The Dirty Secret Page 18

  “Heh heh. Thanks for keeping things in perspective for us, Ned. Braxton County.”

  “Royal 3,012. Wilson 3,023. Net difference is minus four. Tesla Fire Department is up now. We use paper ballots, so we’ll be here all day hand counting all of our precincts regardless of what the percentage difference is.”

  “That’s true,” Gil remarked. “Thanks for your hard work. Brooke County.”

  The team’s reps dutifully provided the requested information. Most of the counties were reporting single-digit net differences, plus or minus. Approaching the halfway point, Dave’s thoughts became fixated on Spence’s upcoming report from Mingo County. His stomach felt like butterflies were having dogfights inside it.

  Gil’s voice brought matters to a head. “Sounds good. Mingo County.” The line was totally silent. “Mingo County,” he repeated.

  A long sigh issued from the phone. “They just finished Gilbert Middle School. We’re over the 1 percent threshold, and the other precincts will be recounted by hand. The score now is Royal 4,701, Wilson 5,889. Net difference is minus 127.”

  Gasps and expressions of disbelief followed. Dave’s head tilted backwards and he stared up at the ceiling, stunned.

  “Did you say minus one-twenty-seven?” Gil asked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. We lost 128 in that one precinct. Throw in the vote we gained in the Tug Valley precinct, and that leaves us 127 in the hole.”

  “But doesn’t that pretty much wipe out the whole lead we had statewide at the beginning of the day?” a female voice asked.

  “Not entirely,” Gil quickly replied. “But it’s going to hurt us, no doubt.”

  “This is a bunch of bullshit!” a man exclaimed. “What’re you guys doing down there? Just sitting with your thumbs in your asses, watching them steal this damn election?”

  Spence started to respond but was drowned out by Gil. “Settle down, folks! We’re all trying to win this thing and we’re all in it together! Backbiting will get us nowhere. We have to buckle down and work even harder.”

  Despite Gil’s exhortations, Dave heard a steady murmur of grumbles in the background.

  “Okay, Spence,” Gil continued. “Keep your chin up and dig in for the long haul. You have 37 more precincts to go, and we can’t afford any more like that last one.”

  “Thanks, Gil. We’ll do that.”

  “Monongalia County.”

  As the reports continued to trickle in, the intern dutifully scribbled on the whiteboards. But towering over the single digit differences being reported elsewhere was the negative monstrosity from Mingo County. With one fell swoop, it had essentially erased their fragile lead. The effect of that revelation on morale was undeniable.

  At last, the cattle call wound down. “Wood County,” Gil barked.

  “Royal 25,105. Wilson 13,982,” a man replied in a deep, authoritative voice. “Parkersburg Catholic High School precinct was just completed and our total net difference at this time is plus four. Mineral Wells Lions’ Club is next on the list. Call me crazy, but I doubt if we end up having to recount the whole county.”

  “That’s a shame,” Gil retorted. “With a margin of victory like that, I’d think we might be able to pick up a few votes if the recount extended countywide.”

  The caller snorted. “Maybe if we had those magic, reprogrammable machines like the ones down in Mingo County. No offense, but I’m not going to wait around to be chastised for being negative. I’ll call back in an hour.” He abruptly hung up.

  Gil shook his head sadly. “Wyoming County.”

  “Royal 5,024. Wilson 3,687. Oceana Senior Citizens’ Center just ended and our net difference is plus two. We have to recount the whole county like Braxton County because we still use paper ballots. Talk to you next hour.”

  Hearing the last caller disconnect, Gil spoke up. “Monica? Are you still there?”

  “I am,” the young woman from Berkeley County answered.

  The Executive Director ran his left hand through his wavy locks of blonde hair. He was in his early thirties, with the faintest signs of crow’s feet emerging around the corners of his wide-set blue eyes. “I take it you understand the gravity of this situation.”

  “Certainly.” To Dave, her voice sounded remarkably calm and controlled.

  “How many sample precincts do you guys still have to recount?”

