The Code of the Hills (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

E
LSIE SWIVELED IN
her office chair on Monday morning, watching tiny balls of sleet bounce on the pavement of the street below. “I need sunshine,” she whispered. “I hate sleet. I cannot handle sleet today.”

Turning to her computer, she saw that the weather forecast on the computer screen didn't predict freezing precipitation. Stupid Weather Channel, she thought.

When her phone rang, she snatched it up, hoping to hear Breeon's voice, but it was Madeleine. In her usual frosty tone, Madeleine told her to come down to her office.

I wish I had the nerve to kick your ass, Elsie thought as she hung up the phone. She still nursed a grudge against Madeleine for deserting her at the Taney preliminary. Given the opportunity, she might have had the chutzpah to voice a complaint last week, when the offense was fresh. But by now too much time had passed to muster the courage for a confrontation.

Taking a moment to catch her breath, she strode down the hall to Madeleine's office, opened the door with a quick knock and stuck her head in. “What's up?” she asked, a shade of curtness in her tone.

Madeleine was examining a map of McCown County that depicted a breakdown of voter turnout at county polling places. She pushed a lock of lacquered hair behind one ear. “Sit,” she said, and Elsie sat. “Did you bring it?”

Elsie gave her a blank look. “Bring what?”

“The file,” Madeleine said with irritation. “Taney.”

“No,” she replied, wondering why she was supposed to read Madeleine's mind and anticipate her desires. “Did you want to see me about the Taney case?”

Madeleine pushed her leather chair back from the desk and crossed her legs. “Give me an update. What's the status of the case?”

Elsie related the events of the last week: Al Taney's failure to appear, the information gained from Kris Taney's wife and daughters, and the outcome of the court appearances. She made brief reference to Taney's abuse of her in the hallway, and the chicken parts that decorated her vehicle on Friday.

Madeleine toyed with a silver letter opener shaped like a dagger. “I know about that. Someone mentioned that chicken prank to me.”

Exhaling with a sound that was a cross between a wail and a groan, Elsie said, “It was so nasty.”

Madeleine tossed the silver dagger onto the desktop. “We don't know that it's connected.” When Elsie sent her a dumbfounded look, Madeleine added, “To Taney.”

“No,” Elsie said slowly, “but we know it was connected to me.”

In a superior tone, Madeleine said, “That kind of thing goes with the territory. You have to rise above it. In this job, there is a certain burden we bear.”

Elsie clenched her jaw to keep her mouth shut, but she shouted inside her head:
Burden we bear?
We?
Are chicken guts on your car?

“What else is being done?”

Elsie cleared her throat, and in as civil a tone as she could muster said, “Bob Ashlock is trying to run down outcry evidence, but there's not much to go on. Taney had his family under orders to keep their mouths shut about the abuse, and the household was so totally intimidated by him that they were afraid to talk about it.”

“What about scientific evidence?”

“We have the girls scheduled for medical exams at the Victims' Center next week. Children's Ser­vices should have had exams done when Taney was taken into custody but they didn't. So that's about it.”

“That's your whole case?”

Elsie looked at Madeleine with wonder. How could Madeleine be surprised at the scarcity of the evidence? It was supposed to be Madeleine's file.

As if explaining sex prosecution to an outsider, Elsie said, “That's pretty much how these sex cases go. At least in this case the girls can corroborate each other, because sometimes he did things in front of the family. We do have to clear up a problem with the state's main witness, Charlene; apparently, she got into some kind of situation at school, and I need to get to the bottom of it.”

“What situation?”

“Something about a sexual touching by some classmates. I don't know the details.” She made a mental note to contact the school system.

“Well,” Madeleine said, and to Elsie's amazement, her boss looked extremely uncomfortable. “I've been thinking. You seem to be handling the case in a competent way.”

Though her eyes nearly bugged out of her head at the understatement, Elsie stayed mum.

Madeleine continued, “I've been tied up with some important schedule conflicts.”

