The Voter File

by David Pepper

  “There you go.”

  “Gotcha. Thanks.”

  She logged in.

  CHAPTER 70

  MARBLEHEAD, OHIO

  Marblehead was like no town I’d ever visited.

  On one end was an old white lighthouse rising above a rocky point of limestone, grass, and evergreens, and peering out over a blustery Lake Erie. From the lighthouse, a two-lane road curled around the edge of the thumb-shaped peninsula, then ran uninterrupted—no traffic light, no stop sign—past several blocks of restaurants, inns, and tourist-oriented shops nestled up against Lake Erie’s south shore. Past the buildings, a narrow conveyer belt towered high above the road, hauling chunks of limestone the length of several football fields out to awaiting barges and freighters.

  Amid all of this, in between an old tavern and an even older hardware store, sat my destination for the afternoon: a small storefront whose windows were plastered with red, white, and blue “Reelect Ted Kovak” signs. While Tori was covering the Cincinnati district she had identified as the most likely to be meddled with, my assignment was covering the district along Lake Erie that she’d ranked number two.

  After checking into an old inn across the street, I limped to Kovak headquarters; the stab wound in my left thigh ached more, but the smaller gash in my right calf still stung. As I stepped in the doorway, a young man introduced himself as Daniel, the campaign’s volunteer coordinator.

  “Just the man I’m looking for!” Tori had assured me that I would get in faster by laying it on thick. “I’m here to make sure we send Ted the Tiger back to the statehouse!”

  The kid looked more alarmed than excited about my ebullient introduction.

  “Well, that’s great. What’s your name?”

  “Bill Sharpe.” I clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Are you from around here?”

  “No. Youngstown area. All Democrats there. So I want to help Ted win here.”

  “Why’d you pick here?”

  “Lots of friends spend their summers here. So I’ve seen Ted the Tiger up close. Awesome guy—wish we had more like him!”

  “Well, I agree with that, sir.”

  “I sure hope so. His fate is in your hands.”

  Republican Ted Kovak’s headquarters comprised two small rooms, each as tidy as any campaign office I’d ever set foot in. A number of volunteers—mostly guys like me but a little grayer—huddled in the back room, picking up packets of paper.

  “We’re about to send a group out to hit some doors.”

  “Awesome, Daniel. That’s what I’m here to do.”

  “Great. Please sign in here. And here’s a packet to start with.” The kid handed me a clipboard with about a dozen pages clipped to it. “Since this is your first time, we’re going to pair you up with Jimmy here. He does this all the time and knows the area.”

  A stout guy wearing a Browns cap stepped toward me and introduced himself. I didn’t want the company, but objecting would’ve drawn attention. Five minutes later, with Jimmy at the wheel of his Dodge minivan, we drove under the conveyor belt and off to our first precinct.

  Jimmy couldn’t have been a nicer guy. He operated a crusher at the quarry on the other end of that conveyor belt, and spent our short drive describing the mining operation that had kept the town employed, year in and year out, for a century.

  My barrage of follow-up questions reflected sincere interest in Jimmy’s work. But they also kept him from noticing the SUV that trailed us the entire way.

  CHAPTER 71

  NEW JERSEY

  The Acela Express was pulling away as Cassie walked into the station. But she didn’t mind. The regular Amtrak back to D.C. was scheduled to depart twenty minutes later, and its slower pace would give her more time to get through Mercurio’s short book.

  She stood for one stop before grabbing an open seat in the dining car and opening the book. It took only minutes to see why Mercurio and the president were so passionate about their cause.

  Mattresses and washing machines. Beer. Pet food. Cell phones and smartphone operating systems. All were controlled by a few players. The book walked through how retail was overwhelmed by monopoly power—from home improvement stores, where two companies controlled 80 percent of the market, to drugstores, to home craft stores. And from corn seed to candy, from meat to mayonnaise, from peanut butter to jelly, two or three companies now controlled huge shares of key food sectors. Mercurio even observed that Americans faced monopolies from birth to death: baby formula and diapers to pacemakers and coffins.

  The book devoted a separate chapter to the new monopolies in the digital world. “Along with the growing concentration of national and local media,” he wrote, “monopolies over our access to information raise a whole new threat to the American way of life.” Several pages explained his deep concerns about the Republic business model.

  The closing chapter proposed the economic revolution he’d referenced in his office. Its opening pages presented complex equations for his fellow economists to absorb, so she skipped those. But then came his two proposed solutions. First, the book called for far more strict reviews of mergers and acquisitions. Second, he advocated for what he called “control caps”—a hard limit, up to a certain percentage, on how much one or several corporations could control each industry. He didn’t present a single cap but a formula establishing a “control cap” for each industry.

  For any industry where those caps were surpassed, the book advocated breaking up the corporations involved. The largest banks, airlines, and drug companies would be split up. From soybeans to dairy, major food industry groups would need to be broken up. Technology giants like Google and Facebook would face especially onerous limits, selling off recent acquisitions and opening themselves up to real competition. And media companies like Republic would have to decide whether to continue as national cable stations or operate a limited number of local stations—but could no longer do both. Same rules for print journalism and local newspapers.

