The Code of the Hills (22 page)

Elsie turned back to the bench, fighting to keep the panic from her voice. She said, “Judge, if you want to assure the defendant's appearance at trial, a property bond won't do the trick. Who will go after him if he fails to appear? There won't be a bail bondsman in the picture, to find him and bring him in.”

Judge Rountree addressed Martin Webster. “Mr. Webster, if you post a property bond, you'll forfeit that farm in the event your cousin fails to appear. Do you understand that?”

“I do.”

“Now Mr. Webster, I see you're willing to make a sacrifice on your cousin's behalf. But wouldn't it make more sense for you to work with a bail bondsman? Then you wouldn't risk your property.”

Webster's nose wrinkled, as if he detected a mighty stink. “We don't need no bail bondsman. I'll not do business with anyone who profits from another man's sin and iniquity. So the Book says.”

Elsie's mind was racing. “Judge, this is all hogwash anyway. The bond amount is $250,000. Where in these parts can you find a farm that's worth a quarter of a million dollars?”

“I'll inquire. Attorneys and defendant will be seated. Mr. Webster, approach the bench, if you please, sir. What manner of farm are we talking about?”

“Livestock operation. It's been in the family a long time. About ninety years.”

Livestock,
Elsie jotted on her pad, thinking they were raising some chickens out on the farm, too.
Not hard to find a possum.

“Who owns the property?”

“Me, your honor. It was passed down to me by my daddy, and to him by his.”

“Where is it located?”

“Douglas County.”

Oh, Lord: not Booger County.
Douglas County was infamous in the Ozarks for its hostile treatment of outsiders. Historically, if someone in Douglas County mysteriously disappeared, the local explanation was “the Booger Man got him.”

“How many acres?”

“Two hundred.”

Nixon jumped up. “Your honor, a farm of that size should be worth close to a quarter of a million dollars. I'd like the court to commence proceedings for approval of defendant's property bond.”

Elsie stood, scoffing. “We're in the middle of an economic recession, last I heard. And we haven't even seen this property, or conclusive evidence of ownership, or its condition, or anything else, for that matter. Defense counsel is getting way ahead of himself.”

Nixon brushed off her argument. “We can get all the information online, through the recorder's office. It won't take twenty minutes.”

Her palms grew clammy as the possibility of Taney's release hit home. She left the counsel table and marched up to the bench without asking leave.

“Flight risk! Judge Rountree, stop and think, a bond must effectively deter the defendant from running off. This property bond, which for some reason the court seems to actually be considering, it's the pledge of some
cousin's
farm. And it's property outside the county, property in which defendant has no ownership interest. What's that to Kris Taney? What power, what hold, could it possibly have on him?”

“Family pride,” declared Webster, stepping over to stand hip-­to-­hip with Elsie at the bench.

“Will you please move?” she asked with irritation, shoving Webster with her shoulder before returning her focus to Judge Rountree. “Judge, this is a dangerous discussion. Perilous. Setting the defendant free will disrupt the state's case. Our witnesses will feel threatened.”

“We'll agree to bond conditions,” Nixon offered.

Making a scornful face, she demanded, “Why should we believe that the defendant will comply with bond conditions when he doesn't comply with the Missouri Criminal Code?”

“Allegedly
,”
Nixon said.

The judge studied them in silence. After a moment, he shook his head. “I'll have to give this some thought,” he said. “I'll take the matter under advisement while defendant gets his paperwork in order.”

Elsie had a flash of inspiration. “I'll need to request an appraisal.”

The judge nodded. “That's reasonable.”

“And a survey of the property,” she added, wracking her brain. “And a title search. And an environmental audit to make sure the property's not contaminated.”

“Oh, come on,” Nixon protested. “The state is just trying to create unnecessary delay.”

Judge Rountree sighed as he pushed his chair back from the bench. “We'll see. In a case of this type, it seems wise to approach the request for property bond with caution. Make your recommendations in writing and see that it's filed before the end of the day.”

