The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

  Gil’s jaw dropped. “Vincent would appoint the tie-breaker? That’s the good news?”

  Dave snapped his fingers. “A-ha! If all three contests don’t follow the same procedure, they’re violating the terms of the Supreme Court’s decision in Bush v. Gore.”

  Palmer nodded. “There’s your silver lining. One reason the Supreme Court put a stop to Florida’s post-election proceedings in 2000 was the lack of ‘uniformity’ among the procedures enacted by different counties. Now we have two judges doing one thing and a third doing something completely different. It strengthens our arguments.”

  Gil shook his head. “No wonder the public can’t make heads-or-tails of this crap.”

  CHAPTER 61

  PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 2:30 P.M.

  Rikki heard a knock at her door. Glancing up, she saw Jack smiling sheepishly.

  “Have you forgiven me for pushing your buttons yesterday?” he said.

  Rikki pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose, staring holes through him. “I’ve told you politics are off-limits, haven’t I?”

  Remaining tight-lipped, Jack nodded. “I’m sorry. I just got carried away when you started badmouthing Marcus Boley. I’ve met him, and I’m telling you, he’s a good guy.”

  “Maybe. But even good guys do bad things sometimes; especially in politics. That’s all I was saying.”

  “Fair enough, counselor. I’ll try not to get your goat anymore, and we’ll just ‘agree to disagree’ as you put it.”

  Rikki smiled widely. “Aw, Jack … You know the quickest way to warm my heart is to quote me, because that means you know I was right.”

  Jack chuckled. “On that one small point anyway.”

  “So what brings you here, Jack? I’m sure apologizing isn’t all that’s on your agenda.”

  “Right again, counselor. Beria emailed me a draft contract for the Petromica deal. Nothing’s final, of course, until they complete their ‘due diligence’ investigations.”

  Jack grabbed a chair and scooted up to Rikki’s desk. Lifting his beat-up leather briefcase onto her desk, he unlatched the lid, pulled out an inch-thick document and dropped it on her desk. “Here it is.”

  Rikki thumbed through it. “Dear Lord! This looks horrible! I hope you’re not expecting me to read this whole thing!”

  “Sure I am. You’re my lawyer, aren’t you? And Petromica wants our response by the close of business on Monday. Beria’s email said something about a ‘non-disclosure agreement’ I have to sign before they’ll even discuss the deal any further.”

  Rikki stared back at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “Jack, tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I do oil and gas, not mergers and acquisitions, plus I just took office as the county prosecutor. Throw in that Schoolcraft lease cancelation suit of yours, and my plate is completely full. There’s no way I could review that thing before Monday, and there’s no way I could get someone else to look at it any sooner due to the holiday. You need more time. See if they’ll give you until next Wednesday, at least.”

  McCallen frowned. “I don’t know. They seem eager to get this deal finalized. What I’ll probably do is just nod it on through at this point. Before I actually sign a purchase agreement, I’ll have you rustle up someone to go over it with a proctoscope. Your pre-nup guy did a great job, so I trust you’ll find me a good mergers and acquisitions guy, too.”

  Rikki reclined her chair. “So how is the home life going for you?” she asked, imbuing her words with compassion instead of gawky curiosity.

  Jack’s mouth tightened. “Schizophrenic would be a good word to describe it.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Let me know if I can do anything.”

  “Thanks, Rikki. I appreciate that.”

  Jack put the contract in his briefcase and rose to his feet. “And on that note, I’ll take my leave. Tell your mom I said, ‘Hi,’ and you guys have a Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “You, too, Jack. I’ll try to find someone to review that contract on Monday, and you buy some more time. That thing might be thicker than the Kyoto Protocol.”

  McCallen’s eyes twinkled devilishly. “Leave it to a granola-cruncher like you to bring up the Kyoto Protocol. I thought politics were supposed to be off-limits.”

  Rikki acted like she was looking for something to throw at him. “Get out of here, Jack, before I bean you upside the head.”