  “Just three more,” Monica responded.

  Gil nodded. His eyes were cold and steely. “Governor Royal carried your county big on Election Day. With the shenanigans going on down in Williamson, we’ll need all the help you can give us. What’s the chance the net difference there will end up over 1 percent?”

  “One hundred percent,” she declared flatly.

  Gil’s lips peeled back, revealing a dangerous-looking smile. Dave’s eyes widened as he listened to their conversation, captivated.

  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” Gil said. “I’m counting on you, Monica. I need you to come through for me. You know what it’s at stake.”

  “And you know I’m your go-to girl, Gil,” she fired back. “I always have been, ever since we were at WVU and you were College Republican chairman. Have I ever let you down?”

  “No,” he conceded, his smile turning warm. “No, you haven’t.”

  “Well, I won’t let you down today, either. If the Democrats want to fight dirty, I won’t abide by the Geneva Convention either. If they want a war, by God, they’ll get a war.”

  Gil laughed aloud. “That’s my girl!”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Monica announced crisply. The line went dead.

  Dave shook his head and absent-mindedly ran his index finger around the inside of his ear. “Do you mind telling me what that was all about?”

  Gil stared at him, saying nothing. His blue eyes might as well have been hidden behind sunglasses. “We appreciate the help you guys from D.C. have given us the past few weeks,” he diplomatically began. “The resources you’ve brought to bear on our post-election proceedings have been invaluable, they really have.”

  “But …”

  Gil smiled thinly. “But we’re more competent fighting in the trenches than you guys give us credit for. And we have a hell of a lot more at stake in this election than you realize.”

  Dave’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”

  Gil sighed and took a seat. “We know what the perception is of our state party. You guys think we couldn’t deliver a friggin’ pizza, let alone an election.”

  Dave chuckled. “I suppose there’s a little truth to that.”

  Gil clasped his hands together. “And by-and-large, I’d say our poor reputation is well-deserved. We’ve been bankrupt at least twice I can remember, and we consistently rank at the bottom of state parties when it comes to our fundraising.”

  Dave paused, choosing his words carefully. “It’s left a lot to be desired over the years.”

  “Well, those of us who have been busting our asses, trying to actually recreate a two-party political system in West Virginia – because we really haven’t had one in over forty years – are sick and tired of having nothing to show for it. And helping Governor Royal win this election would advance our efforts tremendously.”

  “Care to explain how?”

  “Let’s see,” Gil responded defiantly. “For starters, it might convince Luke Vincent he’s not the damn czar of this state. Bloodying his lip would be extremely gratifying. It might also convince people that it isn’t always a losing proposition being a Republican in West Virginia.

  “You grew up here, Dave. A lot of times you feel like you’re just banging your head against the wall and that a man would have to be either a masochist or a dyed-in-the-wool true believer to register as a Republican in this state. Maybe both. Seeing people like us get down in the trenches with the Democratic establishment, slug it out and actually come out on top for a change? Now that would be a real shot in the arm for the state party.

  “There’s a small, hardcore group of
Republican activists here that are tired of getting kicked in the teeth by the Dems. We’re tired of never wielding power. We’re tired of begging for table scraps when the Legislature distributes money for projects around the state. We’re tired of being an afterthought in drafting legislation and setting the state’s agenda.

  “Most of all,” he concluded, a fierce look of determination in his eyes. “We are sick of watching young people leave West Virginia because there are no jobs here, and we’re sick of not being able to do anything about it. I mean, this state has low crime, beautiful scenery, friendly people and one of the lowest costs of living in America. But no jobs, because the Dems have been calling the shots here for a century and, in the process, they somehow managed to drive our state’s economy into the ground. And, in my opinion, those things won’t change unless we can convince people that joining the GOP and electing Republican officials is a viable alternative.”

  “Great campaign speech,” Dave wryly commented. “But what does it have to do with our current situation?”

  Gil exhaled. “You know that movie, ‘A Christmas Story?’”

