The Dirty Secret Page 19
Marcus stared into his twin sister’s face for a few moments, contemplating her words. Monica returned the gaze unwaveringly. She knew she had said everything she needed to say.
Finally, he relented. “I know you’re right. But I’m still scared out of my mind.”
Monica reached over and gently patted her brother’s cheek. “I know you are. But you have nothing to worry about. If this thing blows up, I’ll take the heat. You didn’t know anything at all about my actions. Your only crime was to leave the keys to your office at the courthouse lying around where your diabolical twin sister could grab them.
“It’s not your fault that the County Commission left your office in the old courthouse annex instead of moving it to one of the newer buildings with better security systems. Who could have predicted that a formerly law-abiding pharmaceutical sales rep like me would be so devious as to single-handedly use her loving brother’s keys to gain access to his storage room, cut the locks off 20 ballot boxes and replace the stacks of unused ballots inside them with ingeniously forged replacements? Hmmm?”
Marcus chuckled nervously. “That does sound pretty preposterous.”
“Of course! So don’t sweat it. Just watch for my signal whenever you open a new ballot box the rest of the day.”
“What kind of signal?” Marcus asked. “Are you going to use sign language like Grandma taught us when we were kids?”
Monica shook her head emphatically. “No. Someone else who knows how to sign could catch us and we can’t run that risk. We’ll have to use something more simplistic … If my arms are crossed, pull the stack of original ballots out of the box to be recounted – those are the ones stacked on the left side as you’re looking down from the lock side of the box.
“But if I’m standing there with my hands on my hips, you should grab the stack of ballots from the right side of the box. In that case, flip the original ballots over face down, which will reveal the ‘spoiled’ label I stuck on the transparent plastic wrapper they’re stored in when I cut the locks off and put my forged ballots in there.”
Marcus sighed and nodded. “Okay. I’m with you. You’ve not led me astray yet.”
Monica smiled proudly. “And I never will. Stick with me, Marcus, and you’ll end up in the Governor’s Mansion someday.”
CHAPTER 49
WEST VIRGINIA STATE CAPITOL
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 1:45 P.M.
Vincent and Bowen huddled in front of a plasma TV in the governor’s private office that was tuned to CNN. Seven of the network’s reporters were posted at courthouses around the state, conveying returns to the world.
Suddenly, the ticker tape scrolling across the bottom of the screen changed colors from red to blue. A new caption materialized above the scrolling results, which read:
“BREAKING NEWS: WILSON OVERTAKES ROYAL IN WV”
Bowen leaned backwards at the waist, balled up both of his fists and emitted an unrestrained war whoop. Vincent beamed and clapped his hands, still watching the coverage. On the other side of the door, shrieks of joy wafted through the Governor’s Office suite.
Vincent turned up the volume with the remote. “The final results from Braxton County are in,” the anchor woman excitedly announced. “Senator Wilson has gained an additional thirty-five votes there. That development, coupled with the stunning news from Mingo County earlier today, has given her the lead.”
Vincent remained transfixed on the TV, rubbing his mouth and chin with his palm. “How big is the lead? Tell us.”
“According to our calculations,” the anchor said. “Senator Wilson is now leading Governor Royal by the miniscule margin of eleven votes.” Her eyes widened and she let out a deep breath, sagging in her seat slightly. “Could things possibly get more dramatic than this?”
Bowen heartily slapped Vincent on the back. “How do you like them apples?”
Vincent grinned and raised an eyebrow. “I’d like ‘em a lot better if it was the end of the day. But I feel better right now than I have in a long time.”
“And we haven’t finished working our magic yet,” Bowen added. “Yeah, we’re still in for a rocky ride, but doesn’t it feel good to be in the driver’s seat for a change?”
Vincent nodded, a satisfied look in his eyes. “If you’re not the lead dog, the view never changes. And I like the view from this angle just fine.”
CHAPTER 50
WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 3:15 P.M.
“So it all comes down to two counties,” Dave mumbled, staring out the window overlooking the heart of downtown Charleston. People who lived and worked in the non-political “real world” – bankers, plumbers, secretaries and nurses – walked past the headquarters without a second glance. Totally focused on their own affairs, their minds were far from the recount. Dave could scarcely comprehend what it must be like to live in such a sheltered, happily-insulated kind of world.
On days like this, he suspected it was fantastically … normal.
Gil circled the conference table, lost in his own thoughts. “What did you say?” he asked.
“That it’s hard to imagine after all the fundraising and debates, redeye flights from the West Coast, opinion polls and blah blah blah blah blah, this whole election is going to come down to what happens in two little counties in West Virginia.”
“Mingo and Berkeley,” Gil said. “One’s in the southern coalfields and the other’s a six-hour drive away in the Eastern Panhandle. It’s crazy.”
Dave shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he said softly.
Gil stepped over to the whiteboards. Scanning the results, his eyes batted back and forth before resting at the bottom of the last whiteboard. Two entries scribbled in black read, “Royal 375,155. Wilson 375,169.” To the right of those was an entry written in red: “-14.”
