The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  Tiffany scooted aside, clutching a Barbie doll to her chest as if she feared it might be snatched from her. They entered the main room of the apartment, and Elsie recognized the dark-­haired woman she’d met days before. The woman sat on an old couch against the far wall of the room. The upholstery was in tatters, with threadbare towels covering the cushions. She stared at them like a deer caught in the headlights and did not rise to greet them.

  Ashlock approached Mrs. Taney and addressed her in an authoritative voice, a marked contrast from Tina’s warm tone. “I’m Detective Bob Ashlock with the Barton Police Department. Are you Donita Taney?” Mrs. Taney responded with a quick nod. He continued, “Ms. Peroni told you we’d be recording witness statements today, correct?”

  Donita Taney nodded again, eyeing the visitors warily. She reached for a pack of menthol cigarettes on a side table and lit one with a kitchen match, pulling the dirty ashtray closer. Her hand trembled slightly.

  Ashlock said, “We want to ask some questions of you and your three daughters.” He surveyed her impassively. “That all right with you?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, looking toward the window as if something outside required her attention. Smoke curled up from the lit end of the cigarette. Finally she blew out a cloud of smoke and said, “Sure. Whatever.”

  Ashlock gestured toward the back of the apartment. “Okay if I set up in the kitchen?” Mrs. Taney nodded, and he headed through the doorway into a connecting room where a kitchen table was visible.

  Standing alone in the room with Mrs. Taney, Elsie knew she needed to break the ice. Her relationship with the mother of the victims could ultimately decide her case. Putting on a smile, she stepped toward Donita and extended her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Taney. I’m Elsie Arnold from the Prosecutor’s Office. I was here last Saturday, actually.”

  “I remember you.”

  “Mind if I sit?” It looked like she was not going to be invited to make herself comfortable.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  A weather-­beaten plastic chair, designed to be used outdoors in summertime, sat in a corner. Elsie dragged it across the floor and set it near Mrs. Taney. “There now,” she said in a confiding way, “we can get a little better acquainted. May I call you Donita?”

  “Okay.”

  While she spoke, Elsie furtively inspected the room. The floor was covered with a stained remnant of orange shag carpet, spotted with burn holes and matted with hair. Overhead, the ceiling was bowed in places, and areas of missing plaster revealed the lattice boards underneath. A ­couple of pieces of broken furniture occupied the floor space, but she noted that there were no electronics of any kind in the room, not even a television or telephone. Two naked Barbies with ragged hair, one with a missing leg, were the only toys in the place.

  The odor of mildew hung in the air, mingled with an even worse odor. Plastic grocery bags filled with garbage were propped up beside the kitchen doorway, a clue to the stench. Elsie fought her inclination to pass judgment, but she couldn’t understand why the woman sitting beside her would raise her children in squalor.

  She smiled at Donita, taking care not to react to her surroundings. “Tell me how many children you have,” she prompted.

  “Three. There’s Charlene and Kristy and Tiffany. Char just turned fifteen, Kristy is twelve, and Tiffany is my baby. She’s six.” As Donita rattled off the information, she seemed nervous rather than hostile. She tapped her cigarette in the ashtray, rolling it repeatedly, as if she needed something to do with her hands.

  “Tiffany is the little girl who answered the door today,” Elsie said. Tiffany had slipped out with Tina Peroni, and the other girls had not yet made an appearance. “She is just precious; what a pretty girl. Where did she get that curly hair?”

  “Oh, the other girls has straight hair like me, but Tiffany’s got that curly red hair like Kris.”

  The defendant’s name hung in the air like a dangling spider. Leaning toward the older woman, Elsie nodded.

  “It’s a big job raising three girls alone, I bet.”

  Donita Taney nodded.

  Elsie ventured, “But it must be a relief to have your husband in jail.”

  Donita finally looked at her. “You got no idea.”

  Elsie clucked sympathetically. “Oh, I get it.”

