The People's House
Page 1
The
People’s House
David Pepper
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by St. Helena Press
Copyright © 2016 by David Pepper
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.
ISBN: 9781619845121
eISBN: 9781619845138
Printed in the United States of America
For bookstores, libraries and other bulk purchasers, please contact Hanna Detwiler at hanna.detwiler.email@gmail.com
Contents
Author’s Note
Prologue
PART ONE: THE LEDE Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
PART TWO: FIRST DRAFT Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
PART THREE: INVESTIGATION Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
PART FOUR: DEADLINE Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Having been active in Ohio politics for the past 15 years, as well as a long-time fan of a good political thriller, I’ve combined the two passions to write my first novel. I hope you enjoy it.
While the plot and characters are fictional, the story tries to shine a light on serious weaknesses in our political infrastructure that are all too real today. Together, these weaknesses are undermining core principles of our democratic process. In particular, the gerrymandering of our Congressional and state legislative districts renders deep damage: eliminating meaningful choice for so many critical offices, eroding accountability, incentivizing polarization, and limiting opportunities for the next generation to enter public service.
When given a chance, as they were in 2014 in Ohio, voters of all parties have shown they are eager to address these problems. So in addition to entertaining, my hope is that The People’s House will put a spotlight on the need for districting and other election reforms. And 2018 and 2020 are the years where this issue will be most relevant again.
Many friends, colleagues and family members patiently read and critiqued early and very rough drafts of The People’s House. My father and mother, John and Francie Pepper, win the award for most versions read. The edits and updates that came from all these perspectives greatly enhanced the story and added life to its characters, and encouraged me to keep going. Thanks to all who pitched in!
I also want to thank another group of people. All around Ohio and our country, patriotic Americans are challenging incumbents in extremely gerrymandered districts. I meet these good people every day. They enter these races knowing how one-sided these districts are, and how long their odds of winning are. Still, they feel compelled to run because they believe that in our democratic system, the voters deserve a choice. So at great personal sacrifice—time, labor and treasure—they and their families strive to give those voters the meaningful choice that a group of politicians has worked hard to eliminate. Some of these candidates may win; upsets do happen in politics. Most will not. But win or lose, simply running for office in these districts is one of the highest forms of public service I can imagine—a bold and selfless act of defiance against a broken system, fueled by a deep commitment to our democratic values.
Finally, I dedicate The People’s House to my wife, Alana, for her encouragement and support as I worked late at night and during countless hours of Jack’s nap-times to craft it. And to our son, Jack, who just turned two. To address the complex issues that will confront them in their lifetimes, Jack and his generation will need a far more democratic and effective political system than we have today—the least we can do is fix the mess we’ve created before we hand it all off to them.
Enjoy the book, and I look forward to your feedback.
—David Pepper
Prologue
Few things lift my spirits like a good obituary.
It didn’t start that way. As a junior reporter, I dreaded obit duty. When my editor assigned me my first few obituaries, I slowly punched in the phone number of the surviving spouse or child, then hung up before anyone answered. Then, I dialed again. Hung up again. Who knows how to start such a difficult conversation?
Not me. Not at first.
But after I got my nerve up, I learned a valuable lesson: most folks who pass away in their later years have a story to tell. An authentic story, hidden by the passage of time and forgotten by all but their closest relatives. And few assignments in journalism are more rewarding than uncovering and retelling that story, giving the deceased one last hurrah and leaving their loved ones one final, uplifting memory.
“Ma’am, my name is Jack Sharpe. I work for the Youngstown Vindicator. I’m so sorry for your husband’s passing, but I’m calling to do a feature on his life. Can you share with me how you want him to be remembered?”
That simple introduction would open the floodgates.
Who knew that 82-year-old Wilma Hubbard, who worked in a Kahn’s factory to make ends meet until the day she died, had danced professionally in Europe in her twenties? Who knew that Hank George won fourteen straight boxing bouts before settling down to raise a family and run a hardware store? Or that mechanic Joseph Battaglia was among the first soldiers to arrive at the Treblinka concentration camp, freeing thousands?
After reading my carefully crafted obituaries, everyone did. And sharing these stories became a refreshing break from the less uplifting lives that consumed my political beat. Even gave me hope. Maybe some writer, some day, would dig back far enough to discover my exciting early years.
So after that jittery start, I came to enjoy writing obituaries—with one exception.
Lives in their prime, cut short by tragedy, can’t be prettied up. The story isn’t the life lived, but the untimely death. There’s no way to make it pleasant.
