The Election Heist

by Kenneth R. Timmerman

  “Stop where you are or I’ll shoot,” he shouted at them.

  He was half in a crouch, legs spread wide, two hands gripping the 9mm Beretta in front of him. The last of the four kids turned to face him, gave him the finger, and started to whirl around to run away with the others when he fired and the kid went down.

  Andrew Santiago, the restaurant owner, flicked on the safety and stuffed the handgun in his belt. Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911 to report the incident.

  The next morning, Santiago was all over the local news. Some were calling him a hero for standing his ground against the Antifa thugs; others called him a cold-blooded murderer and demanded his arrest.

  The crowd in front of the elections office just a few blocks away from the shooting incident had swollen to over 1,500. Many of them had been camping on the grass just off the plaza and the esplanade was littered with bottles, food wrappers, dirty towels, diapers, and human excrement. The Reverend James Dupree arrived promptly at 9:00 AM in a convoy of two black Cadillac Escalades, the first for himself and an aide, the second with his bodyguards. The TV cameras were waiting for him.

  “Reverend Dupree, Mr. Santiago is claiming that the young man he shot last night, twenty-two-year old Alvin Lambert, was part of your organization. Is that true?”

  The Reverend hauled himself up to his full five-foot-six height, smoothed his shirt front, and buttoned his dark suit jacket.

  “That is an absolute slander,” he said.

  “Santiago claimed he had seen him and the others earlier here in the square.”

  “That is a figment of the sick imagination of Mr. Santiago.”

  “What will you do if Nassau and Okaloosa counties go ahead with the recount?” another one asked.

  “We will continue to demand that the governor uphold the law and certify the vote. It’s time to certify now!” he said.

  Milford Gaines and Catherine Herrera watched the live interview with Reverend Dupree on local television as they waited to speak with Lula Rowe, the elections division director at the secretary of state’s office. Their plan was simple. Now that the state Supreme Court had upheld their recount notice, they would conduct the recount of the paper ballots tomorrow morning on the tabulators imported from Nebraska. The bizarre election night numbers led them to suspect that the results of the recount would be surprising, significantly different. How different, they had no idea.

  At 9:06 AM, Rowe brushed by them and waved them with her into her office. She was a tall, imperious, impeccably dressed woman in her early forties, of an indefinite mocha hue.

  “Thank God you did this the right way, not like that poor kid up in Maryland,” she started off.

  She was referring to the forty-eight-hour notice, which was required by Florida law.

  “They have tougher statutes up in Maryland,” Gaines said. “They basically need a demonstrated violation and a close election in order to recount the paper ballots. Here our law is more vague and leaves the county administrators more discretion.”

  “So walk me through this. You do your recounts tomorrow morning and find that they tally with the election night results.”

  “Then we announce it and our confidence, as a result, to certify,” Catherine said.

  “And what if the recounts show a tiny discrepancy? A couple of hundred votes? Not enough to change the outcome?”

  Catherine exchanged a glance with Ford.

  “Same thing, Lula,” he said. “We announce it and our confidence, as a result, to certify.”

  “So obviously, neither one of you expects those scenarios. What do you expect?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, really,” Catherine said. “Not actual numbers. But I would expect the actual result to be closer to previous elections. There is no reason why Trump should be losing ten percent of his base after four years in the White House, with all that he has accomplished in their eyes.”

  The director was doodling on a yellow legal pad, drawing infinity signs and attaching them like dominos.

  “So both of you run small counties. If the Trump vote is off by ten percent, that’s roughly another 10,000 votes for him between the two of you. For the sake of argument—and only for the sake of argument—let’s say that what happened in your counties happened in all the other counties using the same tabulators. That’s Miami-Dade, Palm Beach, Broward, and a bunch of others—what kind of numbers are we looking at?”

  “Actually,” Ford said, “nearly three-fourths of our sixty-seven counties use the same tabulators, including some—but not all—of the larger ones. So if Trump got 3.4 million votes in those counties and his numbers are off by ten percent, you’re talking another 340,000 votes for Trump.”

  The director’s eyes widened. “You’re joking. Please, tell me that.”

  “No. This election could be completely upside-down. State-wide, instead of a two percent win by Tomlinson, we could be looking at a three percent win by Trump, maybe more.”

  “How is that possible?” she whispered.

  “We don’t know that yet.” Ford said. “It may take weeks or months or even longer to find out. But we will know the what in a matter of days. For now, that’s the most important thing.”

  “Are we going to look stupid, or what?” Lula said.

  “I don’t think so,” Catherine said. “We had suspicions. We took action. We discovered we’d been hacked and we took all the necessary steps to walk it back.”

  “We are merely doing our job,” Ford added. “Administering the elections so that Floridians can feel confident that every vote legally cast was counted accurately.”

  “But still,” Lula said. “We got hacked. That’s on us.”

  “And so we own it. And we correct it—in time,” Ford said. “Better that than sit back and allow someone to steal the election. You need to bring in enough clean tabulators so that all the big counties can get to work by tomorrow afternoon. We will release the Nebraska ones to you, but they won’t be enough.”

