The People's House

by David Pepper

  Tom Stanton—the House minority whip, the second most senior Republican in the House—had gone through the motions at many Beltway funerals. But those had been political appearances. Performances. This was real. He meant every word he was saying. It surprised even him.

  He had to pause several times as he wiped away his own tears. Once he recovered, his moving eulogy drew both laughter and tears from the packed crowd.

  They never talked about it publicly, but he and Oliver went back a long way.

  Born and raised in the suburbs of Philadelphia, the son of a respected banker, Tom Stanton followed a long family tradition of attending Andover, the elite boarding school, followed by Yale. And then Cambridge called. Stanton headed to Harvard Law School.

  In his first week there, Stanton met the young, chubby and affable Oliver Ariens from New Orleans. The two shared Constitutional Law and Contracts courses in their 1L year, and as different as they were, they had bonded from the start. As Stanton led the Law Review, Ariens served as his Executive Editor. The two also won Harvard’s vaunted Moot Court competition and finished as runners-up nationally. Their competitors referred to them as “The Odd Couple.”

  While Ariens went off to serve his judicial clerkships, Stanton started clocking time at a Philly corporate firm while plotting his political path. He was elected to the statehouse two years later, ascended to minority leader in Harrisburg, and seamlessly seized an open congressional seat several terms after that.

  Along the way, he and Ariens had served as best men at one another’s weddings and their young families vacationed together. Ariens had flown up to the funeral when Stanton’s father passed away.

  They were thrilled when they won their congressional seats on the same day. A dozen years after being 1Ls at Harvard together, once again in the same first-year class.

  Shortly after taking their oaths, Stanton and Ariens moved into a Capitol Hill apartment together, where they lived when not back in their districts.

  Despite living together, this is where their paths diverged slightly. While both were equally unimpressed by their colleagues, Stanton tolerated the nonsense of Congress that Ariens couldn’t stomach. But Stanton also had more incentive to do so.

  Young, good looking, and consumed with fitness, Stanton devoured the social perks that came with being a young congressman. It was their little secret that Stanton shepherded a revolving door of young women through their apartment while his wife raised their two sons and a daughter back in Bucks County. For his part, Stanton was always amazed that Ariens didn’t once stray from his vows, as strained as his marriage became.

  Even more importantly, if he played his cards right, Stanton’s path could potentially lead him all the way to the White House. So putting up with the minor league shenanigans of the House was well worth it.

  When Ariens abandoned his political career and moved out to become a permanent D.C. resident, the two remained as close as ever. And when Ariens’ lobbying practice exploded, they formed a symbiotic bond. Ariens lined up financial support for Stanton as he rose through the House ranks; Stanton went to bat for Ariens’ clients whenever they needed his help. The two met for a standing cocktail every Wednesday night at the Capital Grille to catch up and swap notes.

  As they were with no one else, they were always honest with one another.

  Ariens always urged Stanton to dial back on the womanizing, concerned that it would come back to haunt Stanton. And Stanton worried about his friend’s health, urging Ariens to take better care of himself.

  So when he got the call that Ariens’ secretary had found him dead of a heart attack, Stanton wasn’t shocked. But he felt guilty that he had not pushed his friend harder.

  Four days later, he delivered the eulogy to a packed crowd.

  When the funeral wrapped up, Stanton was not up to glad-handing or small talk. While the crowd exited through the back of the church, he snuck out the front and hopped into the rear seat of his waiting, chauffeured Suburban. As it took him back to his Georgetown home, Stanton somberly stared out the window, chin in hand.

  Ariens’ death came at a tough time politically.

  The clock was ticking on his presidential ambitions. After a meteoric rise, he was stuck behind that bumpkin Marshall in caucus leadership. Even worse, Speaker Williams’ disciplined leadership trumped Marshall again and again, so they were confined to the minority indefinitely. As talented as Stanton was, who ever heard of a House minority whip running for president?

  His other potential path to the White House, a statewide run in the Keystone State, was not viable. Pennsylvania tilted too Democratic for him to make a credible run for senator or governor.

  Boxed in, Stanton had often sought Ariens’ advice on his options to move up. They hadn’t figured out a path yet, but Ariens was his most trusted confidant on the topic.

  Now his best friend and best adviser was gone.

  * * *

  The next morning, a knock on the front door of Stanton’s P Street townhome interrupted him as he read the Post. A rare home delivery. Even more rarely, he was home to receive it.

  Asked to sign for it, Stanton recognized the return address, which appeared directly under the box showing that two prior attempts had been made at delivery. He quickly scrawled his name and took the package inside.

  He sat down at his kitchen table and opened it. Inside was a single manila legal folder. A Post-it affixed to the front of the folder implored: “Please look into this ASAP. OAIII”

  Stanton opened the file.

  At first glance, the stack of papers appeared odd. Random. Not at all connected to anything he and Ariens had discussed.

