The Voter File

by David Pepper

  What were the odds?

  Cassie reexamined Natalie’s class. No one in the lecture hall resembled the meek, bespectacled, ponytailed Kat Simmons.

  She scanned the Oxford class from the year before. Again nothing.

  The train car darkened as they entered the last tunnel leading into Washington’s Union Station. Then came a rumbling below, accompanied by repeated vibrations as the train traversed a series of switches.

  Her neighbor grabbed the seat in front of him and pulled himself up, huffing heavily. Small remnants of potato chips fell from his sweater to the floor.

  “Have a good day, young lady,” he said, a smirk twisting his thin lips. “Good luck finding whoever you’re searching for.”

  “Thank you.” Although creeped out, she didn’t say another word.

  She jumped back one more year. Oxford, five years ago.

  The photo shared by the most graduates was of the class posing on a narrow street, standing below an ornate yellow archway and enclosed footbridge that connected two buildings. Most of the men and women in the archway photo looked the way Cassie pictured computer programmers. Frumpy hairstyles atop glasses of various shapes and sizes. And most were buttoned up in dark, drab sweaters and ill-fitting pants and jackets, standing in uncomfortable poses while casting halfhearted grins.

  But there was one glaring exception.

  A woman at the photo’s center looked like a runway model crashing the scene. Tall and thin, she stood above all but one of the men, and with her right hand pressed against her hip, elbow out, she brimmed with confidence. Straight chocolate-brown hair flowed around her long face, which was touched up with just the right amount of makeup to add color to her cheeks and life to her full lips. A streak of dark eyeliner curled expertly up and away from the outer corners of her emerald eyes, creating a feline look. And she was dressed to the nines, from black heels and leather gloves to the Gucci purse that hung from her shoulder.

  She not only stood out from her own class, she was unlike any student in five years of Oxford graduating classes.

  As with Natalie, Cassie homed in on the student’s individual features.

  The differences from Kat Simmons were plain. Kat’s hair was lighter, a sandy blond as opposed to a dark brunette, and always tied back in ponytails. Kat’s eyes were an aqua blue, always behind small, squarish glasses. Her skin appeared wan overall but flushed in the cheeks.

  But the immutable features aligned, and too well. It started with her height: while Kat Simmons was always hunched or leaning over, it was clear she was a tall woman. The Oxford woman stood tall as well, accentuated further by her upright posture. Consistent with their figures, each had long faces. And both had dimpled chins, small noses, and narrow eyes that arced slightly down at the outer corners.

  As the train slowed to a stop, the passengers around Cassie lined up for the exit, lugging their bags behind them. But Cassie didn’t move, her eyes darting back and forth between photos.

  The Oxford student.

  Kat Simmons.

  She leaned her head forward, then drew a deep breath.

  If a drab Natalie had undertaken a dramatic makeover to glam up to the present day, Kat had done everything in her power to bury her natural beauty. But, like Natalie, she’d failed.

  “Uh, ma’am?”

  A tall figure emerged above Cassie. The train’s conductor, with that perfect Boston accent.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, hopping up from her seat. “Everything’s great.”

  CHAPTER 74

  MARBLEHEAD, OHIO

  You’re late.”

  My watch indicated 9:35 in the morning, five minutes after I’d told Daniel I’d arrive. But the short, curly-haired elderly woman glowered at me as if I’d shown up at Kovak headquarters two hours late.

  “My leg is in—”

  “Doesn’t matter. Here are last night’s walk shifts.” She handed me a manila folder stuffed with sheets of paper. “Daniel said to go ahead and enter them. Here’s the volunteer log-in info for you.” A small note with a new name and password was stuck to the folder.

  I logged on in the back room where I’d worked the day before. My greeter sat down only feet away to make phone calls, eyeballing me every few minutes.

  I texted Tori.

  I’m in. But someone is right next to me.

  I laid the first walk sheet to the right of the laptop and began entering data.

  She wrote back.

  Okay. Do the best you can.

  Consistent with Tori’s explanation back in Wisconsin, the sheets were made up entirely of “ones” and “twos” who voted in most presidential elections but often skipped midterm elections. These were the sporadic voters who were so crucial to the election.

  The notes on the walk sheets also reflected what I’d experienced the day before: most people weren’t home or didn’t answer. Still, I recorded each attempted knock on the voter file. Those voters would remain on the list to be called or visited during future volunteer shifts.

  Thirty minutes in, someone knocked on the front door in the next room.

  “I’ll get it,” the elderly woman said, leaping to her feet. “You keep typing.”

  Her absence gave me my chance. I took out my phone and snapped photos of sheets I’d already typed in. I was halfway through the stack when she returned.

  “What were you doing with that phone?” she asked, scowling.

  A bead of sweat fell from my forehead onto the keyboard.

  “Just catching up on the news.”

  “Son, early voting is under way and we have work to do. As we tell the high schoolers, you can play later.”

  “Understood.” I put my phone down and entered more data as she resumed her calls.

