The Voter File

by David Pepper

  “Which campaign?”

  “The supreme court campaign. The one Justice Beagle won.”

  “Oh, yes. By the end, everyone knew.”

  “Who’s everyone?”

  “Everyone in our Democratic club. We were so passionate about that election.”

  “And do you remember, specifically, how you were all informed about the need to vote in it? When I researched it, Judge Beagle didn’t have much money to run television ads.”

  “It wasn’t television ads. No. I don’t care about those anyway,” she said, waving her wrinkled hand forward, echoing every voter’s belief that television ads didn’t influence them. “It was the phone calls. They called to make sure I knew when the election was. Then a nice young woman came to my door, and we must’ve talked for hours. She was lovely. From Kenosha. And we agreed that my plan was to vote on Election Day like I always do. I also got some flyers in the mail, too. So I guess, to answer your question, you couldn’t miss it. We were all talking about how important it was.”

  “I see. Anything else?” I clipped my comments, hoping she’d do the same.

  “Yes. The campaign was nice enough to remind me to vote the day of the election.”

  “How’d they do that?” In addition to her high rate of opening party emails, the voter file indicated she had replied to several campaign texts she’d received.

  “Well, someone called here and left a message on my answering machine, but I didn’t get that until after Election Day. But a text message also came on the new phone.”

  She held up an old mobile phone with a small digital screen similar to one I’d owned five phones ago.

  “They think of everything, don’t they? I don’t think I would’ve forgotten to vote, but that text came through and I voted an hour later. I used to vote down at the middle school, but the text reminded me that I had a new poll location.”

  “How good of them to do that. Did you get any other communications telling you to vote?”

  She narrowed her eyes and took a sip of coffee the way a cat lapped water from a bowl. I’d never witnessed a single cup of coffee survive so long.

  “I can’t say I remember anything else.”

  “How about any internet ads?”

  A smile crinkled her mouth. “Oh, no, Jack. I’m not an internet person. Heck, I only discovered text messaging two years ago. You know how they used to do it, don’t you? Back in the day, they used to . . .”

  Thirty minutes later I walked back to my car.

  It took Mrs. Block the longest to say it, but the six other “ones” I talked to described similar treatment. Phone calls and mailers reminding them what was at stake and when to vote. Two had had volunteers knock on their door; three had not. Several recalled seeing some digital ads. All received Election Day text messages.

  Bottom line: at least in Appleton, if you were tagged as a “one” for Justice Beagle, you couldn’t have missed the fact that a crucial election was taking place.

  CHAPTER 18

  LONDON

  Drac stormed into Katrina’s corner office only minutes after she’d returned from her flight home.

  “They were back in the file yesterday,” he said, his hands gripping her desk’s sides as he leaned over it. “For hours.”

  “Again?” she asked, powering up the twin flat-screen monitors on her glass-top desk. Three beeps sounded as the screens lit up. “Did they export more data?”

  “Not this time. But they updated the file.”

  She double-clicked on the mouse, opening a new window. “WISCONSIN” appeared at the top of the page.

  “With what?”

  “The final data from the most recent election.”

  Katrina clicked again and leaned toward the monitor on the right. “I see that now. So they’re examining who voted?”

  “It appears so.”

  “And what will they learn from the current state of the Wisconsin file?”

  “That their best voters showed up in very strong numbers, and that the voters most against them did not.”

  Katrina stood up and parted the blinds at the windows behind her desk. The day had a dreary cast to it.

  “Should we manipulate the data so the differential is less clear?” Doing so would be technically simple, she knew. They’d done it before.

  “I think not. If they notice the change, that would be more suspicious than what they will find now.”

  “Especially since they were on the winning side.”

  Drac was one of the few who didn’t need an explanation for what she meant. To achieve the desired outcome in Wisconsin and elsewhere, they had to actively manipulate the losing campaign’s data. While accessing and understanding the winning campaign’s data was important, nothing needed to be altered.

  “Yes. There should be no discrepancies from anything they’ve seen before.”

  Katrina sat back down and eyed her screen. “You’re right: no exports. So all they will see is that their tactics and targeting proved highly effective, correct?”

  “Exactly. We can only hope they don’t talk to their opponents.”

  Katrina smirked while standing up again. “This is American politics. That won’t happen.”

  CHAPTER 19

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The small celebration of Cassie’s coup ended quickly.

  Having eaten dinner quickly and put their one-year-old son, Aiden, to bed early, she and her wife, Rachel, were lying on opposite sides of their old couch by 8:00 p.m., white-socked feet resting in one another’s laps.

  Bridget Turner led off the program, recapping months of deadlock. She reminded her viewers that President Moore had promised to clean up the partisan mess. “Let’s see how she responds to being directly confronted about her failure to do so.”

  The opening footage captured President Moore entering the Vermeil Room, looking around awkwardly before being mic’d up, then sitting down across from Cassie. Their pleasant handshake and the president’s friendly greeting hadn’t survived the editing room. And whether it was the lights or the camera angles, none of the warmth of the moment emanated through the television screen. Instead, the shadowy lighting made the president appear dour. Unfriendly.