  “Baltimore!” a male conductor yelled out in a heavy New England accent, one Cassie had spent years watering down. “Next station stop is Baltimore, Maryland.”

  The train slowed as Baltimore’s skyline emerged in the distance, an eclectic mix of old and modern. Cassie shook her head as she realized that many of the corporate names on the sides of the buildings were the same names listed in the book.

  As they came to a stop, people lined up to get off the train. But Cassie went the other way. She put the book down on her seat and stepped to the dining car’s kiosk, buying a bag of pretzels and a can of Diet Coke. As she sat down again, she placed the book, cover down, in the now-empty seat next to her.

  And that’s when they caught her eye. Three words, in small print, in the lower corner of the back cover.

  The book’s publisher.

  Cambridge University Press.

  CHAPTER 72

  MARBLEHEAD, OHIO

  You sure?” I asked. “I’m as persuasive as you’re going to find.”

  Daniel, the volunteer coordinator, looked even more worried about me than before. “There’s no reason to have you hobbling around in pain when we need data entry as much as we need door knocking.”

  After I’d limped from one door to the next for an hour, Jimmy politely suggested we head back to headquarters early. The fact that I’d argued loudly with four separate voters on their Stone Street doorsteps might’ve spurred him to action. Twenty minutes after that, Daniel had set me up at a computer in the back room of headquarters.

  “Okay. Whatever it takes!”

  He walked me through how to enter data into the campaign’s voter file, and I spent the next forty-five minutes inputting the details from our curtailed walk, along with data from other volunteers’ walks and phone calls. While it was mind-numbing work, it also reflected the brief history of Marblehead that Jimmy had shared with
me. A century ago, large numbers of Slovaks, Hungarians, and Austrians had traveled to this region to mine limestone. As I entered names like Mazurik, Mizla, Hudak, and Simchak, it was clear their grandkids still lived here.

  When the room cleared out, I snuck a text to Tori.

  I’m in the voter file, entering data, but didn’t get the password. It was already logged on.

  Log off. Then ask for help.

  How?

  She walked me through it.

  “Um, Daniel?” I called out seconds later. “I need your help.”

  He walked in from the next room over. “How goes it?”

  “Great. I entered all these sheets”—I pointed to the large stack to my right—“but then something happened; I can’t get back in.” I gestured at the screen, which was asking for a name and password.

  “That’s weird. That shouldn’t happen. Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, all of a sudden this damn screen showed up. I was on a roll, too.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll log you back in.”

  He leaned in from my right, reaching for the keyboard. I stared at the two blank boxes on the screen, ready to consume whatever he typed.

  Next to “name” he typed in DanielH.

  Fortunately, the letters remained onscreen. Less fortunately, he was a quick typist, which meant the next box, PASSWORD, would be tougher to follow.

  C

  He typed too quickly for me to catch the next letter. But I caught the one after that that.

  **d

  Missed a few more.

  *******o

  Missed another.

  *********n

  Missed another.

  Then he typed the number 1 before the main voter file screen popped up again.

  “There you go,” Daniel said. “You’re back in.”

  “Thanks so much. I’ll get through the rest of these.”

  As soon as he stepped back into the other room, I grabbed a pen and piece of paper and jotted down the letters I’d seen, along with my best recollection of what spots I’d missed.

  C _ d _ _ o _ n _ 1

  I stared at the paper for a few seconds. No obvious names or words jumped out, so I played with different letter combinations to fill in the blanks.

  Cade

  Cadre

  Code

  Cede

  Cid

  Did you get in? Tori asked.

  I’m in. Used his sign-in name. But didn’t get the password. He typed too fast.

  You get any of it? Send my way.

  Not enough. I’ll have to watch him enter it again.

  Will be weird. Go ahead and send.

  Too few letters to figure it out.

  Just send!

  Okay!

  I typed in the letters: C _ d _ _ o _ n _ 1

  She wrote back.

  Easy.

  What’s easy? I wrote.

  The password.

  Oh, really? What is it?

  CedarPoint1

  . . .

  or Cedarpoint1

  I chuckled, forehead in hand. That was it.

  Cedar Point, America’s top-rated amusement park, was only a few miles down the road.

  CHAPTER 73

  BALTIMORE

  Caffeine and adrenaline rushing through her, Cassie couldn’t wait.

  Using her phone as a hot spot, she connected her laptop to the internet as the train pulled out of Baltimore.

  The back cover of Professor Mercurio’s book reminded her of his impressive pedigree. Just like he’d published his book through Cambridge University Press, after having graduated summa cum laude from Harvard, the professor had earned his PhD from the renowned British university.

  And he wasn’t the only one. High-flying American college grads had for generations sought prestigious graduate degrees at Cambridge and its ancient competitor, Oxford.

  Which jogged her memory.