  The oilman ran out the door. As he rounded the corner and entered the stairwell, Rikki heard his laughter bellowing with each step.

  WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 4:45 P.M.

  “Yes, Mom,” Dave said into his phone. “I’ll be there for Thanksgiving dinner. No, I don’t know when I’ll make it … It depends on what the Supreme Court does with the appeals we filed this afternoon.”

  His phone beeped, and he saw Palmer was calling on the other line. “Mom, I gotta take this call. I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on. Love you, too. Bye.”

  Dave flashed over to the incoming call. “Talk to me, Mack.”

  “We have a stay of execution, my friend. The Court voted four-to-one to hear our petition. They’ve ordered the three lower courts to halt their respective contests.”

  “Hot damn! So when will they rule on our petition?”

  “Don’t know, but they put it on the quickest rocket docket I’ve ever seen. All parties must submit written briefs by noon on Monday, and oral arguments are on Tuesday, December 2nd at eleven.”

  Dave whistled. “Wow. You weren’t joking. That’s quick!”

  “They know the clock’s ticking. The federal ‘Safe Harbor Provision’ expires seven days after oral arguments. This whole fiasco must be over by December 9th or West Virginia could lose its right to cast ballots in the Electoral College altogether.”

  “Well, you’ve made my day,” Dave said. “I’ll spread the word. You have my cell if you need me over the weekend.”

  Palmer chortled. “Yeah, and I have your parents’ number, too. So don’t pretend you have no cell service up there because I’ll track your ass down regardless.”

  “I won’t. Now I can drive to Saint Marys tonight.”

  “Well, enjoy the breather while you can,” Palmer said.

  Dave quickly called his mom back. The thought of her homemade cranberry sauce was already making his mouth water.

  CHAPTER 62

  VIENNA, VIRGINIA

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 12:35 P.M.

  Yuri Petrenko was sprawled on his couch with a bottle of beer watching the day’s first NFL game when his phone rang. Carefully inserting his Bluetooth headset into his mangled ear, he answered, “Hello?”

  “Good afternoon, Yuri. This is Tyson. How’s your Thanksgiving going?”

  “Good,” Petrenko replied, still watching the game. “What can I do for you?”

  “Bowen’s on the line and I’ve conferenced us all together. You there, Dick?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” Bowen said.

  “Dick doesn’t think our odds of influencing West Virginia’s Supreme Court decision next week look too good. Dick, could you explain?”

  Bowen cleared his throat. “Our five Supreme Court justices are politicians in their own right who have gone through grueling statewide campaigns to win those elected seats. All the skeletons we know of are fairly common knowledge and won’t elicit much fear in the justices.”

  Petrenko sighed and muted the game. “Give me their names. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  “That’s what we hoped,” Bowen said. “First, we have Sam Willoughby. W-I-L-L-O-U-G-H-B-Y. Generally a middle-of-the-road guy, he’s originally from Wheeling. He was the only justice who voted against accepting Royal’s petition.”

  Petrenko scribbled the info down. “Got it. Next?”

  “Chief Justice Andrea Reddick. R-E-D-D-I-C-K. She’s a judicial conservat
ive. Comes from Huntington and old family money.”

  “Reddick,” Petrenko repeated. “Okay.”

  “Third is Scott Turner from Lewisburg, the lone Republican on the Court. Even though I doubt he’d vote our way this time, we’d still love to get some dirt on that sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch. It could come in handy later.”

  “My only goal is to win this election,” Petrenko coldly retorted. “I don’t care what you do with this information afterwards. Who’s next?”

  After a brief moment of silence, Bowen continued. “Next is Don Gammalo. G-A-M-M-A-L-O. He’s from Clarksburg and has a big pro-union background. But he’s a wild card.”

  Petrenko’s brow furrowed. “How so?”

  “He got beat in the Democratic primary by a more pro-business candidate. The Chamber of Commerce dumped gobs of money into his opponent’s campaign, and Don kinda blames Governor Vincent for his loss. Let’s just say he still has some hard feelings towards us.”