  Donita leaned forward, her eyes boring directly into Elsie’s face. She dropped her voice, as if they might be overheard. “I mean it. You got no idea. You don’t know nothing about what it’s like.”

  The woman’s intensity was unnerving. Elsie met her gaze, unflinching, but she bore down so hard with her pen that it bled onto her hand. Looking down at the legal pad and the mess she made, she muttered, “Oh, shit.”

  She said to Donita, “Beg your pardon, but look what I’ve done. If I don’t wash this ink off, I’m going to get it all over everywhere.” Standing, she asked, “Could you point out the restroom?”

  Donita looked unwilling. “Toilet’s not working.”

  “I don’t need to go,” Elsie said in a whisper. Begging for a restroom pass was embarrassing, but she wanted a break from Donita as much as she needed to wash off the ink. “I just need to rinse my hand off.”

  Donita shrugged. Pointing, she said, “Through there.”

  Elsie followed the direction of Donita’s finger. When she opened the door, an overwhelming fecal stench assaulted her. Though the toilet lid was down, it was clear that the nonfunctioning toilet was being used by the household.

  She stood uncertainly, her first instinct to flee the room. Determined to overcome her skittishness, she shut the door and approached the sink. It was grimy, coated with gray scum. A battered sliver of soap rested by the faucet; she let it be. Turning on the cold water, she scrubbed at the ink staining her fingers. As she rubbed her hands under the water, a cockroach walked up the side of the sink and scampered across the surface.

  Jumping back from the sink with horror, she shook the water from her hands and wiped the excess on her clothes. There was no towel on the towel rack, not that she would have touched it anyway. Her skin crawled as she turned the faucet off with her sleeve.

  Shaken, she returned to Donita in the front room. Taking her seat in the plastic chair, she cleared her throat and said, “Okay, now where were we?”

  She rummaged in her purse for a different pen, and studied her legal pad. Blocking the vision of the bathroom from her head, Elsie plowed on: “I have to ask: were you aware that your husband was committing sexual acts with your daughters?”

  “No,” Donita said, looking away. “Didn’t know nothing. Never.”

  “Yes you did, Mom.” Elsie and Donita both looked up as a dark-­haired teen entered the room. The girl joined her mother on the couch, plucked a cigarette from the pack and lit it. “You said we wasn’t gonna bullshit about it no more.”

  “You ain’t going to smoke all them, Char,” Donita said. “We just gone through that yesterday. I had to go to the plasma center to get extra money this week, and it’s about gone.” The girl ignored her, inhaling deeply and blowing the smoke through her nostrils.

  Elsie smiled at the girl, anxious to establish rapport. “So you’re Charlene. I’m Elsie Arnold, from the Prosecutor’s Office. Great to meet you.” She scooted the chair closer to the couch. “I want you to know that I’m your ally in this process. As the prosecutor, I’ll be with you in court every step of the way. When you are called to the witness stand to testify, I’ll be the one asking the questions; and when your father’s defense attorney asks you questions, I’ll be right there, ready to jump up and holler if he gets out of line.” She paused, smiling again, hoping to prompt a response. But Donita and Charlene just stared at her, their faces blank.

  Elsie tried again. “I think it’s a wonderful thing that you all found the courage to speak up. Did something that happened make you decide to come
out with the facts of Mr. Taney’s abuse?”

  Charlene turned to her mother with a quizzical look. Donita studied the filter of the cigarette she held.

  “It’s time,” she said, regarded Charlene for a bare second, then looked away. “That’s all.”

  Elsie looked from Donita to her daughter. She wanted to dig deeper and was considering how to begin when Charlene said, “Toilet still broke?”

  Donita nodded. With a sidelong glance at Elsie, she said, “I’m gonna tell the landlord. When he comes for the rent.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do till then?” Charlene said, raising her voice.

  Her mother glared at her. “Go to the gas station.”

  Charlene snorted. “I’m going in the sink.”

  Oh, dear God, Elsie thought. She kept her face impassive, but it was a challenge.

