One Man Two Votes (The Robert Carlton Series Book 1)

by J Russ Briley

  Robert was racking his brain for answers, but they weren’t coming. After turning over the facts a dozen times, he finally concluded that Chris was over-reacting to something he’d discovered. There might be some thread of truth that had triggered Chris’ panic. Truth that could be easily explained. This had to be a simple case of excessive imagination.

  Robert felt good about this conclusion. He hoped that Chris’ imagination wasn’t a developing case of mental illness. Schizophrenics could be very convincing with the stories they wove around their paranoid theories.

  Having defrosted in the warmth and normality of his own office, Robert was quickly dismissing any chance that Chris’ fears were real. There was a bright side: if Chris managed to come up with any factual information, there could be an opportunity for visibility. It might be a chance for Robert’s star to shine. Uncovering a flaw in OPOV that hadn’t been noticed, but which might easily be corrected, could bring Robert some notoriety. It might be just what he needed to push his promotion into gear.

  Before Robert bought into any of Chris’ story, he needed to find out what Bradley had been working on before he died. Picking up the phone, he connected to Lorraine.

  “Yes, Sir?” she promptly answered.

  “Lorraine, I need to follow up on what Bradley was working on, in conjunction with any reports or files regarding OPOV.” Robert told her. “Recent work. The last six months.”

  “Right away.” Lorraine responded.

  “Thanks.” Robert hung up.

  Bradley’s files would be a good place to start, but Robert was sure that if Bradley had found any evidence of an OPOV breach, or possible breach, Robert would have been notified. There wasn’t much point to going through the regular, official files on OPOV again. Those documents wouldn’t give the insider details. They contained only the facts that eventually would become public.

  Robert realized that he was going to need help on this. He needed viewpoints from someone who understood OPOV, but who didn’t have a conflicting agenda. Someone who was accustomed to research assignments handed down from The Hill.

  He searched his memory for the best fit. Robert’s staff was usually the perfect choice for internal and inter-departmental research. The problem was they all had their own political agendas, and would love to be responsible for cracking open an OPOV flaw, since it was an extremely high profile program. Robert needed an outsider, but one who could access all resources while not using the opportunity for his, or her own benefit. Robert wondered whom Bradley might have used, since clearly it hadn’t been Robert or his staff. Bradley had played his sources close to the vest, and the odds were good that there wouldn’t be a specific reference in his notes.

  Robert mulled his options. Like all Washington insiders, he had his private allies and resources. Those resources were closely guarded, and never “loaned out” to other camps. Robert had contacts scattered throughout various government sectors, in special interests, and even in the opposing party. Robert considered his alliances to be “connections.”

  Robert wanted tight control of this research. He didn’t want rumors. He couldn’t go directly to the commissioners; they might delegate a request, or steal Robert’s thunder, if thunder there might be. They all could use the boost. He decided that the best choice for this job would be one of his associates who had been on the commission that had overseen OPOV from its inception.

  Robert mentally shuffled through the list of members and their associates. The Treasury was still vying for jurisdiction over Federal level fraud in the form of voting, so someone from that department might be interested. The military members were only interested in the issues of technology, security, and the military applications that could be derived. An aide had represented each military branch secretary, but two of these were pushing to become generals, and had political aspirations. The Coast Guard aide was too junior. That left one choice: Grady Barlow.

  Grady was Robert’s occasional link to the intelligence community at the Pentagon, and he was a rare commodity these days. An Air Force Academy graduate who practically had the honor code tattooed on his chest, Grady was a throwback to the old school. Integrity was everything to the guy. Grady had begun as a pilot. He’d climbed through the ranks, gaining a reputation of being a straight shooter who understood discretion, with no apparent desire for political office.

  Robert had worked directly with Lt. Colonel Barlow when he’d first started in Justice. Robert liked and admired Grady. Actually, Grady was the kind of guy everyone liked. While he wasn’t a regular “connection” for Robert, they had a good working relationship. He definitely struck Robert as someone who wouldn’t start rumors, and who wouldn’t use this as an opportunity to further his own interests.

  After a quick contact search on his computer for Grady’s number, Robert came up empty. He picked up the phone.

  “Lorraine.” He paused suddenly, reconsidering. It might be best to keep his contact with Grady under wraps. If this thing turned out to be a wild goose chase, it would be better not to have anyone think he was chasing conspiracy theories.

  “Never mind.” Robert hung up. Lorraine went back to her filling, unruffled.

  Robert remembered that he could look up the phone number on the computer contacts listed under “Office of the Under Secretary of the Air Force.” He found Grady listed, and hit a couple of keys on the computer keyboard to start it dialing the number. Placing a wireless earpiece in his ear, Robert listened as the phone rang.

  “This is Lieutenant Colonel Barlow’s voicemail box. I am in meetings today, but will return your call as soon as possible. Please leave...”

  Robert hit the ‘end call’ button. Having decided to keep this under the radar, he didn’t want to use voicemail. This situation called for something more interactive, but less documented—and definitely not official. Face to face would be better, he decided.

