The Code of the Hills

by Nancy Allen

  When she was done, Josh took the podium. With a solemn face, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, my client doesn’t have to prove anything. He is presumed to be innocent. You all understand that, don’t you?”

  Elsie watched their faces intently as she pulled a chart of the jury panel in front of her at the counsel table. A woman in her forties with elaborately coiffured hair smiled at Nixon and nodded vigorously. Elsie took her pen and marked the woman’s name with an X.

  You’re out of here, sis, she thought. The woman was already trying too hard to please the handsome defense attorney.

  “Is there anyone on this jury panel who believes my client must be guilty of something just because he’s been charged with a crime?”

  Elsie saw a man in the front row shift in his seat, his eyes darting away from Nixon. Yesss, she thought, drawing stars by his name. She checked his employment: he was a farmer who worked construction on the side. Perfect. Just what I need.

  “Raise your hands, please. This is important, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Keep your hand down, she silently begged the construction worker/farmer. I need you on this jury.

  A hand shot up. An old salt in weathered overalls spoke up and said, “Don’t seem like the court would go to all this trouble if the man hadn’t done nothing.”

  Nixon raised a hand to cut him off. “Thank you for your candor, sir.”

  Elsie went ahead and marked off the old guy. Nixon would get rid of him with a challenge for cause.

  When Nixon completed his questions, both attorneys approached the bench and argued their strikes for cause. Nixon persuaded the judge to strike the old citizen in overalls, as well as half a dozen citizens who had said that hanging was too good for a man who had sex with a child; and Elsie managed to convince him to dismiss a juror who claimed that false rape accusations were a common occurrence. When the judge told the man he was excused, Elsie had to exercise control to keep from shooting him a triumphant farewell smirk.

  “Miss Arnold, Mr. Nixon,” the judge said, “we’ll take number one through twenty-­four of the remaining panel. I’m giving you each six peremptory strikes; you may each remove six jurors of your choice from the panel.”

  The attorneys sat at their respective tables as the judge declared a recess. Josh Nixon pored over the list with Kris Taney at his side.

  Elsie took her pen and drew an X over two young men in their twenties, got rid of the woman who already had a crush on Josh Nixon, and then struck three women whose faces she couldn’t read. Though she was a staunch feminist, she’d learned the hard way that men made the best jurors for a prosecutor. Blue collar men in particular weren’t afraid to convict; they didn’t quail from sending someone to prison. Young men were the exception. In sex cases, they might identify with the defendant, and be skeptical of the complaining witness.

  Elsie had a complicated relationship with female jurors in sex cases. Although plenty of women wanted to avenge violent crimes committed against their gender, there were others who wanted to blame the victim, and she couldn’t always tell them apart on sight.

  The peremptory strikes reduced the final group of twenty-­four to twelve, and they had their jury for the Taney case. As she sat at the prosecution table, Elsie studied the faces of the twelve jurors seated in the jury box. She was pretty well satisfied with the makeup of the group. It contained the farming construction worker, and the females on the jury either had some higher education or had children. A ­couple of the jurors might be wild cards, but she felt the Taney case was in good hands. It was a strange thing to know that this jury held her own fate in their hands as well.

  Turning in her seat, Elsie inspected the courtroom gallery to see if any representatives of the Earthly Fathers were lurking, and was relieved to see that they were markedly absent. A glimpse of the hallway outside showed that they weren’t occupying seats in the rotunda either. She was delighted to see that Ashlock was right and the plug had been pulled on the group.

  Her adrenaline was running high; any minute, the judge would instruct her to make her opening statement. She uncapped a pen and, turning through the pages of her handwritten opening statement, struck out all references to the photos of Charlene. Judge Rountree had made a split ruling on the evidence; he’d let the valentine in, but Elsie would not be permitted to offer the photos in her case in chief without Charlene present in court to identify them, or some forensic evidence tying the originals to the defendant.

  Finally, the judge cleared his throat and inclined his head toward Elsie. She was poised on the edge of her chair, her muscles tensed, as she waited for him to speak.

  “Is the state ready to make Opening Statement?”

  She stood, drawing up to her full height. This was no time to slouch. “If it please the court.”

  “Proceed.”

  She walked to the jury box with a determined stride. Facing the twelve men and women, she scanned their faces before focusing on juror six, the construction worker, her primary favorite. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is what the evidence will show.”

  Juror six returned her gaze with a neutral expression. He wasn’t in her pocket yet; she would have to win him over.

  “The state of Missouri will present evidence that this man,” and she swung around, pointing an accusatory index finger at Taney, “this man, Kristopher Eugene Taney, committed five counts of the crime of statutory rape in the first degree.”

  For the jury’s benefit, she gave Taney a hard glare as he sat at the defense table. He glanced away and scratched his nose. Pointing the finger of guilt at the accused was a procedure she used in every jury trial. She’d read it in a novel by Scott Turow, or maybe Grisham: if the prosecutor won’t confront the defendant, why should the jury do it? So she always stared the defendant down as a way to set the stage.

