The Dirty Secret Page 6

  Dave shook his head rapidly as if trying to sweep haze from his mind. The young blond man smiled sheepishly and said, “Surprisingly enough, they actually trust me to do more around here than just fetch coffee and lost bigwigs from D.C.”

  Anderson viewed the youngster with newfound respect. “Well, all right. In that case, Spence, why would the vote count from Election Night be more reliable than the backup data?”

  Spence adjusted his eyeglasses and paused, pondering the query, as everyone stared at him expectantly. “Although I don’t have any personal experience working with this software – since AIS refuses to let outsiders inspect it due to its so-called ‘trade secrets’ – it’s my understanding Cicero has specific safeguards in its code to ensure the software functioned properly on Election Day. According to the Cicero website, these machines are programmed to connect via satellite to the main AIS server every twenty minutes after the polls open for diagnostic testing. If a machine has any glitches, it is programmed to shut down, and voters are directed to use other machines until county officials can bring in a replacement.”

  Dave stood with his arms crossed, completely focused on the young man’s explanation. “So if these machines kept working all day, they apparently weren’t malfunctioning.”

  “Precisely. If the machines were working when the results were calculated on Election Night, any current memory card problems must have arisen after those results were printed.”

  Seeing a chorus of nods around him, Dave put a hand on Spence’s shoulder. “Write down every theory you think their computer experts might use to argue the backup data would be more reliable than the results announced on Election Night. We’ll put our heads together and try to poke holes in their arguments as best we can.”

  Spence nodded, grinning. Mack Palmer sighed loudly. “I can’t believe a presidential election might hinge on a bunch of computer geeks arguing over this kind of crap. I thought we couldn’t stoop any lower than arguing over how to interpret ‘hanging chads.’” He shook his head in disgust. “God help us all.”

  CHAPTER 13

  ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 11:00 A.M.

  Rikki leaned back in her black leather office chair, scanning Pleasants County’s pending criminal cases for the names of any past or current clients. Such conflicts of interest would require the appointment of a special prosecutor once she took office in January.

  Noticing a familiar name, Rikki smirked and whipped out her yellow highlighter. “What did Phil Nutter get himself into this time?” she asked aloud.

  “Worthless checks,” replied the silver-haired woman on the other side of her desk. Clad in a conservative-looking navy blue dress, the eyeglasses atop her nose were also chained around her neck by a beaded lanyard. “That, plus a fraudulent pretences charge, which should be listed on the next page.”

  Rikki winced slightly and let out a soft whistle. Worthless check charges were misdemeanors, but obtaining money from someone under false pretences was a felony. “Sorry to hear that about Phil,” she said. “I’ll definitely need a special prosecutor for those cases. Thanks for pointing out that felony, Martha.”

  The older woman smiled warmly. “You’re welcome, Rikki. Personally, I’m just relieved to know that the office will be in good hands soon. You know Joe just hasn’t been up to working lately, and the backlog is too much for me to handle on my own.”

  Rikki’s full lips grew taut and she laid down the list of cases. “How’s Joe doing, anyway?”

  Martha sighed. “Not good. The cancer has spread to his brain and the doctors don’t think he has much time left.”

  “That’s too bad. Joe has treated me like gold ever since I was a little girl. He’s been a great prosecutor and an even better man.”

  Martha smiled sadly. “He was happy you won. I’ve worked for him for twenty years and he always worried about what might happen to the office after he retired. He told me last week it brought him great comfort to know you’re the one who will succeed him.”

  “Aww … That was so sweet of him to say. I just hope I don’t let him down.”

  Martha patted Rikki’s hand. “You won’t, honey,” she said, a tone of certainty in her voice. “I know you won’t. In fact, Joe wants to get you into office as soon as possible.”

  A puzzled look crossed Rikki’s face. “What do you mean?”