Today’s recounts largely had gone off without a hitch. As a result, all the team’s other reps had reported their final results and went home, while Monica Boley and Spence remained in contact from Martinsburg and Williamson.
The phone rang. Gil speed-walked over and hit the speakerphone button. “Hello?”
“Hi, Gil,” Spence said. “We just finished another precinct down here.”
“I’m hoping you have some good news to report for a change.”
Spence sighed. “It depends on what your definition of ‘good’ is. The recount of Red Jacket is over, and we only lost another two votes there.”
Gil’s face turned red. “Well, I don’t know what they taught you in Mingo County, Spence. But digging ourselves deeper in a hole would never fall within the definition of ‘good’ I learned here in Kanawha County.” His teeth were clenched and his eyes simmered.
“Maybe not,” Spence replied tersely. “But Kanawha County actually elects Republicans from time-to-time, Gil. And in places like Mingo County – where Republicans are never elected, and those crazy enough to run don’t dream of doing better than losing by a two-to-one margin – keeping the damage that low is borderline miraculous.”
“All right, fellas,” Dave loudly interjected. “We’re all under a lot of stress, and you both need to chill the hell out. Spence … how many precincts are left to go there?”
The faint sound of heavy breathing came over the line. “Only eight. And there haven’t been any major surprises since that nasty Gilbert precinct.”
“All-in-all, things could be much worse when you consider how outnumbered we are down there,” Dave conceded. “But the other precinct with memory card problems is still floating around out there.”
“Matewan. You don’t need to remind me. Every time they pull out another box, I’m afraid it’s Matewan, and I almost piss myself.”
“Don’t strain your bladder. That will be the last one they count.”
“Why do you say that?”
Gil glanced over at Dave, and by the look in his eyes, he had an epip
hany. “Because they don’t want us to know how many votes they’ll gain there,” Gil said. “They want to wait until the last second to play their hole card so we don’t have time to react to it.”
Dave smirked and pointed his finger at Gil, like a professor pleased with his star pupil. “Exactly. I bet you’ll see Democrats working on the recount down there suddenly taking more bathroom breaks or smoke breaks. Doing whatever they can to delay things, so they can see how things unfold in Berkeley County before the Matewan precinct gets recounted.”
“Come to think of it,” Spence noted. “The County Clerk has been giving them more breaks lately. It all makes sense now.”
“All right, Spence. Make sure you guys scream bloody murder every time they try to take a break. Speed up the process at every turn. We might not be able to stop those bastards from stuffing the ballot boxes in Mingo County. But we can force ‘em to put their cards on the table before we lay down ours.”
“That’s right,” Gil chimed in. “Eight precincts remain in Mingo County. There are still fifteen to go in Berkeley County.”
“Well, heck,” Spence said. “Even a kid from the boondocks like me can understand that math. Consider it done.”
BERKELEY COUNTY COURTHOUSE
MARTINSBURG, BERKELEY COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY NOVEMBER 24, 3:40 P.M.
“Would you bring the ballot box from Opequon Elementary?” Marcus Boley asked. A deputy clerk scurried through a back door and returned with the box. Hoisting it onto a large, World War II-era metal table, the deputy clerk stepped aside and made room for his boss.
Marcus grabbed the blue lock that was fastened through a hinged latch on the box. Unlike most locks, however, this one had no keyhole; purposefully designed to be used only once, a white serial number was printed where the keyhole should have been. Once fastened in place, bolt cutters were required to remove it.
“884325,” he declared loudly, displaying the serial number so the campaign reps could examine it themselves. Having done this kabuki dance 56 times without any problems, the campaign reps still double-checked their records to confirm the lock’s serial number matched up with the one fastened to this precinct’s ballot box after the canvass.
For the 57th time, the serial numbers matched. The reps nodded, signaling assent for the recount to continue. Clutching the lock, Marcus used bolt-cutters to snip its metal arch and removed it from the latch. Casting the now-worthless lock aside, he lifted the lid and glanced at his twin sister who was standing along a wall to his right.
Monica’s hands were on her hips, and although she appeared to be in deep conversation with another woman, she tore her eyes away long enough to catch her brother’s gaze. In that moment, Marcus felt Monica’s strength and willpower pour into him. She says the greater good demands we break the law. I believe her.
Without Monica’s encouragement and shrewd guidance, Marcus knew he wouldn’t have had the courage to run for county clerk, let alone actually win the race. He owed his political fortunes – past, present and future – to Monica. He would trust her with his life. And as he reached down into the ballot box, subtly flipping the stack of actual ballots upside down while retrieving the stack of forged ballots, the fears that gripped him during lunch faded away.
If Monica says it can be done, it can be. Come what may, we’re in this thing together.
Marcus handed the ballots to the recount team. The campaign reps glanced down at the serial number imprinted on the first ballot in the stack, confirmed it matched their notes, and stepped back from the table. The recount team then took the ballots, one Democrat and one Republican examining each ballot to ascertain the voter’s intention.
“Royal,” one man announced. By remaining silent, the other ballot examiner ratified that opinion. The other two members of the bipartisan recount team dutifully scribbled a hash mark on their tally sheets, which would be reconciled periodically through the process until every vote was counted and the precinct’s results were re-tabulated.
