The Dirty Secret Page 5

  The banker pressed the call button. “So how was your drive over from Saint Marys?”

  “Not bad. Route 50 was a little boring, but at least I didn’t hit any deer along the way.”

  Tharp chuckled. A bell rang, and the elevator doors parted, revealing the cabin’s rich mahogany walls. “Yeah, it’s about that time of the year, isn’t it? Are you a hunter?”

  “Well, I like to get out in the woods during rifle season when work allows it. But I haven’t bagged one in a while, so I hope I’m due for one this year.”

  The doors shut, and the elevator car began to rise accompanied by the soothing melodies of some song Jack thought was by Kenny G. As the digital screen morphed from a four into a five, the elevator slowed to a stop, and the doors opened. Tharp walked directly across the hallway into an open conference room. Jack mentally steeled himself as he followed the banker into the room with his laptop draped over his right shoulder.

  A massive oval table was situated in the middle of the room. Tharp sat in a black, ergonomically-sculpted chair positioned within easy reach of Jack’s loan application package, which was neatly spread out in a semicircular pattern atop the table. The banker spun 90 degrees and faced Jack, gently reclining his chair. “I understand you have a PowerPoint presentation for me.”

  “I figured that would be easier than asking you to dig through all that paperwork like you’re looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  Tharp motioned to a projector stationed in the middle of the conference table, focused on a large white screen protruding from the ceiling. “Go right ahead.”

  As Jack spoke, he felt like he had been transported from his body. He had memorized the script down to a tee, having practiced at least fifty times. Smoothly transitioning from slide-to-slide, he gave his spiel to the banker with the same polished delivery that had earned him votes for years.

  Tharp stared across the room at the projector screen, nodding as Jack used his laser pointer remote to highlight important language from his exploration geologist’s report. He pointed out the gas pocket believed to exist about 8,500 feet below the Schoolcraft property, and the likelihood that a thick strand of the untapped Marcellus Shale strata ran through the property about 6,500 feet underground.

  “But isn’t your lease on that tract tied up in litigation right now?” the banker asked, his red eyebrows furrowed above his eyeglasses.

  “We can’t actually drill on the property until the lawsuit is resolved,” Jack conceded. “But our lawyer thinks the lease will remain valid because the plaintiffs can’t prove we haven’t ‘reasonably developed’ those resources. After all, until this new ground-penetrating radar equipment was created, no one could have envisioned such an unusual sandstone formation at that depth. Plus, until recently, no one had devised a way to economically harvest the gas trapped in the Marcellus.”

  Tharp slowly nodded his head, but the skepticism did not fade from his eyes. “Who’s your lawyer?”

  “Rikki Gudivada.”

  The banker’s posture loosened, and his eyebrows smoothed out. “She’s one of the best. When’s the case supposed to go to trial?”

  Jack felt his stomach tighten. “The first slot the judge could give us was July 14th. Of course, that’s if the judge doesn’t grant us summary judgment, and we don’t settle the case.”

  Tharp whistled loudly. “That’s what … eight months from now?”

  Jack hoped the glumness in his heart wasn’t manifested on his face. “Yeah,” he said, trying to sound upbeat. “But the judge will hear our motion for summary judgment in May. Rikki thinks we have a pretty good shot at winning that one unless the plaintiffs can pull a rabbit out of their hat.”

  “Strange things happen in litigation,” the banker observed ominously. “I’d feel a lot better about loaning you 3 million dollars if that lawsuit wasn’t hanging over your head.”

  “If that lawsuit wasn’t hanging over my head, I wouldn’t need to borrow 3 million dollars. I’d have people lined up to throw money at me.”

  Tharp nodded curtly. “Quite true,” he said, tightening his lips and staring at Jack as if taking his measure. Jack stood motionless with the computer remote cupped in his right hand, returning the gaze unwaveringly.