  “So where are they going to come from—assuming that my boss and the governor sign off on a state-wide recount?”

  “Kansas. Ohio. Michigan,” Ford said. “All of those states had clean results, and all of them use equipment that is certified in Florida.”

  “So nobody can make the argument we are using uncertified equipment.”

  “Oh, they’ll make the argument. I can guarantee you that. They just won’t win in court.”

  “I’ve got to take this to Shelley today,” Lula said, referring to the secretary of state.

  “You have our support, one hundred percent,” Ford said.

  54

  “Did you really have to use the handcuffs?” Gordon said. “They hurt.”

  “Poor baby,” Clairborne said.

  Rone was driving up Route 50 from Annapolis toward Washington, DC. Clairborne was fiddling with his phone and declined to look up to acknowledge his back-seat prisoner. Both of the G-men had rammed their seats back as far as they would go, so Gordon’s knees came up to his chin.

  “You did a great job notifying the press,” Gordon went on. “I bet there’s no better perp walk on Law and Order.”

  “Just doing our job, kid.”

  “What about doing your job when I came down to see you in DC?” he said.

  Clairborne turned to his partner. “Can you tell the kid to shut up before I get angry?”

  “Kid, you’d be wise to put a lid on it until you get a lawyer,” Rone said.

  They hit traffic on the Beltway, so Clairborne flipped the switch on the recessed blue lights at the top of the windshield of the unmarked Ford Fusion and turned on the flashers. With the powerful strobe lights hitting drivers from behind, cars gave way to them so they could navigate the break-down lane. Once they had worked their way through the Georgia Avenue bottleneck and hit I-270, it was smoot
h sailing until the HOV lane traffic jams began to form. They got off at Montrose Road west, crossed 270, and then took a right onto Seven Locks Road to the Montgomery County Detention Center.

  “Welcome to your new home, kid,” Clairborne said.

  It was a nondescript building in low-slung government brick, set behind trees. It didn’t scream out jail, Gordon thought. Small blessings.

  Rone helped him out of the back seat, since he was unable to use his bound hands, and they followed Clairborne inside, where he showed his FBI badge to the intake officer.

  “You got our paperwork ready for us, chief?” Clairborne said.

  “It’s right here, Mr. Director,” the older man said.

  They had Gordon put his belt, his phone, his watch, his wallet, and a couple of coins and scraps of paper from his pockets into a tray. The intake officer noted each item down on a form, counted the money in the wallet, then had Gordon sign for his belongings.

  “We’re going to need a private screening room to do a search,” Clairborne said.

  Gordon couldn’t believe what was happening. He was the one who had discovered that a crime had been committed, and now he was the one being punished for it. How do they get away with this stuff, he wondered? This is America!

  “I’d like to see my lawyer,” Gordon said.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to see a lawyer, kid,” Clairborne said. “Nobody’s going to prevent you from retaining counsel. Let’s go.”

  The intake officer led them down a corridor to a steel door he opened with a key from a ring on his belt. Set on the table were a plastic basin, a pair of latex gloves, a jar of Vaseline, and a bottle of water.

  “Thank you, Officer McKinney. I’ll let you know when we’re through,” Clairborne said.

  McKinney closed the door behind him with a finality that shocked Gordon. It wasn’t just the hollow metallic echo, but the exiguity of the examination of room, and the two large men whose intentions were becoming clear.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked Clairborne, as he pulled on the latex gloves.

  “Rone, will you remind the kid of his situation here?”

  “The boss wants to search you.”

  Gordon jumped back. “What for?”

  “For whatever you’re hiding from us, kid,” Clairborne said.

  “You have no authority to do such a thing.”

  “Wanna bet? Now take down your pants. And your underwear.”

  They stared at each other for an instant. Clairborne was smug, confident in his power. Gordon realized suddenly that nothing he could possibly say or do would have any impact on what was about to happen. These two large, powerful men were going to humiliate him just for the fun of it.

  Clairborne dipped his gloved index finger into the jar of Vaseline and indicated for Rone to hold the prisoner, clearly enjoying himself.

  “Hey, brother. You really don’t have to do this,” Rone said quietly.

  “Rone, we already know he tampered with election equipment. He’s head of IT, remember? He could be hiding a USB stick up his ass with the hacker’s code.”

  “Why don’t you let the judge order the search. It doesn’t look good.”

  “Because I have no guarantee that’s going to happen. Besides, the kid’s gotta learn.”

  “Are you a complete moron?” Gordon shouted. He wasn’t taking down his pants. If they wanted to forcibly search him, that would be on them. But he wasn’t going to assist.

  “You can hear this, right?” he shouted to Rone. “You hear what he is saying? This guy is completely out of control. You know it. You’ve seen it before!”

  It was true: Rone had seen prisoner abuse before. In Iraq. He didn’t like it then, and he didn’t like it now. He and Clairborne had even spoken about it years before when both of them were detailed to the same FOB in Afghanistan, where Clairborne had been part of a counter-terrorism team detailed from the FBI.

