The Election Heist

by Kenneth R. Timmerman

  McKenzie waved to the crowd, preparing to hand back the microphone, when he finally saw the mariachi players in their sombreros snaking through the crowd at the far end of the tent, swaying and calling out, rattling marimbas, trumpets, and smaller brass instruments playing a staccato dance. He turned to the chairman of the town council with an annoyed frown but was met with a complacent shrug as if to say, that’s how it is here in Wheaton, amigo.

  Dumbstruck, McKenzie just stood there, gaping, as the mariachi line made its way through the crowd toward the dais. And then it struck him that they were all dressed in red, and as he looked more carefully he gave an inward groan because they were wearing t-shirts of his opponent, Nelson Aguilar. And the whole tent was now full of them. An undulating raucous red sea.

  At the back of the line came Aguilar himself, smiling broadly, waving, shaking outstretched hands, kissing women on the cheeks, hefting babies and posing for selfies with the moms. He’s a natural, McKenzie thought. And that beautiful suit. Hard to believe he doesn’t even break a sweat.

  McKenzie turned to Jenn. “This is a disaster,” he said. “Let’s get out of here before it becomes an embarrassment.”

  4

  Nelson Aguilar was everything the Democrats feared most. He was handsome, Hispanic, rich, and conservative. The son of immigrants, he had made a successful career as a broadcast journalist, first on local radio and later as a financial reporter on a popular cable TV network. After many years in New York, he returned to the barrio in suburban Wheaton, Maryland, bought the local Hispanic radio station, and turned it into a modest media empire. At forty-six years old, he was at the peak of his powers.

  Through his daily broadcasts, Nelson Aguilar owned the Hispanic day workers, the Salvadorian maids, the Guatemalteco, and the Mexican landscapers. He seduced the building cleaners, the hotel workers, the middle-aged couples who ran the nail salon. With his media savvy, he won the young geeks who sold cell phones in the malls.

  But most importantly, for financing his first-ever political campaign, Aguilar had used his radio empire to work his way into the Maryland business establishment, with its millionaire Rotary clubs, its power lawyers, its discreet golf courses tucked away behind walls of trees, its mega-buck developers, its Potomac and Severn River yachts, its Eastern Shore duck camps and St. Michael’s estates. Nelson Aguilar knew who was up, who was down. And especially, who was fed up bearing the yoke of taxes and regulations coming from Washington, DC, and secretly welcomed the relief provided to them by President Trump.

  And he knew how to reach them personally to reassure them. He had the Crocodile to thank for that. Give them plausible deniability, the Crocodile liked to say, but always show them your power. And that power came from his voice.

  “You came here the hard way,” he exhorted his supporters at the end of his daily broadcast commentary. “You came here for the dream—that great, beautiful, American dream, that great blessing that came from God on high. And yet, there are some who want to take that dream away from you. I call them the central planners, but you know who they are. They want to steal your American dream. They want to tax you back to poverty. They want to regulate your small businesses out of business for their Green New Deal. And chief among them right here in Wheaton is Hugh McKenzie!”

  By the time he swept through the primary, decimating his rivals (a small businessman who awkwardly tried to appeal to core Trump supporters, a lunatic libertarian, and a pro-choice lawyer from Montgomery County), he had raised his first million. That got the attention of the national party bigwigs and the media. By the time of the Wheaton fair, he had cleared $2.5 million and was locked in a dead heat in the polls with his Democrat rival—44 percent to 44 percent—despite the heavy pro-Democrat demographic.

  “This one is yours to lose,” the Crocodile said that evening, after what they were now calling the Mariachi coup, when they sent Hugh McKenzie scurrying off the dais like a cockroach. “Even the Cook Report is now saying this District is in play.”