  A door slammed in back, and Tina entered with little Tiffany following behind. Tina announced that Ashlock was ready to begin and sent Tiffany up the back stairs to fetch her other sister, Kristy. Tina turned to Charlene then, who was stretching her thin legs over the arm of the couch. “Charlene, are you ready to talk to the detective?”

  Charlene said, “Why not?” and hopped off the couch. Elsie, Tina, and Charlene walked to the kitchen and joined Ashlock at the table; Donita remained in the front room. A pocket door in the wall could be pulled out to separate the two rooms, which Tina did, at Ashlock’s direction, shutting Donita out.

  At the kitchen table, a plastic bag with a loaf of white bread was pushed to one side. Some dishes were stacked in a strainer on an old sink. Elsie observed with surprise that the sink was a duplicate of the one in her mother’s kitchen: a wide berth of cast iron covered in heavy porcelain, with a porcelain splash guard and two ancient faucets. It was probably original to the house, as her mother’s was. However, this sink was stained and pitted, unlike her mother’s, which was regularly scrubbed with Comet cleanser to keep it white.

  Ashlock started by asking Charlene about her relationship with her father.

  “Just what all you want to know?” asked Charlene. Her voice had a lilt, a flirtatious tone, as she cocked her head in Ashlock’s direction and took a puff from the cigarette. She blew the smoke in a thin plume at his face. “What you going to give me if I talk to you?”

  She laughed at Ashlock teasingly. He regarded her silently, waiting. Elsie felt acid rise in her throat. It didn’t take a mind reader to figure out how the girl learned to play cat and mouse games with adult men.

  When Ashlock didn’t respond, Charlene shrugged and dropped her bantering tone. “He always treated me bad. He never liked me. It was Kristy he liked best, I guess. He got worse when he started seeing JoLee, though. Lots worse. Because it was like he could only be nice to her. Treated the rest of us like shit.”

  “Tell us about that.”

  Elsie braced herself. Hearing children relate their sordid experiences was a devastating part of her job.

  “What do you want to know?” Charlene asked.

  “How he treated you,” Ashlock replied in a soothing tone.

  “Well,” she said, crossing her arms on the table and resting her chin on top, “we had to do anything he’d say. I mean anything. You couldn’t never talk back to him, neither.”

  “That doesn’t sound so unusual.”

  She snorted, and regarded Ashlock with a knowing expression. “I don’t think everybody else was having to do what all we was up to. And we couldn’t say nothing back. He’d even whip JoLee for back-­sassing. And he liked her.”

  “What was JoLee’s connection to your family?”

  Blandly, she replied, “She’s Dad’s girlfriend.”

  “How do you know that?

  She snorted. “Be hard to miss it. But even when she came along, he still made me take care of him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know.”

  “Charlene, could you be specific? What exactly did he do?”

  Charlene laughed and looked away. “One time, he pooped in my mouth.”

  Elsie, who had been listening intently, reeled if she had been struck a blow. She had handled many sex cases and was no stranger to the abuses children suffered, but that particular act came as a shock. Tears pricked her eyes and she blinked them back.

  “He made me eat it.”

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” Elsie said, and started to rise from the table. Ashlock grasped her arm, and she got her horror under control. She sat back down, eyes glued to Charlene.

  “He did it ’cause I cussed. He said he’d learn me not to cuss.” She looked defiantly at Ashlock. “Didn’t work.”

  Elsie listened as Charlene related other offenses and described sex acts with her father in a flat, matter-­of-­fact voice, stopping at one point to get a fresh cigarette. Ashlock and Elsie watched the girl light the kitchen match by scraping her thumbnail on the tip. She lit the cigarette and French-­inhaled the smoke.

  Elsie exchanged a look with Ashlock. When she saw her profound sadness mirrored in his eyes, she placed her hand over his.

  WHILE ASHLOCK WAS questioning Charlene, Tiffany slipped back into the front room where Donita sat. In stocking feet, she crawled up next to her mother on the ragged sofa. Donita studied the child for a moment and then whispered, “You scared? You scared of that man? Policeman?”