  “Gotcha,” the Russian stated. “And last up, we have …”

  “Brock Lilly, a Democrat from Beckley. L-I-L-L-Y. He’s another wild card, in that he didn’t run for re-election. Between the 14 years he spent as a circuit judge and the 12 years he just finished on the Supreme Court, he has enough time to retire. And that’s exactly what he’s doing January 1st, so he never has to worry about running for election again.”

  Petrenko finished his notes. “We’ll see what comes up.”

  “Thanks,” Vasquez said. “And by the way…How are your other projects going?”

  “Too early to tell, but I’m optimistic. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “Excellent,” Vasquez said. “Happy hunting and I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Hasta.” Hanging up the phone, he turned up the volume in time to hear Detroit’s crowd go wild over an interception returned for a touchdown.

  Sinking into his sofa, Yuri placed his notes on the coffee table and took another drink of beer. I can dig up dirt on hillbilly judges later. Right now, there’s a game on.

  CHAPTER 63

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 3:55 P.M.

  Wearing an apron, Governor Vincent ladled mashed potatoes onto a white Styrofoam plate. “There you go, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “You have a Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Years ago, a blue-collar entrepreneur began hosting a holiday dinner for Charleston’s less fortunate. When he died, he left a trust fund with enough money to carry on the tradition. Now the dinner had grown so big that West Virginia’s elites fought over the honor (and free publicity) associated with acting as servers for the event.

  With his shift ending, the governor kept a close eye on the whereabouts of another server. Justice Don Gammalo had participated in the dinner for twelve years. As Gammalo shed his apron and started saying his good-byes, Vincent subtly began making his own exit.

  The governor rarely escaped from such functions quickly. People wanted to shake his hand, bend his ear, get an autograph or have a picture taken. Today, though, he had carefully crafted a strategy to minimize those delays. Turning from the serving line, he surreptitiously dialed Bowen, waited five seconds and hung up. He then walked into the kitchen to shake hands with the cooks who had prepared the feast.

  “Thanks for your hard work,” he said, gripping one hand after another. “Wonderful job.”

  Suddenly, his phone rang. “Pardon me,” he whispered, answering the call. “Hello? Yes. Okay, then … I’ll be right there.”

  The governor hung up with notable flourish. “I’m afraid I have to cut this short, folks. I’m needed back at the Mansion. Keep up the good work and God bless you.”

  With that, he waved goodbye and stepped through a side door into the church parking lot; his Secret Service detail close behind. Quickly glancing around, he saw Justice Gammalo ambling toward his aged Jeep about thirty yards away.

  “Hey, Don!” Vincent called. “Wait up a second.”

  Gammalo stopped and turned around. Seeing Vincent walking toward him, the jurist’s eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted sourly.

  Vincent trotted to Gammalo’s position while his bodyguards maintained a respectful distance. “I’ve been meaning to catch up with you for a few weeks, but I haven’t had time. Things have been so hectic since the election.”

  Gammalo peered up beneath bushy gray eyebrows at Vincent. “I wouldn’t know. My election cycle ended after the primary in May, thanks to you.”

  Vincent feigned injury and innocence. “Don! I didn’t have anything to do with your race. I swear!”

  “Ha! My opponent’s campaign contributors list had your fingerprints all over it. I may have been born at night, but I wasn’t born last night.”

  Vincent sighed, spreading his arms with his palms up. “Look, Don, I know you think I supported the other guy, and we’ve been friends for thirty years. You supported me the first time I ran for the Legislature, and I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us. I just wanted you to know some friends of mine have endowed a professorship at WVU’s law school. We’ve discussed it, and I think you’d be the perfect candidate for that position. You have a lifetime of experience to share with students, and you’d have a very comfortable salary. It would be a win-win for everybody.”