  “Hey,” the banker blurted, scooting his chair closer to the conference table. “I meant to tell you that I saw your name in the paper this morning.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jack asked, his eyes narrowing. “Which one?”

  “The Dominion-Post. It was a big story about the election brouhaha. I didn’t know you’re one of our presidential Electors.”

  “Well, I will be if Governor Vincent doesn’t magically manufacture a few hundred votes for Senator Wilson out of thin air.”

  The banker’s face suddenly brightened. “That’s pretty cool. I had no idea how that whole thing worked.”

  “Most people don’t. It only becomes an issue about once a century.”

  “So how did you become an Elector? I don’t remember ever voting for you.”

  “Nah, it’s not an elected office,” Jack said. “Each party picks five people from around the state to vote as members of the Electoral College in the event their nominee wins the state’s popular vote. I’ve been shaking hands and kissing babies for the Republican Party for a long time. I guess they figured naming me as an elector would be a nice way to honor my service.”

  “And what about your wife? Doesn’t she have something to do with it too?”

  Jack smiled like a poker player trying to bluff a pot with a pair of fives. “The party named her as an alternate. She’s put in a lot of time at Republican Women’s lunches and working on party fundraisers over the years. The folks down at headquarters kinda look at us like we’re a matched set. If they’re having me do something, chances are they’re roping Tabatha into it, too.”

  Tharp tapped his fingertips on the table. “Ah, I see. Well, I do think that’s pretty neat. I bet your kids will look back on that as a real accomplishment someday.”

  Jack snorted. “I hope that casting one ceremonial vote in the Electoral College ends up paling by comparison to leaving them a prosperous oil and gas company when I croak.”

  The banker laughed. “Absolutely,” he said, rising from the table.

  Jack recognized the meeting had ended and subtly used his remote to darken the projector screen. “So when do you think you’ll be able to let me know about this loan?”

  “Well, I need to run everything by our loan committee. We’re supposed to meet again tomorrow, so hopefully you’ll know something no later than Friday.”

  McCallen clapped his hands together and rubbed them lightly. “Sounds good to me,” he said, extending his right hand to the banker. “I hope we’ll be doing business together.”

  Tharp shook his hand. “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  Well, that was a pretty non-committal response, Jack silently noted. He pumped the banker’s hand up and down twice and then turned his attention to his laptop, disconnecting it from the projector and powering it down.

  The banker reassembled the loan application documents into neat little stacks while Jack folded his laptop and gingerly stowed it away. Then the two made a beeline for the elevator.

  “I have another meeting I need to get to,” Tharp said, lightly patting Jack on the back. “You mind if I stay up here and let you find your own way out?”

  “No problem. You have a good one and I’ll talk to you on Friday.”

  Tharp nodded, pressed the elevator’s call button and headed down the hallway toward a corner office. Jack stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby, silently praying the bank would give him good news. And fast.

  CHAPTER 12

  WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1:00 P.M.

  The hills surrounding the town of Williamson were so steep they made Madison look like Kansas City. If railroad construction in the 1890s had not made extracting the region’s vast
coal reserves feasible, Dave saw no reason why a town would have developed here at all.

  Only sheer stubbornness seemed to explain Williamson’s creation and continuing existence. Narrow streets had been painstakingly carved from the hills in strict conformity with the area’s unforgiving topography. The Tug River’s brown waters coursed through town, serving as the border between West Virginia and Kentucky.

  On several instances over the past hundred years, the Tug had done its damnedest to wipe Williamson off the map by overflowing its banks and sending a torrent of floodwater through its streets, most recently in 1977. A small voice inside Dave’s head sardonically opined that such a result would have been an appropriate punishment for the town’s real and perceived sins over the years. Even though God – For reasons known only to Him, lamented Dave – had chosen not to sweep Williamson from its tenuous grip on the planet’s surface, the resulting damage was so extensive that documents in the courthouse had been saturated, if not destroyed, by the mud.

