by David Pepper
“My best stories have always come from unexpected sources, voices others have ignored.”
She threw sidelong glances at me as I laid it on thick.
“The problem with big-time cable news is you have less time to chase them down. So when I had a window of downtime, I was eager to follow up.”
She slapped her right hand against the steering wheel.
“Well, Jack Sharpe, that’s why I called you.”
We entered the heart of Appleton, passing a performing arts center, local banks, eclectic coffee and sandwich shops, and a charming campus. All the authentic amenities a midsized American town would want but that too few enjoyed.
“Why?”
“Your style. Listening to the little guy. Starting from the bottom up. Then never relenting despite roadblocks. That’s how you nailed Congressman Stanton and exposed that Abacus scandal.”
I nodded. It certainly was, along with some outside help I’d still never revealed. The election-rigging scandal from four years back—when I’d exposed tainted results in swing House districts across the country—had launched my roller-coaster ride to stardom, from a burnt-out Youngstown newspaper reporter to a national cable television talking head. In the process, I’d taken down a presidential front-runner, exposed the illegitimacy of a new House majority, and inspired a year of bipartisan reform on Capitol Hill.
And yet I now romanticized Youngstown as the good old days, when I knew who I worked for and said as I pleased. And the nation’s capital had spiraled downward into a partisan mess within days of President Janet Moore’s inauguration.
“Yes, keeping my ear to the ground has always worked for me. I appreciate you noticing.”
“Speaking of noticing, I also couldn’t help but notice the big story in the Vindicator the next year as well.”
She was good. No one had made this connection before, at least to me directly.
“What do you mean?” I asked as we passed a white-domed stone building at the center of campus.
“The Vindicator broke the story that took down Governor Nicholas just as he was about to win the Democratic primary. You know, that awful sex scandal. Janet Moore is president only because that story came out.”
Tori took a right onto Water Street and we descended down a hill.
“That’s probably true. Great scoop.”
“You again, right?”
Of course. Cassie Knowles, my top reporter at Republic, almost quit when I told her we were handing the best story of her career to my old newspaper. But it was the only way we could get the story out safely on the plot to rig the presidential election.
“Nah. I was already at Republic by then. But my old colleagues kicked butt on that one.”
“Right,” she said, not fooled. “What are the odds of a midsized paper landing two national scoops in two years? And that the second story was written by a new hire and the paper’s managing editor?”
“Not good. But that’s why they call it the Vindicator.”
“I’m onto you, Jack Sharpe. And someday you’ll learn to trust me.” She nudged my shoulder with her right hand. “Still, you’re probably the only one who can bring this story home.”
“Hey, don’t get your hopes up.”
If she only knew.
CHAPTER 7
PORTOFINO, ITALY
The full moon above the hillside cast a glow across the historic seaside town, reminding Katrina of June nights in St. Petersburg, when the sun never quite went down.
The centuries-old villas crammed up and down the steep hill looked as alive as the well-lit pizzerias and taverns below, while the ghostlike outlines of old sailboats, sleek luxury yachts, and grungy trawlers bobbed in the harbor. From the shoreline, an intense beam cut across the dark water directly to the edge of the yacht where Katrina and Natalie now sat.
Below them, a Donzi pulled away, the roar of its engine interrupting the din of music, chatter, and laughter. The activity might have been happening onshore, but the water carried the sound so efficiently that it felt like it was happening belowdecks.
The speedboat was carrying away their last guest—Terzian, the Armenian—wasted. His intentions of staying later than the others had been painfully clear. But his final shots of vodka, which Katrina had playfully encouraged, pushed him well beyond the capacity to make a move. His exit finally allowed her to relax.
“Will they all sign on?” Natalie asked as she watched the wake of the Donzi curl in the moonlight.
“I believe they will.”
Katrina leaned back, enjoying a martini and the view. In her Brooklyn days, peering out at the ocean from cheesy beaches and the clutches of the few oversexed boys who’d paid her attention, she could never have imagined how beautiful a seaside could be. But with her uncle’s success and her own climb, here she was, enjoying the playground of the rich and famous from the ritziest perch in the harbor.
“How can you be sure?”
After she’d ended their presentation and adjourned the meeting, some of the guests had stayed for a round of drinks and conversation. They’d chirped with enthusiasm as she escorted each one down the stairs to be boated back to shore. They were sold on the plan, both the grand strategy and the tactics to get there, and eager to move forward.
“As wealthy as they are, they’re outsiders. We’re giving them a way in.”
“But at such a high price?”
“For the opportunities that will come their way, it’s not high at all.”
Both women stood up as a second Donzi emerged from the shadow of the shoreline and sped their way.
CHAPTER 8
APPLETON, WISCONSIN
So, across all of Wisconsin, you know which voters are gun owners and which aren’t?”