  On the screen, Cassie stiffened as she asked her first question, coming across far more harshly than it had felt at the time. The president’s answer—sharing the frustration about the partisan stalemate and touting her efforts to work across party lines—sounded as strong as it had in person.

  Bridget Turner didn’t agree. “That’s stunning, don’t you think?” she asked as the camera cut to her immediately after the president’s answer.

  Sitting across from her, a bald, bow-tied guest sneered. “It sure is. She takes no responsibility whatsoever but blames it on Washington as opposed to her own failings. No wonder nothing is getting done around here.”

  Bridget cast a cynical smile at the camera. “Let’s see what she says next.”

  Cassie looked equally stern as she began her follow-up question. But after her initial words, the show aired an intense, unattractive close-up of the president. Impatience—pursed lips, narrowed eyes, creased forehead—engulfed her face before she jumped in to address Cassie’s point.

  “Cassie, it takes two . . .”

  The tight shot on the president made the interruption appear aggressive, as if she’d snapped in anger.

  Turner reappeared, her chin up and blue eyes protruding. “The president didn’t even let Cassie finish her question. And now she directly attacks Speaker Paxton? The one person she needs to work with? We’re seeing the problem tonight, folks.”

  “You’re pretty rough on the president,” Rachel said softly to Cassie from the other side of the couch.

  “They’re making it look a lot rougher than it was.” Cassie boiled inside at the way they had butcher
ed her big moment. “But wait: I give her a chance now.”

  The shot captured Cassie asking what would come next, then panned back to the president: “Whether or not the Speaker and his henchmen want to admit it, our economy is losing momentum. And that’s not due to taxes or regulations. It’s because the American marketplace is broken.”

  Bridget Turner reappeared. “Henchmen? Now she’s calling top leaders of the House of Representatives names, too? What is this, third grade?”

  “And, Bridget,” the bald man chimed in, “what is she talking about? The stock market is soaring. Business is booming. The marketplace is ‘broken’? Who knew?”

  The show cut directly to Cassie’s next question.

  “Wait!” Cassie cried out. “They didn’t run her full answer. She explained what she meant!”

  “Shhh,” Rachel urged. “Let me listen.”

  The president talked directly into the camera. “Whether or not they block me, I will always push this agenda. And I’m prepared, when the American people give me the opportunity, to do something about—”

  “They cut out a bunch more.” Cassie’s face reddened as she yelled at the TV. “There was a lot more in there.”

  Turner came back on-screen. “Well, there you have it. The president is going to keep pushing her agenda attacking our strong economy no matter what anyone says. And somehow it’s up to the American people to bail her out.”

  The guest laughed out loud. “I see now why Speaker Paxton is so frustrated. Kudos to your reporter for providing such an eye-opening glimpse of the problem.”

  “Yes. Good for Cassie Knowles for holding the president accountable.”

  CHAPTER 20

  APPLETON, WISCONSIN

  You didn’t have to wait, Jack.”

  As Tori put down her final wipe, I squeezed the sourdough buns together and lifted the Bad Apples half-pounder to eye level.

  “I’ll enjoy this more now that you’re done. Your routine stresses me out.”

  “Honestly, it’s not something I can control.”

  I’d seen it before. My sophomore-year college roommate followed a precise routine each night. For ten minutes he’d twist the knob furiously, pull the door to confirm it wouldn’t open, untwist, then twist and pull again. “It’s locked,” I’d always say. Didn’t matter. Before and after, he was the most normal guy in the world and one of the smartest in my class. But for those ten minutes, nothing stopped him from twisting that doorknob, as firmly locked as it was.

  “I get it. I figure the only reason you got me here is because of it.” Who else would call a reporter days on end to raise questions about an election they’d won?

  “True enough. Well, along those lines, I spent the afternoon scrutinizing the election turnout.”

  “Find anything?”

  She pulled a single sheet of paper out of her bag, then laid it down to my right.

  “You recognize this bar chart, right?”

  It was the graph from the other day: five vertical bars representing the voter scores from the supreme court election, skewing in Flannery’s favor. But now a handwritten percentage number appeared above each bar.

  “What are those percentages?” I asked, pointing at the figure “62%.”

  “They’re the voter turnout for each voter category. I spent today updating the file and putting this together.”

  “Wow. No wonder Justice Beagle won.”

  The graph told a simple story. Sixty-two percent of Justice Beagle’s “ones” and 50 percent of the “twos” had voted. Only 35 percent of the “fives” and 25 percent of the “fours” had. The middle bar—the “threes”—came in at 45 percent.

  She leaned forward, placing her chin on her fist.

  “Exactly.”

  “From the people I talked to all day, I’m not surprised the ‘ones’ showed up like that. They were keyed into the election, thanks to your phone calls, text messages, you name it.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s a freakish difference between the two sides. It’s not like the other campaign wasn’t doing the same stuff we were. We had about the same amount of money.”

