by David Pepper
“Yeah. Like the fact that as a cop, you arrested Johnny Rutherford twenty-one times. The same Rutherford blamed for beating Simpson to death.”
“Try twenty-eight times. You must have missed a few. Crazy, huh? That was either one hell of a small-world coincidence or someone really was trying to screw Stanton. It’s the main reason Stanton was so freaked out after she died. I told him about the connection once I heard Rutherford was the lead suspect, and he figured someone was out to get him. It spooked him so bad he ran all the way back to the wife he had ignored for years. But then things died down.”
“So you didn’t put Rutherford up to it?”
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t be part of a murder. Tell you the truth, I don’t even think he did it. And if he didn’t, someone sure set it up so it looked like he did. Then again, he’s the type of poor sucker who gets nabbed when they need to close a case. Poor guy. I always liked him.”
At this point, I didn’t know who to believe.
That ended the serious talk. We spent the rest of the breakfast sharing crime and cop stories.
* * *
I headed to the Vindicator after breakfast. Parking in my usual spot, I made the same short walk into the cavernous building I had made every morning for decades. It was 9:15.
I entered the elevator, hit the button for the second floor, and rode up alone, in silence. The doors opened, and I trudged down the dark hallway toward the newsroom. Similar to the Ariens Group display, the paper’s most historic Vindicator front pages hung on each side of the hallway.
“Allies Cross Channel, Land at Normandy.”
“Kennedy Shot, Killed in Dallas.”
“Ohio’s Armstrong Walks on Moon.”
Each headline spanned the top of the front page in large capital letters, below the ornate Vindicator masthead.
After the 2008 banner headline proclaiming Obama’s victory, a new frame appeared. Although it occupied what had been the last empty spot on the left wall, I was almost past it when I spotted it. Its shining glass and wood frame stuck out from the others. And unlike the worn, yellowish copies preceding it, the paper encased in the frame was brand new, white as ivory. The photo still had its full color.
“Majority Leader Caught in Vote-Rigging Scandal” shouted the headline. I stared proudly at the framed paper for a good five seconds. My first trophy since college.
Standing at the edge of the newsroom itself, I now heard a bustle within. As I walked into the room, a large crowd erupted in applause. Greeting me first were my two ecstatic bosses, Davis and Andres. Lined up behind them in two long rows were dozens of fellow reporters, photographers, editors, assistants, along with Santini and a few retirees and old friends.
“You did it!” Davis said.
“You really did,” Andres added.
The two leaders hushed the crowd, and spoke for five minutes, touting my game-changing scoop. Game changing for the paper, and for the country.
“Jack, you’ve put us on the map nationally,” Davis said.
Andres was equally thrilled. “Our website has had more hits in the last nine hours than we’ve had in the past year combined.”
I said a few words of thanks, and then made my way back to my desk. Colleague after colleague on both sides shook my hand, slapped my shoulder, and congratulated me.
* * *
We were glued to our television sets all morning.
By noon, talk of reform consumed Washington. As nefarious as the plot may have been, the pundits agreed, the ease of stealing an American election—of stealing the congressional majority—was a scandal in and of itself. They demanded change.
Marshall and Williams jointly appeared in the Capitol Rotunda, surrounded by their top lieutenants. All four networks, as well as cable television stations, covered it live. A flock of reporters pressed forward and against one another, jockeying for the best position. The clicks of cameras started as soon as the two leaders made their way to the podium.
It marked their first joint appearance in years. Marshall spoke first, Williams standing behind his right shoulder.
“We talked to the President twenty minutes ago, and we all agreed—we will pull together a bipartisan commission to look into two things. Districting reform, and election reform. We can never again allow our democracy to be at risk from such a scheme.”
Williams stepped to the podium and followed.
“Majority Leader Stanton will certainly be held accountable for his actions here, along with anyone we can identify that he worked with. But more fundamentally, it is up to us to fix a badly broken system that allowed this to happen in the first place. I pledge that we Democrats will join with the president and speaker to get this done. We need districts that give our voters a choice, and we need clear national standards that guide how we run our elections, including ensuring these new technologies are safe.”
As she finished her statement, thirty reporters all asked questions at the same time.
“Please!” Marshall scolded. “One at a time.”
Turner herself stood in the front row, and Marshall called out her name first.
“Mr. Speaker, are you even the Speaker anymore? If this election was really stolen, how do we walk back the results?”
“That’s a great question, Bridget, and the right one. Minority Leader Williams and I are already working to create a joint leadership caucus for the time being, as we sort out how to implement districting reforms. And of course, we will then hold a new election next year in those new districts, and with new election safeguards in place.”
“And what about laws that have already passed?”
Williams stepped to the podium.
“We have reached a compromise. We agreed that it would be nearly impossible to undo all the legislation enacted in the past six months, so what was passed and signed will stay in place. But our joint leadership caucus will govern for the rest of this term. Any legislation that the President has not yet signed will now be suspended and vetted by the joint caucus. Unless a majority of both parties’ caucuses agree to it, it will not move forward. And this will occur until the elections next year. Finally, due to his involvement, the divisive voting legislation that Leader Stanton led will be scrapped immediately.”
