The Voter File

by David Pepper

Is the colonoscopy over?”

  I’d never shared so many private details with a stranger in my life. Tori had skillfully extracted every piece of information she wanted.

  “That’ll do for now.” Her wily grin returned. “So where were we?”

  “You were about to tell me how, from that treasure trove of voter data, you’re so certain that Justice Beagle did not actually win that election.”

  “Right.”

  She leaned over and double-clicked on the mouse, moving to a new page. The bruise on her left arm had swelled since breakfast; it was now deep purple and the size of a fist.

  “So every data point we collect from a voter gets entered into their file, right?” she said.

  “Right.”

  “Well, as all the data comes in, every voter is assigned a score based on their likelihood of voting for your candidate.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Well, ideally, they say who they’re voting for, either to a volunteer at their door or over the phone. And these days that can happen on social media as well.”

  I eyed Mrs. Sanders’s voter score.

  “So our gun-wielding knitter was a ‘five’?”

  “Yes, and a ‘five’ means she was definitely not voting for Justice Beagle. Looks like she told a volunteer that on June 23, the last time the campaign contacted her.”

  I remembered those hard “Nos” from my days helping Dad. Never fun—testy arguments, slammed doors, torn-up literature. I’d joke with some voters—“So I’ll put you down as undecided”—but I didn’t. I’d circle the N on the sheet.

  “Okay. So if you’re definitely voting for Justice Beagle, that’s a ‘one’?”

  “Yep. And ‘twos’ lean in your direction, and ‘fours’ lean against you.”

  I paused, doing the math in my head.

  “There are millions of registered voters in Wisconsin. How could you possibly get enough voter responses to make a difference?”

  She grinned as if she’d been awaiting my question. “Well, you talk to as many as you can, but you’re right. That’s where the modeling comes in.”

  “What modeling?”

  “Statistical analysis. Based on the profiles of the voters—all those details on Mrs. Sanders—and comparing those voters to others we’ve identified as ‘ones’ and ‘fives,’ we can project who else will be ‘ones’ and ‘fives’ across the state.”

  “Or ‘twos,’ ‘threes,’ and ‘fours’?”

  “Right.” She paused again. “If you have enough data on each voter, you can construct algorithms that predict voting patterns based on similar voter profiles that you’ve directly talked to. We call them ‘look-alike’ voters.”

  I nodded.

  “So my entire job over the course of that campaign was to create the most accurate and updated voter profiles possible. That data then shapes every action the campaign takes, especially late in the game. My universe of ‘ones’ became the people we contacted repeatedly to turn out to vote, because we knew if they showed up to vote, they’d vote for us. The ‘twos’ needed mild persuasion, then a push to come out. ‘Threes’ needed more persuasion. And then we hoped to hell that the ‘fours’ and ‘fives’ didn’t show up.”

  “So the file is the playbook of the campaign, broken down for every single voter.”

  “You got it.”

  “Like polling.”

  “Better than polling. Far more precise. But—”

  “So how do you—”

  She placed her hand over mine and squeezed. “But . . . only if the file is accurate and up-to-date. Bad data can kill a campaign.”

  “Of course. But back to my original question: How do you know Justice Beagle didn’t win?”

  She leaned forward and double-clicked on a separate chart. A bar graph with five thick vertical bars. The bar on the left and the middle bar rose a third of the way up the page. The second bar was slightly lower. The fourth line was also about the same as the first line, a third of the way up. And the fifth line was the highest, much higher than the first line.

  “See this chart?” she asked. “I made this the weekend before the election.”

  She pointed to the fifth bar, the tallest one. “Those were the ‘fives.’”

  “Supporters of your opponent. Flannery.”

  “Right.”

  Then she pointed to the first, much shorter bar. “Those were the ‘ones.’”

  “Beagle supporters.”

  “You got it.”

  The graph spoke for itself—lopsided in Flannery’s favor—but she summarized it anyway.

  “Well, the data wasn’t even close. Beagle was cooked.”

  CHAPTER 15

  PORTOFINO, ITALY

  Katrina’s guest was still in bed next to her, asleep and facing the other way, so she inched to her side of the bed gingerly.

  She’d been out only a few hours, but because her phone vibrated in response to several high-priority senders, she couldn’t ignore it. She grabbed it from beneath the stateroom’s large oval window, then lay on her side, facing the window.

  She opened the app they’d specially designed for internal communications, which both encrypted their messages and deleted them fifteen seconds after they were read.

  The new message came from the senior member of her tech team. He hailed from Transylvania, so they all called him Drac—a menacing moniker he liked, since he was five-foot-two and weighed 120 pounds only after a big meal.

  His message hit her like ice water.

  Someone exported data from the Wisconsin race.

  Wisconsin. One of their test cases. In fact, such a pristine example that they’d featured it for the visiting delegation hours before.

