The People's House

by David Pepper

  “Living it up!” celebrated the caption.

  I scrolled down from there.

  Turns out, Simpson had been a voracious user of Facebook.

  From her later high school days up until that final photo, she documented everything she did, all day long, every day. Political commentary often linked to articles. Social activity. Tons of photos—selfies, group shots, pictures of D.C. landmarks. Through an app, even her running routes and times appeared on her page, so anyone could see her regular District loop.

  I spent the rest of the morning scrutinizing every detail of her short life, looking for any telltales or patterns that might reveal something.

  The most clear-cut takeaway was that Joanie Simpson was a passionate conservative. From national security to tax policy, education, and social issues, she was a die-hard. And beginning halfway through her freshman year in college, she wasn’t shy to air those views publicly, debating even close friends and family with strong rhetoric and sharp jabs.

  After she graduated and began her work on the Hill, her posts focused as much on political personalities as issues. She expressed deep disdain for Speaker Williams, celebrated the president’s re-election with enthusiasm, and regularly name-dropped other well-known politicians she admired or praised.

  “Congressman Smith was fantastic on Meet the Press today. Explained why it’s long past time to repeal Common Core!”

  “Thank you, Senator Timken. You inspire me!”

  “Awesome news! President Johnson is reducing taxes on the energy industry. Badly needed if we’re going to compete with the oil dictatorships in the Middle East.”

  And so on.

  At the same time, all the way back to her college days, the page painted a picture of an intensely social young woman. As serious as she took politics, she never let it get in the way of fun. Out with friends all the time, she snapped and posted photos of each occasion. Her friends also routinely published pictures of her onto her wall, at bars, sports games, restaurants, outdoor activities, and formal dinners. Simpson kept up an incredibly active social schedule, and not only on weekends.

  Through the years of these vivacious posts and photographs, one feature jumped off the page. In each photo, Simpson unleashed a distinct, effusive, stunning smile.

  It was wide, with both rows of bright white teeth gleaming in full view. Dimples creased deeply into her cheeks about an inch to the left and right of her sharply turned up lips. A laugh line wrinkled diagonally from each corner of her mouth to her nose. And her eyes narrowed to thin crescents, almost appearing to close.

  From her more awkward days at Williams to her evolution into an elegant young woman in Washington, the trademark smile never changed. And she appeared to flash it whenever she saw someone lift a camera. Every posed shot, the same joyous expression beamed. Like a reflex, but appearing natural every time.

  The only photos where she wasn’t smiling appeared to be when she was caught off guard. Looking in a different direction. Preoccupied with something. Eating. Talking.

  With one exception.

  There was a unique subset of posed photos.

  The sun-drenched team shot after a Congressional Softball League game on the Mall. The office holiday party at the Capital Grill. A retreat to the historic Manassas Battlefield taken by Republican leadership and their top staff.

  Unlike all the others, these photos had two features:

  Joanie Simpson’s remarkable smile was absent.

  And Congressman Stanton was present.

  With her boss at most a few feet away, Simpson’s eyes did not squint but rounded. She wasn’t frowning, but her lips were pursed tightly, flat. No dimples, no laugh lines. Her overall look became expressionless, hollow.

  The stark contrast with her usual beaming face gave her away: Simpson felt deeply uncomfortable in Stanton’s presence.

  The only exception was a group photo going all the way back to Simpson’s internship the summer after her junior year at Williams. There, with Stanton standing right behind her, she flashed her usual smile.

  Seeing this, I reviewed one other tidbit, something I hadn’t noticed at first.

  Amid all her spirited posts about political figures she admired, she never mentioned her own boss, one of Washington’s most high-profile Republicans. At least not since her first week on the job.

  “Honored to start working this week for Minority Whip Tom Stanton. A die-hard. A true believer.”

  And never again.

  I sat in silence for about two minutes, looking up from the monitor, staring across the newsroom. Recalled the rumors about Stanton’s womanizing, his fondness for young women in particular. Whispers of past harassment and legal settlements.

  As I refocused on the images of Simpson and Stanton together, it was clear. Unmistakable.

  This was the anguished face of a victim trapped only feet from her tormenter. And Stanton had victimized her from almost the day she started working in his office.

  The prospect of taking this guy down suddenly got a lot more motivating.

  * * *

  Needing some fresh air, I walked a few blocks to grab lunch and marched back to work forty minutes later. The Suburban still idled near the office. I was so disturbed by my morning discovery I didn’t care.

  On to Ariens.

  Lobbyists don’t generally seek publicity, so I called some old friends from the Washington press corps to see what they knew.

  “Oliver Ariens? Lived a big life. Drinker. Smoker. Seriously overweight. Not surprised when he dropped dead,” John Vermaat of Roll Call explained. “He had an uninspired stint in Congress, but later cashed in as one hell of a powerful lobbyist. We’re talking about the world champion of powerful industry groups.”

