The Dirty Secret

by Brent Wolfingbarger

  “If we can beat Pitt next weekend, we should be sitting pretty,” the bartender opined, throwing empty bottles in the trashcan. The glass bottles clinked together loudly before hitting the bottom of the can with a resounding clank.

  Dave shook his head, wearing an amused grin. “Never bet on and never bet against the Mountaineers, my friend. They’ll break your heart and steal your money every time.”

  The bartender wiped down the bar with a wet dishcloth, clenching his teeth. “You got that right. I still have nightmares about RichRod costing us a shot at the title in ‘07.”

  Dave barked a pain-filled laugh. “Whoever coined the maxim, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch’ would have gotten a kick out of that game.” Draining the dregs of his beer, he tapped the empty bottle on the lacquered bar. “Damn bubble screens.”

  Dave’s cell phone rang. Leaning back, he pulled the phone from his pocket. The call was coming from the campaign’s national headquarters. “Anderson here.”

  “It looks like we might have a problem down in Mingo County.”

  Dave’s posture straightened and he put his hand over his open ear. “What’s going on?”

  “One of our video surveillance guys is on the other line. They said the sheriff unexpectedly walked into the courthouse a half-hour ago.”

  “Is he supposed to be on duty tonight or something?”

  “No clue. It’s not like we have a copy of the sheriff department’s work schedule. But the video guys are freaking out about it.”

  Dave sighed and motioned for another beer. Without knowing whether Perkins was slated to work that night, his presence at the courthouse could be completely innocent. “Can you patch their call through to me? I wanna hear what they have to say first-hand.”

  “Sure thing. Hold on just a sec.”

  The line went silent as Dave was put on hold. Ten seconds later, a new voice came over the line. “Mr. Anderson!” the man panted. “Thank God we got in touch with you!”

  “Calm down. Tell me what’s happening.”

  The man took a few deep breaths. “Sorry I’m winded, but I sprinted down the block to get a stronger cell phone signal, and I’ve been living off little chocolate donuts and cheeseburgers for the past two weeks down here.”

  “Take your time.”

  Silence, interspersed with desperate attempts to inhale oxygen, ensued. “The sheriff showed up about a half-hour ago and walked in the courthouse.”

  “Is he scheduled to work tonight?”

  “He pretty much comes and goes as he pleases. But he did work the midnight shift last Saturday, come to think of it.”

  The bartender slid a local microbrew in front of Dave, who raised it to his lips and frowned slightly. Not bad, but definitely not as tasty as Yuengling.

  “Okay,” Dave said, gently setting the bottle down. “So the mere fact he’s at the courthouse doesn’t tell us much. Have you seen anything else suspicious?”

  “Well, the Sheriff’s Department usually doesn’t have more than two guys on nightshift at the courthouse. Counting the Sheriff, tonight there are three.”

  “Odd,” Dave conceded. “But not overly so. Anything else?”

  “Holy shit!” the man exclaimed.

  “What? What is it?”

  “There was a loud explosion on the hill and every fucking light in town just went off!”

  “Say what?!”

  “Every fucking light in town just went off! Streetlights, the lights from the gas station down the road. Everything. It’s like the whole town of Williamson just lost power.”

  Dave’s mind began racing. “Where are the voting machines stored?”

  “Down in the courthouse basement.” The investigator was breathing heavily.

  “Are there any windows to that room which are visible from the outside?”

  “I’m not sure. We don’t exactly have a copy of the blueprints in the van.”

  “I know that,” Dave snapped. “We need to think fast. Try to remember exactly where that room is located.”

  “It’s kind of in the middle of the basement. Along the back wall, on the opposite side of the building from the side that faces Second Avenue. Kinda towards the end of the courthouse that’s adjacent to the Coal House.”

  Dave consciously tried to remain calm. “Okay. Get the cameras positioned on windows that are located as close to that area of the building as possible.”

