The Code of the Hills (4 page)

Madeleine rattled the page of the newspaper. Elsie edged up the volume of her voice a notch. “I think juries want to convict child molesters, but they like the certainty of scientific evidence, and we can't give them that. The Taney case is a swearing match. So we better be sure it's a good one.”

Madeleine gazed at Elsie over the paper, her face impassive. “This isn't my first time handling a case with children.”

“I know.”

“I am very concerned about protecting children. Deeply concerned.”

“I know,” Elsie repeated. “I've heard you say that.” She swallowed the urge to add,
I've heard you say it on TV.
Never in a courtroom.

“Is that it?”

“Get someone good to work this up,” Elsie said earnestly. “This is not a case for on-­the-­job training. Get Bob Ashlock, if you can.”

“Well,” Madeleine said, pushing her chair back slightly, “the preliminary hearing is Wednesday, isn't it? We have our work cut out for us.”

“Madeleine, about the prelim, you've got to subpoena some backup witnesses in case you can't locate the defendant's brother in time. You need to have Charlene or Kristy or Tiffany ready to take the stand.”

Madeleine's smooth forehead wrinkled a fraction. “Who?”

Elsie tried to keep impatience from creeping into her voice. “The victims, Madeleine. Taney's daughters. Their names are Charlene, Kristy, and Tiffany.”

“Oh. Right. We'll need to think about that.” There was a pause, followed by an uncomfortable silence, which was broken when Madeleine said, “Okay, then. I guess that's all.”

“Right. Here are the notes I made on the case. Talk to you later.” Placing a copy of her notes on Madeleine's desk, Elsie walked out, feeling troubled. Madeleine hadn't specified her role; did she want her to run with the ball, or sit back and watch? She knew that a case of this type required special handling or it would fall apart before it had even begun.

She needed to be careful. She couldn't let Madeleine lead her down that path again. Even after four years she shuddered whenever she thought of Patrice Moore.

Elsie had come to the McCown County Prosecutor's Office, fresh from law school and ready to realize her ambition of becoming the Ozarks' avenging angel. In her third week on the job, Madeleine had sent her into court to dismiss a sodomy charge, with the explanation that the witness had recanted. “I'd do it myself,” Madeline told her, “but I'm all tied up. Just tell the judge we're dropping the charge due to problems with the state's witness.”

Elsie, who at that point had handled nothing other than traffic arraignments, did as she was told. But she had a sick feeling in her gut when she read the charge: the victim was nine years old. As the defendant was brought before the judge, she saw the look that passed between him and his wife. Turning in her chair, Elsie spotted the child, a plump third grader with wispy blond hair, huddled in the courtroom, her posture a mix of resignation and misery.

Shaking, Elsie had stood before the judge, who dismissed the case. The defendant's shackles were removed and he left the courtroom with his wife and child. She opened the file, madly flipping through the pages, then stopped when she saw a handwritten confession, signed by the defendant, admitting he had been anally sodomizing the child for some time.

Elsie had flown from the courtroom, desperate to show Madeleine the file, and camped at her office door until she finally returned.

As she explained that a terrible mistake had been made, Madeleine regarded her with an impatient look. Then she calmly said, “It's been decided. It's out of our hands. The defense attorney took the child's deposition, and he got it under oath. She said she made it up.”

“She was coerced, don't you see? They made her say that. Good God, Madeleine, look at this: he confessed. In his own hand. It's signed.”

“The case is unwinnable. She's given conflicting accounts. The jury won't believe her, it's a waste of time.”

Madeleine walked away, her departure a clear dismissal. Elsie had tried to broach the topic the next day, but with the same results. She had never mentioned it to Madeleine again. But the image of the girl slumped in the courtroom, her eyes dull, was a picture she was sure she'd carry for life. She'd let that child down, sealed her fate.
Never again
, she had vowed.

Now, back at her office, she toiled over paperwork, checking the front door twice to see if anyone was waiting outside. She plopped back into her chair with a scowl; Noah's tardiness was beginning to seriously rankle. Spinning in her chair to face the computer screen, she checked her e-­mail: seventeen messages, but none from him. Next, she checked her texts and incoming calls: nothing. She shot him a quick text:
Where are you?
Then she stared at the silent phone as she ate a cup of blueberry yogurt at her desk and washed it down with Diet Coke.