  The Hill’s Nancy Pfeiffer was equally impressed. “You couldn’t tell by looking at him, but the guy was brilliant. Never seen anyone tackle controversy head-on like he did and still come out on top every time. But he was struggling with his energy plan. The stress might have gotten to him.”

  “Any sense of who his clients were?”

  “Seemed to represent just about everyone. At least everyone who needed major help on the Hill. Big banks. Oil and gas. Timber. Payday lenders. The airlines. The better question might be who didn’t he represent?”

  A little digging confirmed their accounts. While all lobbyists try to keep themselves in the background, mandatory disclosures made it impossible to do so completely. From the documents I found, the man represented the Who’s Who of unpopular industries.

  But two of Ariens’ clients stuck out in particular. He represented Diebold, the largest player in the election equipment space. And he represented Marcellus, a company I had witnessed become the dominant player in the fracking industry, and one of the clearest beneficiaries of the election.

  I had begun exploring those connections when my phone rang. I picked it up immediately, hoping for Chief Santini.

  “Mr. Sharpe?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Bridget Turner of Republic News.”

  “Wow.”

  Lame response, but it was all I could think to say. We talked for ten more minutes.

  Republic News was a phenomenon, Turner was its hottest commodity, and now she wanted me to appear on her show. A cable television channel and online streaming site all in one, Republic jumped to the top of the ratings the past two years. Its 24-hour availability on every medium, from phones to computers to old-time television sets, paired with its aggressive investigatory style revolutionized political coverage. And Turner, a 43-year-old model-turned-prosecutor-turned-TV personality—armed with a charming personality and a smooth Tennessee drawl—hosted its highest-rated, prime-time show.

  Perfect. A huge opportunity. Republic had cornered the market on political corruption. Not surprising they’d be all over a scandal like this. Plus, Tur
ner enjoyed a huge following. This would be my best opportunity to explain the Abacus story.

  I filed the Ariens materials, raced out to my car, and drove home to shave, shower and don my new sports coat and tie.

  * * *

  “You’re on in five. Just look right into this camera the whole time.”

  Blush on and a mic clipped to my tie, I sat on a wooden stool facing directly into a camera five feet in front of me.

  “Gotcha.”

  At 7:58, Turner’s deep voice spoke into my earpiece.

  “Jack, so glad y’all could join us on such late notice. We’re thrilled to get you on.”

  “Thanks so much, Bridget. It’s an honor to be on your show. I’m a big fan.”

  “Love it! I’ll be back with you in three minutes.”

  Like a good politician, she already felt like an old friend.

  At eight on the nose, the familiar opening music to Turner’s show rang in my ear. Then a pre-packaged ninety-second summary of my story aired, with Turner’s recorded voice walking through the basics.

  “Just over a week ago, the whole country woke up to an earth-shattering political story. A tainted election, voting totals manipulated by voting machines in the key swing districts in the country. Today, we have the man who broke this story with us live!”

  “That’s right,” broke in a live Turner. “We have the man who turned the Beltway upside down with us tonight, exclusively: Mr. Jack Sharpe. Welcome to our show. Can I call you Jack?”

  “You sure can, as long as I can call you Bridget.”

  “Jack, for our rare viewer who doesn’t subscribe to the Youngstown Vindicator, please tell us about what you found, and how you found it?”

  “Well, Bridget, there was one district here in Ohio that had an election result that didn’t make sense to many people. So we started looking more closely, identified the voting machine company they used, which is called Abacus, and found that Abacus had managed to locate its machines in every swing congressional district in the country.” I slowed down as I pronounced the last seven words.

  “And?”

  The ho-hum tone of her question suggested those seven words had meant nothing.

  “And a close look at the data showed that these Abacus machines eliminated thousands of votes in many of those swing districts, securing surprising victories all over the country.”

  “Wow!” Turner said as if this was the first she had heard of the theory. “So you think Republicans stole last year’s election?”

  No one had asked the question that way before.

  “I didn’t say that. What we discovered is that voting results were manipulated to alter the outcome in about two dozen districts.”

  Turner persisted. “And Republicans won the House because of it. You’re basically accusing the Republicans of stealing an election, aren’t you?”

  A bead of sweat meandered its way down my right temple.

  “I’m really not. I . . .”

  “Do you think their leadership should be tried for treason? Because stealing an election would rise to that level of misdeed, wouldn’t it? You’re basically saying there was a coup in Congress, if you ask me.”

  She was overstating it. Making my theory sound absurd.

  “Bridget, as I said, our story only explains that Abacus machines eliminated the votes in strategic places. We did not even guess as to who orchestrated it. It could be any number of groups or individuals. We are still looking into that. But yes, it is a very serious act.”

  “Who did you rely on to come to this dramatic conclusion?” she asked.

  All hint of friendliness had left her voice. But I still tried to be polite.

  “Well, the data work was done by one of the country’s renowned experts in political data and statistics, Professor Jones at Ohio State.”