“Of course,” she murmured, trying hard not to picture Madeleine in the stirrups.

“And I have a lot of pressing engagements coming up. I don't think I can give this case the attention it deserves. I'm assigning it to you.”

The realization blossomed in Elsie's chest: Madeleine was bowing out, the Taney case was all hers. She exulted in the knowledge that she could proceed without the handicap of Madeleine's negligent oversight. She was glad to have the file to herself; she much preferred working solo to serving an incompetent master.

But it seemed like Madeleine felt guilty about something. Maybe, Elsie thought, her boss regretted unceremoniously dumping the case on her. Or maybe the case had grown too messy for Madeleine, with its chicken heads and hallway fights and angry evangelical Chris­tians. When the going got tough, Madeleine generally got going—­in the other direction.

But she was a warrior, Elsie reminded herself. Shrugging off her reservations, she sat straight in her chair and regarded her boss with a friendly expression.

“No problem, Madeleine. I feel like I've established good rapport with the witnesses. I'll be glad to see it through.”

“Fine. Let me know how it progresses,” Madeleine said as she picked up a copy of the
Barton Daily News
and began flipping through the pages, letting Elsie know she was dismissed.

Elsie stood up to go but then lingered in the doorway. “Anything else?” She wanted to make sure no hidden disasters would blow up in her face.

“Noooo . . . ” said Madeleine, refusing to look up from the paper; clearly, she wanted her to leave.

As Elsie headed down the hallway back to her office, a dark thought lurked: Madeleine must think the Taney case was a total loser. Because Madeleine would buzz around a high profile case like a fly on shit, unless it looked weak. Her initial reaction of triumph faded as she realized that
State v. Taney
was a hot potato that had been tossed into her lap.

Oh, well, she thought as she sank into her office chair. Things could be worse. Much worse.

Now she was ready to begin her Monday morning in earnest. She checked her e-­mail and saw a message from Noah. He must be doing reports; otherwise he'd be more likely to text or call. She opened the message. It was short and sweet.

U R cute,
it read.

Okay, she thought, he wasn't Shakespeare. But they'd had a pretty good time together on Sunday, though they tangled when he'd urged her to order salad for supper rather than ribs. Stung, she'd snapped at him, but he claimed she was overreacting, that he was only concerned with her health.

Staring at the e-­mail, she resolved to keep the time spent with Noah on the happy side, so it could be an oasis in her life. She tried to think of something funny to send back, to keep it light. She mused on it for a minute, then typed,

U R hot.

He'll like that, she thought.

Another e-­mail brought her back to business. Tina Peroni had sent a reminder that Donita Taney wanted to see her, that it was important.
Yikes, I almost forgot
.

A visit with Donita was not likely to kick off her week in a rosy fashion; Donita wouldn't be sharing good tidings. Moreover, the practical aspect of getting in touch with Donita was a pain; the apartment on High Street had no telephone, much less computer access, and Donita didn't have a cell phone. She would have to get in her car and drive over there.

Well, it was her baby now. A check of her calendar showed she had a ­couple of hours free. Resolving to get the meeting out of the way before other business required her attention, she put on her coat and dug her keys out of her purse.

On the way out of the office, she let Stacie know that she was going to see a witness.

“What if the ­people with the chicken heads come looking for you?” Stacie asked with uncharacteristic wit.

“Oh, that's funny,” said Elsie. “Tell you what: they need to go over my head. You send them straight to the top.”

“Now who's being funny,” Stacie responded, but Elsie was already out the door.

Chapter Nineteen

S
LEET COATED THE
pavement leading to the apartment house on High Street. Elsie slipped on the ice and landed on her rear end. Cursing roundly, she picked herself up with care. Fortunately, she'd held tight to the file she was carrying, so her papers were not flung to the winds.

Donita Taney stared at her from the window of the apartment. Standing next to Donita was a man Elsie had never seen before.

Making her way on tiptoe to the front entrance, she took care not to slip a second time. Once inside, she knocked on the Taneys' apartment door. It didn't open right away. Geez, she thought, for someone who needed to see me ASAP, she's not moving very fast.

