four
ELSIE GENERALLY MET Monday mornings with dismay, but she was up before the sun today. She felt like her old self again and was anticipating her date night with pleasure. She liked the idea of starting the week on a bright note, she thought as she showered briskly, shaving her legs with smooth strokes. Standing before the foggy bathroom mirror, she applied her makeup with care and chose a brighter shade of lipstick than usual.
After pulling on a pair of slim wool pants and buttoning a tight-cropped blazer over a shiny blue camisole, she checked herself in the mirror. She looked more like a television version of a prosecutor than the real thing, but that suited her just fine; she didn’t want to look dowdy next to that good-looking man. Balancing on the edge of her bed, she grimaced as she pulled on boots with painfully high heels. They killed her feet, but she examined herself with satisfaction: they looked really good. They’d set her back only forty-two bucks at Shoe Carnival. She could find a bargain like nobody’s business.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, she ate half a banana and washed it down with Diet Coke. There was no time for the coffeemaker; she’d get a cup at work. She didn’t want to risk missing Noah when he dropped by to see her. He might have an early court appearance, and she wanted to nail down their plans for the evening.
As she drove her Ford Escort to the courthouse, even the traffic lights accommodated her. It was so early that she thought she might be the first one in the office, but her friend Breeon Johnson already sat behind her desk, checking her e-mail. Elsie stuck her head in the door of Bree’s office.
“ ’Morning, Bree.”
“Hey, ’morning to you. How did it go on Friday?”
“Guilty. They gave him twenty years.”
“That’s great. You did good, honey. The case was falling apart on Thursday.”
“Oh, yes it was.” Elsie leaned against the door frame, struggling out of her winter coat. “So what did you do this weekend?”
“Laundry. Sound glamorous?” Breeon was fiercely devoted to her dual roles as mother and prosecutor. A native of St. Louis, she’d moved to the Ozarks after law school, determined to make a go of her law school marriage. The marriage didn’t work out, but it produced her daughter, Taylor. Breeon’s grit was a quality that served her well, working as the only African-American attorney in a community that still ran largely on the “good ole boy” system.
Like most of southwest Missouri, McCown County had not yet embraced the notion of women in positions of influence or leadership. With the exception of Madeleine Thompson, no women held political office in the city or county; certainly, they did not sit on the bench. To find a woman circuit or associate circuit judge, it was necessary to drive 120 miles in a northerly direction, halfway to St. Louis.
As women practicing criminal law in the Ozarks, both Elsie and Bree had to battle for respect; but without question, Bree’s struggles outnumbered her own. Just several months before, a visiting attorney from Purdy, Missouri, had tossed a file at Bree and told her to make his copies and scare up a cup of coffee. While Elsie stammered in indignation, Bree wasted no time telling the man he could shove that file up his fat white ass.
“What about your weekend?” Bree inquired. “What did you do to celebrate? Did you have some fun?”
“Yeah, I guess. I went to the old Baldknobbers.”
“Oh, don’t tell me that.” Breeon shook her head in disgust. “Why did you go to that old dive?”
“The cops wanted to go there, to get a drink after the trial.”
“Ugh. That place is nasty.”
A memory of her tumble flashed through Elsie’s head. “I’ll never go back. I swear.”
“Liar,” Breeon said, and they both laughed.
“I’m going to get you out there one of these days,” Elsie said.
Bree pushed her chair away from her desk with a skeptical look at her. “I’d do a lot for you, baby girl. But I draw the line at risking my neck in that cracker box.”
Elsie took a step inside the small office and said in a hushed voice, “Hey, something else happened over the weekend. Madeleine brought me in on the Taney case.”
“That’s cool. Good for you.” Bree’s enthusiasm was sincere; she and Elsie were the only female assistant prosecutors on the staff of seven lawyers, and they worked hard to support each other. “What’s up with that guy, anyway? Standard pervert? Addict? Crazy?”
“Sounds pretty standard from the brother’s statement. Just another hillbilly who thinks he’s entitled to nail his daughters.”