  The Wisconsin race had taken place months before. No fanfare at the time, and no activity since. Drac had confirmed that, as was typical for low-budget elections, one of the campaigns had shut down their account within days of victory. And the other had checked back in only twice.

  Drac’s message disappeared from the screen.

  Do you know who? Katrina wrote back. The DNC or RNC? The national parties still had access, so party officials poked around in the file whenever they wanted.

  A hand lightly touched her shoulder, jolting her as a soft breath warmed her neck.

  She quickly flipped her phone over.

  “Beautiful, why so tense? The time for work is over.” Zhang’s smooth British accent had soothed her a few hours ago, when his boat returned to the Pushkin, and did so again now as his lips whispered only inches from her ear.

  She kissed his cheek. “Unfortunately, this project never rests. Please excuse me.”

  Again the gentleman, he rolled back to his side.

  She swung back toward the window and flipped her phone over just as words disappeared from the app.

  Missed your answer. Please send again.

  A few seconds passed.

  Am I interrupting something:)

  Just my sleep. What did you send?

  It was not the national parties. Or the state parties. Someone else. But don’t know who.

  Who would have access now? Katrina texted back.

  Zhang stirred again. She peeked his way, but he still faced the other wall.

  Nobody . . . in theory. But someone named RUGBYDEM opened the file and exported data.

  And who is RUGBYDEM?

  We can’t find any more information on him. He is accessing the account from the outside.

  She shook her head. Someone who knew what they were doing.

  And what data did they export?

  All of the 5’s and 1’s in the city called Appleton.

  Katrina gazed out the oval window, facing the well-lit sea. Months after an election victory, someone might enter the voter file for any number of reasons. To update it. To clean it up. But that
would likely be someone from the party.

  Downloading all the voters who were expected to vote for or against the winning candidate in a particular town? That was not a task one would routinely take. Unless . . .

  Concerning, she wrote back, clenching her jaw.

  Very, Drac wrote. Should we tell the boss?

  She typed back: Not yet.

  PART 2

  CHAPTER 16

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Cassie’s legs shivered beneath her as President Janet Moore grasped her hand.

  “Welcome to the White House, young lady,” the president said.

  She looked far more striking in person—thinner and younger, too. Wearing a conservative blue pantsuit, the president took her seat, flashing another smile Cassie’s way.

  Her friendly greeting only made Cassie more nervous, knowing she was about to punch the leader of the free world in the nose.

  They were in the small but stately Vermeil Room, on the first floor of the White House. Cassie had never heard of it until they told her to set up there. Sitting in ornate white chairs feet away from a marble fireplace, a photo of a buttoned-up and grim Mary Todd Lincoln watching over them, it felt as if they’d gone back in time—at least if she ignored the jungle of modern equipment, lights, wires, and cameras that surrounded them.

  The White House communications director must have enjoyed Cassie’s live confrontation with her anchor, because he’d called hours later. Now here she was, conducting the first one-on-one interview with the president in months.

  It was a coup for her and Republic, although their agendas diverged after that. Cassie’s bosses had handed her a pointed and confrontational script—but after the cameras were rolling, she would do what she wanted.

  “Thank you, Madam President.”

  Cassie took a quick sip of water. As she did, the numerals tattooed along her left wrist buoyed her—the time and day that her parents were killed, and the constant reminder of why she did what she did. Mom and Dad would be proud.

  “Let’s get started,” the president said.

  She opened with the hardball her bosses had insisted on.

  “Your central campaign promise was to end the partisan food fight in Washington, Madam President. How do you explain to the American people how partisan things have become since Inauguration Day? Isn’t that your failure?”

  The president shook her head, her mouth tensing.

  “I’m as frustrated as anyone, Cassie. In Colorado we were always able to cross party lines to get things done. And as a candidate, I won both Republican and Democratic votes and have run this country in a bipartisan fashion since. But this is not a town that wants that. Too many people prefer the bickering.”

  Knowing her bosses would want a tough follow-up, Cassie dug in harder.

  “That may be, but you knew that going in. You promised the American people you were up for the challenge and that you’d bridge the divide. How can you—”

  “Cassie,” the president said impatiently, “it takes two. I have compromised again and again, just as I did less than forty-eight hours ago to end the latest shutdown. But Speaker Paxton prefers fighting over governing and keeps moving the goalposts. At some point enough is enough.”

  “But, respectfully, will blaming and finger-pointing from you or the Speaker get the country anywhere? Will you ever find a way to rise above it?”

  The president took a deep breath, smiled wistfully, then answered. “Cassie, I have worked to rise above it every day of my presidency.”

  After three uppercuts, it was time to divert from the script.

  “So what’s next?”

  The president’s face relaxed. “What’s next?”

  “Yes, what’s next on your agenda? Now that this deal is done.” The president hadn’t been able to set the public agenda in a year, so this was her chance.

  Media-savvy, the most powerful woman on the planet didn’t miss the opportunity. Leaning forward in her chair, her prosecutor’s eyes narrowing with intensity, she pounced.