By mid-­afternoon her temper was flaring; it looked like he wasn't coming by, after all. When she stalked to the third floor courtrooms, activity had settled into an afternoon lull. Not much was going on, and nothing was set after three o'clock. She knew there was no other explanation: he hadn't come to see her, and he hadn't called to cancel.

Hell, hell, hell, she thought. Her spirits fell, and she trudged painfully back to her office, ruing her decision to wear boots with freaky high heels. A glimpse of an officer on the stairs raised her hopes for an instant, but when he turned toward her, Elsie's hopes were dashed. It wasn't Noah.

She had experienced her share of disappointments, but this stung. She felt deflated. What kind of idiot was she, letting him stand her up like this? What self-­respecting grown woman would tolerate it?

By the end of the day she sat at her desk in a funk, leafing through an old copy of
Missouri Lawyers Weekly
. Shortly before five, as she turned in her chair and stared out the window, the phone rang. She jumped, hastily grabbing the receiver.

“This is Elsie Arnold,” she said.

“Honey, it's Mom. How's your day?”

“Oh, Mom,” she said, lowering her voice. “Not so good.”

“What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” she lied. “Really, it's no big thing. Just stupid stuff.”

“Is that boss being mean? Did a judge bawl you out in court?”

“No, nothing like that.” She checked the time again: five on the dot. Noah had blown her off. She swiveled in her chair. It was dark outside, and she saw her own reflection in the window.

“Mom, am I fat?”

“Don't be silly. You are a beautiful girl.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

“Well, you're not a toothpick, if that's what you mean. But you know what your grandfather used to say.”

“Oh God, Mother, please.”

“Your grandfather always said men like a girl who's got some meat on her.”

“Mother, he was born in 1920. He lived through the Great Depression. Look, I've got to go.”

“Is this about a man? I could give you some good advice if you'll just talk to me. Tell me what's the matter.”

“I don't really want to go into it.” She switched the phone to her other ear, bracing herself; her mother was very free with her advice.

“You know, it's not what they look like, it's how they treat you that counts.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're talking like I'm an eighth grader.” Her mother had spent the past forty years teaching middle school English, and Elsie suspected she would always regard her as a member of that age group.

“Any girl can get married if she sets her standards low enough,” Marge Arnold advised.

“Thanks, Mom. That's helpful.”

“What I'm trying to say,” Marge continued, “is that you shouldn't set your standards low.”

“I think I zeroed in on that.” She glanced at the clock. “Look, I've got to get back to work. Thanks for calling, though.”

“Come over for supper tonight. Dad wants to see you.”

“Can't make it, Mom.”

“I'm making chicken and rice. I bet you haven't had a thing to eat all day.”

Elsie sighed into the phone. “With a can of cream of mushroom, I bet.”

“Cream of celery.”

“And Minute rice?”

“Yes, with Minute rice,” Marge said, affronted. “You don't need to take that tone. You've loved it since you were a little girl.”

“I know, Mom. Thanks for the invite, but I really am tied up. I'm still catching up from last week.”

“All right, then. I love you, baby.”

Elsie's heart tugged. “I love you, too, Mom. Tell Dad hi.”

When she got off the phone, she felt a little better, much to her surprise. But she had blood in her eye for Noah.

Your probation is hereby revoked, shithead, she thought.

Chapter Five

E
ARLY
T
UESDAY MORNING
the Taney sisters emerged from the old white house on High Street and started down the steps to the cracked front walk. Charlene, a thin fifteen-­year-­old, led the way, pulling her worn nylon jacket tightly around her. The wind whipped her long brown hair into her face. She pushed it back with an impatient gesture, revealing her pointed chin and sharp jaw.

Following behind, Kristy stepped carefully down the icy steps. At twelve, she was nearly as tall as her sister Charlene, her dark hair the same shade, but Kristy's features were softer, her face rounder, a pronounced dimple in her chin.

Tiffany, a child of six, maneuvered the slick steps with difficulty, stumbling before she made it safely to the cement sidewalk. Her hooded coat revealed tendrils of red hair that curled in unruly waves. Looking around in the cold morning air, Tiffany froze, gazing up in delight.

Fat snowflakes drifted from the gray sky, and Tiffany twirled around, arms upraised to catch them. Her brown coat, recently purchased from the Disabled American Veterans' thrift shop, was much too big for her, with sleeves that hung well below her fingertips. She waved the oversized sleeves in the cold air, her bare fingers reaching for the sky.