  Back to the jury, she presented a grave face. “We will call the defendant’s daughter, Kristy Taney, to the witness stand. Kristy is twelve years old. She will testify that on the twenty-­fifth of November of last year, her father forced her to have sexual intercourse with him in the family’s home, here in Barton, Missouri.”

  A young woman on the front row with light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail gave her a slight nod. Elsie almost broke into a grin as the tightness in her chest eased. She hadn’t counted on that particular juror to be in the prosecution’s camp.

  Her voice held a hint of warning as she said, “You’ll also hear the testimony of Kristy’s sister, Charlene. Charlene, the defendant’s oldest daughter, is fifteen. She will provide sworn testimony that her father has been having sexual intercourse and performing deviant acts with her since she was nine. Nine years old.” She added smoothly, as if it were an inconsequential detail, “You’ll hear these facts from Charlene Taney’s preliminary hearing transcript. Unfortunately, Charlene is not available to be here and testify in person.” At this, a motherly woman who had been listening with rapt attention looked away.

  Aw shit. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  Standing straight, Elsie launched into a summary of the remaining evidence: her doctor, the valentine, and the handwriting evidence.

  When she concluded and sat down, the judge asked the defense to proceed. Nixon briefly took the podium, taking shots at the state’s case, her medical evidence and the relevance of the valentine, without revealing any evidence that the defense intended to produce. That nettled her a little; clearly, he didn’t want to reveal his hand.

  The judge called for the state to present its evidence, and Elsie called Kristy Taney to the witness stand.

  Kristy entered the courtroom wearing an expression of dread on her face. The girl settled into the witness chair, her lank black hair tucked behind her ears. It appeared that she had not shampooed it in advance of the trial, and Elsie felt a twinge of irritation with Donita; why, she wondered, wouldn’t a mother get the girl cleaned up before comi
ng to the courthouse?

  “State your name for the record, please,” Elsie asked the girl in an encouraging tone.

  “Kristy Taney,” the girl said. “Kristine, I mean.” She shot a nervous glance at her father, and looked back at Elsie.

  Elsie directed Kristy through the events of Thanksgiving Day the year before. Kristy provided the necessary facts, though she spoke so softly that the judge had to instruct her to speak up.

  When Kristy concluded her description of her father’s abuse, Elsie asked her to identify the man who had committed the act. Kristy hung her head in silence; Elsie feared that she wouldn’t carry on. Just as she was about to repeat the question, Kristy spoke up. Staring at the floor, the child said, “It’s him. Dad. He done it.”

  “Is he in the courtroom today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could you point him out to the jury, please.”

  It was a tense moment. Kristy lifted a hesitant finger and pointed, stealing a glance at Taney. When the daughter’s eyes met her father’s, she jerked, as if she’d been shocked with a wire.

  Elsie broke the spell, saying, “May the record reflect that the witness has identified the defendant, Kris Taney.”

  “It will so reflect.”

  “Kristy,” she continued, “tell us who lived with you in the apartment on High Street.”

  “You mean before Dad went to jail?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mom and Dad and Charlene and Tiffany. And for a while, JoLee and her baby. And sometimes Uncle Al.”

  “Charlene and Tiffany are your sisters.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who is JoLee?”

  “Objection: irrelevant,” Nixon snapped.

  “Sustained.”

  Elsie had to regroup; she was determined that the jury should know about Taney’s harem, but she would try again later.

  “Kristy, did you ever see your father touch Charlene—­”

  “Objection!” Nixon jumped to his feet this time. “May we approach?”

  Elsie walked to the bench, pausing to give the jury a knowing smile as she did so. Once the lawyers stood before the judge, Nixon said, “She’s trying to introduce evidence of crimes the defendant’s not charged with.”

  “Section 566.025, Revised Statutes of Missouri, specifically provides that evidence of other sex crimes with a victim under the age of fourteen is admissible to prove propensity to commit the offense,” Elsie rattled off handily. Turning to Nixon, she added, “This your first sex case, junior?”

  “No, Ms. Arnold, it is not. Judge, the evidence is admissible unless its probative value is outweighed by prejudicial impact. The prosecutor is trying to bootstrap testimony that hasn’t even been offered. Defendant objects; this is highly prejudicial, highly damaging.”

  “You bet it’s damaging,” she retorted. “Judge, she’s going to corroborate Charlene. This is the purpose for which the statute was enacted.”

  The judge studied the carved handle of his wooden gavel. “I believe I’ll allow it. Miss Arnold, see you don’t go too far afield with this.”

  “Yes, your honor. Thank you,” she said, feeling a surge of triumph for the first time that day. As she walked away from the bench, she smiled and nodded at Kristy, then repeated the question.

  Kristy looked at her, frowning. “You know what he done.”

  “Kristy, you need to tell the jury.”

  “Which time? Which time you talking about?”

  “Objection—­”

  “Ms. Arnold, narrow your inquiry.”

  Elsie was growing flustered. Kristy had been thoroughly prepared; the examination should be going more smoothly. She took a breath and continued.

  “Kristy, I want to direct your attention to December sixth of last year. What happened at your home?”

  “I was outside when it happened. I didn’t see nothing.”