Finally the door opened. Donita stood in the doorway, looking over her shoulder at something in the apartment. She turned her head and gave a tentative nod in greeting to Elsie, who was unsettled by the reception.

“May I come in?” she asked, affecting an upbeat manner.

“Sure,” Donita said. She smiled but seemed jumpy.

Elsie walked into the room. The unfamiliar man lounged on the couch, occupying Donita's customary spot. She didn't wait for an introduction but approached him and extended her hand.

“Elsie Arnold, McCown County Prosecutor's Office.”

“Roy Mayfield.” He gave her hand a perfunctory shake.

“Are you a friend of Donita's?” she asked.

“Friend of the family,” Mayfield replied. He and Donita exchanged a look.

Elsie stood cooling her heels. She looked from Mayfield to Donita and felt a chill go down her spine. Josh Nixon's words fairly rang in her ears.

“Okay, Donita,” she said, “clue me in to what I'm doing here. Didn't you tell Tina you needed to see me?”

Donita gestured toward the kitchen. “I got something to show you.”

As Elsie followed, she saw Mayfield rise from the couch. Donita turned and flapped her hand at him. “Sit down, you silly old thing. You don't have to know everything.”

Her tone with Mayfield, Elsie observed, was coquettish, like a Scarlett O'Hara impression. Mayfield took the hint, sat down and lit a cigarette.

Entering the kitchen, Elsie peered about the room with surprise. It was clean, in marked contrast to her last visit. All the plates and glasses were washed and stacked in the dish drainer, and the food was put away. A full dollar-­brand bottle of green dish soap stood on the windowsill above the sink, and a dish towel hung on the oven door handle. The trash can had been emptied. Aside from the cardboard boxes set against one wall, the room was quite tidy.

Donita pointed at the boxes. “I boxed up Kris's things. Them is his boxes. I don't want them around. You can have them.”

“What are they?” she asked.

“That's his stuff. All of it. His clothes, the stuff in his dresser drawer, everything. And JoLee's bidness, too. Mostly she took everything of hers. This is just what she left behind.”

Elsie eyed the boxes with more interest. “Are you sure you want me to take these?”

“I want you to get rid of them. Take them, burn them, I don't care. I want it out, gone.”

Donita dropped her voice to a whisper as she moved close, beside Elsie, and said, with a conspiratorial look, “Some ­people don't like to have nothing of Kris's around. It don't look right. Some ­people don't like to be bumping into another man's shit, you get my drift.”

Donita peeked into the other room before she continued. “It's like his stink ain't gone, if his stuff ain't gone. JoLee's, too. I want ever' last bit of it gone. So we can have a fresh start.”

“ ‘We'?” Elsie said. “Who's ‘we'?”

Donita gave her a speculative look. After a moment, she said, “Me and the girls.”

Tiffany, wearing faded pajama bottoms and a torn T-­shirt, shuffled into the kitchen as the two women stood there looking at the boxes. She walked over to her mother and tugged on her sweatshirt. Donita put an arm around the child.

“Any better, hon?”

Tiffany didn't answer. Tendrils of curly hair hung in her flushed face. Donita smoothed the hair back and felt Tiffany's forehead with her hand.

“You feel like eating anything?” The little girl shrugged her shoulders. Donita gave her a little pat. “I'll make you something. Mama's gonna make you something
good
.”

She took a slice of white bread from a loaf sitting on the counter and spread it with a layer of yellow margarine from a plastic butter dish. Then she pulled a bag of white sugar from an overhead cabinet, scooped a spoonful out and sprinkled it atop the oleo. She folded the bread in half and handed the sandwich to Tiffany. The girl bit into a corner of the bread with an expression of deep satisfaction.

Elsie moved to the open-­flapped boxes, knelt and looked in. They were filled with wadded clothes and a hodgepodge of personal items. She reached into a box, picked up a shirtsleeve, then dropped it as if it had burnt her fingers. Four dead cockroaches clung to the fabric.