Charlene tugged the loose shoulder of Tiffany's coat. “Come on, crazy thing. If you want me to walk you to school, we got to get a move on.” When Tiffany didn't respond immediately, Charlene gave her a little shove. “You don't want to miss school breakfast, do you?”

Tiffany fell into step with her sisters. The girls walked three abreast down the narrow street, because the sidewalk was so broken it was sure to trip them up. They jumped to avoid frozen puddles along the rutted curb. Tiffany's long sleeves flapped at her side.

A frost-­covered beer can appeared in Kristy's path and she kicked it. It skittered up the road ahead of her, and she ran after it and kicked it again, using the instep of her foot. Kristy chased the can, leaving her sisters behind.

Charlene thrust her bare fists deep into the pockets of her old jacket. She nudged Tiffany with her elbow. “What they having for breakfast at your school today, you think?”

Tiffany answered with a shrug.

“Bet it's cinnamon rolls,” Charlene said. “Wouldn't that be something? Cinnamon rolls and milk.”

Tiffany smiled but didn't reply.

Charlene continued. “Everything good at school? Teacher nice?”

Tiffany nodded, still smiling, studying the snowflakes that clung to the fabric of her coat.

“How about the kids in your class? Are they being nice?” Charlene regarded the child with fierce affection. She took a cold hand from her pocket and pulled Tiffany to her side. “Anybody don't treat you nice, you tell them your big sister will come looking for them. Tell them I'll pop a cap in they ass.”

Tiffany covered her mouth with shock and delight. Kristy turned on the pair, abandoning her pursuit of the Old Milwaukee can. With a hard look, she said, “I heard that. You cussing again.”

“Am not.”

“I heard it. You got a filthy mouth. I'll tell.”

“Who you gonna tell? Daddy's in jail. Ha.”

“I'll tell Uncle Al. Or Roy.”

“Aw, go kick your stinking can.”

The elementary schoolyard came into view. Charlene walked Tiffany through the chain-­link fence and dropped a kiss on the top of her tousled head.

“You remember what I said.”

Tiffany watched as her older sisters walked away. She whispered, “Slap a cat in your ass,” and then covered her mouth with the long sleeve of her coat.

D
O
N
I
T
A
T
A
N
E
Y
W
A
T
C
H
E
D
her daughters from the window. The dirty glass allowed only a hazy view. If snow was falling outside, Donita couldn't see it.

She was glad they'd found that warm coat for Tiffany at the D
A
V
thrift shop. Winter was hard this year. She wished she had a better coat for Char. Seemed like Char got the short end often as not.

Char was tough, though. Whatever got dished out, thrown her way, Char could take it. And Charlene hadn't had to suffer anything that Donita hadn't been through herself. She survived. Her girls would too.

Donita needed a cigarette. She must've been smoking too much lately; the urge for tobacco felt more like a compulsion than a nagging desire. A crumpled cigarette pack sat by the ashtray and she rifled through it with hope, but it was empty. Someone had taken her last smoke.

“Char,” she muttered through her teeth. With Kris locked up, it had to be Charlene taking her smokes. Kristy only smoked once in a while and Tiffany hadn't started yet.

She weighed her options. She wasn't inclined to walk to the Lo-­Cut Market this early; it was cold as all get-­out outside. Besides, she was almost broke. “I'll teach her to take the last one,” she said as she poked through the ashtray, looking for a butt to relight. They'd all been burned down to the filter, save one. Donita sighed with satisfaction as she plucked up a wrinkled butt that had been stubbed out with a good third of the cigarette remaining.

Moving into the kitchen, she turned an electric burner on high and lit the cigarette off the coil on the kitchen stove. She took a grateful drag but grimaced as she examined it between her fingers. A relit cigarette never tasted as good on the second go-­around.

What was the matter with her daughter, stubbing out a cigarette with almost half of it left? It was wasteful. Donita's daddy had smoked unfiltered cigarettes, Camels when he could get them, hand-­rolled sometimes. He used to say you was to smoke them till you could smell the flesh burning.

As Donita eased into a kitchen chair, taking care not to put her weight on the wobbly leg, she spied a whole sheet of paper under the table. With a grunt, she bent over to pick it up, thinking, I have to pick up after everybody around here.