“Yes, your honor.”

“And Mr. Nixon, I'll need to see an amended motion from you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The judge exited through his chambers door. As the door shut, Taney demanded, in an aggrieved tone, “So am I getting out of here today or not?”

“Hell
, no,” Elsie muttered at the prosecution table. She sneaked a look at the counsel table to see whether she'd been overheard.

Nixon was huddled in consultation with Martin Webster, but Kris Taney returned her stare. Taney made a kissing noise at her, then stuck out his tongue and flicked it back and forth. As the deputies hastened to take him away, Taney puckered his lips and whistled a tune. Elsie placed it after a moment; it was “Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead” from
The Wizard of Oz.

“You wish,” she said aloud, but he had disappeared.

As she left the courtroom, she saw that the Taney group still waited in the wings. They clustered on the benches that lined the walls of the courthouse rotunda. As she walked by, trying in vain to act as if she didn't notice them, she was fleetingly reminded of Suzanne Pleshette and Tippy Hedren fearfully eyeing Alfred Hitchcock's birds, watching from the telephone wires.

The high heels of her shoes clicked and clacked on the marble floor, and as she passed the men and women perched on the benches, Martin Webster began to stomp his feet. Following his lead, all the men and women who occupied the benches rapidly stomped their feet on the marble floor in unison. After halting a moment in confusion, she strode purposefully for her office door. She was well aware that they were making fun of her, but she put on a brave face. The stomping continued until she passed into the protection of the Prosecutor's Office. Once inside, her shoulders dropped and she exhaled, unaware that she had been holding her breath as she walked through the stomping crowd.

“Madeleine said she wants to see you when you're done with that hearing,” Stacie told her.

“Thanks,” said Elsie, who had no intention of heading down the hallway to Madeleine's office door. She entered her own office and sat down abruptly, breathing out like a deflating balloon.

She closed her eyes, drawing strength from the quiet, when Josh Nixon stuck his head in the door. “Can I have that exhibit yet?” he asked.

She nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you up? You sleeping on the job?”

“No,” she said irritably, “I have never slept at work,” which was not quite true. “What do you want?”

“I said I want the original of that valentine card. And whatever else you found in my client's property. And I want your ridiculous demands for the property bond, just as soon as you give it to the judge.”

She fought the urge to lash out at him, to blame him for the behavior of his client and the ­people on the courthouse benches. She was curt as she told him that she couldn't give it to him because she hadn't gone through it all yet.

“You know what, Elsie, this is bullshit. That's my client's property and you're depriving him of it. I gave you the damned handwriting samples, like you asked. I don't want to fight this out in front of Judge Rountree, but if you jerk me around, I'm going to have to. You said I could have the stuff today.”

“You're a total whiner,” she countered, “and Judge Rountree isn't going to want to hear it. Besides, you don't have anything to complain about. I didn't snatch this property from him; his wife gave it to me. She demanded that I take it. I don't need a warrant to take what someone hands to me.”

They glared at each other. For a long moment neither of them spoke. The silence gave her time to reflect; she was obligated, ethically bound, to give him the evidence he sought. Fighting a losing discovery battle in court, when she needed Judge Rountree to rule in her favor on the property bond, was unwise.

“Tell you what,” she proposed in a more reasonable tone. “I can't hand it all over today, because I haven't seen it all. How about if I hand over the valentine? You can show it to your client; I'm certain he'll have a perfectly plausible explanation. If I uncover anything else, you can have it on Monday.”

He digested the offer. “Are you giving me the original?”

“Hell no. How about a color copy? It's at the crime lab across town, with the officer who does the handwriting analysis. We can go make the copy there.”

“Well,” he said, “I guess so.”

“Good. I'll even drive.”

“Okay, you drive.”

“I'm at the very end of the parking lot. Story of my life.”