  “Sure. Ralphie wants to get a BB gun and all that jazz.”

  Gil snapped his fingers. “Exactly. Remember the scene where Ralphie finally flips out and beats up the bully that had been picking on him?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, people like me and Monica Boley – the girl up in Berkeley County – we feel like Ralphie in that scene. We’re fed up with being pushed around by bullies like Governor Vincent. And we’ve reached the point where if it takes fighting dirty to win this election … Well, we’re ready to kick ‘em in the nuts and say to hell with the consequences.”

  CHAPTER 48

  MARTINSBURG, BERKELEY COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 12:20 P.M.

  Monica Boley strapped on her seatbelt and turned the ignition key. Glancing in the rearview mirror, she put her blue Mercedes convertible into drive and turned onto King Street. “When we get back from lunch, the Commission will recount the ballots from Precinct Number 40.” She enunciated her words slowly and precisely, maintaining an iron grip on her composure. The last thing she wanted was for her twin brother to think she did not have the situation under control.

  Marcus sat wide-eyed in the passenger seat, absorbing everything she said. “The one in Hedgesville. I know.” He softly patted the palms of his neatly manicured hands on his thighs.

  Monica slowly nodded, but kept facing forward. “That’s when we have to make our move, Marcus. Time is running out.”

  Her brother’s cheeks were puffed up, filled with air. Still absent-mindedly patting his thighs, he blew a large breath through his pursed lips. “I know, I know. But are you sure we have to do this? What if we get caught?”

  “We won’t,” she said with an unmistakable air of confidence. “Our plan is sound. We analyzed every step, and we’ve executed the plan flawlessly. Want to review it again?”

  “Yes. Just one more time. I want to make sure we haven’t overlooked anything.”

  Monica sighed. Throughout their lives, her brother had been the likeable, conservative one. Smart, but not an overpowering intellect. Handsome, but not perfect-looking like a Hollywood movie star. Incredibly nice, a real-life Eagle Scout who would help old ladies cross the street. But very averse to risk. The kind of poker player who would fold every hand unless he had at least three-of-a-kind.

  Monica knew her brother and respected him deeply. His many undeniable virtues had served the young politician well. He had just completed the second year of his term as Berkeley County Clerk and was widely praised for doing his job effectively. He cultivated the right relationships, joined the right clubs, attended the right church, married the right woman and lived in the right subdivision. But there was one, very important attribute Monica knew he lacked and feared would prevent him from attaining his highest political aspirations:

  A killer instinct.

  Monica, on the other hand, was quite cognizant of her own steel-tempered ruthlessness. It was a trait she had nurtured since elementary school, when another little girl had tried to install herself as the “queen bee” of their class. For some unknown reason, Monica had awakened one day and decided that she just did not like the girl. So she had patiently undertaken a plan of action that systematically alienated the girl from every other member of the class. Her Machiavellian plan had been so successful that the little girl’s parents pulled her out of the school district for her emotional well-being.

  From that one experience, Monica learned what it felt like when she set her mind on a goal, established a plan of action to achieve it, and then met with success. And she quickly learned that she loved that feeling.

  The world, as viewed through Monica Boley’s eyes, was quite black and white. Pro-life, pro-business Republicans were good. Pro-union, pro-choice Democrats were bad. And United States Senator Melanie Wilson was as bad as they came: A bunny-hugging, illegal immigrant-coddling, gun-controlling, Bible-burning, baby-killing menace to America’s national security. So when pre-election polls indicated that the race in West Virginia was too close to call, Monica had painstakingly crafted a scheme that she viewed as Jonathan Royal’s little personal “Break Glass In Case Of Emergency” safety measure, even though his campaign knew nothing about it.

  “What printing company sold the optical scan ballots your office used in this election?” she asked. Her tone of voice sounded like what one might use whilst petting a jittery rabbit.

  Marcus exhaled. “Duffey & Gould. Their office is down in Beckley.”

  “Who is the company’s sales rep that serviced your account?”

