The People's House

by David Pepper

  “Yes, you are! And you’re looking at her. Me, Dottie and Janice do it all.”

  Not a surprise.

  The greatest democracy in the world delegates our elections to the smallest, most underfunded level of government in the country. In most counties, sometimes with the entire nation watching, two or three permanent staff oversee the vote-collecting and -counting process for every office up to the President of the United States. And they do so on the scant dollars that remain after the county commissioners have allocated most of their budget to the jail, the courthouse, the prosecutor’s office, and other more politically powerful agencies.

  But Betty didn’t seem to mind a bit.

  “I’m interested in understanding every part of the process you used to count the votes in that race.”

  “Happy to help.”

  She led me back to the small operations room that doubled as a storage area. We sat down at a metal desk, in chairs that were far too small for either of us.

  “Could you walk me through the process you use to count votes for a congressional election, and specifically, what you did for last year’s race?”

  “Sure.”

  She pointed to dozens of machines sitting on five large shelves.

  “We have twenty-eight precincts in our county in twelve separate locations—a few churches, a few schools, and a civic center. Each building houses two or three precincts. Because of our budget, we only have two voting machines per precinct, but they work well for us.”

  “And how about early voting?” Over the prior decade, voting in the five weeks before Election Day had become increasingly popular. About 25 percent of Ohio voters now voted early, either by mail or in person, which was why Kelly looked so good early on election night.

  “We have two voting machines for early voting, and they are placed in this office where people can vote early, up to the final weekend before Election Day,” Betty explained. “The lines for early voting are getting longer and longer, so we need two.”

  “And how do voters actually use these machines?”

  “It’s all the most up-to-date touch screen technology,” she answered. “After you register at the desk, you go to the machine and swipe your vote card so the machine knows who you are,” she explained. “You then use the touch screen to vote in each race on the ballot, using a stylus.”

  “Is there a paper trail for every voter?”

  “Yes, we moved to that system before the last election. A new mandate required it for extra security. Our new machines now generate a printed paper slip as each voter makes her ballot selections, and display it though a screen on the side so that the voter can see and verify it. Those verified paper ballots are stored separately within the machine. The stored electronic vote is the official vote, but that paper trail lets us audit the result if there are any problems or discrepancies.”

  “Have you done audits? Any problems?”

  “Actually, we did a number the first time we used the new machines. Everything checked out.”

  “Does your machine allow voters to over-vote?” One of the flaws of the old paper ballots was that if a voter voted for too many candidates in a race—voting for two candidates when they could only vote for one, or four in a field race where they could vote for up to three—their vote had to be thrown out. In the old days, over-votes would lead to between 5 and 10 percent of votes being discarded. In a close election, that’s enough to change the outcome.

  “Nope. If you pick too many, the machine won’t let you move on to the next race on the ballot. It reminds you to vote only for the number you’re allowed to, and won’t let you continue until you do.”

  “How about undervoting?” I joked. As people work their way through a ballot, from president and governor on down, voters skip many of the contests, for a variety of reasons. Usually, it’s because they don’t recognize either name.

  In Ohio, the largest “drop-off” occurs in judicial races that appear at the bottom of the ballot with no party affiliation indicated for the candidates. Because Democrats “undervote” more than Republicans, there are years where a Democratic presidential candidate wins easily, but the Democratic judicial candidates lose badly.

  Of course, not voting in a race is every voter’s right, and Betty smiled weakly at my attempt at humor.

  “So on Election Day, what happens?”

  “We work the polls all day long and are on the lookout for any problems that arise. Had a power outage one year that we had to fix quickly, but usually not a lot happens.

  “After the polls close, each precinct leader removes each machine’s memory card and drives them to the board of elections, where our main computer tabulates the totals from all the cards. Everything we do is witnessed by a second person.

  “As those numbers come in, we publish them ourselves online and send them to the Ohio Secretary of State’s Office. Because the congressional races involve many counties, the Secretary of State adds up all the counties in the district. We simply send in our numbers.”

  “And when do you include the count from those who vote early?”

  “First. When the polls close, we take the two memory cards from the early vote machines. They’re the first votes put in the main computer.”

  “How about vote by mail ballots?”

  “We manually count those early on Election Day, with both a Republican and Democrat conducting the count together. The first numbers we report are the total of the in-person early votes and the mailed early votes. Then the rest flow in pretty steadily.”

  “And who does all this work?”

  “We lead it all from here, but we use temporary employees, paid poll workers, and volunteers to pull off what needs to be done on Election Day. We train them over the course of the year, but most have been doing this for years and know what they’re doing.”

  “Have you or any member of the team ever caught someone trying to vote more than once?”

  “Not really. Some people have shown up to vote in person after mailing their ballots because they’re not sure they sent it in time. But that’s easy to sort out. Those voters use a provisional ballot, and if their actual mailed ballot comes in, the provisional ballot is tossed.