Nixon loosened up, adopting a friendlier manner. “Ooh, long walk. Bracing. On second thought, maybe you could see whether Madeleine brought her golf cart from the country club, and we could ride in it.”

The mention of Madeleine brought her up short. Madeleine wanted to see her, and after their morning exchange, the meeting would not be a happy one. She shook her head to banish the worry. Later, she thought as she dug her keys out of her purse, then headed to the parking lot with Josh Nixon.

Outside, Elsie was glad to leave the courthouse behind. The sun shone bright and warm, a January day that teased ­people with the notion that winter was over, when in fact spring was many cold weeks away. Her mood improved as she and Nixon strolled through the lines of vehicles to her car. When they reached it, she stared at it without recognition for a moment. The car was where she left it, but its appearance had markedly changed. It had been pelted with dozens of eggs. Crushed brown and white shells speckled the vehicle, and it dripped a thick layer of egg white and broken yolks. The vile stench of sulfur assaulted her. The eggs were rotten.

In the gelatinous mess on the hood of the car, someone had written a message, using the eggs like finger paint. It read,
Deut. 22:5
.

Elsie closed her eyes, as if blotting out the image would make it disappear. “Again,” she whispered, more to herself than to Nixon, “they got me again.” Fear rushed over her in a wave, and blinking her eyes open, she jerked her head from left to right, as if the vandals were all around. She covered her nose to block the sulfur smell, but bile rose in her throat and she couldn't swallow it back. She leaned over beside the car and vomited.

As she retched, she felt Josh Nixon's hand, patting her on the back. “It's okay,” he said. Gently, he pulled her hair out of the way, so she wouldn't heave on it. “Everything's okay.” But his troubled tone belied the words.

Chapter Twenty-­Nine

J
UDGE
R
OUNTREE SAT
in his chambers in the old rolling chair that he had occupied for thirty years. It tilted at a dangerous angle, and he leaned back as he stared out the window at Elsie's vandalized car. She and Josh Nixon sat across from him, waiting for him to speak.

Sitting before the judge, she wished she'd dared to bring a cold drink into chambers with her. Though she had rinsed her mouth at the water fountain in the courthouse hallway, the acrid taste of vomit remained, and her throat burned from the caustic bile.

The bitter taste matched her mood, but she tried to mask her feeling of violation as she kept her eye trained on the judge.

“So this is the second incident, you say,” he said, swiveling around to address her.

“It's the second incident at the courthouse. After the arraignment, my car was vandalized with chicken heads. Today it was eggs. And two nights ago someone left a possum on my doorstep . . . ” She paused, wondering whether invoking the possum sounded frivolous. But she felt certain that the same villain had inflicted all of the damage.

“Have you talked this over with Mrs. Thompson?”

Like Madeleine would care, she thought, but she answered, “A while back, when it first happened.”

“What did she say?”

“She didn't think too much of it.”

A look of disapproval crossed the judge's face as he brought his chair back to floor level. “How's discovery going, Mr. Nixon?”

“We're working on it.” He stole a sidelong glance at Elsie. “The prosecutor has some stuff I haven't seen, but Elsie says I'll have it all on Monday. And we're waiting on a handwriting report.”

“I'll turn the heat up on that, Judge.”

“See that you do.” He wore thick glasses, and his expression as he looked through them was stern. “This case is starting to get out of control. I think we need a special setting. Mr. Taney is entitled to a speedy trial, and I'm inclined to give him one.”

Shifting in his chair, Nixon looked uncertain. “What do you mean, Judge?”

“I have a jury coming in on a civil case a week from Monday. It was specially set; they're coming to try the wrongful death case from the car wash explosion on Cherry Street in '08. I hear that the plaintiff and defendant are talking seriously about settlement. I think,” and he took the glasses off and rubbed his eyes, “I think
State v. Taney
will be my backup case.”

Elsie and Josh were struck dumb. Judges occasionally placed cases on a fast track, but generally the opposite was true; cases languished as they crept their way up crowded dockets, dogged by continuances and delays.