  Articles on an election equipment company based in Philly, Abacus. Stanton knew the name. Over the years, their leadership had supported his campaigns at modest levels. (Diebold had given far more, thanks to the Ariens connection). But that was it.

  Ariens’ underlining and handwritten notes on the clippings left a helpful trail of interesting facts. Abacus had been struggling, almost out of business. Then it had been acquired. With new technology, Abacus was now competing fiercely to keep some accounts and gain new ones. And it was succeeding.

  So what? What was the significance? No obvious answer jumped off the pages. In the grand scheme of what he dealt with every day, this seemed trivial.

  Strange set of papers.

  But then he glanced again at the note from his deceased friend: “Please look into this ASAP.” Ariens would have had a purpose in sending this.

  He tossed the Post-it note into a wastebasket, put the file in his briefcase, and headed to Capitol Hill.

  As Stanton strolled into his cavernous Capitol suite, his staff looked up at him from their desks. Ariens had visited the office regularly, so they all knew him, and knew how close the two were. Several aides had gone to the funeral to pay their respects, and this was the first time they had seen their boss since.

  Stanton walked past the first six desks without saying a word but stopped at the workstation of his most talented research assistant. As she looked up at him, he tossed the Abacus file onto her desk.

  “Joanie, I want you to look into this company. Put together a file on everything you find, and arrange for me to stop by the next time I’m scheduled to be in Philadelphia.”

  “That’s next week,” his scheduler piped up from the next desk over.

  “Great,” Stanton replied curtly, turning to her. “Get it done.”

  The mourning was over.

  Chapter 24

  YOUNGSTOWN: 142 days after the election

  Jones’ findings filled in a huge piece of the puzzle.

  We now knew exactly how Abacus had rigged the elections. I also dug up the long history of the company, as well as the mysterious purchase by an outfit known as Digital Machines Incorporated, DMI, the year before. A few final calls would round out the st
ory.

  First, I called Speaker Marshall’s office and got as far as the deputy press secretary.

  “The Speaker isn’t available, but I’d be happy to answer your questions.”

  “I don’t know an easy way to ask this, but we have found that voting machines in numerous districts in last year’s election eliminated thousands of Democratic votes. The altered results impacted the outcome in well over a dozen close races. I wanted to get the Speaker’s reaction to what looks to be a tainted election.”

  “You’ve got to be joking,” the press aide said. “That sounds like something the National Enquirer would run, not a serious newspaper.”

  “I couldn’t be more serious.”

  This cocky kid was why we consider D.C. press flacks the worst in the business. Barely out of college, they always had an attitude. Lately, Twitter seems to have amped the snark of these kids even higher than that of their predecessors.

  “We have reviewed the data for months, and it’s quite clear that this occurred.”

  “I can assure you that the Speaker is not going to respond to such a cockamamie story.”

  “Can I write that you refused to comment?”

  No good press aide would allow those incriminating words to be associated with the boss’ name.

  “No you can’t,” the aide shot back. “Feel free to quote me saying, ‘The Speaker is proud of his party’s win last year, a result of hard work by many candidates and a clear message that it’s time for new leadership in the House.’”

  A perfectly hollow quote, but better than nothing.

  “Are you interested in seeing what we’ve found?”

  “No.”

  Also the right answer. No reason for the Speaker’s office to get any more involved with the story. But if this played out right, he’d have to respond soon enough.

  * * *

  Ernie Rogers picked up the phone on the second ring.

  “Mr. Chairman, I’ve got some news for you.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I looked into your questions about last November’s vote, and after a long investigation, I found that you were right. The vote results were rigged by voting machines.”

  “I knew it!” Rogers yelled.

  His celebration ended quickly, as my explanation of the plot appalled the old chairman.

  “Since it was your hunch that got me looking into it in the first place, can I quote you in the story?”

  “Sure.” Rogers paused for ten seconds to gather his thoughts.

  “I fought for our country and knew many men who lost their lives doing the same,” he said. “Stealing an election is an insult to every one of us who puts our lives on the line to protect our incredible democracy.”

  He meant every word, but this was too trite to use. I’d have to try a different angle, without sounding like I was spoon-feeding him the quote.

  “How did you know that something was wrong with the vote count in Monroe County?”

  “All I can say is a machine doesn’t know the people of Monroe County like I do. As I told you that first day, our people didn’t vote against Congressman Kelly. It just didn’t add up.”

  Perfect.

  Rogers didn’t just give me the story in the first place. He gave me my lede.

  * * *

  Over the years, an old journalistic trick rarely failed me: call the person implicated by a negative story last. And not just last, but as close to publishing as possible.

  The subject of a tough story will do all they can to kill the article, to cover their tracks, or to preempt the bad press. Early in my career, I learned this lesson, painfully. Twice, on the eve of a big scoop, officials ran to other journalists and spilled the beans, desperately trying to get the most positive “spin” out before my tougher story ran.

  Calling as late as possible minimized these opportunities.