“You sure the brother isn’t doing it? Wasn’t he the one who snitched him out?”
“Yeah, the brother went to the police and made the report. Hey, how do you know so much about it?”
“I was in Judge Carter’s court when they brought Taney in, appointed the public defender, and set a preliminary hearing. Judge Carter was chatty, and I got the inside scoop.”
“He’s not too chatty with me,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to keep the circulation moving in her aching toes. “I gotta tell you, Bree, I’m worried about the case. There hasn’t been enough investigative work.”
“What’s missing?”
“The daughters’ statements. There isn’t anything in the file that’s in their own words. I don’t like that.”
“Is Madeleine worried?”
Elsie glanced over her shoulder. “Hell, no. She’s just afraid the case will interfere with her many pressing social engagements.”
Bree shrugged and picked up her coffee cup. “Well, she’s first chair, right? This is her case, not yours, and if she’s not worried, you’re not worried. It’s not in your hands, Ms. Second Chair. You’re the errand girl. You get the coffee.”
“Okay.” Everything Bree told her was true, but it troubled Elsie anyway. “I still can’t believe she brought me in.”
“Why not? You’re damned good.”
“But she can’t stand me.”
Bree waved a hand in dismissal. “That’s an exaggeration, don’t you think?”
“I don’t. I’m serious. She acts like I’m a leper. A leper who wants a bite of her sandwich.”
Bree laughed. “You nailed it. She thinks you want her whole sandwich.”
“Huh?”
“You’re a threat, honey. She’s got to run for office next year, and a bright young thing like you—a local girl—you could beat her. You’re a better trial attorney than she is, that’s for sure.”
“Who’d know? She never takes a case to trial.” Elsie rubbed her nose, thinking. “But you’re a dynamo in court, Bree. Why isn’t she mean to you?”
“Oh, baby. I’m no threat. I’m not electable in this county.”
Elsie nodded, conceding the point without argument.
Bree continued, “A black woman on the ballot in McCown County? The city fathers would get out the torches and pitchforks. But hey, I’d probably get the black vote.”
Elsie’s response was an apologetic shrug. The town of Barton boasted no diversity; people of color made up only two perc
ent of the population.
As Elsie turned to go, Bree asked, “How are you and your boy toy?”
She paused in the doorway. “Okay. He’s coming by today.”
“Lucky you.”
Elsie sighed. Bree had counseled her before on her taste in men, said she should be more concerned with brain mass and less with muscle mass. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“You know what I think.”
“I know.”
“You can do better.”
“So you’ve told me,” she said over her shoulder, heading to her office.
The weekly court calendar lay on her desk, and she checked to see if she was assigned to Associate Circuit Court. Mercifully, she wasn’t. Monday would be a catch-up day for her: no traffic cases to negotiate, no misdemeanors to try, no preliminary hearings in felony cases. For once, her appointment book looked like a clean slate.
So she sat at her desk and waited. Noah might testify in any of the associate divisions; he didn’t say what kind of case it was, but it was likely to be a traffic matter, maybe a DWI arrest. All manner of criminal cases were ongoing in the courtrooms on the third floor on Monday. She knew he wouldn’t be in Circuit Court because there were no jury trials set.
She caught up on a stack of correspondence she’d neglected the week before. She ignored all incoming calls when she was in trial, so now she listened to her voice mail and noted calls that she’d return and those she would blow off. She checked her e-mail, and when she was done, checked the time: nine-thirty. Maybe she’d be better off covering one of the courts, after all. The morning was creeping by on feet of lead.
After idly browsing the news updates on Yahoo, Elsie decided to go down to the basement to buy a cup of coffee at the courthouse coffee shop. She stuck her head in the reception area on her way out. “Stacie, I’m going to the coffee shop.”
“Right.” The receptionist was a cute local girl with limited enthusiasm for her job. Attorneys generally didn’t report their whereabouts to the administrative staff, which suited Stacie very well indeed. Studying her reflection in the shiny brass county seal that hung behind her desk, she pinched an errant clump of mascara from her lashes.