The Dirty Secret

  SMALLRIDGE PUBLISHING

  P.O. Box 13652

  Silver Spring, MD 20911-3652

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, contact:

  Smallridge Publishing

  P.O. Box 13652

  Silver Spring, MD 20911-3652

  202-450-5910

  Smallridge Publishing can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact Smallridge Publishing at 202- 450-5910 or visit our website at www.smallridgepublishing.com.

  Copyright © 2012 Brent Wolfingbarger

  www.wolfingbarger.com

  ISBN: 0-9852205-0-3

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9852205-0-1

  ISBN: 9780985220518

  LCCN: 2012904107

  This book is dedicated to:

  My grandfather, Herman Wolfingbarger, who was the best storyteller I have ever met.

  My grandmother, Wilda Wolfingbarger, who shared with me her passion for learning and her love of the written word.

  My dad, Wade Wolfingbarger, who has taught me by example what it means to be a good father and husband.

  My mom, Deanie Wolfingbarger, who has always shown me unconditional love and support.

  My grandmother, Beulah Mann, who continues to embrace life with a smile and a positive attitude as she approaches her 91st birthday.

  My wife, Karen, who loves me despite my considerable faults and who gives me strength and comfort on a daily basis.

  And my children, Reagan and Titus, who fill my heart with unimaginable love and pride.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, I have to thank my wife, Karen, for patiently enduring all the long nights I have spent editing and polishing this book since it was first completed several years ago. I never could have completed this project without her love and support, and I truly thank God for bringing her into my life.

  Thanks to those who spent time reviewing early versions of this manuscript, helping me streamline the story, including Craig Dean, Tammy Lowers, Kathy Elder and others. I also thank Jennings Miller, who helped me crystallize my ideas for this book when I represented him in an election law dispute back in 2000.

  I thank my editor, Rob Bignell, for his thorough service and constructive criticism. Kudos to Ranilo Cabo, who designed the beautiful cover art for the book, and the folks at 99designs.com who helped me partner with him. Likewise, I am indebted to Tom Kubilius, Chanin & Chris Krivonyak, John Mullins, Ed Duffey, Tracy Keener, Ken & Terri Gould, Steve & Keri Ellison and the inimitable “Son of Tempus” for helping me evaluate the various design proposals that were submitted for this project. Thanks also to all my friends who enthusiastically shared their passionate opinions on that subject by voting in my online polls.

  A debt of gratitude is owed to Chuck Sambuchino, Jane Friedman and all the folks at Writer’s Digest who provide a wealth of information to aspiring authors with their seminars, blogs and conferences. I am also grateful to the Ramlal clan for all the encouragement they have given me in this endeavor.

  Thanks go out to Stephen Coonts, for demonstrating that a lawyer from West Virginia who knows how to spin a good yarn can somehow find his niche in the publishing world. I’d also like to thank Barry Eisler and Joe Konrath for generously sharing their keen insights into the revolutionary ways the publishing world has changed, and how it is likely to continue to evolve in ways that are largely beneficial to authors like me.

  Lastly, I thank Neil Clark Warren for broadening my horizons and forever changing my life for the better. Reagan and Titus extend their thanks to Mr. Warren for his services, as well.

  FACT:

  The statutes, regulations, judicial cases and constitutional provisions cited in this novel accurately reflect the body of law governing American presidential elections as of February 2012, particularly those which govern post-election legal proceedings in the State of West Virginia.