  Then I saw it.

  On a monitor off to the side of the camera, an unflattering picture of a young Renee Jones appeared on a split-screen. My face took up the other half of the screen. She was at a rally, mouth wide open, her right arm and fist lifted high in the air. Five feet to her left, a sign screamed: “Down with Bush!”

  “Are you talking about Professor Renee Jones?”

  “Yes. She is a widely respected expert on elections and data.”

  “By who?”

  “By everyone.”

  Turner laughed aloud.

  “As a fellow journalist, don’t you think we owe it to our readers and viewers to rely on balanced sources to support such monumental claims? Even before becoming a hired gun for Barack Obama, Renee Jones had a long history of activity in far left-wing causes. Here she is protesting President Bush.”

  “Yes, Professor Jones is certainly a Democrat. But she’s also a respected academic and expert. Either way, the data on the election is the data, and she knows it as well as anyone.”

  “But to prove your theory, you didn’t go to ‘anyone,’ you went to a left-wing activist protester. Or did she bring it to you?”

  “I went to her.”

  “Gotcha,” Turner replied.

  I’ve been in a few car accidents. They always unfold in slow motion, every second passing by at a snail’s pace but nothing you can do to stop the inevitable collision. You see it all but are still helpless. This interview felt the same way. All I could do was focus on controlling my voice and facial expression to minimize the damage.

  “Let’s talk about your other big source, Chairman Rogers of Monroe County.”

  Good. The old veteran had been a big hit with the media.

  “Sure. Chairman Rogers was the first person to raise a concern about the vote total in Monroe County. Monroe County had almost never voted for a Republican, so he knew something was up.”

  “Didn’t the county vote for Mitt Romney just a few years ago?”

  “Yes, but it’s a completely white, blue-collar county.”

  “So you’re saying Monroe County votes for Democrats except when they’re being racist?”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “Did you know Chairman Rogers once said he wished that John Hinckley’s bullet had done more damage to Reagan than it did?”

  Years ago, reporters had overhead Rogers say something indirectly to that effect, explaining to a local official how much better the country would have been if George Bush had ended the Reagan tax cuts earlier. The chairman was intensely criticized for the off-hand comment and apologized profusely.

  “That was years ago, and he apologized. It was a terrible comment, and I know he regrets it.”

  “So you did know he said it? An assassination joke? And you still chose to have him lead off your story, accusing Republicans of stealing an election?”

  “Yes, I did. He knows his county well.”

  “Right. The county that only votes for Democrats except when it voted for Mitt Romney.”

  Turner chuckled at her own sarcasm.

  “Why should we believe your story?” Turner asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why should we believe you? The story you wrote, if true, would have enormous implications. Why should we believe you?”

  “You can attack me all you want. But the facts are clear and indisputable.”

  “Let’s talk about that,” Turner replied.

  What next?

  “So you’re saying Abacus stole elections all over the country?”

  “The machines manipulated the results. Absolutely.”

  “Except when they didn’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “In Toledo, the Democrat won easily despite having Abacus machines in almost every county. The same was true in many other places where Abacus machines were located. Your own story said so.”

  “Right. The numbers were only manipulated in certain districts. In other districts
, they were counted correctly.”

  “So let me get this straight. When Abacus chose to count the votes correctly, the Democrats won, and everything’s legit. But if a Republican won, it means the votes were miscounted, and we should be concerned?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “Seems exactly like what you’re saying. And what your experts Renee Jones and Chairman Rogers want us to believe.”

  I almost pulled the earpiece out and got up. But having seen politicians do so in the past, it would only look worse. Would draw even more attention to this catastrophe.

  7:23. Six minutes to go. What else could come up?

  “I saw somewhere that you keep telling people you’re a Republican, so we should trust you for that reason. Is that true?”

  “It is. My family members are well-known Republicans from the Canton area. My dad was even a state representative.”

  “Good for him. I understand he lost his election because he was too cozy with Democrats.”

  Jesus.

  “Why is it that you never vote in the Republican primaries? In Ohio, voting in a primary is the way you declare what party you’re in.”

  “That’s true. Ever since I became a political journalist, I purposely avoided voting in primaries so people would see that I was neutral. Would make me look biased.”

  “You wouldn’t want that, would you? So you claim to be a Republican, but you haven’t voted in a Republican primary in decades. Have you ever voted in a primary before that?”

  “I voted for a few before being a political journalist. I think in 1986, 1988, 1990, 1992 . . .”

  My stomach tightened as I suddenly remembered.

  “1992?”

  “Yes. I . . .”

  “You voted in the Democratic primary that year, didn’t you?”

  I paused. Trapped.

  “Yes. My dad died that January. Almost none of his colleagues even bothered to show up at his funeral. It was my small protest against the way he had been treated.”

  “And that was your last primary, wasn’t it?”

  “It was.”

  “So you claim to be a Republican, but the last primary you ever voted in was a Democratic one.”