“There's some bugs in there,” Donita said. “Landlord sprays once in a while but it don't even slow them down.” She shrugged philosophically. “I guess everybody's got them. They're everywhere.”

Elsie couldn't agree, but didn't want to argue. “Hard to get used to, huh.”

“Oh,” scoffed Donita, “me and the girls don't mind it so long as they keep out of our way. Roaches got nerve, though. I hate to see them on a toothbrush. When they get in the bathroom, I smash them with my fist.” As if the thought just struck her, she added, “Our toilet's working. If you need it.”

Elsie gave her best attempt at a smile. “No, thank you.”

“Just saying.”

The four boxes might contain nothing but trash, Elsie reflected, but it was possible that something inside them could support her case. It was worth a look. She pulled out her cell phone to consult with Ashlock about transporting the boxes but heard the answering machine recording of Patsy's voice, inviting her to leave a message.

“I'll take these to the police department, then,” she said to Donita, and folded down the worn corrugated cardboard flaps. The prospect of waiting around in the High Street apartment until she raised someone at the P.D. held no appeal. Then again, it seemed that Donita was opening up to her; maybe she had forged a at the preliminary hearing. It might be an opportune time to open up a ticklish subject.

After a moment's hesitation, she said, “Donita, I've been worried about something, since the prelim. If you don't mind, I'd like you to shine a little light on this Charlene situation for me.”

In the next room, Roy moved suddenly; Elsie saw his chin jerk toward the kitchen. Donita's voice was flat as she asked, “Just what is it you want to know about Char?”

Elsie took a deep breath. She didn't like to force a confidence, but it was vital that she know the facts behind what Nixon had said about Charlene.

“At the preliminary hearing, your husband's attorney brought up a situation Charlene faced at school. Something about boys touching her. They accused her of lying.”

“Oh, that.” Donita pushed one of the boxes with her foot.

“Yeah, that. What all happened with that?”

Donita pulled out a kitchen chair and sat in it sideways. “You know, that was partly her own fault.”

“Tell me.”

In a resigned voice, Donita said, “She had a crush on a boy when she was in eighth grade. What was his name? Carlos.” She gave Elsie a knowing look. “
Mexican
. In trouble all the time. But she thought he was a looker.”

Elsie nodded. Donita continued, “All the girls liked him, but he started giving Charlene the eye and was she excited. She'd have done anything for that boy.” She dragged her chair closer to Elsie and whispered, “At lunch, he told her to meet him in the bathroom. The boy's bathroom. Like a fool, she did. I've taught her better than that.”

Elsie blinked and swallowed back her response.

“He brung two friends with him. They wanted to see her titties. Little thing didn't hardly have nothing to show back then, but Carlos talked her into it.”

“Oh Lord.”

“Yes, ma'am. Then they wanted a feel, but she said only the one boy could, that Carlos, but they grabbed her and done felt her up anyway.” Donita sat back. “And then a teacher come in and Charlene told.”

Elsie shook her head sorrowfully. It was a classic scenario, a typical experience of a child who suffered abuse at home.

“Donita, she was a victim, actually,” she said slowly. “She was under the age of consent, but she didn't go along, regardless; she said no, and they forced themselves on her. If a teacher can substantiate this, that's great. Why did the defense attorney say she was in trouble for it? That she lied?”

Donita looked away. “I don't know. Don't remember. I ain't never spent much time up at school.”

Elsie pulled a piece of paper from her file and made rapid notes, summarizing what Donita had just told her. She would work with Charlene, prepare her for the cross-­exam, and have the girl ready to explain exactly what transpired. She would explain to Charlene that she'd been on the receiving end of unwarranted sexual attention. Elsie knew the jury would buy it, if she played her cards right. Maybe.

Putting her pen and paper away, she said, “Well, I better get going.” She bent over and hoisted one of the boxes of Taney's belongings, balancing her file on top. Donita led her out of the apartment to the front of the building and held the door open for her. It would have required four trips, but when Elsie returned to the kitchen for the third box, Donita offered to help, and carried the last box herself.