  Gov. Jonathan Royal (R-NC) 270*

  Alabama (9), Alaska (3), Arizona (11), Arkansas (6), Colorado (9), Florida (29), Georgia (16), Idaho (4), Kansas (6), Kentucky (8), Louisiana (8), Mississippi (6), Missouri (10), Montana (3), Nebraska (5), Nevada (6), North Carolina (15), North Dakota(3), Ohio (18), Oklahoma (7), South Carolina (9), South Dakota (3), Tennessee (11), Texas (38), Utah (6), Virginia (13), Wyoming (3), West Virginia (5)*

  Sen. Melanie Wilson (D-CA) 268

  California (55), Connecticut (7), District of Columbia (3), Delaware (3), Hawaii (4), Illinois (20), Indiana (11), Iowa (6), Maine (4), Maryland (10), Massachusetts (11), Michigan (16) Minnesota (10), New Hampshire (4), New Jersey (14), New Mexico (5), New York (29), Oregon (7), Pennsylvania (20), Rhode Island (4), Vermont (3), Washington (12), Wisconsin (10)

  * Based on initial returns only; canvass is pending.

  CHAPTER 1

  VIENNA, VIRGINIA

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5, 10:45 P.M.

  A solitary streetlight shone through a copse of barren oak trees on the far side of the empty park. It illuminated a patch of cold, hard ground about fifty yards from the bench where the two men sat.

  “Plausible deniability is a must.”

  Yuri Petrenko sighed wearily, slowly unwrapped a watermelon Jolly Rancher and placed it in his mouth. “Certainly,” he replied, as the hard candy rolled over his tongue.

  A breeze blew past, carrying with it a foretaste of winter’s approaching chill. A mini-cyclone of brittle fallen leaves danced drowsily in a circle, rustling softly as it passed to their left, bathed from behind by the streetlight’s glow.

  “We deeply appreciate your firm’s efforts in this matter,” his companion continued, absent-mindedly running an olive-skinned hand through his thick black hair. “We have full confidence in your competence. The precise means you use to achieve our shared goals, we’ll leave to your discretion.”

  A forced-looking smile etched itself on Petrenko’s face. His teeth were agonizingly bright, as if subjected to whitening treatments around-the-clock. Beneath his short-cropped blond hair, the streetlight revealed that the bottom half of his left ear was missing.

  The Russian pulled up the collar of his black greatcoat to shield his neck from the breeze. Pinching the empty Jolly Rancher wrapper between the fingertips and thumb of his right hand, he coiled it into a ball. Standing from the bench, he tossed the wrapper into a green metal trash can a few feet away. “We’ll keep you apprised as necessary,” he said.

  His dark-haired companion extended his right hand for a farewell handshake. Casually ignoring the gesture, Petrenko strolled past the trash can toward a silver Audi convertible that was parallel-parked across the street.

  He never looked back.

  CHAPTER 2

  ROYAL FOR PRESIDENT

  NATIONAL CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 11:30 A.M.

  Every time he looked at the map of West Virginia hanging on the War Room wall, Dave Anderson felt his stomach churn. Small towns and obscure counties he had studied back in middle school tauntingly glared at him. The backwoods byways of his home state twisted and turned obscenely, following routes preordained by its mountainous terrain. His fertile mind imagined potential disasters seemingly everywhere.

  “Two hundred fifty-nine votes don’t leave a whole lot of room for error, Hoss.”

  Dave glanced over his right shoulder. The booming voice behind him had been burned into the American consciousness for the past year. It belonged to
Governor Jonathan Royal, his friend and putative President.

  “Not at all,” Dave replied, returning his gaze to the map. “Especially since Luke Vincent knows this state like the insides of his own eyelids.” He sighed and shook his head slightly. “He could probably generate that many votes just from bodies buried in his family cemetery.”

  Even though Dave had worked inside the Beltway most of his adult life, his undiluted native twang was a constant reminder of his West Virginia roots. Ordinarily, his childhood home merely made for interesting conversation with the lobbyists and policy wonks who shared his professional world. But with the Electoral College apparently hinging on what happened in West Virginia, all that had abruptly changed.

  Royal guffawed heartily and slapped Dave on the back. “Probably, Hoss! Prah-buh-blee. And that’s why I’ve got somebody as smart and as devious as you working for me: To keep an eye on that slippery son-of-a-bitch and make sure he doesn’t steal the Oval Office from me!”

