The Voter File

by David Pepper

  But his physical stature was misleading. The man they were meeting, Nazer Aliyev, was an economic giant.

  A giant who needed to be tamed.

  Like much of the former Soviet Union, Kazakhstan’s economy was dominated by energy, particularly uranium, oil, and gas. The country’s agricultural sector was smaller, with the exception of one product: Kazakhstan remained one of the planet’s leading producers and exporters of wheat. And diminutive Nazer Aliyev had seized the lion’s share of state wheat production when Soviet communism collapsed several decades back. From that initial perch in Central Asia, Aliyev had forged inroads into China, then built a global wheat empire. The only place Aliyev hadn’t penetrated was the second-largest wheat market in the world, the United States. Their plan, already under way, was to enter in force.

  “My uncle is eager to learn of your progress in America,” Katrina said.

  Which was her polite way of demanding a lot more information than Aliyev had provided. Full sharing of data was the central tenet underpinning the syndicate; after all, each partner would owe a fraction of every dollar their American enterprise generated. But Aliyev had thus far been the least forthcoming of the group. Her trip’s purpose was to re-set expectations, before the dollars flowed.

  “Oh, you may tell him we have had great success.”

  As Natalie typed notes on her small tablet, Aliyev eyed her hands with suspicion. Like any oligarch, his instinct was to shield the details of his operations. In countries with rampant corruption, not to mention staggering tax levels, that instinct was the only way to stay in business. Plus, he’d not likely had to report to a woman half his age at any point in his life.

  “Farmers across America are giving up,” he continued. “They are squeezed by major conglomerates on all sides. Most have been eager to accept our offers.”

  “We have experienced the same thing with dairy, beef, and soybeans,” Katrina said. “What have you been able to acquire?”

  The small man lowered his head, studying her. “We have built strong positions in North Dakota, Kansas, Washington, and Montana.”

  “The leading wheat states in America,” Katrina said, smiling, making it clear she understood his business.

  “Yes.”

  He grinned, then crossed his legs, hiding behind his generalities.

  This would not do. Katrina leaned farther forward.

  “My uncle wishes to know how many acres you control,” she said, her emerald eyes boring into him.

  His pleasant expression slipped away as he looked down at his feet. “Approximately four million.”

  “And your target for the year?”

  “We should reach six million by next year.”

  Natalie typed the figures into her tablet.

  “And how much wheat will that produce?”

  He slumped farther into his chair.

  “We estimate more than two hundred million bushels of wheat per year once we have modernized the operations.”

  “And how many total bushels are produced in America?” Katrina asked.

  “Over two billion.”

  She smiled, laying her elbow on the couch’s armrest. “Is two hundred million enough?”

  “It is more than enough. Any higher, and we will invite the same scrutiny that we are advocating be applied to others.”

  Katrina nodded. This was a strong foray into the market, and he was right to pace himself. Too large, and it might cross the threshold of what would be permitted in the coming years.

  Katrina stood up, scanning the room.

  “This is a beautiful library you have. So much like my uncle’s. This country is fortunate to have such a knowledgeable figure like you to help guide it.”

  A gracious host, Aliyev ushered them around the grounds for the next hour. As he walked them back to the limo, she delivered her final order with a smile.

  “We look forward to hearing more details of your success.”

  CHAPTER 39

  WATERLOO, WISCONSIN

  Wait, your dad’s ‘Big Lute’?”

  From his height, jutted chin, and hawk nose alone, I recognized Lute Justice immediately, even though his signature crew cut was hidden under a white Stetson. As we parked at the end of the dirt driveway, next to a pickup truck as beat up as Tori’s, he’d hobbled out from the side door of an old farmhouse. He was at least six feet, ten inches, although he was hunched over in a way that he’d never been in his prime.

  “You’ve heard of him?” Tori asked, a gleam in her eye.

  “If you grew up watching Big Ten basketball, you don’t forget ‘Big Lute.’ No wonder you’re so damn tall.”

  The lineage also put in context the brutal hit she’d put on the woman as we ran out of the bar. “Big Lute” had been a physical force long before the far bulkier forwards and centers of today’s game, scooping up every rebound in sight with his long arms, thick shoulders, and sharp elbows.

  Tori jumped out of the car and squeezed her dad tight. The intensity of the hug made it clear Ned’s death was still weighing on her. Her eyes were bloodshot after having cried for much of the drive.

  “Now, what the heck brings you here, Tori?” Lute asked, fixing a cold gaze my way. “And who’s this fella?”

  His scowl signaled an understandable concern that his twenty-something daughter was dating a much older guy.

  “Daddy, let me introduce you to Jack Sharpe. Remember that story I told you about that no one would listen to? He’s a famous reporter who’s helping me look into it.”

  I walked around the back of my car and extended my hand.

  “Mr. Justice, it’s an honor—”

  I grunted as he clutched my hand with a crushing grip, cracking at least three of my knuckles.

  “Media, huh?” he asked, speaking over me. “No offense, but that’s one thing I’ve never missed since retiring.”

  “Daddy, be nice. He’s helping when no one else would.”