  By the time Dave arrived in Williamson, there were no open parking spaces on any of the streets wedged around the courthouse between the mountains and the Tug. After making it a block past the courthouse, and a small black building constructed entirely from coal that caught his eye, Dave reluctantly parked Ned Hopson’s big truck in a parking garage several blocks away. Much to his relief, he didn’t hear sheet metal or plastic scraping against concrete as he did so.

  Dave grabbed his laptop case and headed for the courthouse. Exiting the darkened garage, his green eyes momentarily struggled to re-adjust to the bright afternoon sunlight as he strolled toward the clump of humanity clustered around the building’s entrance. As he drew closer, the tension in the air became more palpable. By the time he reached the front door, it seemed ready to explode.

  A slightly chubby guy in his mid-twenties with unruly blond hair had been watching Dave closely as he walked toward the courthouse. Wearing a chocolate brown sweater and khaki pants, his face was wrought with anxiety. As Dave stepped onto the sidewalk leading to the front door, the young man broke away from the crowd and approached him. “Are you Dave Anderson?”

  “The one and only,” he replied wearily. Dear God! How many times have people asked me that question over the past few days? “I got here as soon as I could. What have I missed?”

  The youngster made for the front door, clearing a path for Dave as he went. “The Commission is trying to figure out what to do about these memory cards,” he explained, speaking quickly and sounding out of breath. “Mark Monroe wants to use the backup data from AIS and recalculate the votes in the affected precincts immediately. Pete Warner wants to quarantine those memory cards and use the hard copy printouts made on Election Night for those precincts instead. And Ruth Thompson looks like she’s about to have a stroke because she doesn’t know what she wants to do with ‘em.”

  “I assume you’re not surprised by any of that are you?” Dave said wryly.

  The man glanced over his shoulder as they squeezed through the crowd. “Not hardly. Monroe is aligned with the faction that supports Governor Vincent and Senator Wilson. Pete’s with us. And Ruth’s not really with anyone … The only reason she’s even on the Commission is because one of her two opponents in the last primary was arrested a month before the election. The other guy died right after that. And although she was the only candidate both breathing and out of jail when the primary was held, she still only beat the dead guy by 50 votes.”

  Dave chuckled. “So tell me everything you know about these memory cards.”

  “Wait ‘til we get past security,” the young man replied, holding open the door. “The less the other side knows about our thought process, the better.”

  Ah! Dave thought. Remembering the setup from Boone County, it stood to reason that the guards manning the courthouse metal detector worked for the county sheriff and that his young tour guide distrusted the sheriff’s political leanings.

  Dave detected a conspiratorial glint in the man’s eye. The younger man stood in front of the security checkpoint and emptied his pockets, dutifully depositing his keys, cell phone and loose change into a circular gray plastic tub. A short, reed-thin man with stringy black hair and streaks of acne across his cheeks grunted and motioned him through the metal detector while sliding the plastic container through an X-ray machine.

  Dave was painfully familiar with security protocol from his years in D.C., and he quickly followed suit. The guard, whom Dave had privately dubbed The Greasy Redneck Goth, marked him as an outsider and eyed him suspiciously. “Is that a cumpewter in yer case?” the guard asked, tapping the black leather laptop case with his left hand.

  No, you moron. It’s filled with river rocks and pint bottles of Jack Daniels. But Dave somehow managed to silence his Inner Smartass and simply answered, “Yes.”

  “I needja tuh take eet outta thuh case, sir,” the guard said with a jarring twang that made Dave suddenly feel as if his own voice had no accent at all. “Put eet een that beeg gray tub fur mee and slyde thuh case on through by eetself.”

  Anderson bit his tongue, trying not to roll his eyes. Obeying seemingly arbitrary orders had never been one of his strong points, but his ability to control those defiant tendencies had improved with age. Unzipping the computer case, he tried to ignore the tightening sensation in his chest and did as he was told.

