The Code of the Hills (34 page)

Nixon was having a field day, waving the pictures of Charlene, calling Donita a liar, and painting the police as bunglers and fools. He wove a conspiracy theory in which Donita, Roy, and Al made Kris Taney the fall guy, whose objection to their child pornography enterprise was silenced by having him thrown in jail.

“But you don't need to believe me,” Nixon said, “you don't have to take my word for it. The facts were revealed by the state's witness. Kristy Taney told you who the real criminals are in this scenario.”

Nixon turned and gestured scornfully at Elsie. “The prosecutor, in her argument, wanted to talk about the testimony of the handwriting expert and the doctor. She even dared to refer you to the testimony of that sainted ‘Mother of the Year,' Donita Taney. These investigators are so misguided, they didn't discover a child porn operation going on right under their noses. They couldn't see through the gossamer web of lies spun by Donita Taney. If they had, Roy Mayfield would be in jail, not Kris Taney. Come to think of it, why isn't Roy Mayfield in jail? Or Al Taney? Or Donita? And why didn't the state get some DNA evidence from those children? Sure would be interesting to see who it matched up with in this household, don't you think?

“You know, the defendant in a criminal case doesn't have to prove anything. That's the prosecution's job: they have the burden of proof. But in this case, the defense has proven that the evidence is unreliable and unbelievable. That the state has bungled this investigation and failed to do their job. If ever a case had a reasonable doubt, this is it. For these reasons, ladies and gentlemen, I ask that you find the defendant Not Guilty.”

Elsie rose and walked to the jury box with a steely glint in her eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we need to focus: what is this case about? Who is on trial here? The
defendant
, the man who has been charged with rape, is sitting in this courtroom, in that chair; it is Kris Taney.” At that, Elsie turned to point at him, and they locked eyes for a second. He made a malevolent squint in her direction, but she turned away from him and faced the jury again.

“You have sworn an oath to do a job in this trial. You must make a decision. Is
this man, Kris Taney
, guilty of the sex acts with his young daughters, Kristy and Charlene? That is your job. That must be your focus.

“Now, Mr. Nixon has a different job: his job is to distract you with smoke and mirrors, to confuse you.”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. Jury will disregard the last statement.”

Elsie continued, unwavering in her intensity. “Don't let the defense distract you from your duty. Think of the victims, recall the facts they gave you. Listen to Kristy Taney, and remember what she told you: that on Thanksgiving Day, a day that should be special, a happy family time,
that man
, her own father, held her down and raped her in his bed. Remember the transcript of Charlene, how her father raped and sodomized her from her early childhood on.

“Mr. Nixon doesn't want you to focus on that. He wants you to reject the state's case because he introduced testimony that the girls were victimized by other ­people as well—­by Roy, by their Uncle Al. What kind of twisted logic is that? What kind of argument is he force-­feeding you? The defense is trying to tell you that, because these children were abused by others, then it's okay, what their father did to them! That because other, terrible, evil men photographed Kristy or Charlene, you should just overlook the fact that Kristy's own father had sexual intercourse with her, a twelve-­year-­old child, and with her sister. That's crazy! How does the abuse of other predators make what
Kris Taney
did okay? Do you intend to close your eyes to Kris Taney's crimes? Can you live with that?

“You, the twelve of you sitting in this jury box, you set the standards for our community. In McCown County, Missouri, here in the Ozarks, what will we tolerate? The twelve of you determine what kind of actions
will be
tolerated and what acts
won't be
tolerated. Ladies and gentlemen, do we condone rape and incest and child molestation in McCown County, or do we not? Do we turn a blind eye to the suffering of our children in this community? Do we protect our children here, or don't we?”

Elsie gripped the wooden banister of the jury box, leaning toward the jurors, looking them in the eye.

“I want you to send a message with your verdict. I want you to send the message, that down here in McCown County, a man can't violate his daughters like Kris Taney did, then just walk away. You tell everyone that we will not permit it.

“I have faith in you, ladies and gentlemen. I ask that you find the defendant, Kris Taney, guilty on all counts. Thank you.”

As Elsie sat at the counsel table, the bailiff shepherded the jury into the jury room to deliberate. Elsie checked her notes, rustling through pages of argument to make sure she hadn't missed anything she'd meant to say, before she realized the futility of the effort: it was over, one way or the other.

The deputies shackled Taney up for his walk back to the county jail to await the verdict, and after they hustled him into the hallway, Nixon turned to her.

“Well . . .” he said, and paused.

She grimaced and raised her brows. “It's in the hands of the gods now, Nixon.”

“Yep, I guess so.” Grudgingly, he added, “Good argument.”

“You, too.” She started stuffing her papers into the accordion file on the counsel table, but before the job was done, Merle received a knock from the jury on the other side of the jury room door.