  Royal edged closer to get a better look at the map himself. “So how do you think it’s going to play out?” he asked. He ran his hand across the back of his neck, along the base of his mostly-salt-but-sporadically-peppered hair.

  Standing just under six feet tall, Dave was a good four inches shorter than the candidate. He touched his index finger to the state’s Eastern Panhandle jutting out between Maryland and Virginia. “From what I can gather, we’re looking pretty good in the Second District.” As he spoke, he moved his finger southwesterly across the thick middle part of West Virginia, coming to a halt over Charleston. “That area leans our way, and it looks like we did well there on Tuesday. Plus those counties aren’t known for a whole lot of vote-counting chicanery.”

  Royal’s eyes narrowed and he nodded. He probably already knew that much, Dave realized, mentally chalking it up as yet another example of the man’s phenomenal memory. The North Carolina governor’s mastery of such esoterica unquestionably had aided his rapid political rise.

  “The problem is this part of the state,” Dave continued, moving his finger southward from Charleston. “There are a handful of southern counties that have been locked down by the Dems for a hundred years, and there really isn’t even a two-party system to speak of down there.” Squinting his green eyes, he paused for a moment. “In places like Boone and Mingo Counties, voter fraud has been turned into an art form over the years. That’s where Jack Kennedy’s dad bought him the state’s primary in 1960, and that’s where they could jump up and bite us now.”

  Royal pursed his lips and nodded, then smoothly transitioned into the storyteller mode that served him so well on the campaign trail. “My dad always told me a dog’s less likely to bite you if you keep your eyes on him.” Lilting an eyebrow, he shot Dave a conspiratorial grin. “Sounds like pretty good advice right now, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yep. And that’s why we’ve had video cameras poised on every courthouse in the state since the polls closed on Tuesday.”

  Royal laughed again. “I knew there was a reason I kept your paranoid ass around here!”

  Dave grinned. “Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 8:45 A.M.

  An expansive collection of brownies, cookies, cupcakes and donuts sat arrayed upon a folding table in the back of the room. Examining the caloric cornucopia, Sarika Gudivada pursed her full lips and briefly contemplated declining the temptation to start her day off with a torrent of sugar.

  She quickly dismissed that thought, hoisting a German chocolate brownie, two white chocolate macadamia nut cookies, and a big white frosted cupcake onto a Styrofoam plate. Clutching a tall mocha latte from the local coffeehouse in one hand, she balanced her decadent breakfast in the other and returned to her seat; silently promising to make up for her weakness by running a few extra miles in the days ahead.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a couple of donuts, too, Rikki?”

  Sarika heard her nickname at the precise moment she bit into a cookie. The unexpected jibe caused her to bite down harder than intended. A few wayward crumbs slid past her lips and onto the front of her black suit jacket. Looking to her left, she saw State Senator Jack McCallen casting his trademark shit-eating grin her way.

  Sighing softly, Rikki brushed the cookie debris from her chest with the side of her right hand. “Why do you ask, Jack?” She drew her long black hair behind her right ear as she spoke. Her light green eyes sparkled mischievously, starkly contrasted against her smooth, mocha-hued face. “Are you calling me fat or something?”

  McCallen wagged his finger at her. “You know I’m too smart to call my own lawyer fat. I’m sure I’d pay for that one way or another.”

  Rikki laughed aloud. It was a contagious laughter that turned heads her direction and brought smiles to the faces of three older women clustered around the cookie table. “You’re a smart man, Mr. Senator!” Rikki moved her plate from the folding metal chair to her left and placed it in her lap. McCallen took the cue and sat down beside her. “So how’ve you been?” she asked.

  “Sleeping better now that the election is over. How about you? Was your first time on the ballot as bad as you thought it’d be?”

  Rikki paused to finish a bite of her cookie. “Piece of cake. My opponent wasn’t nearly as popular as yours.”