  “Heather Anatakis,” he replied. “Your sorority sister from WVU.”

  “What did you tell Heather was wrong with the first batch of ballots Duffey & Gould sent to your office in October?” Monica brushed her shoulder-length blonde hair behind her right ear with her fingertips. Glancing at her brother, she noted his posture had relaxed a bit.

  “That the ovals weren’t aligned properly,” Marcus dutifully recited, as if reading from a memorized script. “The scanning machine wouldn’t read them.”

  “Right,” Monica coaxed. “So what did you do?”

  “I asked her to send us another batch of ballots with the same serial numbers, but to make sure the ovals were aligned right this time.”

  “And she did that, correct?”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes. Three days later.”

  Monica casually flipped her turn signal and turned left onto Foxcroft Avenue, heading toward the throng of restaurants there.

  “And where did your office buy the blue seals used to lock up the ballot boxes?” she asked, turning the steering wheel counterclockwise and crossing through traffic.

  “From Heather’s company, again. They sell every kind of election material an office like mine needs, except for the actual voting machines.”

  “And what did you do when your office received those seals?”

  Staring straight through the windshield, the Berkeley County Clerk subconsciously smacked his lips. “I opened the box and confirmed the seals were in good order.”

  “What else?” she prompted.

  “I wrote the serial numbers down on a piece of paper and gave the list to you.”

  “Yes, you did,” Monica agreed. “And unbeknownst to you – right? – I contacted the sales rep for the little firm in Shanghai that Heather told me manufactures those seals. And I ordered two more batches of those seals – in the same color, with the same serial numbers – which they shipped to a mailbox I rented at a shipping store in Winchester, Virginia. Correct?”

  “Correct,” Marcus parroted.

  Monica maneuvered her Mercedes into a parking space. Shutting off the engine, she calmly removed her sunglasses and turned to face her brother. “Once the results were reported on Election Night, I took a printout from your office home with me where I had stashed the first batch of ballots from Duffey & Gould. And
what did I do then?”

  “You filled in the ballots with a pencil.”

  “No, Marcus. That’s like saying the Sistine Chapel is ‘a church ceiling some Italian guy painted.’ It doesn’t do justice to the labor and devotion involved in creating that masterpiece. What I did, dear brother,” Monica explained testily, “is sit at my dining room table for two straight weeks, hunched over a mountain of ballots with a box of number two pencils, recreating the entire election. Eighteen hours a day, for fourteen straight days, I meticulously shaded ovals on almost 38,000 ballots. And I took great care to make sure that the results for every other race on the ballot were essentially unchanged, while comfortably widening Governor Royal’s margin of victory in the presidential election.”

  The young woman’s eyes flashed with pride. She raised her right hand so that Marcus could get a good look at its mangled and bruised appearance. “Do you think I enjoyed doing that to my hand? Do you think I enjoyed spending hours studying how those optical scanning machines worked, so that I could improperly shade hundreds of Senator Wilson’s ballots in such a way as to make this story believable? Do you think I did all that for my fucking health?”

  “No,” he replied sheepishly.

  “You’re damn right, I didn’t! But I did it anyway, because this country needs Jonathan Royal to be our next president. I did it because we both know that if we didn’t do something to protect his interests, those sorry, corrupt, inbred pieces of shit from the coalfields would find some way to steal this election.

  “And have you heard about what’s going on down in Mingo County, Marcus?” she continued ranting. “The Democrats have magically found hundreds of new votes for Senator Wilson, and as of this very moment, Governor Royal might actually be behind in the vote tally. And less than an hour ago, the folks at his campaign headquarters said Berkeley County is our only hope to hold on to victory in West Virginia.

  Marcus gulped. “Really?”

  Monica took a deep breath and nodded solemnly, consciously softening the look in her eyes. “Really,” she replied, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. “We – you and I, Marcus – are literally the last ring of defense between Melanie Wilson and the White House. We can’t sit back and let them steal this election. We have a moral obligation to stop them.”