The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

  Rikki belly laughed. “Not me, Jack. I’m like Supergirl or something.”

  “Yeah, right,” McCallen retorted as he marched toward the exit. “Keep telling yourself that and eventually you’re going to crash and burn.”

  Rikki silently stared at the door for a while before setting aside the burglary file. “Hey, Martha!” she yelled. “Can you bring me our draft discovery responses in the Schoolcraft case? I need to get all this stuff copied and mailed out before the post office closes.”

  The secretary peeked into the conference room and saw the two boxes on the table. “In less than two hours? You really do think you’re Supergirl, don’t you?”

  Rikki snorted, rolling up her sleeves. “You don’t think I can do it? Well, just sit back and watch me then!”

  CHAPTER 37

  VIENNA, VIRGINIA

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 10:45 A.M.

  Yuri Petrenko paced across his living room, pressing his phone up to his non-mangled right ear. ESPN’s college football pregame show played in the background on mute. “So is everything a go?” he asked.

  “For the most part,” Bowen replied. “Perkins got it all loaded in his office. He even shoved a dashboard camera in Pete Warner’s face when that turncoat came sniffing around.”

  Petrenko chuckled softly. “Good, good. Anything else you need from me?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have access to a squirrel, would you?”

  The Russian stopped dead in his tracks. “A what?”

  “Never mind,” Bowen mumbled, sounding dejected. “We probably couldn’t get it here in time, even if you did.”

  Petrenko shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He was becoming convinced these West Virginians were insane. “Why in the world do you need a squirrel?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bowen said curtly. “I shouldn’t have even mentioned it over the phone. I’ll take care of it.”

  Petrenko rolled his eyes and held the phone at arm’s length from his mouth, as if fighting the urge to scream. Five seconds and one deep breath later, he said, “Fine. If I stumble across a squirrel, I’ll let you know. If you need anything else, call me.”

  “Ten-four. If all goes well, everything will be taken care of by tomorrow morning.”

  “Keep me in the loop. And good luck with that whole squirrel thing.”

  “Thanks. We’ll need it.”

  CHAPTER 38

  CHARLESTON CIVIC CENTER

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1:10 P.M.

  Two huge screens hung on the wall behind the stage, one on each side of the podium, projecting the red, white and blue Royal/Johnstone campaign logo as GOP activists gathered for the recount training. Standing behind the podium, Dave sensed the crowd was growing agitated. He had waited 10 minutes to accommodate late arrivals, and he knew he could wait no more.

  “Okay, folks,” he said, adjusting the podium’s flexible microphone. “Let’s get started. For those who don’t know me, I’m David Anderson. I’m with Governor Royal’s headquarters, and I’ll be coordinating our recount efforts. As you can probably tell from my accent, I was born and bred here in West Virginia. So please … Don’t look at me like I have three heads just because I work inside the Beltway now.”

  Dave heard some sporadic chuckles, and that laughter helped him relax. As if on cue, the ballroom doors swung open, and Dave saw a familiar face enter the room.

  “Well, well, well,” he said with a smirk. “If it isn’t my good friend and mentor, Senator Jack McCallen. Glad you could finally join us, Jack.”

  Hearing his name, Jack froze in place. Dave watched the senator gaze up at the stage, trying to identify who had busted him for showing up late. Meeting his eyes, Jack’s startled look transformed into recognition. “Dave Anderson, you son-of-a-gun!” he exclaimed with a beaming smile. “You mean to tell me that you are the most qualified man Governor Royal could send to oversee this thing?” He shook his head, feigning disbelief. “Man, we’re really in trouble now.”

  Dave laughed. “You don’t know the half of it. Good to see you again, Jack. Now, if you’d sit down and at least act like you’re going to behave, I’ll continue.”

  Jack side-stepped behind a long row of people, making his way to his seat. “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks. As I was saying, I’m a state native. And unlike most people from Washington who may tell you, ‘I’m here to help,’ I really mean it.”

  More laughter met the jibe, a little louder this time. “During this seminar, we’ll explain the procedures that are supposed to be followed during the recounts. As we all know, some of the county clerks around the state – all shifty-eyed Democrats, of course – may try to play loose with the rules if they get a chance. But by-and-large, I think the last thing most people want to happen is for West Virginians to look as stupid as the folks in Florida did back in 2000.”

  A chorus of vigorous nods followed. “And the best way we can avoid looking like idiots is to avoid acting like idiots,” Dave said. “That’s why the Secretary of State strongly suggested that all 55 counties start their recounts on the same day – to give everyone time to become familiar with these procedures.

  “That’s also why the Secretary of State strongly suggested county clerks should work closely with the county chairpersons of both political parties: To make sure the people appointed to work on the recount enjoy broad respect in their communities. People will be less likely to criticize the results if they trust the folks doing the counting, and I think it’s in our whole state’s best interests for this thing to go off without a hitch.”

  Dave raised a glass of water to his lips. “But no system is perfect and inevitably there will be some bad apples slip through the cracks. And if you’re assigned to work with one of them, you need to understand the rules and fight back when they push the envelope unfairly.”