Through the kitchen window of Tori’s tiny apartment, the nearby lock on the Fox River had piqued my interest far more than the voter file she’d logged onto. But that changed once she delved into the personal details of an elderly woman in Milwaukee named Marianne Sanders. Tori pointed to a box on Marianne’s page indicating that she was a gun owner with a concealed carry weapon license.
“Oh,” Tori answered, “that’s the tip of the iceberg.”
Now I was interested. “So what’s the iceberg look like?”
“Greenland.”
“That big?”
She shrugged. “Think about it. Every campaign, every year, adds information on voters into the file. Never subtracting, only adding. So it’s gotten huge over time.”
“So what kind of information are we talking about?”
She moved the cursor to various personal details available on Marianne Sanders’s page.
“Well, first come some basics, over here. Age, birthday, address, some details on her voting history.”
Marianne was sixty-eight, born on July 8, Caucasian, a registered Republican, and lived at 848 Humphrey Drive in Milwaukee. No kids at home. She had voted in every presidential election since 1980, most midterm elections, and most primaries in the presidential year.
“Definitely the basics.” This stuff had been on the sheets when I knocked on doors for Dad.
“Yes. But—”
She moved the cursor again, revealing private details I hadn’t expected. There was Marianne’s cell phone number and her email address, along with a link to her Facebook account.
“How’d you get her cell number?”
“Well, the slow way is to collect them over time through interactions between the campaign and voters. The fast way is to buy them from vendors.”
“You can buy them?”
“Yep. Email addresses, too.”
The number $40,000 appeared on the page.
“You have her income? Where do you get that?”
“Oh, that’s easy. They get it right out of the census data for her block.”
> “So it’s just an estimate.”
“Sure. But America is incredibly segregated by income level. You’d be surprised how accurate census block income data is.”
I nodded. Fair point.
“And it looks like she gets a state pension,” Tori said, pointing to another part of the screen.
I nodded. That would be a public record. “By the way, who’s collecting all this stuff?”
“The party.”
“The state party?”
“And the national party. It’s sort of a mix of the national party, the state party, their vendors, and campaign voter file managers like me.”
“That’s a lot of people with access to a whole lot of personal information.”
“But you only get access to your part of the voter file. Not everyone else’s.”
“Still, all the information is housed in one central place?”
“Yep.”
I shook my head. That’s one hell of a database.
I leaned closer to the screen. Two groups, Badger Seniors United and the Wisconsin Nurses Association, were listed under the category for memberships.
“Wait—you know what organizations people are in?”
“Magazine subscriptions, too.”
She pointed to a list on Marianne Sanders’s page: Gun Monthly, Pets Galore, and Knitting for Life.
“How do you get that stuff?”
She rubbed her thumb against her second and third fingers. “Like cell phones, you can buy this information from whoever sells it—and these days a whole lot of people sell it. So if the party purchased it, it’s in here.”
“What else can they purchase?”
“More than you want to know.”
She clicked a button, opening a new page with a long list of items and products.
“What’s that list tell us?”
“Ads she clicked on.”
“Ads?”
“I’m serious. Digital ads. For products, services, events. If you click on ads from certain locations, that information is captured and they can identify who you are.”
“And how does the party get it? Wait—let me guess. That stuff is sold, too?”
“You got it. And mark my words, in the next year or two, vendors will be compiling every voter’s Facebook posts, tweets, and likes about everything from hobbies to movies to presidential candidates, and those will also end up on the voter file. Then there are the apps that track your phone location—they’re already selling that data to—”
“Okay, okay, you got me. There’s a lot of information in the voter file. I’m happy to assure your parents that your job is more important than it sounds, prying into the private lives of sweet old ladies everywhere. But how does any of this prove that your judge didn’t win that election?”
“Oh, you’ll see. But before we go there, I need you to tell me something first. And you need to be honest about it.”
“Okay,” I said quietly, staring out the window as four kayaks entered the lock.
“Why are you not on the air anymore?”
My throat clenched. She’d noticed after all.
“What do you mean?”
I could feel moisture building on my forehead.
“Don’t play dumb, Jack. Your last appearance on Republic was five weeks ago. Why?”
Before I said another word, she asked an even tougher question.
“And why did you lie about it in the car?”
CHAPTER 9
TRANQUILITY, OHIO
It was the best view on earth—at least compared to the few parts he’d seen.
From the kitchen of Jesse Woods’s 1882 farmhouse, through the big bay window they’d added a decade before, the high sun showered light across the wide ocean of soybeans. The stalks stood several feet, the green hues of summer had burnt into brown, and the rows of beans bowed as wind blew across the field. But the telltale sign that the beans were set to burst was that when Jesse Woods squinted, he could make out the yellow dots of the seeds themselves peppering the field, newly exposed in recent days after the leaves protecting them had fallen to the ground.
That yellow color meant this was the big week. A spring, summer, and fall of care, toil, and worry. The stress of every hard rain and dry spell. Except for the worst of years, it all paid off this week.