  “All this talk of voter fraud, I’ve never understood it,” Betty remarked. “Here in Monroe County, every precinct judge knows every voter who walks into their precinct. They see them every year. Even one person trying to vote as someone else, or trying to vote more than once, would be figured out immediately. Think about it: It would take hundreds doing that in this county to steal an election, thousands more in the congressional district, and at least tens of thousands in the state.”

  “Definitely would be hard to pull off. And you trust those machines?”

  “I do, but I don’t have to. Like I said, the paper trail of ballots adds an extra layer of safety.”

  “So what do you think about those who are saying that somehow the votes in the last congressional race were somehow “off”? That Kelly actually won?”

  “I’ve heard that rumor floating around, and old Chairman Rogers was here the other day asking similar questions. I’ll tell you what I told him: I was surprised by the results too. But the total was the total. We did what we always do, we double checked it all, and Kelly lost. Tough break, but that’s how it goes.”

  “Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.”

  I got up to leave, but as I did, took note of one last detail of the voting machines—the word written in the corner of each, “Abacus.”

  I jotted the name down on my notepad and headed back north.

  The walk through had impressed me. Hard to imagine something could be amiss in Monroe County.

  * * *

  On the drive home, minutes after my cell phone picked up service again, Scott called.

  Amid my many disappointments in life, Scott provided
the bright exception.

  He was an accident, the product of an alcohol-induced evening when I relived a quarterback-cheerleader fling from years prior. She wasn’t a smart woman or even a friendly one, but she looked absolutely stunning that night. And the beer-goggles from six Bud Lights only had made her more so.

  Mom and Dad were appalled that I had knocked up a woman they barely knew. But given my personal trajectory at the time, they weren’t surprised by yet another misstep. Which only embarrassed me more.

  The shotgun marriage lasted a few miserable years, ending in a bitter divorce. But from the moment Scott came into my world, I never regretted the drunken dalliance that produced him.

  From a young age, he had both his granddad’s charm and my youthful fire. The two traits fueled achievement every step of the way. Class president. Phi Beta Kappa. Improv comedian extraordinaire. He was more well-rounded than I ever was, made better decisions than I had, and appeared to be blessed by better luck than mine.

  Scott went on to the University of Chicago and Stanford Business School, settling into the Bay Area as the second wave of the tech boom exploded.

  Off and running professionally and newly married, Scott was trying to have his first child. Whenever he called, I hoped to hear good news without asking about it.

  “How’s it going out there?”

  “Great. When are you coming back?”

  I’d visited a few times, but not enough. Most recently we drove down to Big Sur and spent the day hiking up the hills overlooking the Pacific, with the stunning ocean view from the summits as our reward. Made me think about joining Scott out there after retiring. Maybe try writing a book on the real story of politics.

  I hadn’t been there since the previous spring.

  “Soon, I hope. You know election time gets crazy. I miss you guys.”

  This was a touchy topic.

  “Dad, how many times have we talked about this? That place makes you miserable. The job makes you miserable. Get the hell out of there. It’s not worth it.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “You’ve been saying that for years.”

  He was right—I had been. For Scott, my job had always been a source of frustration. Too many late nights, and even on the early nights, a reporter is never off the clock. Worst of all, my ex preached to Scott from a young age not to be like his dad, who spent his life reporting the news instead of making news.

  “I know, Scott. I’m winding things down. I’ll be out there soon.”

  “Sounds good, Dad.”

  His voice trailed off as he said it. He didn’t buy it.

  My ex’s carping hit a sore spot. In my younger years, my life’s ambition had been to make news. Big news.

  Growing up in Canton, Ohio, two things dominated my days: football and politics. I excelled at both, especially football.

  The first week of my freshman year, Coach stopped me in the hallway, impressed by my 6’2” frame. By my sophomore year, I started at quarterback. I was fast, tall and strong, but Coach always said it was my intensity that set me apart, leading us to two state championships and the opportunity to start four seasons at Youngstown State.

  But the seven years of glory ended in one five-second play in the second game of my senior year.

  I never saw it coming. The vicious hit shattered the radial bone of my throwing arm. I knew something was wrong when my right guard, the one whose slow first move invited the helmet-to-arm collision, vomited after looking at my right side. Feeling a sharp tingling, I glanced down. An ivory-white, jagged bone knifed three inches out of my forearm; my arm looked like Joe Theismann’s leg. A friend told me later that the three NFL scouts left the stands within minutes, even before the ambulance arrived.

  So that was it. Season over. Career over. And the perks of youthful stardom—girls, free booze, a gift here or there—faded quickly after that. People still recognize me in Canton, but the brief moment of pride is usually interrupted by the same dismal question: “I always thought you’d make it all the way. What happened?”

  I still didn’t have an answer.

