The Voter File

by David Pepper

  “Ten-four.”

  Unfazed, Tori was still facing me. “They got this, Jack,” she said, patting my right leg. “Like I was saying, the early vote is all about your sporadic ‘ones’ and ‘twos.’”

  I took another sip of water.

  “So,” I said, “if you were going to mess with a campaign’s voter file in a midterm, you’d be pushing hard for as many of those sporadic votes to come early as possible.”

  “Definitely, for the candidate you want to win,” she answered. “And once you have access to that voter file data, you’d know exactly who to go after.”

  “And for the campaign you want to lose?”

  “Do everything you can to keep them from showing up.”

  The radio crackled again. The deputy’s words were inaudible, but the Jeep was accelerating around her.

  “Say that again, Deputy,” the chief said, his voice firm. “You didn’t come through.”

  “Is this better?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Problem solved, sir. The guy’s wife is in labor, lying in the back seat. They’re going to the same hospital we are.”

  “Jesus,” the chief said. “Let ’em through.”

  CHAPTER 66

  CLEVELAND

  Oleg Kazarov lay in his bed, core functions of his body in full meltdown. As his doctors had warned, the final round of chemo hit him the hardest.

  From the first day of treatment months ago, he’d grown accustomed to the fatigue, the coughing, the pinprick pains bursting all over his body.

  But this round, a host of other side effects flared up for the first time, or far more intensely than before. His dry throat burned whenever he swallowed; his skin had dried so much, it became flaky; and his ears rang constantly, making it hard to fall asleep. His muscles, numb by day two, grew deeply sore by the morning of day three, as did his jaw. By the end of day two, the nonstop nausea had exploded into vomiting so intense that even the nurses were alarmed.

  Worst of all, he couldn’t think straight. He and Katrina had attempted three business calls, but he was unable to concentrate. She was patient each time, but they ultimately had hung up, agreeing to talk later. He left the impression that he’d been too tired to comprehend it all, but the truth was he’d been wide-awake each time. He just couldn’t focus on what she was saying, or how to respond.

  The morning after the latest round, the worst of the symptoms had subsided enough to try Katrina again.

  “How are you, Dyadya?”

  “Healing,” he said curtly, never comfortable showing weakness, even to her. “Where do things stand?”

  “Voting starts soon in a number of our targeted areas, and we are prepared to execute in all of them.”

  Kazarov nodded. The day’s Cleveland Plain Dealer lay on the desk in front of him, a headline touting that voting would kick off the next Monday. Of course, the story focused on races for Congress and governor in Ohio, not on the lower-level offices around the state that he and Katrina were targeting.

  “And have you solved your Wisconsin problem?”

  “We are close, Dyadya. Our man made direct contact with one of the two, and when they are next together and in the open, we will have—”

  “So you have not yet solved it.”

  “Soon, Dyadya.”

  He let seconds pass in silence. She would know what that meant.

  “Will you be feeling well enough to make your trip?” Katrina asked.

  Because of his weakness, he could not imagine walking down the hospital hallway, let alone flying to another state. But this meeting was critical, the last opportunity prior to Election Day.

  “I will make the trip. It is too important.”

  CHAPTER 67

  NEAR WATERLOO, WISCONSIN

  You’ve done all you can do for him, Tori.”

  Sitting alone in the hospital’s small cafeteria, we each dug into bowls of fruit that might have been fresh once. A sheriff’s deputy was posted at the cafeteria door, two more sat outside Lute Justice’s hospital room, and two were at the hospital’s main entrance.

  “He needs rest, and he’s safer if we keep our distance.”

  It’d been a long night. We’d arrived to learn that, fearing fatal brain swelling, the doctors had placed Lute in a medically induced coma. Like a scene from an old war movie, his head was wrapped in a thick white bandage, fully covered except for his swollen eyelids and a breathing tube that emerged from his nose. For almost twelve hours Tori had huddled at his side, holding his hand or caressing his forearm. I’d spelled her several times so she could nap in the room next door, but she came back after less than thirty minutes each time.

  I remained on edge, knowing the hit man was not far away. But I used the time to catch up on my own rest, touch base with Cassie on her progress, and assure the Vindicator that there was still a story coming. A nurse had also been kind enough to clean and rewrap my leg wounds.

  “What’s next, Jack?” Tori asked, her voice weak from exhaustion. “Can we still do something about all this?”

  For the first time since I’d met her, she sounded defeated.

  “Of course. And we will.” Our conversation from the day before had actually provided the path forward. “You have your laptop with you, right?”

  Chief Santini was set to arrive in ten minutes, gas tank filled and ready to take us back to Ohio. So we had time for a quick research project.

  Tori took her computer out of her backpack and powered it up. “What do you need?”

  “Go ahead and look up the statehouse districts in Ohio.”

  She tapped a few keys, waited a few seconds, then tapped some more.

  “Okay.”

  “What’s the current breakdown of the districts?”