  “How do I catch him informally, and still have an opportunity to talk privately?” Robert wondered aloud. He stared down into his coffee cup.

  “Coffee!” Remembering a dinner conversation with Grady, Robert recalled that Grady had confessed to a regular espresso habit. He’d discoursed avidly on virtues of Arabica versus Robusta beans, and the abundance of premium coffee stores in the DC area. Grady had even recommended a place that was his habitual stop each morning. A more local, less national coffee spot, he’d said. Robert had gone by the place a couple of times, even bumping into Barlow twice, right at seven-thirty in the morning. Robert had stopped going when Tracie bought a one-touch, eight hundred dollar automatic espresso machine. Instead of stopping for coffee, Robert now used the machine. Robert wasn’t sure he liked the coffee as much, but he felt the expense needed to be justified, and it was, admittedly, convenient.

  The idea of catching Grady at the shop suited Robert. He normally didn’t want much to do with people early in the morning. Coffee shops were too energetic; too full of noise, too early in the morning. Grady, on the other hand, seemed to get as much out of the coffee shop experience as he did from the coffee. Unless he was out of town or had a broken leg, Grady would be at his ritual brew joint in the morning.

  Decision made, Robert turned to the stack of interruptions on his desk. His usual turkey sandwich with lettuce, tomato, provolone cheese, spicy mustard, no mayo, and iced tea showed up on his desk for lunch.

  “Iced tea.” Robert shivered and rejected the cold beverage, leaving it untouched. “Consistency without external feedback,” he thought. It was true he’d told Lorraine that iced tea was his standard choice. He wondered if he should consider changing that for winter.

  From there the afternoon lumbered on.

  At three-thirty, his computer calendar popped up an appointment warning. Without the warning he would have completely forgotten the reception he was supposed to attend. His iPhone chimed in moments later with the same warning, “ABA Recept—W.H.” American Bar Association representatives from several states were attending a reception at the White House, a
nd Robert never missed a White House invitation. His father had taught him that rule.

  On his calendar he also spotted his commitment to meet for a few minutes with the Secretary of Commerce, Carl Hanson. He had some NAFTA related questions he wanted to go over just prior to the reception.

  The intercom beeped. “Mr. Carlton.” Lorraine’s voice came over the speaker.

  “Yes?” Robert responded over the speakerphone.

  “I wanted to remind you. You have a reception at the White House.”

  “Yes, thank you, Lorraine. I’m packing up.” Robert clicked off the speaker. He took a few minutes to review his messages. Checking the stack of message notes again, he didn’t see anything urgent. He pushed them aside onto an older stack for future action. The IT department had set up Robert and Lorraine with electronic messaging, so if any of these became critical she could type in the message and it would appear on his computer and cell phone simultaneously. She could also connect a caller directly to voicemail, which would show up immediately. They both hated the system, since it seemed to add to the chaos of each overloaded day, but it had its uses.

  Pausing for a moment, he turned to pull open his file cabinet. Robert had his personal notes and custom reports on OPOV there, from his work on the committee. Several agencies also had made reports on possible problems during the OPOV set up, and Robert had copies of these. He chose “Recent Campaign Investigations” and “OPOV Security Checks” from the file drawer, and tossed them into his briefcase. Some of these documents were on his computer or in his e-mail, but the hardcopies were part of the filing process, required in the legal documents system. Lorraine did the physical filling efficiently, which made them easier to find than searching his electronic files. Closing the drawer and spinning the combination lock on the file cabinet, he flipped over the green “Locked” sign, and turned to the computer to shut it down. After waiting for the interminable Windows shut down, he undocked the laptop, and slid it into his briefcase. Taking a quick look around the room to make sure he hadn’t left anything, Robert walked to the closet, and grabbed his coat, scarf, and gloves.

  “Lorraine, if anything important comes up, I’ll have my cell phone with me. See you Monday morning.” He passed by her, and opened the main office door.

  “Yes, Sir.” Lorraine acknowledged to Robert’s back, keeping an eye on the hall door closing behind him. She watched until she was sure the door had closed, keeping out the cold hallway air, and returned to her typing.

  Stepping out of the elevator and into the parking garage, the chilly air and dirty grey concrete reminded Robert of his cold meeting with Chris. Robert tried to push the thoughts the meeting evoked aside for now, but the look in Chris’ eyes lingered in the back of his mind.

  Chapter 7

  Claire and her grandson Kelvin trudged past the police cars scattered along the road, blocking the street. Back in the fifties this had been a nice neighborhood. Over the years the block had deteriorated. It had gone from being tolerable to an all-out war zone. She ignored the cops as they went about their business. The flashing lights and sounds of more sirens approaching barely drew a glance from her, and garnered only mild curiosity from the twelve-year-old boy. Some white guy was being dragged out of a car and hoisted onto a stretcher. It was none of their business.

  The police were chatting amongst themselves, their cold breath puffing back and forth in clouds of steam. She heard them say something about a carjacking gone bad, or maybe a drug deal. Either way, the sickly reddish-brown splatter of drying blood on the inside of the passenger window told her more than she wanted to know. Looking down, she saw Kelvin staring idly at the blood-splattered glass. Grabbing her grandson by the arm, she lurched up the filthy steps to the cold-water apartment.