  Chapter 6

  WASHINGTON, DC: 105 days after the election

  Always on the hunt for bonus media exposure, Stanton arrived at the White House before anyone else. Too early. The cameras weren’t set up yet. Crews were there, but no actual reporters.

  As he waited for the ceremony to start, Stanton peered into the East Room, impressed. A dark mahogany desk sat in the center of the large, ornate chamber. Three sections of white chairs, hundreds in total, were set in tight rows, facing the desk. A perfect setting for a political victory lap.

  Only one month after clearing the House committee, Energy 2020 awaited the president’s signature. It had passed the full House, then raced through the Senate. The Democrats from Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania and New York had whipped their more skeptical colleagues, urging them to support the best opportunity those economically depressed regions would see in a long time. In the end, only a few senators had voted against it.

  Thirty-five minutes after Stanton arrived, President Elizabeth Johnson entered the now-crowded room from the rear corner—shaking hands, gripping wrists and forearms, laughing, and engaging in small talk as she made her way fifty feet up a diagonal aisle. A few feet behind her, Stanton and an entourage of officials performed the same entry dance but did so with far less personal charm.

  The president took her seat behind the desk as Speaker Marshall and Stanton stood to her left and right. A handpicked group of other politicians—Senate leaders, along with House members who represented the impacted areas—flanked their left and right in a single-file line.

  With so many cameras pointing his way, Stanton forced a grin. As close as he stood to the president’s desk, not one glimmer of the limelight would beam on him. Frustrating, especially when he was the prime reason there was a bill to sign on this day.

  Instead, as she always did, the president dominated the room. Her red hair and striking blue suit stood out among a row of anonymous gray and charcoal men’s attire. She was still improving her delivery of formal speeches, but her energetic presence dominated less scripted events like this.

  “This is a critical moment for our nation, and it’s fitting that it’s a bipartisan moment,” she declared, making eye contact with folks across the room.

  Watching from over the president’s right shoulder, Stanton admired her performance. A former television anchor, she knew exactly where the cameras were, and eyed them directly for her most memorable soundbites.

  “Parts of our country that have needed a boost for decades will finally get one, and the entire nation will benefit from this new domestic energy source. Beginning today, Energy 2020 is officially underway! And with it, a better, more secure, more prosperous American future!”

  She opened the leather-bound booklet in front of her, lifted one of the dozen ceremonial presidential pens laying to her right, and began signing the document. She used each pen as she completed her signature.

  “It’s a good thing I have a long name,” she joked as she lifted the final pen, the crowd laughing.

  When she finished, as the room applauded, the president personally congratulated everyone standing behind her before heading back to the Oval Office.

  Stanton sought out Ohio’s Gibbs at the far end of the line. The rookie congressman’s district stood to gain as much as any from the legislation.

  “You helped make this happen, Jim. Congratulations. This will be a huge hit back home.”

  Stanton handed him the pen the president had given to him. Gibbs eagerly grasped it.

  “Thank you. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

  Stanton patted the rookie on the shoulder. Although it wasn’t true, he happily took the credit.

  Chapter 7

  YOUNGSTOWN, OHIO: 90 days afte
r the election

  “Jack, what’s wrong with Lee Kelly? He looks awful.”

  Months after the election, months after dropping the Monroe County story, the same question still came my way every few days.

  I was never especially close to Kelly. But people assume reporters know the inside scoop, especially those of us who’ve been around forever. And we love leaving that impression, inaccurate as it may be.

  “Public rejection is rough,” was my standard response, trying to downplay it.

  But they were right. The last two times I saw Kelly, he was a mess.

  Two months after he lost, when the Youngstown Democratic Party honored him on a gray, snowy evening in January, the always raucous crowd fell quiet as he reached the podium. A new slouch masked his tall, broad-shouldered frame, and his previously trim physique bulged noticeably in the middle. His close-cropped brown hair, always parted carefully to the right, now plunged straight down. Fine for a teenager, but not a former congressman in his late fifties. And at the Steubenville Labor Breakfast a month later, same appearance, same reaction.

  On both occasions, meant to be celebrations, Kelly couldn’t fake it. His old smile flashed as he took the stage, but quickly vanished. And even sitting close to the podium, I struggled to hear his brief, lifeless comments.

  It was hard to watch. For everyone there, I’m sure, but especially for me.

  Politics consumed my life as a kid. Dad served for years as a state legislator from Canton, so my sister Meredith and I grew up marching in parades, knocking on doors, and putting up yard signs. Outside of football, my other trophies in life were photos with Nixon, Ford, Reagan and other Republican poobahs as they passed through the Buckeye State.

  But amid this constellation of political stars, Dad remained my political hero. An old school moderate. A Rockefeller Republican. Watching Dad taught me that politics at its best involved good people coming together, compromising to get important things done. That was what Dad strived to do, and nothing felt better than planting “Re-Elect Sharpe” signs in Democrats’ yards as well as Republicans’.