  Gammalo clenched his jaw. His brown eyes blazed. “You’re right, Luke,” he said slowly. “I did support you in that first race. And you stabbed me in the back because your new friends at the Chamber of Commerce dislike some of the opinions I’ve written from the bench.”

  The old jurist took a deep breath and pulled his gloved right hand out of his coat pocket. “You used to stand for the working man, Luke,” he said, jabbing his finger into the governor’s face. “That’s why I supported you when you first ran for the Legislature.”

  Gammalo paused, his eyes burrowing into Vincent. “But somewhere along the way, Luke, you changed. You don’t support anyone but yourself now. And if I were you, I’d take a long hard look in the mirror and try to figure out how that happened.” The Justice turned and strolled away. “By the way, Luke,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Your friends can keep that professorship. I’d rather have a clear conscience than a cushy job any day of the week.”

  Vincent found himself at a loss for words. He wanted to defend himself, to change the old man’s mind and influence his vote in the appeal. But as he watched Gammalo slowly walk toward his old Jeep, the governor was utterly speechless.

  CHAPTER 64

  PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 6:45 P.M.

  His two sons grew louder and rowdier as kickoff drew near for the WVU/Pitt game. Jack knew Tabatha would start yelling if he let the ruckus continue, so he quickly reviewed his email to Beria one last time:

  Re: Draft Contract/Due Diligence, Part III

  From: Jack@mccallenresources.com

  To: alex.beria@petromica.com

  bcc:OGMLawyer@hotmail.com

  Attachment: enviroaffidavit.doc

  Hello Alex,

  Thanks for sending the purchase agreement. My lawyers need more time to review it due to the Thanksgiving holiday, but I will respond by next Wednesday.

  As indicated in my affidavit, MR is in good standing with the state and federal environmental agencies. There are no environmental claims against MR, and I don’t believe any of our other leaseholds are in danger of lapsing due to non-development.

  Once my lawyers give their OK, I’ll sign the non-disclosure agreement and fax it to you. I trust Petromica now has everything needed to finish its ‘due diligence.’ It was time-consuming to gather those documents & I hope we finalize this deal soon.

  Have a good weekend!

  Jack

  “What’s taking so long to close this deal?” Tabatha asked pointedly. She stood behind him, peering over his shoulder at the computer screen.

  Jack literally jumped an inch in the air. “Holy shit! Where did you come from?”

  “From in there,�
� she answered, motioning with her head toward the family room. “I came to tell you that if you don’t want to find your boys chopped up into little pieces and shoved under the house, you need to get in there and start cracking down on them.”

  “They’re just excited about the game,” he bristled. “If we win tonight, we’ll probably play for the national championship! This is huge!”

  Tabatha snorted. “I’ve heard that before. WVU always finds a way to lose, and this year is no different.”

  Jack clicked and sent his email. Standing up, he turned and faced Tabatha. “That’s the beauty of college football: Anything can happen on any given Saturday, and true fans always find a way to believe in their team.”

  Tabatha leaned back and cackled. “What a crock of shit. And only someone as naïve as you would say such a thing.”

  Jack felt his face flush. “What do you mean?”

  “The world is full of winners and losers, Jack. It’s that simple. The Ohio States and Floridas of the world are winners. The WVUs of the world are losers. No matter how hard they work or believe their dreams will come true, they always choke.”

  She paused, examining Jack closely, and his neck hair rose. He had seen this malicious spark in her eyes before, and he realized she was about to turn on him like a rabid dog.

  “Come to think of it,” she added. “WVU reminds me a lot of you, Jack. And I bet this Petromica deal goes down the shitter, too. But then again, I’ve been married to you so long I’m used to it now.” She closed with a short, bitter laugh.

  Jack’s hands were balled into fists and his heart pounded in his chest. “People will be here any minute,” he said very deliberately. “So go upstairs, turn on the Lifetime channel, and stay in the bedroom until the game is over and everyone is gone. Because if I see your face down here the rest of the night, I don’t think I’ll able to control myself.”