  “Joe thought about resigning before the election. But he was afraid people would get mad, thinking he was trying to crown his own successor. But now that you’ve been elected, there’s really no sense in waiting until January 1st for you to take office. Especially since it looks like Joe couldn’t come back to work even if he wanted to.”

  “So what does he want to do?”

  “Submit his resignation and ask the County Commission to appoint you to finish his term that ends December 31st,” Martha replied. “He’s spoken with the commissioners and since state law requires any replacement to belong to the same political party as Joe, they have agreed to go ahead and appoint you and let you start transitioning into the office a little early.”

  Rikki had to admit the plan made sense. If Joe’s too sick to return to work, the backlog will only get bigger between now and January.

  “And the commissioners are on board with this plan?” Rikki asked.

  Martha nodded. “Yes. They know Joe’s illness has kept him away from the courthouse a lot lately and they want to make it as easy on you as possible. If you’re willing to start early, Joe will submit his resignation, and they will put your appointment on the agenda for next week’s Commission meeting.”

  Rikki briefly mulled it over one last time. “Tell Joe I’m honored he has that much confidence in me and if he won’t be able to return to work by the end of the year, I’m willing to step in now.”

  “I’ll let him know,” Martha said.

  After taking a moment to digest the news, Rikki turned her attention back to the list of pending cases. “Well, I suppose we should get back to work now that our local criminals will be dealing with me sooner than expected.”

  CHAPTER 14

  PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1:45 P.M.

  Jack felt his belt buzz. Snatching his cell phone from its belt clip, he saw the incoming call was from the bank. “Jack McCallen here.”

  “Hey, Jack! It’s Marty Tharp from the bank. How are you doing?”

  Jack felt his stomach tighten like someone had poured Quikrete into it. “I guess I can’t complain. I hope you’re calling to give me some good news.”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then Tharp sighed. “I wish I could say I was, Jack. But I’m afraid the loan committee has denied your application. Your cash flow looks good, but your credit history has taken a hit the past nine months.”

  Jack felt his face begin to flush. “That’s because we ran into solid granite drilling that new deep well near Pennsboro,” he half-screamed. “I burnt up a bunch of drill bits, which aren’t exactly cheap. Then the whole damn drill burned up, and I had a choice: I could buy a new drill and let my bills slide a little in the short term - or I could pay the bills on time, delay buying the drill, and end up losing the lease on that property. I couldn’t run that risk.”

  “I understand, Jack,” the banker said calmly. “I really do. But like you couldn’t run that risk, we don’t feel comfortable risking 3 million bucks on essentially an unsecured loan.”

  “I put up the Schoolcraft lease as collateral for the loan, damn it! That’s 2,500 acres that have never been drilled below 6,000 feet. You’ve seen the geological reports. You know how big those reserves are!”

  “And it isn’t worth a plug nickel if your lease gets overturned,” Tharp forcefully answered. “Not one damn nickel. I’m sorry, Jack, but that’s a chance we can’t take. Come and talk to us once the lawsuit is resolved.”

  “Pardon my French, Marty,” McCallen yelled, his face red and twisted with
fury. “But your loan committee can go fuck itself! If I can hold everything together long enough to see this bullshit lawsuit get dismissed, I’ll have enough money to buy your damn bank! And when that happens - not if mind you, but when that happens - you can bet your ass there will be a bunch of you stuffed-suit-wearing motherfuckers looking for new jobs.”

  The banker remained silent for almost a minute. Jack was breathing so hard he felt like he had just finished running a five mile race and he held his cell phone in a death-grip.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Jack,” Tharp finally said, his voice laden with stress. “But we’re not in the business of losing money, and if my own money was riding on whether or not McCallen Resources will still be solvent come July, I’d bet against it.”

  “Well, you better hope you’re right,” McCallen said menacingly. “Otherwise, you’ll need to brush up your resume.”

  Before the banker could say anything else, Jack hung up the phone and hurled it against the wall of his office. Bits of plastic and electronic circuitry flew in every direction as the sounds of his guttural screaming echoed off the walls.

