He leaned forward with a sigh, placing both elbows on the conference table, and rested his face in his hands. This is going to be one hell of a long day.
CHAPTER 43
MINGO COUNTY COURTHOUSE
WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 9:00 A.M.
“Madam Clerk … Will you please remove two cards from the bowl?”
Mark Monroe’s voice jolted the County Clerk from her daze. She glanced to her right. All three county commissioners awaited her next move.
The Clerk rose from her desk and slowly walked across the courtroom, trying not to fall down in the process. A table with a bowl full of cards sat in front of the Commission’s dais.
Standing at the table, her right eye began itching terribly. Although she desperately wanted to scratch at it, the thought of drawing any attention to her eyes right now terrified her.
Stay calm. This will be over in two minutes and you’ll be 500,000 dollars richer.
The Clerk looked into the glass bowl that was the center of her universe. Staring at the 39 folded slips of paper lying inside it, the sheriff’s voice floated through her mind: “The first card you pull out can be any damn precinct you want,” he had told her yesterday evening as they discussed his proposal. “But the second card must be Gilbert Middle School. Precinct Number 75.”
She stuck her hand in the bowl and swirled the cards around. Staring at the cards, she patiently looked for the sign.
Suddenly, she saw the pale yellow dot she was looking for. She abruptly stopped stirring and grabbed one card with her hand while memorizing the location of that other card which bore the luminous ink she had dabbed on it this morning.
She pulled out the first card. Unfolding it, she announced, “Tug Valley High School. Precinct Number 41.” Turning around, she displayed the slip to Monroe before carrying it to both ends of the platform so Ruth Thompson and Pete Warner could examine it, too.
Monroe absent-mindedly swiveled his chair from left to right, clutching his gavel tightly. “Tug Valley High School is the first precinct we will recount today,” he confirmed.
A sudden flash of movement from Governor Royal’s lawyers caught the Clerk’s eye. One man was smiling and subtly yanking his right arm in a motion that looked like he was repeatedly pulling an oven door toward him.
The Clerk looked away from the disturbing spectacle of happy lawyers and put the first slip aside. It would have been difficult enough to watch without these weird contacts in her eyes. Under the circumstances, however, the whole scene looked discolored and downright surreal.
Now for the tricky part. The cash is riding on this one.
Staring into the bowl, the Clerk blocked out everything around her except for the cards. She returned her gaze to the area she had committed to memory and…
Voila! There it is!
She felt her hand tremble as she reached for the card with a luminous yellow dot on one corner. Grasping it tightly with her thumb and three fingers, she carefully plucked it from the bowl and ritualistically unfolded it before the watchful eyes of the audience.
“Gilbert Middle School,” she declared, hoping she sounded subdued. “Precinct Number 75.”
The jovial mood of Royal’s lawyers evaporated. The man who earlier had impersonated Kirk Gibson looked like he had just learned his blind date was a 70-year-old woman with a beard.
The Clerk again presented the slip for the Commission’s review. As before, they looked down from their seats on the platform, glanced at the paper and nodded their acceptance.
“Precinct Number 75 at Gilbert Middle School is the second precinct we will recount. Madam Clerk, please administer the appropriate oaths to our bipartisan recount teams.”
“Yes, Commissioner Monroe.”
As the Clerk lifted the bowl and turned toward her desk, she spied Sheriff Perkins standing alone with his back against the far wall. Wearing his crisply pressed black uniform, he was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat, and he gave her a quick wink.
Placing the bowl on her desk, she turned around and prepared to swear in the recount teams. Gazing through the strange contact lenses the sheriff had given her, she noted the somber looks in her prospective deputies’ eyes and tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.
Anyone else in your shoes would have done the same thing, she told herself. With the passage of enough time, she hoped she would actually believe it.
CHAPTER 44
WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 9:40 A.M.
Dave had grown weary of the conference calls only 10 minutes into the second one. He sat on the conference table with his legs dangling off the edge. “McDowell County?” he asked.
“The two precincts they’re recountin’ are Iaeger Town Hall and Bull Creek Baptist Church,” a woman replied in a thick drawl. “But I don’t have any numbers yet.”
“Thank you,” Dave stated. “Mercer County?”
“They’re halfway finished with Bluefield High School,” a squeaky-sounding man explained. “The other two precincts are Princeton Elementary and Bramwell Fire Department. No numbers yet.”
“Very good. Mineral County?”
“They just started Ridgeley Fire Hall. No final tallies yet. The other precinct is Clary Street Learning Center. Talk to you next hour.”
“Thanks,” Dave said. “Mingo County?”
“Hey, Dave. This is Spence.”
Dave grinned. “What news do you have from the People’s Republic of Mingo County?”
Spence paused. “I don’t have a real good feeling about this. I can’t put my finger on it, but I’m picking up some bad vibes.”
Dave stopped kicking his legs. “Talk to me, Spence.”
“Sheriff Perkins is walking around like he has a winning Powerball ticket in his pocket. Again, it’s a gut instinct. No numbers to report yet. The recount team just started digging into the Tug Valley High School precinct. The good news is Wilson cleaned our clock there on Election Day at a three-to-one clip. So they’re unlikely to pick up many votes there.”