  “There aren’t any windows close to that area,” the man answered emphatically. “I ran back down to the courthouse, and I’m looking at it now. There’s a wall of black marble four feet high wrapped around the base of the whole building and there are no windows in the basement.”

  “Then focus the cameras on the glass doors and any windows that might give you a glimpse into the stairwells and call Pete Warner immediately. He has keys to the courthouse and we need him to get in there and see what’s going on.”

  “I’m on it. We’ll call you back.”

  Dave’s phone went silent. Slumping forward, he thought he might pass out. He was a hundred miles from Williamson, and he could do nothing but wait and pray.

  CHAPTER 41

  MINGO COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 12:15 A.M.

  “What the hell are you boys doing out here?!” Perkins yelled. He was standing in the front doorway to the courthouse, propping it open with a black snakeskin cowboy boot.

  The two cameramen whirled away from the windows they were monitoring and marched toward him, plainly itching for a confrontation.

  “The better question, Sheriff, is what have you been doing in there?” one shot back.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve been trying to get paperwork done in the fucking dark. That’s what.”

  A gold SUV barreled up to the courthouse and squealed to a stop. Pete Warner jumped out wearing gray sweatpants and a camouflage jacket, and jogged up to the courthouse door.

  “Commissioner Warner,” Perkins said with a malicious smile. “What brings you all the way here from Varney this time of night?”

  “You know damn good and well what I’m doing here,” Warner growled. “What are you doing here? You’re not scheduled to work tonight.”

  The sheriff took one long stride toward Warner, still smiling but deliberately invading his personal space. “Bob called in sick. Bad case of the Hershey squirts. I’m filling in for him. You got a problem with that, Pete?”

  Warner’s chest heaved up and down as he stared at the sheriff, his balled fists clenched to his sides. “What’s going on with the power?”

  “I don’t rightly know. I sent a deputy to check on it but I haven’t heard back from him. Hold on.” He pulled a handheld radio from his belt. “Fifty-four, you there? Over.”

  A baritone voice replied through crackling static. “Fifty-four here, Sheriff. Over.”

  “Have you figured out what happened to the electricity yet?”

  Static filled the air for 15 seconds as Warner and the two cameramen surrounded Perkins. The other two video guys came trotting around the corner of the building to join the festivities. The bright lights from their cameras bounced in the dark with each step.

  “Roger. Looks like a transformer up here at the substation blew. The power company has a man here working on it. Over.”

  Perkins nodded. “Any word on what caused the transformer to blow?”

  Chuckles echoed out of the radio speaker. “Roger, Sheriff. The guy here says it looks like a squirrel got into it somehow.”

  The sheriff rocked back on his heels and let out a big laugh. “A squirrel? You gotta be kidding me!”

  “Can’t say I am, Sheriff. Larry’s over there, scraping what’s left of the sorry critter into a trash bag. That thing looks charbroiled as hell.” Then the deputy made a retching noise. “It smells like hell, too. I think I’m gonna hurl.”

  Perkins doubled over laughing. “Don’t do that! Think
of something else to soothe your stomach. Like a moldy baloney sandwich floating in a dirty ashtray full of spoiled milk.”

  Full-fledged vomiting noises followed the comment, and the sheriff’s laughter grew even louder. “That wasn’t nice,” the deputy sulked. “Over.”

  Perkins slowly caught his breath. “I’m sorry, Frank. I just couldn’t help myself. Find out how much longer it’s gonna take and then head back out on patrol, okay? Over.”

  “He says he should have everything back up and running in a few minutes.”

  “All right then. If he doesn’t need anything else, go ahead and take off. I’ll see you shortly. Over.”

  “Roger that. Fifty-four out.”

  Perkins returned the radio to his belt. Grinning broadly, he stood tall with his hands on his hips. “Any more questions?”

  “Yeah,” Warner replied. “Are the election materials still safely secured?”

  “I suppose so. It’s not like I’ve checked on ‘em or anything, but I’m sure they’re fine.” Perkins rotated toward the closest cameraman. “I mean, you guys had your cameras fixed on the courthouse. Did you see anybody sneaking around in there?”