  In response to her request, Emmett Lanning had sent over the who’s who of premier research universities. But he’d included only American schools. Cambridge and Oxford, absent from his list, now gave Cassie two more places to search for Kat Simmons and Natalie Hawke. And she had forty minutes left on this train to do so.

  As before, she combed through ten years of Cambridge computer science graduate students. It was a far more international crew than the American schools and included more women. But none who looked like either Natalie or Kat. With Cambridge out, it was Oxford or bust.

  “Baltimore/Washington International,” the Bostonian conductor yelled out. “Next station, BWI.”

  The train slowed to a stop. While a few riders departed, far more piled on, lugging their airline baggage and filling every vacant seat and most of the train’s aisles. Cassie’s seat rattled as a man plopped down in the empty spot beside her. He angled his elbow well over the armrest, forcing her to squeeze close to the window.

  From that uncomfortable corner, she was signing back onto LinkedIn when her neighbor leaned in her direction, eyeing her computer screen through his thick glasses.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, trying to sound friendly while shifting her laptop to her left.

  “It’s almost quitting time, young lady. Why ya working so hard?”

  “Oh, I’m not working.” She grinned to hide her irritation. “Just catching up with old friends.”

  “I’ve never really gotten much out of LinkedIn.” He was eager to start a longer conversation. “I don’t get it at all.”

  “I’m just learning it myself.”

  Dreading more small talk, she pivoted toward the window and focused on the scene beyond the dirt-stained glass. A blur of trees, homes, parking lots, and gray buildings whizzed past as low clouds passed overhead. Her seatmate said nothing else for minutes, so she ran through her search process one last time.

  She examined the pictures from Oxford from two years ago. No one looked anything like either Kat or Natalie, so she crossed that class off the list.

  She was scanning the class from three years back when the train slowed again.

  “New Carrolton. Next station stop, New Carrolton. Last stop before Washington.”

  Her neighbor wriggled in his seat, then leaned forward. Their shared armrest creaked as he pushed against it to stand up.

  “Want anything to drink?”

  “Um, no. Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Your call.”

  She turned back to her laptop.

  The Oxford alumni from three years back displayed two large group photos. One was a graduation photo where the entire class, in robes and caps, posed in front of a round yellow building she recognized as a storied Oxford theater. The other captured the students inside an arena-style lecture hall, each student seated behind a dark wooden desk, each semicircular row of desks elevated above the one before it. Without caps and gowns obscuring the students, the lecture hall photo was the easier to scrutinize.

  “I’m back, little lady.” Her seat shook again as he flopped backward into his, a beer bottle and bag of potato chips in his hands. “Now, what’s that tattoo on your arm all about?”

  Ignoring the guy wasn’t getting the job done. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to concentrate on this right now.”

  He raised his hands in the air, still holding his purchases. “Fine,” he said, scowling. “Fine.”

  She focused back on the lecture hall.

  At first, no one stood out. Then one woman drew Cassie’s attention. She was sitting in the back row, off to the left, as if hoping to avoid being in the frame entirely. Pale, thin, no makeup, she kept her black hair in a short, straggly bob while large round glasses magnified her almond-shaped brown eyes. While most of the students smiled, even if awkwardly, this woman, her thin lips pursed, appeared somber. Sad.

  But none of these features, most of the
m mutable, mattered to Cassie. What caught her eye was an aspect of the young woman’s face that would be much more difficult to alter: its physical shape. Cassie was used to seeing faces structured like ovals, squares, and circles. Long faces and round, heart-shaped faces. But this young woman’s face was none of those. Below a narrow forehead, her high, sharp cheekbones and ears spanned wide. Then the lower half of her cheeks and jaw narrowed sharply again, back to a thin, understated chin. It was a long face, but more angled than oval. It resembled a diamond.

  And that stuck out. First, it was so distinct. Second, the first time she’d found pictures of Natalie Hawke, Cassie had observed the same thing.

  She jumped back to Natalie’s Facebook photos, leaning into the screen. Her basic appearance had hardly changed over three years. Long brown hair. Blue eyes shaped like almonds. Heavy eyeliner—always. Lips invariably a bright red. An altogether different appearance from the Oxford student. More attractive, and exuding confidence.

  But those differences aside, Natalie’s face shared the basic structure as the student’s. The same diamond shape: narrow forehead, high, wide cheekbones, narrow jaw and chin.

  Cassie zoomed in on the photos even more closely, hopping back and forth to compare each feature at a time. Other similarities emerged. With or without makeup or glasses, the almond-shaped eyes were the same. They shared the pixie nose. Thin lips and wide mouths.

  Cassie sat back, her heart pounding. Despite a spirited makeover, the woman claiming to be Natalie Hawke had graduated from Oxford three years earlier.

  “Final stop coming up,” the conductor yelled out. “Washington, D.C.” Cassie peered out her window. Through streaks of rain streaming across the window from left to right, the Capitol lit up the sky in the distance.

  She had time.

  Kat Simmons and Natalie Hawke were around the same age. They presumably had similar digital skills. Natalie was an Oxford grad, while Kat had not shown up at any other school. Yet.