  Outside of those who weren’t home, the second-largest group of voters were those who’d told a volunteer they planned to vote early for Kovak. Next to each such voter, a date appeared. Tori had also predicted this, explaining that modern campaigns asked voters what their “plan” to vote was: what date they planned to vote, and how. Doing so carried two benefits. First, studies showed that thinking through a plan to vote made people more likely to vote. Second, knowing each plan gave the campaign an individualized timeline for each voter. If a voter missed her planned date to vote, a campaign volunteer would follow up.

  I entered each of these.

  Then there were the handful of voters who’d told the volunteers that they no longer supported Kovak, news that led the volunteer to mark down a new score for that voter. A “three” if they appeared undecided or, worse, a “four” or a “five.” On these sheets, Kovak wasn’t losing much support.

  In all, I spent two hours entering information for 154 Marblehead voters, interrupted only by two visits to the campaign fridge for Diet Cokes, one bathroom break, and the occasional need to scratch the scab on my right calf, which was itching more than ever.

  Fortunately, my watchdog also used the bathroom several times, freeing up precious minutes for me to snap photos of all the sheets I’d entered.

  When I handed her my completed stack of sheets, she flashed me a sweet smile. “Great job, sweetie. Come back soon.”

  Once down the block and out of sight, I sent Tori all the photos I’d taken.

  CHAPTER 75

  CINCINNATI

  They would move quickly, Tori guessed. Because that’s what she would do. The less time the original data sat on the file, the less time the campaign had to detect any meddling.

  So as soon as Jack’s photos came through, she stepped out of campaign headquarters for a late lunch and some privacy at Zip’s Cafe, which locals had touted as serving Cincinnati’s best burger. The small, wood-paneled restaurant was quiet except for an electric train chugging around the dining room’s perimeter on a platform a foot below the ceiling.

  After ordering a
Zip’s burger and wiping her hands and the wooden table clean, she opened her laptop and leaned her phone against the right side of the screen. She then logged in to Ted Kovak’s voter file under the username Jack had snagged the day before, entering CedarPoint1 as the password. The file opened.

  One street at a time, she compared the original data—captured in Jack’s photos—with the data as it appeared in the Kovak voter file.

  She started with the five voters at the top of Jack’s first photo, who lived on a street called Lifeboat Station Drive. Named Molnar, Nagy, Smith, Peterson, and Horvath, they were solid Republicans—all categorized as “ones.” But they were hit-and-miss when it came to voting every year, which made them exactly the type of sporadic voters a well-run campaign would urge to vote early.

  According to Jack’s photos, last night’s attempt to talk to them hadn’t been fruitful. A volunteer had made contact with Smith, who’d indicated he’d vote by mail for Kovak in two days. But the other four hadn’t been home.

  She scanned the profiles of the five Lifeboat Station voters as they now appeared in the voter file. The first three names squared with Jack’s photos, reflecting the unsuccessful attempts to contact them.

  Then came Horvath’s profile. Tori scanned it closely, then looked back at Jack’s photo. Then back at the voter file.

  Two key data points had changed.

  Jack’s photo indicated that Horvath, like the first three, hadn’t been home. But the voter file reflected not only a successful voter contact but that Horvath had committed to vote for Kovak in person in two weeks.

  Tori’s heart skipped a beat, knowing that this change triggered an important consequence. Rather than trying to contact Horvath again in the coming days, the campaign would not contact him for at least two weeks.

  Then she checked the final targeted voter on the street, Smith.

  According to Jack’s photo, Smith had told the volunteer he planned on voting for Kovak in two days. While the voter file accurately showed that a conversation had taken place, Smith’s profile now categorized him as a “four,” meaning he no longer supported Kovak. This change also brought a major consequence: Smith would never again hear from the Kovak campaign.

  Tori looked away from the laptop, her eyes drawn by the train as it motored in front of her and to her right. Her stomach churned, but not because the burger was taking too long to arrive. To a layman, converting a “one” to a “four” or falsely documenting a conversation that never took place might feel trivial. To a data guru, who understood how important every piece of information was, it was like watching a mugging in plain sight. Two strong pro-Kovak voters—and two ideal targets for early voting—had been wiped off the campaign’s active list.

  She spent the next hour comparing the data from Jack’s photos with what appeared on the Kovak voter file. One street at a time—Lake Shore Drive, Blue Water Road, Hidden Beach Road—the pattern from Lifeboat Station repeated itself.

  Usually the voter file accurately reflected the data Jack had entered. Which made sense. Altering every interaction would be too noticeable and wasn’t necessary.

  But on every street she examined, critical components of some voters’ profiles had changed.

  The most common alteration involved voters who, according to Jack’s photos, hadn’t been home. But the file indicated that many had been spoken to and were now tagged as “fours” or “fives.” For others, the file indicated that they had committed to vote on a date several weeks away. Either way, this meant that voters who supported Kovak—but who needed strong encouragement to vote—would not hear from the campaign again for weeks, if at all.

  Then there were the voters who, per Jack’s photos, had committed to vote early for Kovak. For some, like Smith, their updated profile indicated that they had become “fours” or “fives,” never to be talked to again.