“What will happen to Stanton?” someone shouted.
Marshall returned to the microphone. “The president and I have written him a letter calling on him to resign. We have not yet heard back from him. He will also be subpoenaed and asked to testify before Congress on his involvement. And he will be held criminally accountable for his actions.”
God, I hope so. For all his actions.
* * *
The rest of the day, I returned calls.
Arlene Brown was thrilled with everything. Apparently, neither Stanton nor Young had shown up at work. And Irene Stanton let her know she had left her husband.
Jody Kelly cried on our call, but they were tears of joy. As awful as his death was, at least her husband had died trying to find the underlying cause of something important. Still tragic, but heroic too.
Kreutzer gushed about his scheduled appearance. He planned to turn the screws on Stanton even more. And finally have an audience that would hear his doubts about Joanie’s death.
And Scott celebrated not only the story but my idea of coming out and visiting. “Dad, I couldn’t be more proud of you. We couldn’t be more proud. Your story is going to make a difference.”
He meant every word. And every word felt great.
Rogers also left a celebratory message. “You nailed that son of a bitch. Always hated that guy.”
At about 3:00, I called Turner.
“Well, that was one hell of a joint venture, Sharpe. You sent me that stuff just in time, and boy was it nuclear. How did you know he was coming onto my show?”
“Just had a hunch.”
“Sure. Well, we make a good one-two punch. Although I’m still heartbroken about that Joanie Simpson. Horrible how he treated her, and the other women. That was an incredible find.”
“It really was horrible. Sickening. It’s a deeply personal issue for me. And atoning for what happened to her kept me going through all the ups and downs.”
“Really sorry that our prior interview was one of the downs.”
“That’s fine. You forced me to dig deeper. And you more than made up for it last night.”
“Thanks to you. Send me your future scoops, will you? By the way, happy to have you on next week to walk through more of the details you reported today.”
“No thanks. I’m stepping away for a few weeks. Figured you and everyone else can take it from here.”
“Great. And enjoy.”
“Will do. Good luck with Peter tonight. He seems like a great kid. You might give Jody Kelly a call. She’d be great as well.”
“Will do. Speaking of politicians’ wives, and please keep this between us, Irene Stanton has some new information on Simpson’s death. She’s eager to talk. We’re running a two-hour live special tonight.”
Chapter 54
YOUNGSTOWN—ILLINOIS: 165 days after the election
Saturday, I woke up early and packed a few bags. Loaded a tent, sleeping bag, and some fishing gear into the truck, in case a nearby river or stream called my name along the way.
Two thousand five hundred miles, almost entirely on the same road that I enter ten minutes from my home. I’d head across I-80. Through Toledo, then Chicago, Des Moines, and Omaha. Then into the Rockies, through Cheyenne, Salt Lake City and on to Reno. Then Sacramento, and then into the Bay Area.
Exactly my kind of trip. Eagles, Buffett, some Beatles . . . loaded up and ready to play.
At 6:20 a.m., I made one stop before heading out of town. Dunkin’ Donuts. Coffee from the drive-thru.
I was hoping to get to San Fran by Sunday night. Maybe we’d eat in Sausalito, on the water.
* * *
The first two hours of the drive were uneventful. Light traffic. No cops.
But as I crossed into Indiana, the adrenaline rush of publishing the story, of beating Stanton to the punch, of hearing the accolades, faded.
On the one hand, I had a wrapped a tight bow around my story. A clean narrative, a seamless theory, one that the national media and politicians accepted whole hog.
But now the second-guessing began. Internally.
The first tinge of guilt had begun to kick in the day before. About remaining doubts, and about what my story didn’t report. But the events the rest of the day lifted my spirits, shielding me from nagging self-doubt.
But deep down, now alone, I knew. The story as published wasn’t quite right. The impression it left was off in critical ways. Nothing absolutely definitive, but some facts ran against the grain. They undermined the narrative. So I had purposely not included them. I’d set them aside in my own mind.
First, one of my most important finds cut both ways.
Discovering that Stanton campaigned in the thirty-one districts, and only the thirty-one districts, outlined in Simpson’s memo, was a breakthrough moment. It showed Stanton was lying through his teeth. That he had seen Simpson’s memo long ago.
But the “thirty-one” breakthrough also posed a problem. An important limitation to the narrative. Stanton only knew of the districts Simpson enumerated in the memo. He was not aware of the four others in the Abacus footprint—the ones Simpson herself didn’t know about. This meant Stanton had wholly relied on his aide’s memo when he chose where to campaign.
If that memo alone provided his roadmap, then Stanton did not have a deep knowledge of the overall plot. He didn’t know the specifics. He must not have known which districts Abacus covered until Simpson’s memo helpfully listed them for him.
Of course, if you were part of planning the operation, those districts would be the first thing you’d know. They were your targets, so you’d know all thirty-five. And if you were part of planning the operation, Simpson’s memo wouldn’t have provided any new information whatsoever.
But based on where Stanton campaigned, it was clear her memo had provided all he knew.