But as he took in his beloved soybean fields this morning, Jesse Woods twisted his leathery face into a lopsided frown.
Sitting across from him at their white kitchen table, his wife, June, reached over and held Jesse’s weathered hands.
“Honey, you held out for as long as you could. You did what you thought was right.”
He looked directly into her sunken gray eyes, softly squeezing her delicate left hand with his right. She would never say it. But her eyes, welling up almost daily, gave her away. His decision had crushed her.
“We’re dinosaurs and it’s time we admitted it,” he said, still trying to convince her. “It’s time to move on.”
But as determined as his words sounded, he felt like a failure. He’d let June and all those who’d come before him down.
Cherry Fork, the Woodses’ farm, had been in his family for five generations. Over the years, his forebears had expanded from twenty acres to fifty to one hundred. Then Grandpa Woods had doubled it, and Dad had doubled it again once Jesse and his brothers had grown enough to do much of the heavy lifting. Year after year those acres had churned out a bountiful mix of tobacco, beans, corn, and hay, along with an assortment of fruits and vegetables. Grandpa Woods had once experimented with cattle, but they hadn’t been worth the hassle. And tobacco, once their best crop, had cratered decades ago, thanks to the political correctness police.
Through the generations, the Woodses had been damn proud farmers. Farming wasn’t a mere profession but a way a life, representing the best of America.
But for more than a century, Cherry Fork’s operation had also paid the bills. Like the other farming families of southern Ohio’s Adams County, the Woods clan had been upstanding leaders of the community. They not only went to church, they helped keep the church going. They gave generously to the schools and county charities. They hired local boys to do much of the farmwork. When a Woods walked into a room, he walked in tall.
But several decades after Jesse had taken over, their fortunes changed. Not because of the people in Adams County but because of people and institutions worlds away from the county.
The squeeze came from all corners. The collapse of tobacco, unintelligible new government rules, bigger banks less willing to loan to small farms. And with soybeans in particular, more expensive supplies and seeds and much tougher competition from corporate competitors.
All of that hadn’t sent the Woodses straight into poverty but had steadily ground them down. Seeing no future here, Jesse’s kids had all moved away years ago. They couldn’t donate to the church or causes as they used to. Unable to give, they were embarrassed to take part.
This would be the last Woods harvest at Cherry Fork.
“We did our best, honey,” he said, shaking his head.
Eyes blinking, June said nothing back. She’d been unusually quiet—not her chatty self—ever since he’d made the decision.
Four months earlier, when the sleek black Audi had driven up their long dirt driveway, June called Jesse in from the barn. They didn’t know anyone who drove something like that. On these country roads, they were more likely to see an Amish horse and buggy than a fancy foreign car.
The quick-talking lawyer from Columbus, it soon became clear, had a mission: to buy Cherry Fork. Just like that, offering good money, too. After a few days of negotiating, and long talks trying to convince June, Jesse’d sold.
“The numbers don’t work for us,” he’d told the lawyer as they walked his fields the day after inking their deal. “How
will they work for you?”
“My clients have a plan. With the right scale and support, Cherry Fork can succeed.”
“With those seed prices? And fertilizer prices? Both keep going up every year, and there’s no negotiating ’em.” Jesse was reliving every aspect of his economic nightmare of recent decades. “And our buyer keeps squeezing us on the other end, pushing down our prices. Sure, there’s global demand for beans, but someone else is making all the money. We’ve been getting it from both ends for years.”
The lawyer had shrugged. “My client understands.”
From the blank look on the lawyer’s face, Jesse guessed he didn’t know the first thing about farming. But whether his client was a fool or a genius, he definitely wanted farms. Within weeks, that black Audi had wound its way up the driveways of the Canfields, the Pitts, the Groomses, and the Sheakleys, the most prominent soybean families left in the county. And within days of those visits, each family had also sold, securing more money than they’d ever imagined for their struggling properties.
Jesse gazed back toward the field, squeezing June’s hand one more time. It would be a good harvest. And selling was the right thing to do.
But he’d sure miss the greatest view on earth.
CHAPTER 10
APPLETON, WISCONSIN
Jack, that’s bullshit.”
Needing some fresh air, we’d stepped out of her apartment building and were walking along the river, when Tori stopped in her tracks.
“I’ve been telling you things I shouldn’t be telling you. And you can’t even fess up about what happened to you?”
Legally, I was barred from saying a word. The nondisclosure agreement I’d signed five weeks ago was airtight. I’d never muzzled myself in my life, but I’d had no choice: signing it got me out of owing Republic thousands of dollars for having violated a clause of my employment agreement I’d never before noticed. But doing so meant I couldn’t talk about what had happened or even about the way Republic operated generally. In theory, the agreement was mutual, but since they’d set my career in flames, whether or not they criticized my smoldering ashes was beside the point.