Both Elsie and Josh Nixon froze as they waited to see what the jury had to say. After a whispered consultation between the bailiff and a juror, Merle called to the judge, who was standing in the doorway of his chambers, waiting to hear.

“Judge, they want to eat.”

Elsie and Nixon both groaned. “This is going to take a while,” Elsie said.

Chapter Forty-­Six

W
HILE THE JURY
deliberated, Elsie had time to kill. On the left side of her untidy desk sat a stack of files that needed attention, containing motions from defense attorneys in other cases. She picked up the top file, but tossed it back without opening it. She was too distracted to accomplish any real work. She wasn't even up to answering her e-­mail.

The volumes she had borrowed from the judges' law library sat on a chair where she dropped them the day before. She should return them to the conference room. She could muster the energy to do that.

The hallways of the second floor were deserted and dark. It was so quiet she could hear the click of her heels on the tile floor. The courthouse always emptied out at five o'clock, so only the ­people invested in the Taney trial remained. Judge Rountree was ensconced in chambers and the jury was shut up in the jury room with Merle standing guard outside the door. Even Nixon had stepped out for a sandwich. Elsie wished Ashlock had stayed to await the verdict with her, but he had catch-­up work to do at the P.D. He'd told her to text him when the verdict came in.

She opened the oak door of the library. It had a pane of frosted glass embedded with chicken wire, but no light shone in from the darkened hallways. Elsie groped along the wall for the light switch and flipped on the overhead light, a fluorescent fixture that shed a greenish glare. She set the volumes on the massive conference table, scarred with cigarette burns from decades before smoking bans were imposed.

A coffee cup on the table held a collection of freshly sharpened pencils. She leaned over and rummaged through them. Maybe she'd nab one for her office.

Behind her, she heard the door slam shut with a bang, just as the light clicked off.

With a gasp, she turned. Without the overhead light, she couldn't see. The room had no window other than the frosted panel. “Noah,” she said, spitting his name with fury. She'd been tensed for this confrontation ever since she rejected his flowers in the courtroom. “What is your fucking problem?”

A body made contact, pressing her back against the table and covering her mouth with his hand. She felt the callused pads of his fingers along her cheek. It wasn't Noah.

In her ear, he whispered, “If thy hand offend thee, cut it off.”

He smelled faintly of sweat, and his breath had a sharp odor, emanating from a nervous gut.

She raised her hands to his chest, trying to push him away with a tremendous shove. Her right hand brushed the metal tip of a bolo tie beneath a wad of rough fabric. She instantly knew —­it was Luke Morrison, the man from the Pentecostal church who had called her Jezebel. He wrested her right hand and twisted it behind her back, whispering, “Cut it off and cast it from thee.”

Her heart pounding like a drum, she struggled against him, kicking at his legs with the pointed toes of her shoes, but he pinned her against the table with his pelvis and gave her arm a wicked twist. She could feel his penis under his pants. It was hard.

“And if thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out.”

He released her hand. She prayed it was over, that he had delivered his message and was done with her. But in an instant his hands were on her face, slapping something sticky over her mouth. Her hands flew to her face faster than he could restrain them. It felt like duct tape.

Desperate to gain a step ahead of her attacker, Elsie reached for his neck and found the bolo tie. With a frantic jerk, she twisted it as tightly as she could. If she pulled it taut, hopefully she could strangle him.

He gagged against it, taking a step back. Even in the darkness, she was able to make out the shape of his head. He was wearing a mask: a horned mask with holes for the eyes and a gaping mouth. A Baldknobbers mask.

Elsie lunged away from the table, but he caught her around the waist and dragged her back, struggling to grasp her wrists. She heard a ripping sound from the roll of tape; he'd use it to tie her hands together. She fought, lashing out with her fists. He managed to pin her against the table again and caught her right hand. Twisting it behind her, he said, “I've been watching you. You've caused sin and destruction.”

She panted against the tape on her mouth, struggling to keep her left hand free.

He said, “You won't stop with Taney. You want to bust up my family. Like the Bible says, you tempt the little ones to stray. The believers to fall away.”

Frantic, she shook her head back and forth in denial. He pinned her tighter with his body.

“My daughter run off, left her husband, and you went down to see her at that place. I followed you there on Sunday. You ought to have a millstone around your neck and be drowned.”

He pushed her down onto the surface of the table on her back. “No,” she screamed, but the sound was garbled by the duct tape. The Baldknobbers mask looming over her looked demonic. She punched at his head with her free hand and he tried to grab it. Stars danced before her eyes, but she couldn't pass out; she must not.

He reached into his coat and pulled out an object, displaying it for a moment before he set it on the table. She thought it was a hunting knife; it had a jagged edge.