  “Fifty-seven to forty-two, Republicans.”

  “So if you wanted to flip that to a Democratic majority, what districts would you target?”

  “It’d be tough. That’s a lot to flip.”

  “Of course it’s tough. That’s why they’re hacking the voter files to do it. But what districts would make the most sense to target?”

  She typed a few more words, then stared at her monitor for a good minute, her pupils dancing as she absorbed the information.

  “There are about eleven worth going after.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Mostly suburbs. Two near Columbus. Two outside Cleveland. A few near Dayton, Akron, Youngstown, and Toledo. Then several in Cincinnati. They all lean Republican, some strongly, but none are out of reach for a good challenger.”

  “Okay. If you had to pick two—the ones easiest to flip, especially if you were to interfere with the voter file—which ones would you pick?”

  She studied the screen again, going quiet as she considered my question.

  Then she pointed at the lower-left corner of her screen, as if I could see it. “Cincinnati. That one in suburban Cincinnati.”

  “And number two?”

  She pointed to the top of the screen, slightly left of center. “I’d say up there, by the lake.”

  “Toledo?”

  “Sort of. But east of there. More like the Sandusky area. Port Clinton.”

  “Great. Cincinnati and Sandusky. That’s where we’re going next.”

  CHAPTER 68

  PRINCETON, NEW JERSEY

  It was like a campus full of Celeste Lodges, the fanciest girl in Cassie’s high school class.

  The pristine greens, ivy-covered walls, and Gothic buildings set the Princeton campus apart aesthetically from any other college she’d visited. But the khakis, striped oxfords, patterned skirts, and pearl necklaces also distinguished it as the single most preppy place she’d ever seen. Cassie took it all in as she strolled toward and then into the stately gray building that housed Princeton’s famed economics depar
tment.

  “Professor Mercurio?” she asked, stepping through the doorway one minute ahead of their scheduled 10:00 a.m. meeting.

  “Ah, Ms. Knowles. Welcome to Princeton.”

  A pixie of a man stood up behind a flimsy wooden desk. With short brown hair dusted with specks of gray, a pointy nose, and a goatee that looked out of place without an accompanying mustache, he fit her image of a French artist, short only the beret and handheld palate. He circled the desk to shake her hand with a grip as wobbly as Jell-O.

  His office was dark, cramped, and cluttered, unimpressive for one of the world’s leading economic minds. Then again, the school’s benefactors were likely not fans of his work, so VIP visits must’ve been rare.

  “Thank you for meeting so quickly,” Cassie said as he returned to the chair behind his desk.

  “It’s my pleasure.” He gestured toward a wooden chair that faced him and waited in silence as she took her seat. “Usually we academics spend our lives pontificating in a small echo chamber. So it’s a treat that someone from beyond the ivory tower is intrigued by my work.”

  Given his first name, Miguel, she’d expected him to speak with an accent. But the only trace of one was British.

  “Ivory tower? If your research is right, it’s highly relevant to the real world.”

  His thin lips curved upward into a closemouthed, confident grin. “Ms. Knowles, have no doubt about its correctness. It is as sound as scientists’ consensus on climate change.”

  “But then, why no progress along the lines you suggest?”

  “For the same reason we see none on our climate.”

  Cassie understood his point but preferred to draw it out of him.

  “And why is that?”

  “Our present circumstances generate great riches for a small number of people, who wisely invest a portion of those riches to preserve our present circumstances.”

  She chuckled. “I think they call that corruption, Professor. But at least the president appreciates your work.”

  He beamed. “Most definitely. She is sincerely dedicated to acting on my recommendations.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Forgive me, Ms. Knowles, but I am intrigued that your employer would task you with this visit. The only times my name has appeared on your airwaves have been amid scathing critiques of the president. Your bosses hold me in the same low regard as they do her.”

  Cassie shifted in her chair, not ready to fess up that this was a rogue visit.

  “I’m not surprised, given that you suggest Republic’s entire business structure should be illegal.”

  He leaned forward over his desk, which creaked from the added weight.

  “To be clear, I believe it already is illegal under the law. But as with so many other industries, no one is willing to enforce that law.”

  The professor looked her directly in the eye, projecting a calm, formidable confidence. He was a missionary who’d dedicated an entire lifetime to a singular, righteous cause, burning with passion yet patient enough to play the long game.

  “So what can be done?”

  “You mean what must be done? It’s not complicated. We must refine the law and revive the Teddy Roosevelt spirit of trustbusting before it’s too late. And it is perilously close to being too late.”

  “The necessary laws are not in place today?”

  He leaned back, placing his hand on his chin.

  “The old antitrust laws were both clear and broad, but the courts weakened them over time. And in a system awash in corporate money, that weakness has allowed the monopolies to run roughshod over politicians, regulators, and today’s courts. So the law is dead, along with enforcement.”