  Looking down at the audience, Dave saw a collective sense of determination in their eyes. Although a few seemed distracted, most were focused, and that sight boosted his confidence in Royal’s chances for success.

  “With that being said, I intend to help this process by doing what folks from D.C. should do more often when they venture outside the Beltway, and that’s to know when it’s time to get out of the way. So let me make way for our top lawyer in West Virginia – the man who convinced the Mingo County Commission to do the right thing last week – Mr. Mack Palmer.”

  As the muscular, slick-headed lawyer crossed the stage to the lectern, the crowd went wild. The forceful arguments he had advanced for Royal in Mingo County had turned him into a nationally recognizable figure, and a cult hero to Republicans in West Virginia. That admiration was reflected by loud whoops, fervent clapping, and a standing ovation.

  “Thank you very much,” Palmer began. The crowd remained on its feet, continuing to clap, while Dave quietly slipped off stage. “Really, you’re too kind.”

  Dave sat down along the back wall where he could watch the presentation while slipping out to take a phone call if necessary. He sat down just when the crowd decided that Palmer had been sufficiently showered with adulation.

  “As you all know,” Palmer said, “Monday’s a big day. In order for Governor Royal to hold on to his victory, we must be on top of our game. Although the procedures vary slightly – depending upon whether your county uses optical scan machines, the new DRE touchscreens or good old-fashioned paper ballots – I’m here to give you a general overview. We’ll focus on the different voting systems in greater detail during our breakout sessions this afternoon.”

  Palmer stepped back from the podium and turned toward a projection screen. As he moved, the stage lights glistened off his bald head. Hitting his remote, the campaign logo onscreen disappeared, replaced with a black outline of West Virginia against a light gray background. The symbols “153 CSR 20” were superimposed across the map in royal blue.

  “According to the regs,” he said, flicking the remote. “Governor Royal can only
have one official representative in each county. That person is authorized to ‘observe the recount proceedings, including observing each ballot as it is read in a hand-count process. They may view and examine the tally sheets and ballots, but may not handle the election material.’”

  “Because the final outcome may turn on legal issues,” Palmer explained. “Governor Royal has designated the attorneys assigned to each county as his official representatives. As much as we value the involvement of local officials in this process, when fights start breaking out over the proper application of the regulations – as they inevitably will – we need to make sure the person speaking for the campaign is well-trained for those battles.”

  Palmer continued through his presentation. “The county clerks will assign two-man teams – one Democrat, one Republican – to work together on the recount. To speed things up, there will be multiple two-person teams in each county working on the recount at the same time. One team examines each ballot individually, announcing the voter’s choice, while a second two-person team writes down the results on individual tally sheets. Each pair of two-person teams will work on one precinct at a time, and they are supposed to pause after every twenty votes to double-check the tally sheets. If those don’t match, they recount the last 20 ballots and check again. If necessary, they go back and start the whole precinct over.”

  Palmer returned to the podium. “We’ll go over the specifics in the breakout sessions. But regardless of what ballots were used in your county, what you’re looking for is a clear expression of the voter’s preference on each ballot. Did the voter mostly shade in an oval on an optical scan ballot? What does the VVPAT reflect? If the ballot demonstrates who the voter chose, we want the recount to reflect that preference.

  “On the other hand,” Palmer cautioned. “We don’t want this process to deteriorate into a battle of wishful thinking, where the Democrats claim certain ballots reflect votes for Senator Wilson where none exist, and we respond by similarly imagining votes for Governor Royal.”

  Palmer hit his remote and a new slide appeared. “If you think a Dem has called a vote for Wilson where none exists, dispute that opinion. According to the rules, ‘If a ballot is questioned, the deputized team shall reexamine that ballot and reach their finding. Any ballot questioned shall be marked to provide for its identification at any future contest of the election. If a majority of the deputized team cannot agree on the intent of the voter’s markings on a ballot, it shall remain questioned and the votes for that ballot shall not be recorded.”

  Palmer’s arms dropped to his side. “No ifs, ands or buts. A majority of the two-person team examining the ballots is two. So if both workers on the team don’t agree on the voter’s intention, then no vote from that ballot is recorded. Period. That ballot is marked and identified so we can argue about it later if there’s a contest after the recount is over.

  “Now we don’t want you folks to act like no vote for Wilson counts unless every single microdot on an oval is shaded in,” he clarified. “Be reasonable. Follow the Golden Rule and ‘do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ Don’t hold their voters to a higher standard than you hold ours, because we don’t want the Dems nitpicking about ballots reflecting votes for our guy either.” Palmer rested his left hand on the lectern. “Questions?”

  Dave raised his hand.

  “Yes, Dave.”

  “You’re not saying we should just roll over and make nice, are you? What if the Democrats they’re paired off with try to question every ballot for Governor Royal? Are we supposed to just sit back and let every vote for Wilson slide by?”

  Palmer’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head. “Not at all. If someone isn’t playing by the rules, trying to void as many votes for Governor Royal as they can, call their actions to the County Commission’s attention. They’re still presiding over the recount, and they probably don’t want the whole world to think they’re stupid or corrupt, or both.