  A minute later, apparently satisfied that an unfamiliar middle-aged white guy in a suit was not going to blow the Mingo County Courthouse to smithereens, the guard begrudgingly nodded at Dave and gave him his laptop back. With lips that looked like they had been sealed shut with Super Glue, Dave returned the nod, grabbed his computer and scurried after his tour guide who was climbing a staircase on the lobby’s left side.

  Dave’s companion turned left at the top of the steps before speedwalking through an open set of wooden double doors. The courtroom was filled to capacity with the same broad mix of curious locals and media types he had seen in Boone County. Mingo County’s courtroom was boxy and plain, like some cookie-cutter creation of an uninspired, monetarily challenged architect from the 1960s. Which, in reality, is precisely what it was.

  At the front of the room, two well-dressed clusters of people stood separate and distinct from one another. The heads of each group were literally huddled together. A bald man built like an Abrams tank seemed to be serving as the nucleus of the cluster on the right side of the room. He looked like a tightly wound ball of energy threatening to uncoil at any moment. A crisply starched white dress shirt collar was laboring mightily to restrain the man’s muscular neck, and even from across the room, Dave thought he could see veins bulging in the man’s temples as his bright blue eyes burrowed into one of the minions orbiting around him. As Dave and his tour guide closed on the circle, the bald man diverted his attention to them.

  “I got him here as soon as I could,” the tour guide blurted half-apologetically.

  “About damn time,” the bald guy replied gruffly. “The Commission should have been back from lunch five minutes ago.”

  Dave decided to take the initiative, extending his right hand to the apparent leader of Jonathan Royal’s Mingo County posse. “Dave Anderson. I don’t think my speedometer dipped below 95 the whole way from Madison. Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

  The bald man’s expression softened slightly but he returned the handshake with a grip so firm Dave felt like his metacarpals were shattering. “Mack Palmer. We don’t have a lot of time, so quickly tell me exactly what you think these guys want to pull with this memory card stunt.”

  “Well, I’m no computer scientist,” Dave began, “but I have a lifetime of experience working on political campaigns and an encyclopedic knowledge of the ways people have stolen elections in the past. Combine those things with my inherent distrust of people in general, and I think I have a pretty good idea of what’s going on.”

  Palmer’s eyes narrowed and he tilted his head back slightly. “Oh, yeah?” he asked, a note of curiosity
in his voice.

  “It’s a two-prong strategy,” Dave explained. “First of all, if everything goes well for them, they really do hope to substitute the alleged ‘backup data’ from AIS’s server for the real McCoy that was processed on Election Night twice – initially at the precincts themselves, and then later at the County Clerk’s Office. If they convince the County Commission to do that, considering who really calls the shots at AIS, there’s no doubt Jonathan Royal loses this election.

  “Secondly, even if they can’t persuade the County Commission that the ‘backup data’ is more reliable than the original returns, they hope to discredit the results reported by those disputed precincts on Election Night. Because the memory cards aren’t functioning properly now, they will argue, it stands to reason that those same memory cards very well may have not been working properly on Election Night. If that’s the case, why should the County Commission – or the rest of the world, for that matter – have any faith that the initial results tabulated for those precincts are accurate either?”

  Palmer spoke slowly as he digested the ploy’s political ramifications. “So if they can’t shift enough votes into Senator Wilson’s column by substituting the backup data for the original results, they can still muddy the water enough to confuse the public.”

  “Yep. And try to create enough uncertainty that would allow the courts to overturn the results and declare that Wilson and Vincent won West Virginia’s popular vote. Considering the fact that four of the five justices on the state Supreme Court are Democrats, I’d say that’s not an outlandish possibility.”

  Mack Palmer’s head bobbed up and down once. “Now that angle of things,” he said. “Twenty years of practicing law in this state has made me well aware of. I know West Virginia election law like the inside of my own eyelids, but I’ve never claimed to be a politician, and I certainly don’t know much about computers. That’s what Spence here is for.” He jabbed his index finger toward the chest of Dave’s tour guide.