  “Well, Kristy, have you ever seen—­”

  “Objection. Your honor, may we approach—­”

  The judge cut them both off. “I’m going to shut this line of questioning down. Objection sustained.”

  Elsie couldn’t contain a little huff of irritation, and the judge shot her a warning look. “Proceed, ma’am.”

  “But judge—­”

  “Proceed.”

  She felt herself blushing. “Kristy, can you describe any physical relations between your father and your sister Charlene—­”

  “Judge, I object! She’s disregarding the court’s ruling.”

  “Miss Arnold?”

  Elsie shot the defense a look. “No further questions.”

  She returned to the counsel table and perched on the edge of her chair, apprehensive about the damage that might be done in cross-­ex. To her surprise, Nixon’s examination was brief and quite pleasant. He did not harangue the witness; he spoke to Kristy respectfully. The questions were so nonconfrontational that she was almost caught off guard when he asked, “Who sleeps in your mother’s bedroom now that your dad is gone?”

  “Objection, irrelevant,” Elsie spat, just in time to cut off the child’s answer.

  “Sustained,” the judge said, and she exhaled a relieved breath.

  Nixon smiled at Kristy. “No further questions.”

  “May this witness be released from her subpoena?” the judge inquired.

  “No, your honor,” Nixon said. “I may need to inquire further, later on.”

  Elsie saw Nixon and Taney exchange a look before Taney turned his head away, covering his mouth with his hand. Elsie was dumbfounded; it looked like Taney was grinning.

  Chapter Forty-­Two

  AFTER KRISTY STEPPED down, a juror asked for a bathroom break. Judge Rountree declared a five-­minute recess and left the bench. Elsie readied the direct examination of her next witness, then glanced out the courtroom door at the jurors lined up behind Merle, waiting to be escorted down the hall.

  In the hallway, across from the courtroom door, stood Noah. He was holding a bouquet of flowers wrapped in colored tissue paper.

  This is insane, she thought. Having him pop up at trial was a nightmare. She needed to be focused, not looking over her shoulder to avoid her volatile ex-­lover. Maybe she could ignore him.

  He walked up to the courtroom door but didn’t enter. Stationed just outside the door frame, he blocked the doorway, staring at her.

  Elsie picked up her pen and tried to write. When her hand began to tremble, she put it down again. As much as she wanted to delay the confrontation, it was inevitable. With a mighty shove, she pushed her chair away from the counsel table and walked directly up to Noah.

  “Hey, girl,” he said, beaming, “I’ve been missing you. I came to wish you luck. Brought you something to brighten up your office.”

  She whispered, “You can take those flowers and give them to someone who doesn’t mind getting knocked around.” She glanced around the courtroom, not wanting to be overheard. She would not make a scene.

  In a level voice, he said, “You know, it takes two to fight. But what happened in the car was totally out of character. That’s not really me. I was pushed over my limit.”

  So it was my fault that you hit me? His implicit accusation stirred a fire in her chest. Still speaking quietly, she said, “Your limit’s not my problem. We’re through.”

  He looked away with a hurt expression.

  “It’s over.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to say when it’s over,” he said.

  Elsie watched him storm to the nearest trash can and jam the flowers inside. Without another look, he was gone.

  Block it out, she told herself. She couldn’t think about it, not at that moment. Her work here was far more important. Her performance was crucial. She returned to the courtroom and took her seat. As she sat, she smoothed her skirt with her h
ands, trying to erase every wrinkle in the fabric.

  But she was shaken, despite her best efforts to resist it. Don’t just sit here, she thought. She had a few minutes left. She should print a copy of the Missouri statute she’d cited earlier, in case the issue arose again.

  She headed for her office at a speedy clip. Midway along the rotunda, though, she paused, her hand on the wooden railing. A book would be better. Juries liked to see a law book on the counsel table. It made the attorney appear learned and studious.

  Turning, she made a beeline for the old law library in a dim corner of the second floor. It had originally been a resource for judges and local lawyers, though it was rarely used anymore for its original purpose. Missouri statutes and case law and law review articles were available online at the touch of a computer screen and printed in an instant.

  But the law books remained, lining the walls of the room in glassed walnut cases: sets of the Southwestern Reporter and Missouri Revised Statutes, along with federal statutes and case law. She pulled the RSMo volume containing the criminal code, and as an afterthought, a random volume of Southwestern 3d, just for show, and hurried back to the counsel table in Judge Rountree’s courtroom.

  A muted buzz sounded as Merle shepherded the jurors back to the jury box. When everyone was in place, Judge Rountree gave Elsie the sign to begin.

  Charlene’s preliminary hearing testimony was read into the record. Elsie then called Dr. Petrus to the witness stand. She believed that juries liked to hear from expert witnesses, particularly in cases that involved a swearing match. The witness was a pleasant family practitioner in his mid-­thirties who would make a good impression on the jury.

  “Dr. Petrus,” she said, “did you have occasion to perform a physical examination of Kristy Taney in January of this year?”

  The doctor said, “I did.”

  “Did your physical include a pelvic exam?”

  “It did,” he replied with a somber expression.

  “What did the exam reveal?”