The worst obituary I ever had to write was about a local congressman. In many ways, I wrote two. First, Lee Kelly was voted out of office, fired by his community as the nation watched. Then, three months to the day of that termination, Kelly died on the side of a Pennsylvania highway in a high-speed, fiery crash.
“I’ve done this a long time,” the Highway Patrol supervisor told me over the phone, “and never seen anything like it. The wreck. The fire. All from one car. Still doesn’t make any sense.”
The accident report he sent me was horrific to read and just as horrific to summarize, so I left out most of the gory facts. Instead, I detailed Kelly’s start as a trial lawyer and county commissioner, followed by his ascent to Congress. I walked through the legislation he worked on and the dollars he brought home. I threw in praise from all corners of Ohio and all sides of politics.
But in the end, there was no good story to tell, only an unvarnished tragedy. The Vindicator headline summed it up perfectly: “FORMER CONGRESSMAN KELLY DIES IN FIERY CRASH.”
Even as it marked the end of his life, the obituary was not the end of the story. In fact, the sad tale of how Congressman Lee Kelly lost his life kick-started my own, and along the way, if I can be so bold, saved our democracy.
PART ONE
THE LEDE
Chapter 1
ST. CLAIRSVILLE, OHIO: Election night
“Shit. Gotta start over.”
Only a young, bearded bartender stood within earshot. But even he wasn’t listening, so this qualified as talking to myself. Again.
In the upstairs banquet room of the nicest restaurant in his hometown, Lee Kelly’s election night “victory party” was in full swing. Although Kelly was a good guy, I wasn’t at the party to cheer for him. My editors at the Youngstown Vindicator had sent me there to cover election night, just as they had for Kelly’s last four narrow victories.
This wasn’t a plum assignment. Sure, the Sixth District always spawned a bloody political fight. Its design guaranteed it. The district meanders along 175 miles of the Ohio River, rarely straying more than fifty miles from the Buckeye State’s borders with Pennsylvania and West Virginia. Beginning north of Youngstown, it snakes along the hills near Steubenville, through St. Clairsville, past Marietta, and all the way around the southern tip of the state to Ironton. Throw these communities together, and the district splits evenly between Republican and Democratic voters.
But for the last decade, the Democrats of the more urban and union-heavy northern half of the Sixth outhustled the more conservative rural voters to win the seat. Congressman Lee Kelly benefited each time. His victories were tight, but Kelly gutted out a five- to six-point triumph each time, earning him the nickname “Landslide Lee.”
Given this history, no one expected Lee Kelly to lose this election. Jim Gibbs, a little-known Lawrence County commissioner, had mounted a weak effort. So my election night assignment was to memorialize Gibbs’ inevitable defeat.
The party started as the polls closed. For most of the evening, I sat alone at the bar, one eye on the election returns cycling through the television screens, the other on the glass of bourbon the young bartender insisted on refilling, even when I didn’t ask. My laptop, sitting next to the glass, received far less attention.
The first set of returns are always the pre-counted absentee votes. Many seniors vote early, so this bloc of votes is often more conservative than the rest. So when the absentee numbers came in showing Kelly up 55 to 45 percent, it boded well for his evening. And mine.
Within thirty minutes, my story was pretty much written. And the news it delivered would not be a surprise. Once I filled in the final numbers and a few quotes, it would read like all my other Kelly stories: “Landslide Lee Does It Again.”
Until Landslide Lee lost.
No matter where it occurs, the precise point when an election loss becomes clear sounds the same. One moment, upbeat music mixes with the buzz of family, friends and supporters reliving a long day at the polls and celebrating their hard work with toasts, drinks, and laughs.
The next moment—dead silence.
In the ensuing thirty seconds, awkward looks evolve into quiet murmurs. Is it really over? As the most seasoned in the room affirm that the year of campaigning has ended in failure, staff and volunteers hug one another. The youngest shed some tears. Family members encircle the candidate—the spouse projecting strength, the children sobbing. Most in the room glance at the candidate, trying to size up his response to the bitter news without the awkwardness of actual eye contact.
Those there for transactional purposes make the fastest exit, hoping to sneak into the winning candidate’s party as if they were there all along. The quick trip, followed by a contribution within month’s end, is imperative because only the victor can dole out the deals.
The loser escapes to a quiet corner to make a terse congratulatory call to his nemesis, then returns to give a concession speech. He thanks family and friends, then pleases the crowd by vowing heroically to come back, although he almost certainly will not.