  Tharp’s bank was the last in the area to look at his loan application, and only the most recent one to turn down his request. He slumped into his chair and struggled to fight back tears, knowing in his heart of hearts that in the absence of some sort of miracle, the company his dad had spent years building from the ground up was about to go down in flames, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  CHAPTER 15

  CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2:30 P.M.

  Luke Vincent sat in the rear of his limousine. Leaning forward, he clutched his cell phone and stared at it, silently pondering his next move.

  His State Police escort stood outside the limo, dutifully allowing him a moment alone. Clad in a long, olive greatcoat, a plume of fog billowed from the trooper’s mouth as he rubbed his gloves together, trying to keep himself warm. Secret Service agents hovered nearby.

  Vincent took a deep breath, hit “send,” and raised the phone to his ear. His heart was racing as the phone began ringing.

  “Hello?” said the spectacularly sultry voice which answered his call.

  “I didn’t appreciate that little stunt you pulled the other morning,” Vincent said. “What in the world were you thinking when you sent me that video clip?”

  “I don’t like being kept waiting, nor do I care for that tone of voice, Mr. Governor.”

  Vincent felt a pang in his chest. This was not how he had envisioned this conversation unfolding. He was the Governor for Christ’s sake! Most people wouldn’t dare talk to him like that. Knowing she had the power to do so made him both furious and terrified, a combination that seriously hindered his ability to think clearly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said gently, “but I was in a meeting when your message came through, and I had to make up some cockamamie story I’m sure no one believed. Just think what would have happened if Donna had been there when I opened that message.”

  “Not my problem, Luke. Make arrangements to see me more often, I’ll be a happy camper, and you won’t hear from your mistress when you’re in polite company. But if you keep putting me off and making me feel like some kind of whore you’re ashamed of …” She paused, letting the threat hang. “ … well, if you keep treating me like that, you can’t expect me to keep playing nice. Maybe next time, I’ll send the clip directly to Donna’s phone.”

  “I didn’t get where I am by being pushed around or threatened,” the governor snapped. “You’re not the first person who thought they had me by the short and curlies, and don’t you ever threaten to drag my wife into this situation again. Because if you do, Tabatha, you’re gonna find out real quick that it’s not smart to get on my bad side.”

  Vincent heard Tabatha start sobbing. “I am so, so sorry, baby. I just want to be with you so bad, and it hurts when I can’t see you. I don’t like feeling like a whore, Luke. I don’t like going days and days without hearing so much as a peep from you. It makes me feel like you don’t care about me, and that all you want me for is sex.”

  The most primal part of the governor’s brain responsible for detecting danger began flooding his system with adrenaline. She has let her emotions get involved. I’m skating on thin ice here, and I need to ratchet down the tension a notch.

  “You know better than that,” he coaxed. “I love being with you, but I have to be careful. Especially now with the media camped out all over the damn state. I’m just asking you to be patient with me. That’s all. Just bear with me a little while and I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  Sniffles trickled into his ear. “You promise?” she asked, sounding like a little girl who wanted to go to Disneyland but would settle for a trip to the ice cream parlor instead.

  Vincent felt a deep sense of relief and the muscles in his neck began to relax. “I promise. Cross my heart, Tabatha. Just give me a little time and trust me, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, fighting through sniffles. “I’ll try not to freak out on you any more, Luke, I really will. But don’t keep me waiting forever, okay?”

  “I won’t. I’ll call you sometime next week, and we’ll see what we can work out.”

  A laugh tinged with sorrow greeted his words. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you, baby. I can’t wait to see you again.”

  “Me either,” he lied. “Bye, bye.”

  Vincent didn’t even wait to hear what she might have said in response before he hung up the phone and tapped on the window, summoning the trooper. His mind was already in overdrive, trying to figure out how to eliminate this nightmare from his life.