  “We couldn’t see much. We’ll have to wait and see if the night vision cameras captured anything once we review the footage in slow motion.”

  The sheriff’s smile remained fixed. “Well, I was upstairs in my office the whole time. But if you guys didn’t see anybody rummaging around in the basement, everything should be fine down there.”

  Warner cracked a grin. “Why don’t we wander down there and check things out? You know … just to make sure.”

  Perkins shrugged. “Might as well, while we’re here.” He took a step backward, away from the cameras and into the courthouse doorway.

  “Can I borrow your flashlight, Sheriff?” Warner asked.

  The lawman swung open the door and held it open. “Sure. What do you need it for?”

  “I need to go down to my office and grab a few things.”

  Perkins handed him the flashlight. “Go ahead. We’ll wait here for you.”

  “Thanks,” Warner replied gruffly. He grabbed the flashlight and turned left down the main hallway. As he strolled into the darkness, following the diffused cone of light, his rubber soles squeaked loudly on the waxed vinyl floor.

  Two minutes later, Warner’s office door slammed shut just as the streetlamps came back on. The sound of a computer rebooting percolated from the courthouse security station. Green and red lights flashed on the metal detector and the X-ray monitor lit up, as well.

  “Well, whadda ya know?” Perkins quipped. “It looks like that squirrel was no match for the power grid, after all.”

  Warner came around the corner and entered the foyer, holding a stapled document.

  “Whatcha got there, Pete?” Perkins asked.

  “Oh, just some paperwork,” Warner replied. “Which way do you want to go?”

  “Let’s take the main stairwell, just in case the power goes out again. No offense, but I don’t wanna be holed up with you boys in a disabled elevator all night.” Perkins ambled toward the stairs and Warner stepped aside, permitting him to lead the way.

  The six men entered the stairwell and descended single-file into the basement. Perkins slung open the heavy steel fire door and turned left, hitting a light switch. The others followed.

  Fifteen feet down the hallway, Perkins wheeled left and stood before a door. Pulling a retractable key-ring from his belt, he fingered through the keys dangling at his side. Finding the right one, he inserted it into the keyhole, opened the door and flipped on the lights.

  Carefully positioned both on top of tables and on the floor beneath them was a sea of transparent, suitcase-sized plastic containers. Each held what looked like a huge gray laptop computer, and they were all fastened shut with red plastic locks bearing serial numbers. Sheets of copy paper bearing individual precinct names and numbers were scrupulously positioned atop various constellations of containers.

  Warner brushed past Perkins toward the plastic containers labeled, “Gilbert Middle School #75.” Squatting down to get a closer look, he flipped through the document in his hands. Perkins watched, bemused, as Warner’s eyes quickly scanned down the page, searching for some particular piece of data.

  “Here we go,” Warner declared, sounding satisfied. “Gilbert precinct. Five machines. The serial numbers for the locks fastened on the containers after the canvass are 569872, 569714, 381622, 743559 and 381407.”

  Warner examined the locks on the plastic containers holding the voting machines from Gilbert. That precinct, along with the one in Matewan, had been the focus point of the parties’ arguments during the canvass. Holding one of the locks, he studied its serial number and compared it to the list in his other hand. “569714. This one matches up.”

  Perkins stood behind Warner. “Imagine that,” he said snidely.

  Warner scowled, but continued his work. “381622. Okay. 743559. 381407. 569872. Hmmph. They all have the same numbers announced at the canvass.”

  Perkins raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Scandalous, isn’t it? You wanna go through all the machines from the other 38 precincts while we’re down here, Pete? I mean, it’s not like I have anything better to do right now. You know … Like do my job and keep tabs on people who might be up to no good.”

  Warned raised himself from the floor. Staring up at Perkins, he was tight-lipped. “I suppose not. We’ll just check out the courthouse video surveillance footage. That should show us if anyone’s been up to any funny business around here.”