  “What’s yer name again?”

  “Jack Sharpe.”

  “Never heard of you. Why don’t you guys come on in?”

  Waterloo added a few hours to the trip back to Chicago. But our detour wasn’t for a father-daughter reunion. After a quick stop in Appleton to get some clothes, Tori had insisted on getting her gun at her dad’s farm.

  We entered a side door and walked into a small kitchen that felt more like a museum of artifacts from the 1950s. Against one wall sat a squat GE refrigerator with rounded corners and the same vertical metal handle my parents’ fridge had had back in the day. Along a tile counter ran a sink that looked like a mini-tub, with separate hot- and cold-water faucets. A rusty metal teakettle on the stovetop appeared older than Lute himself. A banged-up microwave, with dials instead of a keypad, was the only sign that Lute has added anything new to the kitchen in the last twenty-five years.

  Still, the most conspicuous site in the kitchen were the stacks of cardboard boxes along the walls.

  “Daddy, what’s going on?” Tori asked, stopping a few feet past the door and glaring at the boxes, then at him. “Where is everything?”

  “Have a seat, Tori.”

  I recognized his tempered voice immediately, having used that tone many times myself. The divorce. My sister and parents dying. When I’d gotten canned a few weeks back. No matter how old your kids got, the tone you used to deliver bad news to them didn’t change.

  Tori sat in one of the kitchen chairs before Lute continued. “I wanted to tell you in person, so I guess that’s now.”

  “Guys, I can step out,” I said.

  Lute looked my way. “Probably a good idea.”

  I walked back out to the dusty driveway. The soothing breeze and the lowing of cows in a nearby pasture provided an unexpected window of quiet relaxation. Finally, a real Wisconsin dairy farm.

  Then the phone
rang. Having already ignored two calls from the Dane County Sheriff’s Office, I picked this one up.

  “Sir, we need you to come in,” the somber voice said.

  “Come in where?”

  “To Dane County headquarters.”

  “I’m almost in Illinois. How can I help you?”

  “The kidnapping you reported? It ended in a fatal crash.” He described the accident in a bloodless monotone.

  “Did you find out who they—”

  “Sir, we need you to come in.”

  “Okay.”

  Stalling further wasn’t going to work, so we scheduled my visit for the next morning. I’d be far from Wisconsin by then.

  The call reminded me to return one from Chief Santini.

  “Jack, that’s a bad guy you’re messing with,” the chief said right as he picked up.

  “How bad?” I paced back and forth in the dirt driveway, kicking pebbles.

  “Mobster. Out of Queens. A long rap sheet in his twenties—narcotics, assaults. Nothing huge, but enough to get him in and out of Rikers into his thirties. Then he became a lot more deadly. A hit man and security goon of some sort, suspected of multiple murders and assaults.”

  “What mob?”

  “The Albanians. Or at least its American-based affiliate. Really nasty bunch.”

  “So why would he be in Wisconsin, tailing me?” This wasn’t the time to tell him he was dead.

  “Wisconsin? Beats the hell out of me. Maybe he was just a hired gun for this assignment. But when I say gun, I’m talking howitzer, so be careful.”

  “Understood. Thanks, Chief.”

  Seconds after we hung up, the kitchen door opened and Lute invited me back in. Tori remained seated at the wooden kitchen table, her eyes moist once more.

  “Daddy, I’m going to go pack some clothes for the drive. Can you keep Jack company?”

  “Sure.”

  She disappeared down a long hallway, leaving us to gin up small talk. I sat in one of the chairs at the kitchen table while he remained standing.

  “So you guys think someone’s stealing elections around here.” Lute stepped toward the tile countertop, still narrow-eyed with skepticism.

  “That’s what we’re trying to find out.” The less he knew, the better. “It’s not at all clear at this point.”

  “So why’re ya taking her to Ohio to do it?” He picked up a red apple out of a bowl and bit into it, crunching loudly. His jaw looked as fierce as his grip.

  “It’s a precaution. On the off chance that people did do something wrong, we’re safer looking into it from somewhere else.”

  He eyed me again, sizing me up.

  “Maybe she’d be safer here.”

  “Whatever she wants to do,” I said.

  We were silent for an awkward minute.

  “So you’re moving?” I asked, gesturing toward the boxes.

  “Yep,” he said, chunks of apple visible in his mouth as he spoke. “Running a dairy farm ain’t what it used to be, so I took the best offer I could get.”

  More silence.

  “Who’d you sell to?”

  “Huh?”

  “Your farm. Who’d you sell it to?”

  “Some fancy lawyer from New York approached me out of the blue. Gotta imagine it was someone big, buying up a lot of smaller farms, because what I got here definitely doesn’t stick out.”

  I shook my head, having written about the struggles of family farms in Ohio. “You’re a small farm holding your own against the big boys. You stick out like a sore thumb.”

  He chuckled. “More like a relic. And I wasn’t holding my own lately, which is why I sold.”

  “All set!” Tori burst back into the kitchen, a large backpack slung over her shoulder.

  Ten minutes and another punishing handshake later, I steered back onto the narrow gravel road that led to the highway.