  On the street, the dead man’s body flopped carelessly onto the stretcher. His blue parka made him look bloated. The man’s blood-soaked ski hat slowly oozed out its burden onto the white sheets. No steam rose from the blood, only the workers’ breath and truck exhaust could be seen. Everything else had lost its heat in the icy air. An arm fell limply over the side of the gurney. No one bothered to pick up the hand as it bashed into the angular steel doorframe of the ambulance. The EMT finished some paperwork and handed it to one of the policemen, while Chris’ body was pushed unceremoniously on-board. The grinding noise of the tow truck winching up the damaged car marked time to Chris’ death, minus the fanfare. It was enough noise to block the sound of the ambulance pulling away.

  Chapter 8

  Robert still couldn’t clear his mind. He kept going over the meeting with Chris as he drove out of the secure underground parking area. He thought about the sound of Chris’s voice as he merged into traffic, and as he became one of the masses headed down the road. Both directions were packed. He inched along with the snarled rush hour traffic, glad that it was a short trip to The White House.

  The guards at the gate were attentive, and better suited to facing the public than most. Their demeanor was that of brighter individuals who could handle more complex conditions. Each facet of the Presidential zone was just slightly more refined. Still well below the standards of regimental military splendor at Buckingham Palace or the Kremlin, it had disappointed Robert when he’d first realized the differences. He’d felt let down by the lack or military spit and polish. There were Marines within, but D.C.’s finest at the gate seemed to be short on dramatic presence.

  Still, the exterior area was cleaner than the other government buildings. The grounds were tidier, well-manicured in good weather, and tended to be quiet.

  In stark contrast, the West Wing offices were filled with the noise and congestion of people constantly bustling about, overwhelming any uninitiated visitors. The offices were cramped, and people spoke rapidly, expecting swift answers. No sense of royal deference or awe infiltrated the intense atmosphere. It was a political hub, filled with every deadline and pressure point of the busiest offices in a Wall Street trading firm.

  Robert hardly noticed the confusion around him. He’d visited the West Wing many times. Making his way to one of the break areas, he grabbed a bottle of water and swallowed a third of it along with a vitamin B pill. He always carried them with him. The B complex of vitamins would block most of the effects of the alcohol he’d be consuming, keeping his mind sharp. Tracie had taught him the trick, and it gave him an edge at cocktail parties. His political adversaries often drank and talked too much.

  Looking down he noticed the disgraceful condition of his new shoes. He gave them a quick buffing with the motorized shoe valet in the nearby cloakroom. They’d never be the same, but they were better. He proceeded up the stairs and down the hall to the reception area, where Carl Hanson was to meet him.

  The conversation with Hanson went well. There were some minor legal questions surrounding a section of NAFTA being revised, which had all been reviewed, allowing Robert to easily deal with Hanson’s concerns. Still, the conversation took almost an hour. Robert had to hurry to make it to the reception.

  Walking along the colonnade connecting the West Wing to the White House, Robert paid little attention to the fact that he was in the President’s residence. The thrill he’d felt when he’d first been invited to the hallowed structure had been lost over the past year. He no longer took the time to reflect on the presidents who had passed through these halls; his thoughts centered strictly on business.

  Of the four state reception rooms in the White House, Robert liked the Red Room best. Its Empire style somehow suited his vision of elegance. It seemed a bit small for this gathering, particularly with Senator Gregg in the room. Gregg, Chairman of the Senate Rules Committee, and heir apparent to the Appropriations Committee Chair, was a large and important man. Robert knew he would have to make a point to speak with him. There were some other notables expected whom Robert hoped to see, and it was thought the President might make an appearance. Robert quickly mapped out his approach for spending a few minutes with everyone he knew in the room.

&nbs
p; Shaking hands with several State Bar representatives, Robert made his way around the Red Room, and through the adjoining Blue Room, opened for this gathering. Selecting a scotch from the steward’s tray, he headed back into the Red Room. Robert progressed determinedly toward Gregg’s corner, where the Senator was holding court. Gregg was one of the most accomplished politicians in D.C., polished, smooth, and extremely influential.

  “Senator Gregg, how are you this evening?” Robert offered his hand to the Senator through the tight gathering, getting a firm shake from Gregg in return.

  “Mr. Deputy Attorney General...I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. It is, after all, only a matter of time.” Gregg’s smile was complimentary, but at the same time, Robert thought he heard condescension in the deep voice. Gregg was adept at giving compliments, but he could also subtly send unspoken messages. Robert wondered if he’d just been on the receiving end of one.

  Robert could be adroit, as well. “You honor me, Senator. I certainly hope I can live up to your expectations someday.” He continued with a safe objective, “Would it be possible for us to take a moment to discuss the review on ethics? I would like to propose some procedural adjustments for the committee. I think it could help streamline the process flow.” Robert knew that without Gregg’s support, no changes would be considered. He also knew that his ideas would not alter much, but having his name attached to government streamlining would be perceived as positive. It would have the same effect for Gregg.