  Officially the Crocodile, as he liked to call him, was his campaign consultant. But to Aguilar, Ken Adams was a miracle worker. He had brought him from nowhere to win a smashing victory in a primary normally dominated by the Party’s most conservative activists, for whom Hispanic meant sponger and border jumper and MS-13 gang-banger, or so at least the media claimed. Now the Crocodile was setting out a roadmap to victory in November. Woo the big donors. Focus on the message. Just be yourself, because it’s you they love, boss. Nelson Aguilar, the son of immigrants, was going to the United States Congress. And it didn’t turn his head in the least.

  5

  Early the following afternoon, the Crocodile was explaining how this next meeting was to go down as they cruised northward along a rural stretch of Georgia Avenue in a black Suburban leased by the campaign.

  “Marguerite Parker—she’ll ask you to call her ‘Midge’—is one of three siblings. The two brothers, David and Peter, run the stud farms. The biggest stud farms in Maryland. Probably in the States, if you ask me. We’ll be driving by one of them soon here in Woodbine, on the other side of Route 70.” He gestured at the rolling fields and pastureland of Howard County, and Aguilar thought, if he weren’t the Crocodile, with his bald pate and rough, deeply-tanned skin, he could be an oracle, a prophet, a soothsayer. Whatever.

  “Midge is also a rider. It’s a passion of hers. Dressage. You’re going to see a couple of very expensive saddles hanging around her office, thrown over banisters, casual-like. Just say something innocuous. You know, like nice saddle, or something.”

  “Graciela used to ride.”

  “You can say that.”

  “I always watched. She never let me ride.”

  “Even better. She’ll maybe ask you about that. Feel comfortable talking about her?”

  Aguilar closed his eyes for a moment and the image of Graciela hit him full force as she sat erect with the reins, sweating and happy, on her eight-year-old tawny thoroughbred stallion. What’s his name? Bogart. How could I forget?

  “She died of breast cancer when Brady was nine. That was five years ago. I’ve been doing my best to give him a Christian upbringing as a single dad ever since.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It also happens to be true.” Aguilar laughed.

  “That’s what I like about you, amigo,” the Crocodile said easily. “Always deep and true.”

  The Crocodile let that sink in for a moment, but Aguilar wasn’t embarrassed. He genuinely liked the man. “Like you, too, cocodrilo,” he said.

  “So,” the Crocodile said, pulling a file folder from the bag beneath his seat and set it on the center armrest for Aguilar. “This is where we are going, the Westminster School for Disadvantaged Girls. It’s Midge’s other passion. They cater to young women who get in trouble, mostly from minority communities. Gang members. Drugs. Teenage pregnancy. Whatever. But especially she takes in those girls who get pregnant and offers them a home.”

  “What about the babies?”

  “They team up with a specialized adoption agency to place the babies in loving Christian families.”

  “This is God’s work,” Aguilar said solemnly. He was impressed. The Left always accused pro-lifers like himself of having no heart for young girls who felt that having an “unwanted” baby would ruin their lives forever. What a ridiculous term. That was heartless. God always wants the babies. “So she is giving these girls a second chance. And saving their babies at the same time.”

  “That’s right. I knew the two of you would be a perfect fit.”

  Adams slowed the car as they approached Westminster and the junction with Route 140.

  “By the way,” he said. “Midge didn’t get her money from the stud farms. That’s hardly ever a money-making proposition. It’s like buying a boat. There are only two moments of happiness: the day you buy it, and the day you get rid of it.”


  “So what’s her secret?” Aguilar asked.

  “She was a partner in the original venture capital firm that launched Facebook. She came away with one-quarter of one percent of the stock. Do the math.”

  “Good call,” Aguilar said.

  “I’ll make the ask. I guarantee you, she won’t flinch.”

  The brick-columned mansion housing the school sat up on a hill, overlooking centuries-old oak and walnut trees. As they pulled into the circular drive, Aguilar noted the white picket fence in the side yard. It’s a horse fence, he thought. Had to be. But where was the tape or the wires?

  A tallish older woman opened the main door, obviously waiting for them. She was bean-pole thin, stern, and wore a plain white dress with faint blue roses. Aguilar shot Ken Adams a questioning glance.

  “Nurse Ratched, not Midge.”