Meanwhile, Roy Mayfield remained on the couch, smoking. As they passed him the final time, Donita said, “You keep an eye on Tiffany. I'm going out with the prosecutor for a minute.”

He propped his feet up on the couch. With a grin, he said, “You bet. I'll stick to her like glue.”

After the last of the boxes were loaded in her car, Elsie slammed the trunk down and turned to say goodbye. Donita lingered, leaning against the car.

“Is everything all right?” Elsie asked.

“Yeah, fine.”

She persisted, “What about the girls? Are they okay?”

“Yeah, they're okay. Better than ever. We're going to have a good family now. There's good times ahead.” Donita drummed her fingers against the car door, tapping out a rhythmic beat. She seemed preoccupied.

“Were they upset after the preliminary hearing? Did they understand what was happening?”

“Sure. You explained it real good. They was glad to get it over with, though. Hey, what do you think about Roy?”

Elsie stared blankly for a moment, until she associated the name with the man on Donita's couch.

“What, Donita, you mean your friend?” Josh Nixon's triumphant chuckle sounded in her imagination. “Is he a neighbor?”

“Not exactly.”

“He's not your boyfriend or anything, right? Because you're still legally married, and it could give the defense attorney ammo to use against the state.”

“Right. Hey, how about giving me a ride? I got to get to the Lo-­Cut market. It ain't that far, but it's awful cold out. And slick.”

Hell, hell, hell.
She would never get back to the office at this rate. “What about Tiffany?”

“Oh, she'll be fine with Roy. She knows him real good.”

Donita ran back into the house for her purse. As Elsie waited, she glanced up and caught a glimpse of movement in a second-­story window of the house. Startled, she squinted up at the figure, trying to see through the dirty pane of glass. It was Tiffany, and Elsie thought she saw a fearful look as the child pressed her face and small hands against the window and looked down at her. Elsie lifted her hand in a tentative greeting, but the gesture was aborted as Donita bustled down the sidewalk, purse in hand.

When she tugged at Elsie's elbow and offering to show her the short cut to the store, Elsie looked at her with a troubled expression. “Let's go in and get Tiffany,” she urged. ”We can bring her.”

“No, let's get going. She's fine.”

“I'd feel better if she came along with us.”

Donita gave her an indignant look. “She's sick. You seen that. Why would I drag her out in the cold?”

Juggling her nagging fear for Tiffany against her reluctance to offend Donita, Elsie ventured, “After all she's been through, Donita, I think it's best that you keep her close, that's all. You shouldn't leave her in the care of a strange man.”

Donita's eyes were hard as agates as she focused on Elsie. “Roy ain't no stranger. He's the best friend we got.” Her mouth formed a thin line. She looked down at the patchy ice covering on the street, shaking her head. “I ain't about to sashay in there and pull Tiffany out of that house. What would Roy think? It would look like I don't think he's fit to be around my girls.”

Elsie opened her mouth to speak, but Donita cut her off. “You ain't her mama. That's me.”

“I know,” Elsie said, and fell silent.

It's not my call, she thought, unlocking the car with her key-­chain remote. But something dark tickled the back of her mind, something dark and disturbing.

While they drove to the grocery, they sat in silence until Elsie asked why Tiffany was home sick.

“Little thing has the earache. She's got fever, so I kept her home with me today.”

“That's too bad. Has she been to the doctor?”

Donita looked at her with wry disbelief. “We're Medicaid. Where we gonna go? I could stand in line at the downtown clinic, but that's pretty hard on a sick kid.”

Chastened, Elsie held her tongue. Apparently, she was way too free with parenting advice this morning.

“I've got a ­couple tricks, though. I blew smoke in her ear; that always helps. I'm gonna get some eggs at the Lo-­Cut, so I can boil one and wrap it in a towel, and that will feel good against a sore ear.”