So although Stanton visited Abacus months before he got Simpson’s memo, he was likely only observing it, as an outsider. Probably for the first time. That’s why he was so quiet driving back from the visit, as Dennison described. Yes, the photos of him touring the place gave the appearance that he was part of the planning. But the fact that he only campaigned in thirty-one districts—not thirty-five—showed he was not.
Yep, I left this part out. On purpose.
Then there was Kelly.
In recent days, it was clear to me that Stanton didn’t kill Kelly. And that Kelly hadn’t visited Stanton’s house in Philly, at least of his own volition. Hell, he hadn’t even called Stanton.
The tapes of Kelly leaving the Abacus facility filled in a big piece of the puzzle. Kelly stopped by Abacus before visiting Stanton. The two stops were connected.
But the time sequence also made clear that what really happened was more nuanced.
Jody Kelly had been clear, and she knew her husband and his habits. As she told me, Kelly always called her back once he returned to his car, once he had recharged his phone. But on the video, he climbed back into the Escape at 12:28, which was later parked in front of Stanton’s at about 4:00. In all that time, he never answered his phone. Nor did he call his wife.
Somehow, he wasn’t able to call her back. And it wasn’t because his phone was dead. His phone had worked before he got in the car because he had called me only minutes before. And once in the car, he could have charged it.
The only logical answer was that Kelly wasn’t alone as he drove away from Abacus. The four-minute delay before putting the car in reverse struck me as odd even the first time I watched it. And then he didn’t call Jody after driving off. Or ever again.
So Kelly drove under duress or perhaps didn’t drive at all. And that meant the person in the car with him was the one who ensured the Escape appeared in front of Stanton’s townhome, for a photo that conveniently pointed the finger at Stanton.
And then there was the phone call, the only call Kelly made after getting back in the car, about thirty minutes after he drove off the lot. The last call he ever made. To Stanton’s private cell.
Kelly himself could not have made that call. Even Arlene Brown said that the number Kelly dialed—the one from Kelly’s phone records, the one I had called that Stanton had picked up—had rung Stanton’s highly confidential line. For family and staff. And apparently, the women. But no one else.
When Kelly told Brown he had Stanton’s cell, he must have been referring to a different number. Any number possessed by one of hundreds of congressmen, and one of a different party, was certainly not the closely kept one.
But his visitor, the one in the car, somehow did. And that person either dialed the more confidential number himself on Kelly’s phone or instructed Kelly to dial it. Why? To point the finger at Stanton. Again.
It all added up to a ferocious attempt to lay the entire Abacus plot, including the murder of Kelly, at the feet of Stanton. The photos of Stanton’s tour, the photo of Kelly in front of Stanton’s townhouse, the call, all attempted to tie Stanton to Kelly’s death. And these bits of evidence had all been dropped in my lap.
Stewing as I entered Illinois, I then recalled my conversation with Dennison the morning before. That brief discussion had raised even more red flags.
Kazarov’s men went to the trouble of stealing the security chief’s license plate in order to make me believe the congressman was the one following him. That was serious attention to detail. Aggressive.
But it also meant that Kazarov’s crew followed Stanton, and knew who Dennison was. And from our co
nversation, Kazarov’s crew certainly wired everyone. Me. Stanton for sure. Maybe even Simpson. Kazarov simply knew too much.
This also meant they likely overheard the conversation where Simpson handed her memo to Stanton. And they knew enough about Stanton’s operation to dig into Dennison’s past, and to have located and framed Rutherford for Simpson’s killing—once again establishing a link back to Stanton.
And there was one final red flag. A glaring one. Raised high.
It was something Dennison said over coffee.
As much as I wanted to get west quickly, I couldn’t let it go.
* * *
To satisfy my curiosity, I pulled over at a rest stop an hour West of Chicago. No Dunkin’ Donuts around, but a Bob Evans.
A gray-haired Gracie greeted me at the door with typical Bob Evans sweetness and walked me to a booth. I ordered my usual: omelet, biscuits, and a slice of ham.
Awaiting the order, I took out my laptop and signed onto the Vindicator’s email system, searching emails from two days before. From Jim Johnson, of Diebold. I hunted down the emails containing footage from Diebold’s cameras, number 1 and 2.
Hurrying to beat Stanton to the punch, I had rushed through both videos the first time around. And after the bombshell of seeing Kelly enter and exit the lobby, the main story occupied the rest of my day.
But now with more time, I reviewed the videos closely to find something in particular. Someone in particular.
On camera 2, the hallway, no one of interest appeared in the camera view for the entire afternoon.
As I opened the camera 1 file, a voice interrupted me.
“Omelet, biscuits, ham. Enjoy!”
Gracie, kind as can be, set down my plate.
“Please put them there. Thanks so much.”
On camera 1, from between 10:32 a.m. and noon, nothing new emerged. And of course, right around noon, the camera captured Kelly entering from outside, talking to two staff, wandering around, and then exiting. Just as I had seen before.
And then I watched again. More slowly this time. Watched the other man, the one with the baseball cap, who entered from the side and had a few words with Kelly before Kelly walked out.