  “Glad you warned me!”

  “Ms. Parker has set out tea in her office upstairs. If you would follow me,” she said.

  Midge Parker was sifting through papers at an enormous desk, back to the window, and rose as soon as her assistant knocked and opened the door. In front of her, the low table was set with tea plates, cups and saucers, knives and forks, and a rectangular platter of cucumber sandwiches without crusts. Aguilar deployed his charm, leading the conversation gently as the Crocodile had instructed. He complimented her on the saddle in the hallway, they talked a bit about horses, he mentioned Graciela and being a single dad. But instead of talking more about himself, he asked her about the school and what they were doing for the girls.

  Ten minutes later, she put down her tea cup briskly and gave them a mischievous grin. “Here I am, going on about myself all this time, when that’s not at all what you came here to talk about,” she said.

  “Bless you, Ms. Parker, for what you are doing,” Aguilar said.

  “It’s Midge,” she said. “Please, call me Midge.”

  “Midge.”

  “Well, Midge. You know why we are here,” the Crocodile picked up.

  “I know why, but I don’t know how much,” she said.

  Aguilar laughed. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

  She laughed as well. “I think if anybody else said that to me, sir, I might be offended.”

  “It’s whatever God puts in your heart.”

  The rest of the meeting went like a charm. Midge Parker made out a check on the spot for $500,000 in the name of the non-profit organization Adams jotted down on a Post-It note. That non-profit, in turn, would wire the money to Americans for the Dream, the super PAC Adams had set up to support the Aguilar campaign. In this way, Ms. Parker’s name would never appear in public disclosures. That was exactly the way she wanted it—just as many other donors the Crocodile had contacted on Aguilar’s behalf.

  As they drove back down Georgia Avenue to Aguilar’s office in Wheaton, Aguilar reflected on this special arrangement. Why did they have to go to such lengths to disguise the names of their donors, he wondered. Because the Left would go after them in a heartbeat. They would destroy their businesses. They would destroy their families. They would destroy them personally. Why? Because that’s what they did.

  That’s also why the Crocodile insisted on driving to such meetings, even though they had plenty of drivers available. No one else needed to know. Loose lips sink ships, as he had told Aguilar many times already. Keep it close and personal.

  It also gave the Crocodile face-time with the candidate. After another long silence, Aguilar could hear it coming. Another baring of souls. Mine.

  “You have put Annie behind you, right?” the Crocodile asked after a while.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. We can’t have any of that, not on this campaign.”

  “I am a widower.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Do you think I should fire her?”

  “For Pete’s sake, no! That would be horrible.”

  “Ken, I can assure you that I am quite capable of having a professional relationship with a beautiful female who, in another life, would undoubtedly exert a powerful attraction on me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about the other life,” the Crocodile came back. “Everyone can see the sparks.”

  Aguilar chuckled. “I guess you’re right. It must be obvious. But I assure you, we’ve already had that conversation.”

  “You and Annie?”

  “Cabron, who else?”

  “Tell me, boss. I need to know.”

  “Okay.”

  So Aguilar told him. Haltingly. The whole story—or most of it, anyway. He didn’t need to explain to the Crocodile how attractive his female campaign manager was. Any red-blooded male could see that. Luckily for Aguilar, Annie Bryant—“AB” for short—was as gracious as she was beautiful and smart.

  “I know her pedigree. Don’t forget, I was the one who brought her on to the campaign,” the Crocodile said.

  A graduate of a well-respected Christian undergraduate college, Annie Bryant had earned a law degree from Pepperdine University in California. From there, she interned on Capitol Hill where Ken Adams spotted her and hired her as a minority staff counsel to the Judiciary committee. From there, he brought her on the Aguilar campaign.

  One afternoon in mid-summer, after everyone else had left the campaign headquarters down the street from his office, Aguilar lingered. Annie was in her cubicle, running the numbers on the latest poll.

  “I asked her out to dinner. No more, no less.”

  “Oh no,” the Crocodile leered. “There’s more.”

  “She said no. That was it.”