  He spent the next thirty minutes walking her through how monopolies controlled most major industries in the United States. Although she’d read all those articles, his in-person lecture painted a far more dire picture.

  “And the ultimate risk,” he concluded, “is to democracy itself.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because the corporations that dominate our country’s economy also are coming to dominate its politics. Not the people themselves.”

  “And having the president of the United States in your corner is not enough to change all this?”

  “You tell me, Ms. Knowles. Does it appear to be?”

  “No, it doesn’t.” She felt like a student in his classroom.

  “She has some enforcement powers, but what she needs—what America needs—is a far more stringent antitrust law that dismantles the monopolies. And because enforcement takes time, this requires a Congress in support for long enough to see it through.”

  “And what would happen if such a law passed?”

  “If enforced?” He sat up in his chair, eyes sparkling at the thought. “You would see an explosion of economic activity across this country. Small businesses and entrepreneurs stifled for a generation would thrive. New entrants and investors would come from within and abroad, and technologies unimagined today would sprout and blossom. Think about the revolution after the breakup of the telephone monopoly—voice mail and home modems and the entire information revolution that followed. That would all happen again—”

  “You sound like the president.”

  His chin lifted.

  “With respect, she sounds like me.”

  “Have you spoken with her?”

  “Several times during the campaign, including when she came to campus. She asked me to join a small group of economists advising her on economic policy. We only had a few meetings, but she was highly engaged in my work.”

  “And as president?”

  “Once.” He hesitated. “In Aspen.”

  “Of course. So no one would know.”

  “That was not the intention. I was there for a conference, and she invited me to the ranch afterward.”

  Cassie smirked. That’s what the dark SUVs whisking into the president’s ranch were all about.

  “And how was the meeting?”

  “Energizing. She has absorbed all I have written.”

  Cassie nodded, having witnessed the same thing up close.

  The professor circled back around to Republic. “Ms. Knowles, I’m enjoying our conversation, but may I ask again why you called? Are you doing a story on my work?”

  The meeting was near an end, so Cassie opted for honesty. She walked through her interview with the president, the editing of it, and what had happened to Jack Sharpe.

  He listened carefully but without expression until she wrapped up.

  “I’m not surprised. A media monopoly with your breadth and depth carries great risk, both financial and informational. In many ways, it’s the most dangerous of all to democracy, and it’s one reason I single you out as a problem. Monopolies in other informational platforms present equal risk.”

  “You continue to say ‘you,’ Professor. I’m also troubled by Republic’s behavior. That’s why I’m here.”

  He quietly stroked his goatee, not knowing what to make of her.

  Cassie stood up to leave, then remembered one other thing she’d hoped to gain from the visit: homework.

  “Professor, do have any publications that summarize your work?”

  He bounced out of his chair. “Why, of course!”

  He stepped over to the far corner of the office, next to several cardboard boxes stacked on top of one another. He pulled out four copies of a small hardcover book and handed them to her.

  She read the title out loud. “Breaking Them Up: How to Unleash the Next American Revolution.”

  “This little book covers it all—the problems and the solution.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t need four.”

  “Take them. Give them away. I’m not going to start my economic revolution by keeping books in boxes.”


  CHAPTER 69

  CINCINNATI

  Do you know how to use the voter file?” Chet, the young campaign organizer, asked.

  “I learned the basics in the last campaign I worked on,” Tori said, forcing back a smile.

  Clipboard in hand, she felt right at home in the campaign headquarters of Evan Walker, the upstart Democratic challenger to longtime statehouse incumbent Buddy Seitz. She had just completed three hours of knocking on doors in Hyde Park, a high-end neighborhood on Cincinnati’s east side.

  Chet’s question about the voter file meant those three hours had paid off. Now all she needed was to secure a password to get in whenever she wanted.

  “Good. So you’re okay entering the data yourself?” Chet asked. “With early voting starting tomorrow, we’d love to get your results in ASAP.”

  “I should be fine. As long as I can ask you questions when I get confused.”

  “Yep, that’s why I’m here.” Chet stood tall as he said it, brimming with confidence.

  He led her over to a desk where three elderly women were busy making phone calls to voters, clipboards lying in front of them. The fourth chair at the table was empty, a laptop laying on the desk.

  “Here you go. You can enter your data here.” The computer was already logged onto the file. “And I’ll be right in the next room if you have questions.”

  Tori sat down, the small table jostling as her knees bumped against it. Still, none of the three women looked up from their phone calls. Tori relished the familiar sight. Whether through calls, door knocks, or data entry, women like these had served as the infantry in every campaign she’d been part of.

  She pushed the campaign laptop to the side and opened her own instead. Chet remained behind her.

  “What’s the password?” she asked casually.

  “I’m really not supposed to—”

  “I’m so much faster on my own computer. That’s how I always did it on that other campaign.”

  “Okay. Just this once.” He leaned over and placed a small notecard in front of her. On it he wrote two words: “Walkervol” and “GoEvanGo!”