  Next were the voters who had expressed a change of heart—prior “ones” and “twos” who’d moved to “fours” and “fives” in Jack’s photos. Many of these voter interactions were recorded as unsuccessful contacts and remained “ones” and “twos.” Even more alarming, others not only remained as “ones” and “twos” but were also recorded as having committed to vote early for Kovak, with their planned dates specified.

  “Unreal,” Tori muttered to herself. The Kovak campaign would be proactively calling “fours” and “fives,” voters who opposed them, to ensure they voted.

  Then there were the “threes”: voters who’d informed volunteers they were now undecided. In a close election, late in a campaign, the bloc of “threes” became the pivotal group, often determining the election’s outcome. Identifying these swing voters and then engaging them with the right message constituted a critical part of a strong campaign’s late communications effort. Whoever did so best usually won.

  In the voter file, a number of voters who Jack’s photos labeled as “threes” were now categorized as “fours” and “fives.” So these critical voters would not hear from the campaign again, while they no doubt would hear regularly from the other side.

  Finally came the outright deletions. A handful of “ones,” “twos,” and “threes” were simply purged from the file completely. In an era of highly targeted campaigning, these voters would now be second-class citizens, never to hear from a campaign again.

  “Ma’am, do you want me to warm up your burger and fries?”

  A young, freckle-faced woman in a blue Zip’s shirt stared down at her. As hungry as she was, Tori had forgotten about the food that sat on the other side of her open laptop.

  “That’d be great. Thank you.”

  The girl walked away with her plate.

  Tori walked back through her notes to understand the scale of what she was seeing. From a single night of voter engagement, 28 percent of strong but sporadic Kovak voters were now recategorized or purged outright so that they would not hear from the campaign, for weeks or at all. Almost 40 percent of the newly identified swing voters were mischaracterized as something else, guaranteeing they wouldn’t receive the campaign’s tailored message. And 25 percent of voters who were now opposed to Kovak would still be reminded to vote—meaning the Kovak campaign would be pushing out voters who actually opposed their candidate.

  She scribbled some quick calculations on her napkin. Each Ohio district represented about 115,000 residents, 80,000 of whom were registered voters. In a good year, about half would vote, which meant that a shift of only several thousand votes was enough to flip a seat from one party to the other. The rate of meddling in Marblehead was well above that.

  Tori picked up her phone.

  Jack, you there? she texted.

  Jack responded seconds later. Was what I sent helpful?

  Yes, she wrote back.

  You figure anything out?

  Yes, she wrote back. They’re stealing the district.

  * * *

  • • •

  Tori asked Jack to send another round of Kovak entries. This time he sent her his photos of the voter contact sheets in advance, then he entered the data from a phone bank from the night before.

  As he typed, she watched the Kovak voter file live.

  Thirty minutes in, he texted her. Just entered Holloway, on Stone Street. Anything happen?

  Everything reflected what he’d entered. Nope. Everything good so far.

  Fifteen minutes later he checked in again.

  All good, she responded.

  Ten minutes after that, he wrote again. All done.

  Great, she wrote back. Go ahead and log out.

  As she reexamined the profiles she had been watching, what she saw sent her stomach roiling.

  She wrote Jack.

  It’s a program.

  What do you mean?

  As soon as you logged out, it all changed. Even altered phone numbers. Too fast for manual changes. They’ve got this t
hing wired.

  CHAPTER 76

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The smartest woman Cassie knew had started reading the New York Times in fourth grade. She’d been the spelling bee champ of Boston, the high school debate champ of Massachusetts, valedictorian of her Tufts class, an honors graduate of Harvard Law School, and a clerk for the U.S. Supreme Court. Now she taught law at Duke, and Cassie met her once a year for coffee.

  There was only one blemish on her friend’s lifelong winning streak. Her senior year at Tufts, she’d applied for the Marshall Scholarship. But after advancing a few rounds through the brutal interview process, she didn’t make the cut.

  Ever since, the rejection had left Cassie with one question: Who the heck won a Marshall Scholarship?

  Within hours of her Oxford breakthrough, she found her answer: Katrina Rivers.

  Tracking down Kat Simmons’s and Natalie Hawke’s real last names hadn’t been difficult. Several of the Oxford alumni who’d posted photos had been nice enough to list their classmates by name, including Katrina Rivers and Natalie DesJardins.

  They had hidden their tracks well. An initial search of both names, paired with the name Oxford, uncovered no other information since they had graduated. And nothing showed up at any points of Natalie DesJardins’s life.

  But true superstars couldn’t whitewash their entire past. High achievement earned public attention. And in Katrina Rivers’s case, a ten-page newspaper with a print circulation of just two thousand outed her.

  On page three, days before Thanksgiving a dozen years ago, the Daily Princetonian announced the school’s three Marshall Scholarship winners, the most from any school in the nation that year.

  One of the winners was a senior named Katrina Rivers.

  The brief article provided interesting insight into Katrina Rivers’s past and her ambitions at the time. She was a computer science major and economics minor who wanted to use both fields to accomplish big things.