Following the speech, a line of supporters and friends forms to shake the candidate’s hand or give him an embrace. They all say the same things: “Great campaign.” “There’s nothing else you could have done.” “You’ll be back.” Positive words, but whispered like mourners at a funeral.
The visitors amble out quietly, followed by the candidate and his family. They leave banners and flyers strewn everywhere. A small cadre of campaign staff huddles over drinks for another hour or so.
I’ve witnessed this sad ceremony numerous times. Only two variables change—the time the moment occurs (the closer the result, the later in the evening) and the size of the upset. The more surprising the loss, the more jarring the collapse from banter to silence.
The silence at Kelly’s party lasted longer than any I could remember.
First, Kelly’s loss was a late one. His early lead narrowed slowly over sixty minutes, but he didn’t fall behind until after 90 percent of the votes had been counted. But once Gibbs caught him, brutal reality set in. It was over—his election, his career.
And the result was a stunner, made worse by the positive early numbers.
Most problematically for me, having already written a story with the opposite outcome, I had to start over. Given the late hour and the number of drinks, this was not good news.
“It’s going to be another forty minutes,” I told my impatient editor in a quick phone call. “Believe it or not, Kelly lost. So I’ve got to rewrite the story. And you may want to jump it to Page 1.” Even veteran reporters still enjoy a front-page byline.
I caught up to a dejected Kelly as he and his wife Jody started for the exit. With no easy way to ask the question, I went with the shortest version possible: “What happened, Congressman?”
“We ran a good race, but the voters wanted something different. I congratulate Mr. Gibbs on a strong race and wish him well.”
Gracious words. The right script. But his tight frown and wide eyes told the real story—that of a shell-shocked incumbent, tossed by the community that put him there in the first place.
Then came Gibbs’ turn. He returned my call from his headquarters 100 miles downriver.
“Congratulations, Jim. It’s Jack Sharpe of the Vindicator. Are you as surprised by this big win as the rest of us?”
His voice was barely audible over the music and chatter around him.
“Not at all! We called for change, and now we have a mandate for change!” Gibbs screamed through the phone. “It’s time for change in Washington!”
Maybe it was the drinks, but I couldn’t recall a single campaign message that would have created his claimed mandate.
Still, his quote would do for this story. Let the rookie have his day.
The restaurant now sat empty, save a handful of Kelly’s staff nursing drinks, probably discussing what they would do next. After all, the voters had fired them too.
I re-established my perch at the bar, pushed the empty glass to the side, and quickly redrafted my copy. I plugged in the Kelly and Gibbs quotes, filed my story, then shut my laptop.
Sensing opportunity, the young bartender swooped in.
“Another drink, sir?”
I shook my head, intending to leave within minutes.
But that plan changed. Over the next three hours, the only time I left
the bar was a quick trip to the urinal. My barstool became a front-row seat to an unexpected national drama.
It started down the road in Cincinnati, where an underdog Republican township trustee bested long-serving incumbent Ella Smathers. Like Kelly, she was a respected member. Another surprise.
Over the next thirty minutes, Republican challengers eked out wins in swing districts in Florida, New York, and Pennsylvania. A half hour later, a long-vulnerable Kentucky Democrat succumbed to defeat.
Central Time Zone states soon reported similar results. A small-county prosecutor upset the mayor of Peoria to win a fiercely contested open seat. An open Missouri seat went to a Republican, and veteran Democratic incumbents from suburban Kansas City and Milwaukee districts both lost. Oklahoma’s only congressional Democrat, from greater Tulsa, also went down in flames.
The cable pundits chatted away, excited to see more drama than the sleepy night they had anticipated. They were almost as excited as the Republican talking heads they were interviewing.
An hour later, races in the Rocky Mountain states ended with more unexpected Republican pickups, and the Democrats’ worry boiled over into outright panic. You could see it in their eyes as they tried to downplay the early losses.
Finally, out west, Republicans won two open California seats and knocked out an incumbent Democrat in Washington State.
All eyes turned to Tucson, where officials tallied votes late into the night. In a squeaker, the octogenarian Republican incumbent, caught in a sex scandal and having long ago lost his fastball, held on to win a 50–50 district by a few thousand votes.
I downed my last glass. Banged it, face down, onto the bar in front of me.
“That’s it! Unbelievable.”
The bartender and I had been talking politics for the past hour. It turned out he was a journalism major from Ohio University unable to land a news job after graduating. Probably too idealistic for the profession anyway.
“Is it that surprising?”