  “Maybe you did it far more effectively.”

  “I can’t imagine they would do such a poor job. Once you have the voters categorized, it’s not like this is rocket science.”

  I savored the final three bites of my burger while keeping my thoughts to myself. Maybe the Beagle campaign had simply outhustled and outperformed his opponent. Sometimes one side just wanted it more.

  But that would also mean that my breakthrough scoop was not a story at all.

  CHAPTER 21

  SAN FRANCISCO

  Bernie Cho was convinced the framed Stanford Business School diploma on his wall was a curse. A depressing reminder, looming over him every day, that his career had failed to live up to its once-great promise. If so, the good news was that today would be one of its final days up there.

  “So are you ready to do this?” asked his longtime lawyer, Manny Shepard, looking across Bernie’s paper-strewn desk with a forced grin.

  Bernie kept his empty stare directed at the diploma. He’d stopped going to reunions after the fifth. Too humiliating. So many of his classmates had already made it big and found no greater joy than yammering on about it. Those who had joined the tech giants after graduating were now rocketing up those corporate ladders, gobbling up stock options on every rung. The venture capital and private equity guys were doing equally well. And while some of the start-up guys were struggling just as he was, many had already struck it rich: within a few years of that first reunion, a number would either sell or go public, pocketing millions. They’d either retired or returned to pioneer a second start-up.

  But Bernie remained stuck on his first. In fact, at his five-year reunion, he was already up to his ears in angry investors. And while he and his team had continued to hone their world-class technology since then, the business never blossomed. His latest setback was that board-demanded cost cutting had forced him to move from the rarefied air of Palo Alto to the cramped loft and grungy streets of the Tenderloin, in the heart of San Francisco.

  What made it all worse was that Bernie Cho had been the star of his Stanford class, voted most likely to succeed. Back then, the technology at the heart of his start-up, named Sherlock, had run circles around the competition. He and several Caltech engineers had developed it even before Bernie graduated, which was why he’d rejected job offers that less talented classmates had seized, choosing to venture out on his own instead.

  But in hindsight he’d made one fatal mistake. He’d chosen the wrong product category: internet searches.

  He turned back to Manny, impeccably dressed, now a partner at the top tech law firm in the Bay Area. How their fortunes had changed. As a young lawyer, Manny had begged to sign Sherlock on as a client, eager to get in on the ground floor before the company soared to titan status.

  “Earth to Bernie.” Manny waved his hand in the air. “Are you ready?”

  Bernie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Of course not. Selling now, at this price, meant that he’d failed, even if Manny couldn’t hide how eager he was to close the deal.

  “I get that we can’t compete,” Bernie said. “But is this really the best offer we can get?”

  It was the only offer they’d received since the early days, and a pittance compared to those. But his largest funder, a Menlo Park venture capital firm, was hammering on him to cut their losses.

  “We’ve talked about this. I can’t imagine anything better is going to come along.” Manny stole a quick glance at his watch. His charity work was evidently taking time away from clients who paid full freight.

  “Yeah,” Bernie said, stalling, “but has their lawyer ever revealed how they plan to make the company work?”

  Manny crossed his arms. “She says they’re confident in yo
ur technology and engineering talent. She kept calling it a long-term investment, building off the strong position they’ve built in Asia.”

  Bernie chuckled as he scratched his head again. “She’s as dumb as I’ve been all these years.”

  An awkward silence hovered over the small office. They’d been a lot closer in the early years, Bernie a high-flying entrepreneur and Manny a hungry associate. But their weekends in Sonoma sipping wine with their wives had ended once Sherlock stagnated, while Manny emerged as one of Silicon Valley’s most successful lawyers. Until this deal arose out of the blue a few months back, they hadn’t seen each other in more than a year.

  Manny glanced at his phone before breaking the silence. “You gotta give yourself a break, Bernie.”

  “It’s hard to do that after wasting millions of other people’s money. And now I’m dumping Sherlock for so little. I let so many people down. And what am I supposed to tell my kids?”

  “That you and your team designed the best search engine on the internet. You can be proud of that.”

  Bernie gestured up at the diploma on the wall. “I’d be proud if I’d turned it into a successful business.”

  Manny removed several pages from a manila folder.

  “I’m afraid the lesson of your efforts is that in the search engine space, no one can build a successful business. No one can compete.”

  Bernie smiled grimly. “That’s the truth. But I win the award for being the last person to figure that out.”

  Manny cast a lopsided grin as he passed the documents across Bernie’s desk.

  “Given this sale, I’d say you’re the second-to-last person.”

  CHAPTER 22

  APPLETON, WISCONSIN

  The voter file ranked Maple Avenue’s Ernest Stiglitz as a “five”—a strong “No” on Judge Beagle. But his red Dodge pickup made a strong case for a new category entirely, at least a “ten.”