Marcus breathed a silent sigh of relief. One more trial down, only fourteen more to go. Turning away, he closed his eyes and prayed their luck would hold out.
CHAPTER 51
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 5:15 P.M.
Tyson Vasquez sat behind his sleek mahogany desk, leaning toward the speakerphone. Yuri Petrenko stood across from him with his arms folded and his brow furrowed.
“What’s going on in Berkeley County?” Vasquez loudly asked. “Their numbers are making me nervous.”
“Me, too,” Bowen’s voice echoed from the speaker. “They’re gaining ten or fifteen votes a precinct on us. That strikes me as odd, but our folks on the ground think it’s all aboveboard. They say the kid who’s the county clerk up there is a pretty straight arrow.”
Vasquez frowned. “That’s what people said about Ted Bundy.”
“I don’t disagree,” Bowen said. “But if the guy’s pulling anything on us, we haven’t figured it out yet. Some people think the scanner at the central office may have been overly sensitive on Election Night, detecting votes for Wilson that aren’t visible on the actual ballots.”
“Are any of the other races affected?” Vasquez asked.
“Don’t know. No other races are being recounted. We’re the only game in town today.”
Vasquez reclined his ergonomic chair and sighed, folding his hands across his trim stomach. “Even so, between your handiwork with the paper ballots in Braxton and Wyoming Counties and the corrected results in Mingo County, we’re up about forty votes now.”
“That’s right,” Bowen confirmed. “Sheriff Perkins says there’s just one precinct left before they recount the Matewan precinct.” The lobbyist let loose a harsh-sounding chuckle. “He says the county clerk really earned her keep today … She even told the recount teams to take an hour off for dinner to slow down the process.”
Vasquez grinned wanly. “Nice, but the guy in Berkeley County did the same thing. The problem is Berkeley County had almost twice as many precincts and three times as many ballots to recount as Mingo County. We can drag things out, but Mingo probably will be finished first.”
“Shit,” Bowen swore. “Hopefully, though, by the time the recount figures from Matewan are relayed to Martinsburg, it’ll be too late for Mr. Straight Arrow to do anything about it.”
WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY NOVEMBER 24, 6:45 P.M.
The black phone rang. Dave knew it was Spence but dreaded taking the call. Matewan was the last precinct to be recounted in Mingo County, and the news was unlikely to be good.
Gil looked positively nauseous. He stared at the phone until it rang a second time, then hesitatingly activated the speakerphone. “Break it to me gently.”
“It’s bad, guys,” Spence said mournfully. “Real bad. I ran out to call you the moment the returns were final. We just lost another 115 votes.”
Dave swore under his breath. Gil pounded the table and screamed, “Fuck! That puts us down 160 statewide with only four precincts left in Berkeley.”
“Thanks for being so quick,” Dave interjected. “We need to relay this info to the Panhandle immediately. Keep your phone handy.”
Dave disconnected the phone and looked at Gil. “Call Monica now. The sooner she knows what happened in Williamson, the better.”
BERKELEY COUNTY COURTHOUSE
MARTINSBURG, BERKELEY COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY NOVEMBER 24, 6:50 P.M.
As she hung up, Monica Boley felt the chilling grip of fear for the first time in her life. Part of her realized that every time she gave Marcus a sign, she was measurably increasing the odds her felonious scheme would be uncovered. What she found far more surprising, however (and thus, more difficult to control), was the fear her carefully executed plan might fail.
Failure was something unpleasant that less capable people experienced and learned from. Greatness was her de
stiny; not failure! The idea that she could dedicate herself to a goal and still fall short was, in a word, inconceivable.
She shook her head quickly from side-to-side and took a deep breath. After briefly contemplating the prospect of failure, her iron will re-emerged.
Perhaps one day down the road, your mouth will be filled with the bitter taste of defeat. But today, failure is not an option.
Four precincts left, and they were down 160 votes. Running figures in her mind, she sought a way to overcome that deficit without creating undue suspicion. For a brief, terrifying moment, she found herself unable to recall precisely which four precincts remained, let alone how many votes for Governor Royal each contained.
Subconsciously, Monica sensed someone was staring at her. Narrowing her eyes, she slowly scanned the courtroom from left-to-right. With a shock, she realized Marcus was gazing at her expectantly from the front of the room. Standing in front of a ballot box, his right hand held bolt-cutters. Seeing the hopeful yet anxious look in his eyes, her mental fog evaporated.
She winked and put her hands on her hips.
CHAPTER 52
WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 7:35 P.M.
“Something must be wrong,” Gil muttered. “Monica’s not answering her phone.”
Dave was facing away from Gil; his attention glued to Fox News where talking heads discussed the drama unfolding in Martinsburg. “Maybe she’s got her hands full right now,” Dave dryly said. “Besides, we’ll probably find out what happens quicker just watching TV.”
Gil pulled up a chair. Aside from the ticker tape scrolling along the bottom, a gray outline of Berkeley County’s borders on a white background took up the bulk of the screen.