As she grasped the notion that the Taney case might possibly be disposed of in a ­couple of weeks, a weight rolled off her. Taking a deep breath, she sat up straighter in her chair. “The state is always ready for trial, your honor,” she said, with a shade of the old ring in her voice.

The judge turned to Nixon; he appeared to be deep in thought. He glanced at Elsie. “Do you anticipate any further medical evidence?”

“No.” She had received the reports of the girls' medical exams a week ago; they held no surprises. The results were consistent with the claims that the two older girls had intercourse, but the state could not pursue DNA evidence.

She asked Nixon, “Did you see the statement of JoLee? It's in the file, but I attached it to an e-­mail so you'd be sure to notice.” Nixon nodded.

The judge instructed Elsie to disclose her witness list. “I want it in defendant's hands by five today.”

“Yes, your honor,” she said. She nudged Nixon's leg with the toe of her shoe. “Any alibi to disclose?”

“Please.”

“What?”

“You know.”

“What, for heaven's sake?”

“Don't make me crazy.” His hair fell over his forehead. “If you haven't even disclosed your whole case to me, how can I be expected to know whether I have an alibi defense? If we come up with one,
after
you do your job, I'll let you know.”

“Well, both of you better figure out your strategies,” Judge Rountree said, “because you're set number two for a week from Monday. In light of the special setting, I believe I'll overrule the request for a property bond in this case. No need to prepare those suggestions after all.”

His decision made, the judge's humor improved. “That's it for now, I guess. You young folks need to get to work. Miss Arnold,” he added, “you'd best head to the car wash. Eggs are hard to get off when they dry. That's why pranksters like them.”

As they rose, a large book on the judge's shelf caught Elsie's eye. “Judge Rountree, is that a Bible?”

“It is.” The judge rose from his chair and limped over to the bookshelf. He pulled a worn black leather-­bound Bible out of the shelf and examined it. “This is the one my father used back in the old days, when ­people had to swear the oath to tell the truth with their hand on the Bible.”

Elsie said, “There was a message smeared in the egg mess on my car. It was a Bible verse, I'm pretty sure. May I look it up in your Bible? Would you mind?”

He handed her the book and she flipped to Deuteronomy. Verse five of chapter twenty-­two was short, and she read it aloud.

“ ‘A woman shall not wear a man's apparel, nor shall a man put on a woman's garment; for whoever does such things is an abomination to the Lord your God.' ”

“You have pants on,” the judge said kindly, as if she needed him to explain. “Some conservative sects don't hold with women wearing pants.”

Staring at the text on the page, her vision blurred. The idea of her foes using the Bible to condemn her injured something deep inside her. “I guess I'm not their feminine ideal,” she said, trying in vain to keep her voice level. She handed the book back to him.

The judge patted her shoulder. “Keep a watch out, for now.”

“I wish I knew how to do that. I don't know much about self-­defense; always did my fighting in the courtroom.” In a troubled voice, she said, “I don't want to get a gun.”

The judge shook his head as Elsie continued, thinking aloud, “Lord knows I'm antigun. I hate guns. But should I be armed, if there's a threat?”

Judge Rountree dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. “Don't be fooling with a gun. Guns are dangerous in the hands of ­people who don't know how to use them.” Sighing, he added, “What you need, Miss Arnold, is a husband.”

Her temper flared and she couldn't hold her tongue. “Why don't you tell Nixon to get a wife?”

The judge looked taken aback. “I meant no offense, Miss Arnold.”

She stood, still affronted; how dare he attribute her vulnerability to her marital status? Stiffly, she said, “If that's all, I need to go.”

He nodded, and did not try to pat her again. “Let's get this one tied up. Then we'll all sleep better.”

As Elsie and Nixon left the judge's office, Nixon whispered, “God damn! They think you're an abomination.”

“Back off, Nixon,” Elsie snapped.