  The Crocodile took his foot off the accelerator, his eyes from the road, and turned to stare him full in the face.

  “What did you say when she said no? Your exact words, please. Indulge me, boss.”

  Nelson Aguilar was not one to blush. He had the easy manners of someone who was fully at home with himself, who had nothing to hide. He liked to think that he spoke to others as he spoke to God. Now was not the moment to do otherwise.

  “Okay, I said. I understand.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No. She said she was in a relationship, and I said, lucky guy.”

  “And?”

  “And I said that her steadfastness or whatever it was only increased my deep admiration for her. With your permission, we won’t mention this again and I will only inquire as to your general well-being, I think is how I put it.”

  “Will she back you up on that? Don’t get me wrong, boss. But this is in your best interest.”

  “I get it. We’re going to be under increasing scrutiny. So ask her yourself. Ask her when I’m not around. I think she’s solid. And, I really do envy that other guy, whoever he is.”

  6

  The Thursday after Labor Day, the two candidates were to meet for their first face-to-face debate at the Leisure World retirement center in northern Silver Spring. It was the largest polling place in all of Montgomery County, if not all of Maryland, and was a coveted spot for politicians of both parties to trawl for votes. The debate was organized by the Association of Retired Federal Employees (ARFE), and for Democrat Hugh McKenzie, that sponsorship allayed whatever fears he might have had about meeting Aguilar face to face. Not only did his wife, Willie Adams, work for the ARFE parent organization, but Jennifer Lindh, his campaign manager, used to work for ARFE itself.

  “You’ve discussed all the ground rules with the organizers, correct?” he asked Jennifer as their driver took them round the Beltway from Bethesda to the Connecticut Avenue exit.

  “Down to the color of the coffee mugs,” she said. “Royal blue, if you’re asking.”

  “No sand-bagging this time. No mariachi bands. Right?”

  “No surprises, that’s right,” she confirmed.

  And of course, she was w
rong. Nelson Aguilar had outsmarted them—again. But it wasn’t apparent at first.

  They had built into the schedule a fifteen-minute meet and greet before the debate, and to Hugh McKenzie everything seemed on track. The clubhouse was packed with his supporters, many of them wearing his JFK Jr. t-shirt, and all of them wanted to shake hands, remind him how they’d met, or how much they hated Donald Trump. Everyone wanted to know why the Democrats had let up on impeachment after the bi-partisan vote to remove Trump from office in Senate. Not going there, he said. That’s the trap they have laid for us. Let’s impeach him in November, dontcha think?

  He was feeling pretty upbeat until he spied the Crocodile. (Even Hugh McKenzie referred to him by his nickname, which had become infamous from all the years Ken Adams had prowled Capitol Hill.)

  “How ya doin’, Congressman?” Adams said, all smiles.

  “Just great until I saw you.”

  “Hey, it’s just a friendly hello. No barbs. I don’t bite. Really!”

  “I didn’t appreciate that stunt in Wheaton,” McKenzie said quietly. He didn’t think anyone else could hear him given the hubbub of voices all around them.

  “It wasn’t a stunt, Congressman. That was real.”

  “I bet.”

  “But don’t take it personal. It’s all politics. You know that. One day we do our best to drag each other into the mud. The next, we work side by side on legislation. I look forward to that again.”

  “You mean, after your guy loses?”

  “Ha! No, after you do,” the Crocodile said.

  And then he vanished, melting beneath the surface of the crowd.

  Damn it, Jenn, where are you! McKenzie fumed. All of a sudden he felt terribly alone. Where was she when he needed her?

  7

  The format was simple. The ARFE moderator, Richard August, sat between the two candidates at a bare cafeteria-style table. He had a list of topics he had prepared for that afternoon’s debate. Each candidate had two minutes for an opening statement, two minutes per question, and one minute to rebut. At the end, they would have another two minutes each to close. The timer, who was seated directly below them in the front row, would hold up a yellow card when they had fifteen seconds remaining and a red card when their time had expired.