  “Whether or not the Speaker and his henchmen will admit it, our economy is slowing. And that’s not due to taxes or regulations. It’s because the American marketplace is broken. Our rigged political system has allowed a small number of major corporations to control too much, stifling growth and innovation in so many sectors and crushing the small businesses and family farms that are the backbone of the American economy. The competitive market which has always made ours the most dynamic economy in the world is fading. As a result, consumers suffer and workers suffer. And at some point innovation stops.”

  Cassie nodded, but Chuck Massa was still in her head.

  “That sounds like Governor Moore the candidate. But can you really make progress on that agenda now? You can barely get basic budgets done. And don’t those same corporations invest in the politicians to keep things from changing?”

  The president’s blue eyes sparkled on hearing the question.

  “Oh, yes, we know these big corporations will invest heavily to keep the Speaker in office for as long as possible, along with all sorts of other secretive efforts to keep the status quo in place.”

  Smart: harkening back to the scandal that had sealed her victory in the first place.

  “If that’s the case, what can you do about it?”

  “Keep the issue on the national radar. Keep laying out solutions. And when the American people give me the opportunity, I’ll be ready to do something about it.”

  “And if that opportunity never comes?”

  “Then we’re stuck where we are today, where a small number of people horde for themselves most of the benefits of the American economy. But, Cassie, I will do all I can to make sure things do change.”

  Cassie hoped the goose bumps forming on her arm wouldn’t be visible in the camera shot. It was the most on-message the president had been in months. She meant every word.

  CHAPTER 17

  APPLETON, WISCONSIN

  Mrs. Block?”

  “Who wants to know?” Even as she asked that, short and gray-haired Erma Block offered a cordial smile as she peered past the open front door. Her small ranch house anchored one end of a cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Appleton.

  “I’m a news reporter. Jack Sharpe. Could I talk to you for five minutes?”

  “Wait—aren’t you from Republic News?”

  “Well, I was. We went our separate ways.” My shoulders sagged slightly, but admitting it was getting easier.

  “What’s the matter? You too liberal for them?”

  I didn’t consider myself liberal, but that wasn’t worth explaining. “It wasn’t really ab—”

  “Never mind. I was hoping you’d say yes.”

  This squared with her voter profile, which tagged her as a loyal Democrat. She’d voted in every presidential election for forty-eight years, both general and primary, but skipped most midterm elections.

  “So I take it you’re a Democrat.”

  “Absolutely. To my core. . . . C’mon in. I can’t stand for too long at a time.”

  Framed photos of Presidents Kennedy and Franklin Roosevelt adorned the hallway we walked through, followed by several pictures of a smiling Hubert Humphrey. One was autographed.

  “That’s from the county fair.” She pointed at a photo of Humphrey in front of a giant hog. “He came by every year. Wonderful man. I volunteered on his presidential campaign.”

  “He really was a great man.” Although I grew up a moderate Republican, I’d always admired Humphrey. Old-school and a champion for civil rights, like Dad.

  She offered me a chair at her small kitchen table. I declined her offer of coffee, but she fixed herself a cup. And her slow-motion pour forewarned that I’d be there for far longer than I’d hoped.

  “Actually, I’ll have one, too.”

  “
Now, how can I help you, Jack?” She leaned forward to pour my cup. “I’ve been passionate about politics my entire life. When I was a little girl, my parents took me to see Harry Truman in Madison.”

  She recounted the Truman tale for at least ten minutes, walking through everything from his dapper attire to the warm and windy weather that day. I listened patiently, waiting for a pause to interrupt with my short set of questions.

  My goal for the next few days was to learn what voters like Mrs. Block had experienced in the election. Did their “treatment” by the campaigns line up with how voters slotted as “ones” and “fives” would typically be engaged?

  Mrs. Block was designated a “one” on Justice Beagle’s voter file: every data point on her profile indicated that she would vote Democrat, including having signed recent petitions to end the electoral college and increase the minimum wage. But, given her poor history of voting outside of presidential years, the campaign’s goal would have been to make sure she showed up to vote.

  “. . . and then the train carrying him pulled away. It was incredible. The next ti—”

  “Mrs. Block, what a wonderful story,” I said over her, cutting off her next tale before it was too late. “I actually wanted to hear your views on a more recent election. I’m curious who you voted for in the supreme court election a few months back.”

  She sat up higher. “Well, I voted for Justice Beagle, of course.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Oh, it was a very important race here.” Her expression hardened and she folded her arms. “So much was at stake.”

  “Like what?”

  “Just about everything we Democrats care about. Workers’ rights. Schools. Health care. Did you know that our workers here in Wisconsin have been under attack for years? I was a teacher for decades, so I went to a rally the other day and . . .”

  The rally story consumed another ten minutes. I jumped back in as soon as she wrapped it up.

  “Good for you for being part of that,” I said, then pivoted back. “Can I ask how you got your information on the campaign? How you came to know that so much was at stake?”