  With everything else in place, now was the right time to call Abacus.

  I dialed with the same nervousness as that first obituary. With no idea what to expect, I had prepared a long set of questions and had diagrammed out exactly what to ask based on the answers I received.

  The diagram turned out to be useless.

  “I am a reporter from the Youngstown Vindicator. I’d like to talk to your press person.”

  “We don’t have a press person yet. Is there anyone else that could help you?”

  Yet? “Your CEO then.”

  “Mr. Scott is out for a few days and would only meet in person anyway. He doesn’t do media interviews over the phone.”

  “This is somewhat urgent. Who can I speak to about an important company matter?”

  “Our Chief Operating Officer is here. Let me check with him.”

  Tacky elevator music blared over the phone for a few minutes. Then a click.

  “Jim Johnson here,” bellowed a deep Southern accent. “How can I help ya?”

  “Mr. Johnson, I’m Jack Sharpe, a reporter from the Youngstown Vindicator. I’d like to have our conversation be on the record if at all possible.”

  “Sure thing,” Johnson said. “I’ve got nothing to hide. What’s up?”

  “We have conducted an investigation into last year’s election and found that Abacus machines were located in key swing districts across the country.”

  “Absolutely!” Johnson said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Excuse me?” Another odd response.

  “Abacus kicked our ass the last few years and nabbed all sorts of accounts around the country, so three months ago, we bought the sons of bitches out,” Johnson said. “Those bastards undercut us all over the country. We worried they were about to do a lot more damage, and we’d had enough of it.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Diebold! Abacus is now a wholly-owned subsidiary of Diebold. We basically bought them to buy their accounts and stop the bleeding. We don’t need their technology, and we certainly didn’t need their people.”

  “So the old Abacus is gone?”

  “Buddy, the old Abacus disappeared the day that DMI group bought them a couple years ago. DMI saved the company by modernizing things, and must have spent a shit ton in the process. So when DMI was willing to sell the company dirt cheap, we couldn’t resist grabbing ’er.”

  “Dirt cheap?”

  “Yeah. A fire-sale price. We couldn’t say no. Seiko would’ve grabbed them if we hadn’t.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “We finalized the deal two months ago, and moved in almost immediately.”

  How the hell did I miss that?

  I recovered to get back to the story.

  “I was calling because an in-depth investigation by my newspaper has found clear evidence of vote manipulation in last year’s election. This manipulation likely impacted the outcome of dozens of congressional races. All the manipulation occurred in counties where Abacus has its machines.”

  Johnson paused for a few seconds before responding.

  “What the hell do you say after hearing that?” he asked. “We had nothing to do with last year’s election. Hell, we disliked Abacus as much as anyone. You’ll have to track down the prior leadership and ask them about your findings. But they got out of here right quick.”

  “So what can I quote you saying?”

  “What I just said. That we had nothing to do with last year’s election and have no idea what y’all are talking about. Nothing improper would ever happen under our watch.”

  “Do you have any idea how to find their prior leadership?”

  “Not a clue. They were out of here the day we moved in. Odd bunch. Don’t know where they came from or where they went! Just glad they’re gone.”

  Chapter 25

  LONDON: 19 months before the election

  “One of the most important
congressmen in Washington requested to visit us.”

  Andersson, in Philadelphia to lead Abacus operations, talked quickly, worry in his voice.

  “Who is he?” Kazarov asked calmly from London.

  “His name is Thomas Stanton. He is from the Philadelphia area, but he is also the second most important Republican in the House of Representatives.”

  Kazarov recognized the name. Ariens had talked about him often as a key ally in the Energy 2020 effort, but also as a personal friend.

  Maybe Ariens had communicated with someone prior to his death after all. But this man was also from Philadelphia, so perhaps it was unrelated to Ariens or his plot. Likely chasing political contributions as all American politicians do.

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. His office called and said he wanted to pay a visit next week. That he was interested in seeing our new technology and how it worked.”

  This request came at a critical moment. Andersson and his team were in the final stages of preparation. They needed to run a few additional simulations, remove some final bugs, and then would be poised to ship nationwide.

  The tight deadlines put the entire operation under tremendous pressure, so Kazarov shared Andersson’s apprehension about unexpected developments. But he expressed no worry. He never did.

  “Let him visit,” Kazarov responded after a several second pause. “If we intend to be located across the country, a visit from one congressman shouldn’t worry us.”

  Kazarov lit a cigarette and puffed it, staring straight ahead. This was not ideal, but rejecting the visit would draw unnecessary scrutiny.

  And who knows? Maybe this presented an opportunity. Perceived obstacles often did.

  * * *

  WASHINGTON, DC

  Five days after the funeral, over lunch, Stanton picked up a hefty Abacus research file from his desk. Once he started reading through it, he forgot about his sandwich.

  The history of the company was not much different than the original file. The company that acquired Abacus was called DMI. It was a start-up, its backers a mystery. Not much there.