  “If that occurs,” Palmer continued. “Our lawyer should pull the other side’s rep aside and try to reason with him. Explain that everyone needs to play by the rules. If they want to throw all our votes into a pile to be dealt with during the contest, we can do the same thing. What’s fair for the goose is fair for the gander. We can all look fair and honest, or we can all look mean-spirited and vindictive. Everyone will be happier if the world thinks this is an impartial recount, but we won’t let the other side steal this election by acting unfairly, either.”

  Dave nodded, satisfied. Looking around the ballroom, many others agreed.

  “Any other questions regarding the overall process?” Palmer asked. With none forthcoming, he hit the remote and the campaign logo returned to the projector screens. “If not, we’ll separate into our individual groups. Those of you from counties using DRE touchscreens will stay here. Folks from counties with optical scan ballots should go to West Virginia Room 105. And the people from Braxton County and Wyoming County will head over to Room 207, where we will discuss the recount of paper ballots.”

  As the audience headed to their respective meetings, Dave navigated through the crowd to Jack’s table. As he drew closer, the senator saw him and smiled. Rising to his feet, he extended his hand. “Dave Anderson! It’s been a coon’s age since I saw you. How ya been?”

  Dave gave Jack’s hand an energetic, heartfelt pump. “No complaints. How are the kids and Tabatha doing?”

  “The boys are shooting up like reeds. Tabatha is … well … Tabatha.” He chuckled uneasily and shrugged. “What else can I say?”

  Dave tightened his lips and nodded. “Say nothing more. I understand. So are you sticking around tonight? Maybe I could take you out and buy you a beer or something. It’s the least I could do to thank you for introducing me to our next president.”

  Jack beamed and let out a loud laugh. “Who could have imagined? You were a young Republican law school grad looking for a job in D.C. I knew Jonathan from our regional state legislators’ meetings, and he had just won his first election to Congress. I gave him a ring, put in a good word for you, and the rest is history.”

  Jack let out a sigh. “Unfortunately, I have to head back to Saint Marys right after the seminar. I have a lot of work to get done and this recount has put me behind schedule.”

  Dave grinned. “Since when did you start working on weekends? The most I’ve ever seen you do on a Saturday is hit a round of golf.”

  Jack chuckled. “I can’t deny that. But right now, this big firm’s looking to invest a chunk of money in my company, and I’m busting my hump trying to hammer out a deal.”

  “Some big pockets outfit trying to get in on the Marcellus Shale play?”

  “Yep, and with big pockets come big expectations. They want me to drop everything to get them the paperwork they need for their due diligence, and with the money they’re talking about investing with me, I’m willing to do it.”

  “Good for you,” Dave said. “Well, maybe I’ll look you up next weekend. I’ll be home for Thanksgiving and it’d be nice to catch up with you and see how big the boys are getting.”

  “Why don’t you swing by on Saturday night and watch the WVU-Pitt game with us?”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll give you a ring.”

  Jack gave Dave a vigorous pat on the arm as they parted. “I’ll look forward to it. Maybe we’ll be able to toast the country’s next president by then. And I don’t mean Melanie Wilson.”

  CHAPTER 39

  MINGO COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 10:55 P.M.

  Sheriff Perkins confidently strolled down Second Avenue in his black uniform, the white streetlamps silhouetting his figure on the concrete sidewalk. Hoisting a bundle of keys, he swiftly found the one that unlocked the courthouse. Swinging the glass door open, he walked through it like he owned the place before studiously relocking it.

  Entering his department’s second floor suite, Perkins turned on
the overhead lights and walked back to his private office. Using another key, he unbolted both locks and entered the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

  Perkins tiptoed through his darkened office to the windows overlooking Second Avenue. Sure enough, the occupants of that damn black van were scurrying around the building. Peeking through the blinds, he saw four men feverishly training their video cameras on strategic areas of the building, including his office and that of the county clerk.

  Turning from the window, he walked across the room and stood in front of the bank vault door guarding his department’s weapons. Reaching into his pants, he pulled out the only key in existence that would open the door without a locksmith’s assistance.

  Still operating in the dark, Perkins ran the palm of his left hand along the door face and located its locking mechanisms. Deftly retrieving a small flashlight from his utility belt, he leaned his forehead against the door and placed the flashlight in his mouth, directing its beam down toward the combination lock. Using his right hand to rotate the dial clockwise, then counterclockwise, then clockwise yet again, he held the key in the keyhole with his left hand. After entering the combination, he turned the key to the right, pulled down on a lever located to the right of the keyhole, and grinned when the tumblers fell into place.

  The door nudged open. Widening the gap, the sheriff peered inside the weapons cabinet and saw the means to Melanie Wilson’s election lying on the floor, waiting for him.

  CHAPTER 40

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 11:25 P.M.

  Sitting alone on a barstool in the hotel lounge, Dave stared at the television behind the bar, watching college football highlights on SportsCenter. The bartender also watched the highlights while gathering discarded bottles and glasses.

  “So what did you think about UCLA knocking off USC?” the barkeep asked.

  Dave swallowed a mouthful of beer. “I thought USC was kind of overrated this year. But it ought to help the Mountaineers, anyway.”