Spence paused again. Dave leaned toward the phone, his eyes wide with anticipation.
“The bad news is that Gilbert Middle School is the other precinct being recounted. We did well there, but it’s one of the precincts that supposedly had trouble with the memory cards on Election Day.”
“Ugh,” Dave spat. “No wonder your gut’s churning. Thanks for bringing that to our attention and call us if anything happens.”
“Ten-four, boss.”
Dave grabbed his coffee and took a sip before resuming the roll call. But his paranoid mind kept racing through scenarios where the opposition somehow managed to generate enough new votes in Mingo County to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
CHAPTER 45
WEST VIRGINIA STATE CAPITOL
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 9:50 A.M.
Dick Bowen reclined in front of the governor’s desk, both feet sprawled out. A steaming mug of coffee sat on the table to his left and the latest Charleston Gazette was in his hands.
“Heh, heh,” he lightly chuckled. “Get a load of this, Luke.”
Vincent looked up from his work. “What is it?”
“The headline on page three reads, ‘Wildlife Leaves Williamson in the Dark.’”
“That’s rich,” Vincent quipped.
Bowen kept reading. “‘Power company officials say squirrels are responsible for even more blackouts than lightning strikes. Nationwide, squirrels cause tens of thousands of power outages every year. In 2006, there were almost 17,000 such outages in Georgia alone, usually where squirrels simultaneously come into contact with power lines and adjacent transformers, thereby completing an electric circuit and frying themselves.’” Bowen barked a loud laugh. “Too funny!”
“I have to hand it to you, Dick: That was a slick scheme you cooked
up. Great work.”
“We had a hell of a time finding a squirrel, though. I ended up paying one of the groundskeepers here at the Capitol five grand to give me one.”
“What?!” Vincent shrieked.
“Simmer down. I told the guy my granddaughter adored squirrels and desperately wanted one for her birthday. Which was yesterday. She’d be heartbroken if I couldn’t find her one in time for her birthday party. Blah blah blah.”
“You don’t even have a granddaughter, Dick!”
Bowen shrugged. “He doesn’t know that. He thinks he just made some little girl’s day and he got an extra five grand just by putting on some thick-ass leather gloves and strolling up to one of the tame little bastards with some peanuts. Two minutes later, old Rocky is chomping on nuts, sitting in a wire rabbit cage on a one-way trip to Williamson. Everybody’s happy.”
“Except the squirrel,” the governor pointed out.
“Ah, hell. Quit acting like you’re a fuckin’ Boy Scout. You don’t have any qualms about stealing an election, yet your lower lip starts quivering because a damn squirrel bit the dust?” Bowen shook his head in disbelief. “That makes as much sense as you sneaking around, banging Tabatha McCallen.”
Vincent glowered but said nothing. Then Bowen’s phone rang, interrupting their touchy ethical discussion.
“It’s Perkins,” Bowen announced. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dick,” the sheriff opened. “The recount started 20 minutes ago. The second precinct up is Gilbert Middle School, Number 75.”
“Woohoo!” Bowen cheered. “Great news! I’ll pass it along.”
“I can’t wait to see Warner’s face after they count that precinct,” Perkins added. “He’s gonna look like someone fed him a turd sandwich.”
Bowen laughed. “Serves him right. And there’ll be more paybacks coming, I promise.”
“As always, Dick … It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
Bowen hung up the phone and stretched his arms, interlacing his thick fingers behind his head. “I feel like Hannibal Smith from ‘The A-Team,’” he said with a grin. “I love it when a plan comes together!”
CHAPTER 46
WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 10:20 A.M.
Dave Anderson walked into Gil’s office holding his phone. He closed the door behind him. “Okay, Spence. I’m alone now. What’s up?”
“We ended up gaining a vote in the first precinct. But they’re working on Gilbert Middle School now, and – pardon my French – the crap is hitting the fan.”
“How so?”
“Remember how they made a big deal about Governor Royal winning 70 percent of the vote there? Since the Dems usually win there by a two-to-one margin?”
“Yeah,” Dave replied.
“Well, history may be repeating itself. The results are flip-flopped now. A third of the way through the precinct and Senator Wilson is pulling about two votes for every one of ours.”
“Son-of-a-bitch! Are we sure those paper rolls are from the same machines that were used on Election Day?”
“The red locks on the plastic containers had the same numbers this morning that were announced after the canvass. The serial numbers stamped on the voting machines match up, too, as do the seals affixed on the VVPAT rolls.”
Dave slapped the desk. “Who knows? Maybe those bastards were right. Maybe the memory cards really did malfunction after the polls closed. How else can we explain this?”
“Maybe they switched out the whole machines. You know … hardware, memory cards, VVPAT rolls. The whole kit-n-kaboodle.”
“That’d be tough to pull off. The county couldn’t produce new voting machines with the same serial numbers as the original ones. AIS could do that, but they don’t manufacture the red locks on the plastic containers. Plus, they’d have to know what the numbers were on those seals after the canvass. You’re talking about a pretty extensive conspiracy.”