  “Brother, you need to chill. I’m going to open the door, and we’re all goin’ back to intake and deliver the prisoner.”

  “Right. Of course,” Clairborne said. “Just a bad joke.”

  Some joke, Gordon thought.

  55

  At 10:06 AM on Thursday, nine days after the election, Granger read President Trump’s tweet and groaned.

  @realDonaldTrump: Recount in two Florida counties shows dramatically different results from those reported on election night. My numbers go up by 10%! Governor Norton must order a state-wide recount NOW. Thankfully Florida has paper ballots!

  The networks were reporting that Governor Norton would hold a press conference at 4:00 PM that afternoon to announce his next steps. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion, Granger thought. They were tied to the tracks and the engine was approaching. They could scream all they wanted, but it just kept coming.

  The November sun was already high and reflecting off the Intracoastal Waterway, shimmering in a thousand mirrors from the high rises of the city beyond. Granger’s first call was to Chuck Myers. He and his legal team had to pre-empt any effort by Norton to order a recount. Surely they controlled enough judges in this state to do that?

  “We’ve already been to the state Supreme Court. And we lost,” Myers said.

  “What about these tabulators? Doesn’t the election law prevent them from using equipment that is not certified in Florida?”

  “Absolutely. And my guys are filing a motion as we speak.”

  “I hear a but.”

  “But, we’re going to lose. If the elections division director has half a brain, she will bring in equipment identical to that used in Florida.”

  “Come on, Chuck. It’s not Florida equipment.”

  “We’re going to try. But don’t hang your hat on it. That would assume that Florida certifies every individual piece of equipment. They don’t. They certify the class.”

  “Okay, so you know that. They know that. But the judges don’t know snot from Shinola.”

  “Twelve hours at the most. That’s all it will give us.”

  “I’ll take twelve hours. And then twelve more. And twelve more.”

  “I’m telling you as your attorney, Granger. Don’t hang your hat on it.”

  How did they know to bring in out-of-state tabulators? That’s what he really wanted to know. If they just did a recount of the paper ballots using the Florida tabulators, they’d would be fine. That’s what Navid had said. So how did they know? And how much did they know?

  His next call was to Vinnie Bellinger. He and the vice president-elect shared a long and mostly secret relationship. For six years, Bellinger had co-chaired the powerful Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, and during that time he made a point of touring foreign outposts run by the CIA and Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC. Of course, he came to show the flag, to let these secret warriors in the fight against the amorphous, transnational extremist threat know that he was their Uncle Vinnie and he had their back. But he was also identifying potential allies and promoting them inside the intelligence community. We need some of those allies now, Granger said. He suspected Bellinger’s hand in the arrest of the kid in Maryland, who had come dangerously close to exposing the secret switch. They needed to create a distraction, catch the Florida election officials off guard. Cause them to focus on staying out of jail, rather than conducting this recount.

  “We need dirt,” he told Uncle Vinnie. “Enough dirt to stop them in their tracks.”

  “I know just the man to call,” Bellinger said.

  At 4:00 PM, Governor Norton convened his press conference at the secretary of state’s office, with the other members of the state canvassing board. Also joining them were the two county supervisors who had conducted the recount, Catherine Herrera of Nassau and Milford Gaines of Okaloosa.

  “This morning, Nassau and Okaloosa countie
s conducted an audit of the paper ballots using the authorities granted them under Section 102.141 of Florida election law,” Norton began. “We now have the results of that audit. In both counties, the results of today’s count were significantly different from the results reported on election night. While we don’t know yet why the results differ so substantially, we have full confidence in the numbers resulting from today’s audit and recount, which both counties have now certified as the official results. Before I get into the steps that the state canvassing commission has decided to take in furtherance of a complete, transparent count of all legal votes cast in the recent election, let me call on our county officials to give us a few details.”

  Catherine Herrera explained that the election night results got her attention because both the president and Representative John Rutherford’s scores had gone down ten percent relative to 2016. That would be an interesting political phenomena, but she couldn’t see what had caused it. It was way beyond any sort of statistical anomaly. So she decided to consult with some of her colleagues across the state to see if they were witnessing similar results.

  “And that’s where I come in,” said Milford Gaines. After introducing himself to the media, he picked up the thread. Results in his county were almost identical to those in Nassau. “Just like Catherine, I saw a significant shift of support from the president to Governor Tomlinson and knew that it went beyond any statistical anomaly. In our case, it was around six percent. The potential that we had made an error in tabulating the ballots was something we had a duty to examine. As elected officials, we are accountable to the voters of our counties.”

  He explained the legal procedures involved, the forty-eight-hour notice, and the presence of both Republican and Democrat election judges and campaign lawyers during the recount they had conducted early this morning. Gaines went on to explain that they had decided to bring in tabulators from out of state, because they did not trust the ones used on election night.

  Governor Norton called on a reporter from the Tampa Bay Tribune.