It looked like a homework paper, so she supposed it must belong to Kristy, but the page bore Charlene's name in the upper right corner. Surprising; Charlene didn't bother much with schoolwork. Donita couldn't fault her for it: you plant corn, you get corn, as her mama used to say. She hadn't been too interested in school herself. She'd sit in the back of the class, daydreaming while the teacher talked.

After school, Donita and her sister would take the long way home, walking by the Dari Sweet where the boys hung out. Kris Taney was generally there, smoking and shouting at the passersby. He was the baddest boy in town. Mean as a snake.

So when he started sniffing after Donita, it took her by surprise. At the time, she thought it was a compliment, a distinction, having a tough like Kris chase after her.

She wasn't much older than Charlene when she turned up pregnant. They got married pretty quick after that. It was funny to think how glad she was back then, to cast her lot with Kris Taney. She thought she was lucky to get out of her daddy's house.

From the frying pan into the fire.

Donita blew the smoke out with a sober expression. She didn't like to think about her daddy, not even with him long dead and buried in Arkansas. She was glad when he died, shameful as it was to admit it. Part of her would always hate him. She wasn't sure how old she was the first time she'd had to take care of her daddy, but she was just a little thing. He made her do it with her hand, at first. Sometimes he'd rub up against her in bed. Before long he said she was ready to be a woman.

It was god-­awful, that's a fact. But when she went to her mother that night, Mama refused to give comfort or solace. Donita would never forget the closed look on her mother's face, the set of her jaw as her mother disentangled herself from her frantic grip.

“You don't know what he done, Mama.”

“I don't want to hear it. Go to bed.”

“You got to stop him.” Donita clutched at her mother's dress, but the woman held her off.

“ ‘Wives submit to your husband, as to the
Lord
.' Bible says. Daddy's the boss of this house. Now you get to bed.”

“I got to tell you what he done.”

Donita's mother snatched her by the upper arm and hissed in her ear, “You don't never tell. Nobody. Never.”

She remembered that her mother had relented a little after that, possibly at the stricken look on her face. Mama patted her arm and whispered, “Don't you think about it, Donita. Think about something else.” Grimly she'd advised, “Think about heaven.”

Donita had followed her mother's orders. She never told a soul, and she tried to think about something else when he came to her.

It was advice she passed on to her daughters. Char had been nine years old when Kris started in on her. Donita knew that for a fact, because she was pregnant with Tiffany, about ready to pop, when it happened the first time. She should have seen it coming. She'd seen the look in his eye as he watched Char. He'd corner her behind the sofa or run a hand up her thigh.

But Charlene put up a fight, that was for sure, hollering and carrying on till Donita came running, holding her belly with both hands. He had Charlene pinned on the bed—­the marriage bed they'd made their babies in. Charlene was fighting like a bobcat, trying to scratch his face. He was too drunk to catch her wrists.

Donita tried to help her girl. She grabbed Kris's shoulder, said he didn't know what he was doing, he had to stop. He reared back and kicked her in the stomach so hard, she went flying against the wall. Huddled in pain, she clutched her middle, scared she'd lose the baby. Looking up, she could see that he'd done it. He was going at it with Charlene under him.

She couldn't watch. Crawling out of the room on all fours, Donita lay on the carpet in the hallway, waiting for it to end.
It's just because I'
m so fat with this baby
, she told herself.
He
don't want me with my belly this way. After the baby, he'll leave her alone
.

Of course, she was wrong. It happened again, regardless of her protests. And by the time he started up with Kristy, the girl knew better than to resist. Donita felt her failure, carried it around her neck like the oxen's yoke.

She taught them her mother's lesson: that it had to be kept secret, that it was just something men did, and that it must be kept within the family circle, never to be spoken of to others.

“Think about something else,” she'd whisper to her girls. “Think about something nice.” She didn't tell them to think about heaven. She parted with her mother's example on that score. Donita wasn't too certain that she could count on the existence of a heaven, or that she would get in if there was one.

But she was a better mother than her own, she believed. She never pushed them away when they wanted to come to her. She would comfort them. Give them some sugar. Share a cigarette, give a squeeze.

She would stroke Charlene's back as the girl shuddered. “Think about ice cream,” Donita would urge.

But Char didn't cry no more. Not for a long time.

Donita stubbed out the cigarette in the sink. Things would get better. She would see to it.