“Maybe, but aren’t you always jabbering about how much money has been spent on this election and how much is at stake here?”
After silently pondering Spence’s outlandish hypothesis, Dave admitted it did make a degree of sense. After spending a billion dollars on this race – if not more – why would the opposition flinch at spending more now? Especially when victory seemed oh so attainable?
“Okay,” he conceded. “Maybe you’re right. But without any evidence supporting our suspicions, we’re hosed. We have one elected ally in Mingo County: Pete Warner. And even he publicly acts like he doesn’t support us. The sheriff’s department, the state police, the Williamson city cops … They’re all run by the opposition.”
“What about the feds?” Spence asked. “Maybe the FBI would look into it.”
“We don’t have any evidence,” Dave repeated. “Suspicions aren’t enough. Without evidence, we just look like sore losers. And even if we did have evidence supporting our allegations, the feds don’t wrap up an investigation overnight. They get their ducks in a row so they can nail your ass to a tree when they do come after you. They might put some people away eventually, but it won’t be any time soon. Certainly not in time to help us win this election.”
“Then what are we gonna do?” Spence cried, exasperated.
Dave sighed. “It looks like there’ll be a net difference of more than one percent between the votes reported in those two precincts on Election Night and the ballots counted today.”
“Definitely.”
“That means the whole county will be recounted. Make sure our folks don’t give up. We could still pick up votes elsewhere around the state. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the other side’s math will be off.”
“That’s not much to hang our hat on,” Spence said.
“Maybe not,” Dave conceded. “But right now, that’s all we’ve got.”
PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE
ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 11:15 A.M.
“Well, that sure didn’t take long,” Rikki said.
Jack strolled beside her toward the exit. “What did you expect? The county only has eleven precincts, so we just had to hand count one precinct, and that ended up being Hebron, the smallest precinct in the county. If we couldn’t make short work of 140 ballots, that’d be pretty pathetic.”
“True,” she replied. “In fact, I’d bet we spent more time getting the lawyers to play nice with each other than we did on the entire recount itself.”
Jack chuckled. “Yep. And after all that, both sides ended up with the same votes they had after the canvass.”
“Sure makes you glad you live in Pleasants County, doesn’t it?”
“Damn straight, especially after listening to the crazy stuff happening elsewhere.”
Rikki stopped in her tracks. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
“For starters,” Jack began, “a fistfight broke out between two lawyers in Preston County at 8:30 a.m. The Sheriff – who’s a good Republican, mind you – saw the whole thing and had the Democrat lawyer arrested for battery.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Scout’s honor. Then one of Senator Wilson’s paralegals raised cane, so the sheriff had her arrested for obstructing an officer.” Jack laughed loudly and shook his head. “The magistrate – who’s a stinking Democrat, by the way – released them both on personal recognizance bonds. But when they re-entered the courtroom, the sheriff demanded to see the lawyer’s bond papers.
“Sure enough,” Jack continued, “the bond prohibited him from having any contact with ‘the victim’ of the battery, so the sheriff rearrested him for violating the terms of his bond by being in the same room as the guy he punched and hauled him back to magistrate court. Long story short: By the time the magistrate amended the lawyer’s bond, released him on a second P.R. bond and finished reading the riot act to the sheriff, it was past 10 o’clock and the county hadn’t even started its
recount yet.”
“What a circus!”
“You got that right. Those other places can keep their melodramas. Give me good old boring Saint Marys any day of the week.”
Rikki chuckled. “They don’t call it Mayberry for nothing.”
“Yep. And we like it that way.”
CHAPTER 47
WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 11:30 A.M.
With a growing sense of dread, Dave awaited the next conference call. Gil Dean, the state GOP’s executive director, looked at the clock and hit the speakerphone button.
“Hello, everyone,” he opened. “Gil here. I know things are hectic, so let’s jump right on your reports. Barbour County.”
“Royal 4,030, Wilson 2,634. Net difference from the canvass is plus two. We’re currently recounting Belington. So far, the net difference is less than 1 percent, so we’re not looking at a countywide recount.”
“Thanks,” Gil said. A college student with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail stood beside five whiteboards mounted on the wall. As the report came through the speakerphone, she scribbled the information down in columns beside the county’s name.
“Berkeley County,” Gil continued.
A young-sounding woman spoke up. “Royal 21,325 to Wilson 12,223. Net difference is plus five. Falling Waters Post Office precinct is up now. Net difference is below 1 percent.”
“Thanks, Monica. And if you would, stay on the line. We need to talk after everyone is finished reporting.”
“Sure thing,” she replied.
“Boone County,” Gil prompted.
“Ned Hopson here. Governor Royal has 4,308 and that Communist floozy he’s running against has 6,011. I’m sorry the people here are so thickheaded. Net difference is plus three, though. Lower Hewitt is being recounted now. I doubt we end up with a 1 percent difference when it’s all said and done, but stranger things have happened. This is Boone County, after all.”
The Dirty Secret Page 17