  “I thought you were getting the gun?”

  “I did. While you were talking, I circled around and loaded them in the trunk.”

  “‘Them’?”

  “Yep. I got two rifles. Thought you might want one as well.”

  CHAPTER 40

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Now, that is a great story,” Bridget Turner said, her blue eyes gleaming just the way they did on air.

  The square-jawed Chuck Massa hummed as he and Cassie left Turner’s corner office together, a bounce in his step. The plan was for Cassie to identify the flights in and out of Aspen the next time the president visited her ranch, exposing her secret meetings once and for all.

  As she got back to her small office, Cassie dedicated the rest of the afternoon to a topic they wouldn’t be so pleased about: trying to figure out why the bosses at Republic were so insistent on keeping the president’s anti-monopoly agenda off the air. She used her personal laptop so they couldn’t monitor her work.

  In article after article, economists decried the problem. From airlines to banking, a small group of corporations had come to dominate a broad swath of the American economy. The trend had exploded in recent years, squeezing out new entrants, especially medium-sized and small businesses, and cramping innovation. Cassie had not appreciated the scale of the problem or the uniformity of opinion among economists that the trend was holding back America’s economy in countless ways while driving an ever-widening gap between the ultra-rich and everyone else. No wonder the president was so passionate about addressing it. And with the big money sloshing around Capitol Hill, it was clear why Speaker Paxton stood in the way.

  But one article in particular stopped Cassie cold. It hadn’t run in a mainstream newspaper or magazine. It was an academic paper that only a narrow group of elite academics read. But an article in the Economist had cited it, and an op-ed by a liberal senator had referenced it as well. So Cassie dug it up.

  Crunching a wide variety of data, a Princeton economics professor named Miguel Mercurio had created a formula to measure monopolies in the United States. Some of the industries he listed had routinely come up in other articles. Google, for searching the internet, led the list. FirstAmerica and BankUS in banking. The airlines. And others.

  But listed at number seven was the cable industry. And number fourteen was the increasingly monopolized local media. And under both categories, Professor Mercurio highlighted one fast-growing media and cable company whose business model—a national cable network scooping up local television stations—was particularly problematic.

  Republic News.

  Clenching her jaw, Cassie stared at the tattoo on her wrist, the daily reminder of the injustices she was meant to right.

  She’d entered the profession to take on the Man.

  Now she worked for him.

  Cassie dialed the Princeton economics department, pressed the extension for Professor Mercurio, and waited through five rings and his voice mail greeting.

  Cassie left a message, saying only her name.

  CHAPTER 41

  GENEVA-ON-THE-LAKE, OHIO

  All the tension evaporated away.

  Tori and I were both lying back on wooden chairs, on the deck of my cottage, peering out over Lake Erie. She nursed a glass of Riesling we’d bought at a gas station while I grabbed my first Yuengling in a week. I’d promised myself only one drink, so I was savoring every sip.

  Heavy afternoon gusts had quieted to a comfortable, cool breeze, easing the usual Lake Erie chop. And now the sun inched down over the water, first a tight, blinding yellow ball, then an orange semicircle, widening into a long crescent along the horizon, a kaleidoscope of orange, red, and yellow exploding outward into the thin wisp of clouds above it. Then all of it fading completely, and with it my worries.

  For a few minutes, at least.

  “What’s next, Jack?” Tori asked as dusk turned to dark, a dim half-moon appearing to our fa
r right.

  “Bedtime.”

  “I mean, what are we going to do next about what’s going on?”

  I’d spent the car ride pondering the question. And I had some basic answers: to keep us safe while getting to the bottom of what was happening.

  “First thing we’re going to do is phone a friend.”

  With that, I took out my iPhone.

  “Hey there!” Cassie answered calls faster than anyone I knew. “I’m home. I’ll call you back from Rachel’s line.”

  My phone rang a few seconds later.

  “You solve the riddle of Republic yet?” I asked, confident she had.

  “I did. They hate the president’s anti-monopoly plan because they’re building one themselves.”

  I stayed silent.

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  That was better. “Wish I could.”

  “I knew it. But I assume that’s not why you’re calling.”

  “Cassie, we need your help.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  I put the phone on speaker.

  “I’m here with a young woman named Victoria Justice.”

  “Victoria Justice? Is that really her name?”

  Tori spoke up from her chair. “Yes. But call me Tori.”

  “Tori’s the one who called about the odd election in Wisconsin I mentioned.”

  “Don’t tell me it was really rigged,” Cassie said.

  “We’re pretty convinced it was. And it looks like some dangerous people are behind it.” I walked her through everything, ending with the crash.

  “Jesus, that’s awful. What are they after? And why Wisconsin?”

  “It’s a lot bigger than Wisconsin. Both voter files were penetrated, and there’s at least one Albanian mobster involved. It’s gotta be national or bigger. Which is why we’re calling you.”

  “What can I do?”

  “This must have gone through the national parties. They’re the ones with the voter files.”

  “Even for state races?”

  Tori spoke up. “Yep. For all races. The national parties and their vendors are the ones who house their voter files.”