  CHAPTER 16

  WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 11:00 A.M.

  Mack Palmer sat erect in his chair, facing the Mingo County Commission while listening to the opposition’s arguments. Dave thought Palmer was gritting his teeth and silently reciting yoga mantras to remain calm while the other lawyer’s voice grew increasingly louder.

  “There’s no question the results reported on Election Night from the precincts using these malfunctioning machines don’t add up,” Susan Mathis asserted in a strong voice belying her short, petite stature. Her long auburn hair and porcelain skin looked impeccable despite having been under the glare of television lights for over an hour. “Registered Democrats outnumber Republicans in those precincts ten-to-one, yet the initial returns indicate Governor Royal won 70 percent of their votes. Such a switch would be unheard of, especially when you look at the figures from those same precincts four years ago when the Democrat nominee won two-thirds of the votes.

  “In light of these facts,” Mathis continued, shifting her weight to her right leg as she stood behind the podium, her hands cupped together atop the wooden lectern, “plus the testimony of our IT experts and simple common sense, the Commission must acknowledge that the backup data uploaded onto AIS’s server constitutes the most accurate measure of the voters’ intent in those precincts on Election Day. Thank you.”

  A man in his late forties with sandy blond hair and a thick moustache sat in the middle of the County Commission’s dais at the front of the room, watching the attorney return to her seat. Over the past two days, Dave had learned the man was Mark Monroe, the president of the Commission who was undyingly devoted to the Wilson/Vincent campaign.

  “Thank you, Ms. Mathis, for your enlightening presentation,” Monroe gushed. His fawning tone made Dave want to puke. “Mr. Palmer, you may proceed.”

  Palmer stood up and marched to the podium, tight-jawed with a steely glare in his eyes. To Dave, he looked imminently prepared for battle. He neatly stacked his prepared notes on the right side of the lectern, casually adjusted the left sleeve of his black suit jacket and stared up at the members of the Commission.

  “Thank you, Commissioner Monroe,” he began. “I must begin by giving credit where credit is due, and acknowledge that the proposition advanced b
y Ms. Mathis in this case is creative. Without any basis in the law, but creative nonetheless.”

  The muscular, bald lawyer glanced down at the lectern and gingerly adjusted his crisp stack of papers. “According to section twenty-eight of the West Virginia Code, chapter three, article four-a,” Palmer continued, speaking in a slow, methodical manner, “your role as the board of canvassers requires you to ‘examine all of the vote-recording devices’ and ‘determine the number of votes cast for each candidate.’ Having conducted such an examination, you must then ‘procure the correct returns and ascertain the true results of the election.’” Palmer paused, giving the Commissioners a moment to digest the statute. Monroe’s eyes were glazed over, but the other two members of the Commission were listening closely. “Section twenty-nine goes on to say that if it appears ‘a vote recording device … has by reason of mechanical failure or improper or fraudulent preparation or tampering, incorrectly recorded or tabulated the actual votes cast or counted …’ then this body ‘shall have the cause of the error corrected and the ballots affected recounted so that the election returns will accurately reflect the votes cast at such election if it is possible to correct such error.’” As his voice rose in pitch to emphasize the last phrase of that sentence, Palmer drew the forefinger, middle finger and thumb of his right hand together, using them to punctuate the air in front of him.

  “In other words,” the lawyer continued, exuding an aura of confidence, “there are a whole lot of hoops you have to jump through to get where Ms. Mathis wants to take you. First off, you have to conclude that the memory cards from these nine specific voting machines malfunctioned on Election Night, twice: Once during the initial tabulation at the individual precincts and a second time when they were processed at the County Clerk’s Office. And to reach that conclusion, you also must believe these malfunctions went undetected by the so-called ‘experts’ at AIS during each of the eight diagnostic tests that were performed on each of those nine machines between 7:20 p.m. and 9:40 p.m. on November 4th.”