  Tiffany shook her head.

  “Oh,” said Donita, “you’re scared about Daddy. Worried Daddy’s coming back.”

  Tiffany nodded and burrowed into her mother’s bony chest. Donita sighed and gathered the child into her arms. Stroking the girl’s back, she bent over her head and spoke softly.

  “Don’t you worry. We’re getting rid of Daddy. Mama’s fixing it.”

  She rocked the little girl back and forth, silently at first.

  “Think nice things,” she whispered. After a quiet moment, she began tapping her foot and softly, in barely a whisper, began to sing.

  “She’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when she comes, when she comes . . . ”

  Tiffany closed her eyes and relaxed in her mother’s arms as Donita sang the words of the old folk song with a nasal twang. The girl was almost asleep when Donita finished the fourth verse, with a sly grin that showed the brown stains on her teeth:

  “We will kill the old red rooster, kill the old red rooster,

  We will kill the old red rooster when she comes.”

  Donita gazed down at her youngest child and smoothed the girl’s tangled hair as she sang.

  Chapter Ten

  THE SWORN STATEMENTS of Donita, Charlene, and Kristy Taney were paper-­clipped together in a file folder on the counsel table. Next to the folder was the state’s copy of the amended felony complaint against Kris Taney, signed by Elsie Arnold, Assistant Prosecuting Attorney. The new complaint alleged that Taney committed five felony counts of statutory rape in the first degree against his two eldest daughters.

  The courtroom was quiet. Elsie stood near the witness stand, ready to begin, adrenaline pumping and nerves on edge. In a case involving child witnesses, anything could happen, and she needed to be ready to roll with the punches. She felt faintly nauseous. She swallowed and focused on her witness, intent.

  Judge Carter looked somber as he sat at the bench. Josh Nixon leaned back in his seat with his left hand gripping the back of his client’s chair.

  Kris Taney’s eyes were glued to the witness stand, where his daughter Kristy sat. Kristy’s dark hair was pulled back from her forehead with a rubber band. She looked forlorn in the witness box, her chin shaking, her hands clutching the sides of the wooden chair and hanging on as if her life depended on it.

  Elsie leaned against the corner of the empty jury box and addressed Kristy.

  “Kristy,” she said in an encouraging voice, “I’d like you to think back to the twenty-­fifth of Nov
ember of last year, Thanksgiving Day. How old were you on that date?”

  “Twelve,” said Kristy, eyeing her father fearfully.

  Got to pull her focus away from Taney, Elsie thought as she moved closer to the witness stand.

  “Kristy,” she repeated. The girl transferred her gaze to Elsie, who gave a reassuring nod and a hint of a wink. Once she had Kristy’s full attention, Elsie continued: “Do you remember what happened last Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell what you recall?”

  Kristy was silent for a minute. “We ate. Mom got a chicken. But Dad got mad after supper. I don’t remember why.”

  The child paused again. With a twinge of anxiety, Elsie thought, Keep talking, Kristy; if I try to lead you, Nixon will jump out of his chair.

  Willing her to continue, she asked, “What happened when your dad got mad?”

  “I tried to leave. I didn’t want to be around. I knew he’d get mean. He always does when he’s mad.” Josh Nixon rose from his seat, and the girl stopped speaking, looking at the defense attorney.

  “Objection.”

  “Overruled,” said Judge Carter, holding up a hand to silence Nixon. The judge’s eyes never left the witness.

  “Go on, Kristy,” Elsie said, praying that she would get the necessary revelations out of the girl without making the child fall apart.

  “He caught me going out the door. He grabbed me and made me come back in.”

  She prompted gently: “Then what happened?”

  “He said I done bad because I didn’t mind. I was sneaking out. He said I had to learn that he was boss.”

  “Then what?”

  “He took me to his bedroom. He didn’t even shut the door.” She paused. “He put his thing in me.”

  Here we go, Elsie thought; this is it. Delicately, as though she handled a fragment of spun glass, she moved closer, asking softly, “Exactly what did he do?”