Her left hand scrambled along the varnished top of the wooden table, trying to gain a grip to pull herself away, and scattered the cup of pencils. The freshly sharpened pencils.

Her fingers curled around the length of one of the wooden pencils. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the dark; she could make out his eyes through the holes in his mask. As the man whispered, “Pluck it out, cut it off and cast it from thee,” she raised the pencil and plunged it into his eye with all her strength.

Elsie was left-­handed.

With a roar he staggered back, releasing her, and she flung herself to the door. The man was a step behind, still howling, but she was too fast for him; she got out the door and fled into the hallway.

Ed Montee, the courthouse janitor, was standing in the open door of the men's bathroom with a mop in his hand. Elsie ran toward him and into the men's room. She ripped the duct tape off her mouth, shrieking as it came off.

“A man attacked me!” Slumping against the tiled wall, she pointed with a shaky hand. “In the library.”

Montee dropped the mop, and its wooden handle clattered on the floor. “Is he armed? He got a gun?”

“Lord, I don't know. He's got a knife. I don't know if he's got a gun.”

Ed and Elsie peered out into the hall. There was no movement by the library. “He has to be in there. There's no way out,” she said.

Merle, the bailiff, rounded the corner, wearing an expression of righ­teous anger. “Judge wants to know what the ruckus is. Don't you know the jury can hear this carrying on?”

Elsie ran to Merle and clutched his arm. “I was attacked by a man in the library. He's still in there, he must be.” Her wrist began to throb with a vengeance, as if providing proof of her claim.

Merle started to fumble for his gun but began walking away from the library rather than toward it. “We better get the sheriff over here.” He handed his cell phone to Elsie, and she saw he was shaking as badly as she was. “You make the call so I can keep my eye on the situation.”

She could barely push the buttons. When a deputy answered, she begged him to come without delay.

“Are there injuries?” the man asked.

“No,” Elsie said, before she amended her answer. “There's an asshole with a pencil sticking out of his eye.”

Chapter Forty-­Seven

A
FTER
L
UKE
M
ORRISON
was taken to jail, Elsie had to make a statement at the sheriff's office. By the time she returned to her office, thoroughly shaken but still waiting on the jury's decision, she was exhausted. She put her head on her desk and managed to fall asleep still clutching the claw hammer she'd borrowed from Montee after the incident, determined to have a defense weapon.

An hour later she was still dozing when Merle rapped on the door frame. “Jury's got a question Elsie,” he said.

She awoke with a jerk, sitting up so quickly that her chair rocked to one side. Her hand clutched the hammer in her lap

“Who's there?” she babbled, then seeing the bailiff, gave a short laugh, shaking her head. “Sorry, Merle. I'll be right there.”

Merle nodded and moved on.

When Elsie reached the courtroom, Taney was being released from his handcuffs, after what had obviously been a contentious argument between the deputies and Josh Nixon.

“The judge has already decided this point; I don't know why you make us battle it out every damn time the defendant comes and goes,” Nixon declared, the blood high in his face. “The defendant has to have his hands free to assist with his defense.”

The deputy hooked the cuffs on his belt. “Feet stay shackled,” he said shortly as he and the other escort turned to go.

Elsie stared at the empty jury box, wondering what question the jury would ask. They had to make decisions on five separate counts; they could be confused about the verdict forms, or the instructions, or the evidence.

Or they could be sending out for another snack.

As the door to the judge's chambers opened, a knock sounded from the inside the jury room. Merle hurried over and opened the door a crack. In a moment he swung around to address the judge.

“Your honor, they said to forget about the message.”

Elsie shrugged and prepared to go back to her office.

“They say they've reached a verdict.”

She froze. Though to her it felt like days since her closing argument, the jury had only been deliberating for three hours, and part of that time involved selecting a foreman, making the dinner order, eating, and filling out the verdict forms. She didn't think they could reach a guilty verdict in a five-­count criminal case in three hours.

The jurors filed into the jury box. Elsie generally tried to read the jury at this point, but this time she was too nervous. She concentrated on her pen, twisting the lid, but when she saw that her hands were shaking, she set the pen aside and folded her fingers together before her on the table.

“Have you reached a verdict, Mr. Foreman?”

“We have, Judge,” the foreman answered.

The judge reached out his hand. Merle took the papers from the foreman and handed them to the judge. Judge Rountree rustled through the pages before he began to read.

“ ‘As to count one, we, the jury, find the defendant Kristopher Eugene Taney Not Guilty.' ”

Elsie's heart plummeted in her chest. She pressed her lips together, but didn't permit herself any other outward reaction.