  Perkins grinned. “Suuuuuurrrre,” he said slowly. “Let’s do that right now. I just hope the power surge before the blackout didn’t knock the backup system outta whack.”

  “What do you mean?” Warner demanded.

  “I’ve been complaining for years that the County Commission keeps short-changing my department,” the sheriff replied, a bit defiantly. “With a tight budget, you have to make hard decisions from time-to-time. Do I keep fuel in my cruisers and keep deputies on the road, protecting the community? With the price of gas these days, that’s no easy task. Or do I leave a cruiser parked so I can spend money on some fancy battery-powered backup system for the courthouse surveillance system?” Perkins rocked back on his heels, smiling smugly. “What choice do you think I made?”

  CHAPTER 42

  WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 8:30 A.M.

  Dave looked across the cherry conference table at Gil Dean, the executive director of West Virginia’s Republican Party, and asked, “Are we ready to begin the conference call?”

  Gil nodded. His hand hovered over a speakerphone.

  Dave exhaled, flicking his arms to get his blood circulating. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  Gil hit a button and the speakerphone came to life.

  “All right, everybody,” Dave said loudly. “The recounts kick off in thirty minutes. Let’s do a roll call to make sure everyone’s here. Barbour County?”

  “Chip Walton here in Barbour County,” a young man responded.

  “Berkeley County?”

  “This is Monica Boley in Martinsburg,” a female voice declared.

  “Boone County?”

  The cattle call was met with silence. “Boone County?” Dave repeated.

  “Hey, Dave. This is Ned Hopson here.”

  Dave smiled. “Glad to know Boone County’s in good hands, Ned!”

  The roll call continued through all 55 counties. At the end, Dave clapped once. “All right, guys. We’ve prepared you for this recount. Now, it’s all up to you. We’ll have conference calls at the bottom of every hour until the recounts are completed. If you’re tied up, make sure someone calls in with the latest numbers from your county.”

  Dave paced along the perimeter of the conference table. “During our first call, tell us the specific precincts that are being recounted in your county. Fi
ve percent of each county’s precincts will be hand-counted today, and knowing the identities of those precincts will help us here at headquarters.

  “We want four pieces of information from you during every call,” Dave said, motioning with his hands as he spoke. “One: We want the total number of votes tabulated for each of the two candidates at the time of the call.”

  “Two: We want the net difference, at that time, between the votes reported on Election Night and the votes tallied during the recount. If Governor Royal has gained two votes during the recount, say, ‘Plus two.’ If Wilson has narrowed our lead by two votes, say, ‘Minus two.’

  “Three: Let us know which precinct in your county is currently being recounted. When a particular precinct’s recount is over, let us know that and tell us what the final net vote difference in that precinct was.”

  “And fourth,” Dave stressed. “For the 53 counties that used optical scan ballots or touchscreens, tell us if the net difference between the votes reported on Election Night and the votes tabulated during the recount has exceeded 1 percent of the total votes cast for president in those random precincts. If the net difference from those random precincts ends up being more than 1 percent, then every precinct in that county will be recounted. If not, the recount will end once the hand count of the sample precincts is over.”

  Dave stopped moving and squared his shoulders to the phone, as if facing an invisible audience. He glanced at his watch. The recount was scheduled to start in seven minutes.

  “It’s almost show time. Keep your crucial phone numbers handy. The video guys need good vantage points, especially if you think the Dems are trying to pull a fast one.

  “And finally, remember to be reasonable and play fair if at all possible. But scrutinize every single ballot as if the election depends on it, because it very well may. Thanks for all your hard work, folks, and good luck.”

  As the county reps said goodbye, Gil disengaged the call. “Nice pep talk,” he said.

  Dave sat down and took in a deep breath, nodding. At that moment, he honestly felt he had done everything in his power to help Royal hold onto his margin of victory. Now, they just had to stay on their toes and react swiftly as developments occurred.