  “Everyone in this county knew the guy you ran against was a no good piece of crap,” Jack interjected. “Everybody knows he knocked that little high school girl up, regardless of what he says. I, on the other hand, had the pleasure to run against a retired middle school principal with a rap sheet cleaner than Mother Theresa’s. She scared the hell out of me!”

  Rikki grinned broadly, her magenta lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth. “Better you than me, Jack. That’s why I ran for prosecutor: Easier pickings.”

  McCallen sat silent for a moment, his face the picture of envy. “You chose a good race. Only lawyers can run for prosecutor and it’s not like little ol’ Pleasants County is crawling with them. Best of all, it’s a part-time position, so you can still run your practice on the side and make a little money keeping people like me outta trouble in civil cases. Sounds like a good gig to me.”

  “Keeping you out of trouble, Jack, is a full-time job,” Rikki said dryly. “If I have to keep handling your stuff, I don’t know if I’ll have enough time to be prosecutor.”

  McCallen squinted his left eye and nodded slightly, apparently conceding the point. “Speaking of which, I need to talk to you soon about that Schoolcraft lease cancellation suit. I about died when I saw all the stuff their evil lawyers sent you last week.”

  “They’re not evil, Jack. They’re just doing their job.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he grumbled. “They’re not trying to destroy your business. I say they’re evil, greedy, blood-sucking assholes.”

  “Of course you’d say that. You’re a Republican. You have a congenital hatred of lawyers who sue businesses even when they deserve to be sued.”

  “And you’re a bleedin’-heart Democrat who just managed to get elected prosecutor because the only lawyer we could put up against you was a bigger waste of oxygen than the bottom-dwellers who’re suing me.”

  Rikki reached over and playfully patted his hand. “Maybe. But I’m also the best oil and gas lawyer in the state, and that’s why you put up with my granola-crunching politics.”

  Jack rocked his chair back on its hind legs and belly-laughed. “Ah, hell, Rikki … Granola-cruncher or not, I’d still vote for you. As long as you weren’t running against me, that is.”

  The county commission’s hearing room was about twenty feet wide by thirty feet long. A large, well-worn oak desk sat atop the twelve-inch-high platform from which the commission would conduct its post-election canvass. An old cloth American flag bearing oversized white stars was suspended from the ceiling behind the middle of the desk.

&
nbsp; The room’s décor was much like that found in any other rural courthouse in America: Hanging prominently on one wall was an oversized map of the county with boundaries depicted by broad black lines while thinner red and blue lines identified the locations where engineers imagined new water and sewage lines would be laid. Large aerial photographs taken in the 1970s hung elsewhere around the room, depicting both long-gone businesses as well as empty fields where new subdivisions now stood. A litany of framed certificates from local organizations like tee-ball teams and the March of Dimes also lined the walls, tokens of esteem to the commission from the grateful recipients of its largesse.

  Hanging on the back wall above the table of brownies and cookies was a large color photograph of the three commissioners and other local honchos clad in yellow construction helmets. They were plunging shiny ceremonial shovel-heads into a large chunk of dirt along the Ohio River where a Japanese company was building a new factory. Rikki snarkily decided the picture should be entitled Jobs Being Created by Politicians and Alchemy.

  A pen-and-ink drawing of the county’s Depression Era courthouse, accurately depicted in its fortress-like position atop a hill overlooking the rest of St. Marys, hung next to the politicians’ large, self-aggrandizing picture. It looked both outsized and out-of-kilter by comparison. I may be a politician now, Rikki noted silently. But I will never stoop so low as to wander out into a field full of mud with a yellow plastic helmet on my noggin just to score a few votes.

  Rikki realized her pediatrician father would roll over in his grave if he knew his only daughter had spent the past two months trudging up every holler in the county, knocking on doors in search of votes. Her decision to become an attorney was one he had eventually stomached. But a politician? Rikki snorted, knowing all too well what the man locals had called “Doctor G” would have thought about that career trajectory.