“ ‘As to count two, we, the jury, find the defendant Kristopher Thomas Taney Not Guilty.' ”

Kris Taney hooted and slapped Nixon on the back. Judge Rountree shot the defense table a reproving glare.

“ ‘As to count three, we, the jury, find the defendant Kristopher Eugene Taney Not Guilty.' ”

“Yesssss,” Nixon hissed in a whisper, while Taney grinned from ear to ear, like a man with a winning lottery ticket.

“ ‘As to count four, we, the jury, find the defendant Kristopher Eugene Taney Not Guilty.' ”

Taney had his arm around Nixon at this point, extending the other hand to him in an exuberant handshake.

The judge read the last verdict form. “ ‘As to count five, we, the jury, find the defendant Kristopher Eugene Taney guilty of statutory rape in the first degree, as submitted in instruction number seven.' ”

Elsie jerked to attention, and the jollity at the defense table came abruptly to a halt. He was only found guilty of one count. But that one count was enough to get a sentence of life imprisonment.

After a stunned moment, Taney roared, “Son of a bitch!” With the arm that he had thrown around Nixon's shoulder moments ago in a gesture of goodwill, he jerked the attorney into a neck hold.

“You done sold me out!” Taney cried, while Josh Nixon choked and flailed in a futile attempt to escape the big man's hold. Taney tightened his grasp, cutting off Nixon's windpipe; Elsie jumped to her feet as the attorney's complexion changed color. Taney abruptly dropped the neck hold, and as Nixon stumbled, trying to catch his breath, he grabbed his attorney by the hair on the front of his head and savagely punched him in the mouth.

Nixon went down like a carnival game target. As the courtroom erupted in chaos, two county deputies burst back into court at a run. Taney tried to lunge over the defense table, but because of his shackled feet, he landed on his back and the county deputies pounced. Struggling with the big man, they tried to roll him onto his stomach, but Taney fought so violently they couldn't control him. He flailed at the deputies with both fists, while the bailiff, Merle, watched from a safe distance. As the deputies labored to pin Taney, unsuccessfully attempting to get his hands into cuffs, he roared and shouted incomprehensible epithets.

The jurors cowered in the jury box, eyes glued to the unfolding confrontation. Elsie remained on her feet behind her counsel table, watching the scene as if it were happening to someone else in a movie or a television show.

One of the deputies pulled the Taser from its holder on his belt and jammed it into Taney's neck. Taney's body gave a mighty jerk, and the battle was done.

As the deputies moved to handcuff the incapacitated man, Rountree pounded his gavel with a resounding bang. Once he had the attention of the court, he barked, “Sentencing in this cause will be set for Friday, February seven. Defendant Kristopher Eugene Taney to remain in custody. The court orders defendant remanded to the McCown County jail.” He also ordered a presentence investigation, to be prepared by the Probation and Parole Office. The office would examine Taney, look at his background and the severity of the offense, and make a recommendation regarding his sentence.

Turning to the jury, gawking in the jury box, Rountree paused, taking a moment to moderate his demeanor. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I thank you for your ser­vice. You are dismissed, but please remain seated until the defendant is removed from the courtroom.”

Elsie knew she should sit down, too, but first she leaned over the counsel table to watch as Merle and the deputies prepared to drag Taney from the courtroom. As Taney lay on the floor, twitching, she saw his eyes focus on her, fixing her with a look of pure hatred. She shivered and sat back quickly.

After the jury filed out of the courtroom, Elsie followed with a spring in her step. Walking down the corridor, she saw Madeleine speeding to her office at a near gallop. With a burst of elation, Elsie followed. This is it, she thought; it's time for me to dance my victory dance right on the carpet in front of her desk.

The door nearly shut in Elsie's face, but she caught it before it latched. Poking her head inside and regarding Madeleine with a jubilant grin, she said, “What do you say, Madeleine? Did you come back to the courthouse to hear the verdict?”

Madeleine had just popped the top on a can of Slim-­Fast; at the sound of Elsie's voice, she sloshed the contents onto her desktop.

“Oh, shoot,” Elsie said, stepping inside, “didn't mean to startle you. I just wanted to make sure you heard about the Taney verdict.”

With a pinched look on her face, Madeleine nodded as she mopped at the spill with a wad of Kleenex.

Waiting for a word of congratulations, Elsie tensed, thinking, Come on Madeleine, give it up to me.

The silence dragged as Madeleine pulled more tissues from the box with an angry twist.

Elsie took a breath and said, “I guess we're good then? Everything between you and me?”

Madeleine replied sourly, “I guess we are.”

You're fucking with my buzz, hateful thing, Elsie thought, and couldn't refrain from adding, “It wouldn't kill you to tell me I did a good job.”

Madeleine shot her a look of resentment. “You got lucky.”