The Dirty Secret (21 page)

Perkins nodded. “Any word on what caused the transformer to blow?”

Chuckles echoed out of the radio speaker. “Roger, Sheriff. The guy here says it looks like a squirrel got into it somehow.”

The sheriff rocked back on his heels and let out a big laugh. “A
squirrel
? You gotta be kidding me!”

“Can’t say I am, Sheriff. Larry’s over there, scraping what’s left of the sorry critter into a trash bag. That thing looks charbroiled as hell.” Then the deputy made a retching noise. “It
smells
like hell, too. I think I’m gonna hurl.”

Perkins doubled over laughing. “Don’t do that! Think of something else to soothe your stomach. Like a moldy baloney sandwich floating in a dirty ashtray full of spoiled milk.”

Full-fledged vomiting noises followed the comment, and the sheriff’s laughter grew even louder. “That wasn’t nice,” the deputy sulked. “Over.”

Perkins slowly caught his breath. “I’m sorry, Frank. I just couldn’t help myself. Find out how much longer it’s gonna take and then head back out on patrol, okay? Over.”

“He says he should have everything back up and running in a few minutes.”

“All right then. If he doesn’t need anything else, go ahead and take off. I’ll see you shortly. Over.”

“Roger that. Fifty-four out.”

Perkins returned the radio to his belt. Grinning broadly, he stood tall with his hands on his hips. “Any more questions?”

“Yeah,” Warner replied. “Are the election materials still safely secured?”

“I suppose so. It’s not like I’ve
checked
on ‘em or anything, but I’m sure they’re fine.” Perkins rotated toward the closest cameraman. “I mean,
you guys
had your cameras fixed on the courthouse. Did
you
see anybody sneaking around in there?”

“We couldn’t see much. We’ll have to wait and see if the night vision cameras captured anything once we review the footage in slow motion.”

The sheriff’s smile remained fixed. “Well, I was upstairs in my office the whole time. But if you guys didn’t see anybody rummaging around in the basement, everything should be fine down there.”

Warner cracked a grin. “Why don’t we wander down there and check things out? You know … just to
make sure
.”

Perkins shrugged. “Might as well, while we’re here.” He took a step backward, away from the cameras and into the courthouse doorway.

“Can I borrow your flashlight, Sheriff?” Warner asked.

The lawman swung open the door and held it open. “Sure. What do you need it for?”

“I need to go down to my office and grab a few things.”

Perkins handed him the flashlight. “Go ahead. We’ll wait here for you.”

“Thanks,” Warner replied gruffly. He grabbed the flashlight and turned left down the main hallway. As he strolled into the darkness, following the diffused cone of light, his rubber soles squeaked loudly on the waxed vinyl floor.

Two minutes later, Warner’s office door slammed shut just as the streetlamps came back on. The sound of a computer rebooting percolated from the courthouse security station. Green and red lights flashed on the metal detector and the X-ray monitor lit up, as well.

“Well, whadda ya know?” Perkins quipped. “It looks like that squirrel was no match for the power grid, after all.”

Warner came around the corner and entered the foyer, holding a stapled document.

“Whatcha got there, Pete?” Perkins asked.

“Oh, just some paperwork,” Warner replied. “Which way do you want to go?”

“Let’s take the main stairwell, just in case the power goes out again. No offense, but I don’t wanna be holed up with you boys in a disabled elevator all night.” Perkins ambled toward the stairs and Warner stepped aside, permitting him to lead the way.

The six men entered the stairwell and descended single-file into the basement. Perkins slung open the heavy steel fire door and turned left, hitting a light switch. The others followed.

Fifteen feet down the hallway, Perkins wheeled left and stood before a door. Pulling a retractable key-ring from his belt, he fingered through the keys dangling at his side. Finding the right one, he inserted it into the keyhole, opened the door and flipped on the lights.

Carefully positioned both on top of tables and on the floor beneath them was a sea of transparent, suitcase-sized plastic containers. Each held what looked like a huge gray laptop computer, and they were all fastened shut with red plastic locks bearing serial numbers. Sheets of copy paper bearing individual precinct names and numbers were scrupulously positioned atop various constellations of containers.

Warner brushed past Perkins toward the plastic containers labeled, “Gilbert Middle School #75.” Squatting down to get a closer look, he flipped through the document in his hands. Perkins watched, bemused, as Warner’s eyes quickly scanned down the page, searching for some particular piece of data.

“Here we go,” Warner declared, sounding satisfied. “Gilbert precinct. Five machines. The serial numbers for the locks fastened on the containers after the canvass are 569872, 569714, 381622, 743559 and 381407.”

Warner examined the locks on the plastic containers holding the voting machines from Gilbert. That precinct, along with the one in Matewan, had been the focus point of the parties’ arguments during the canvass. Holding one of the locks, he studied its serial number and compared it to the list in his other hand. “569714. This one matches up.”

Perkins stood behind Warner. “Imagine that,” he said snidely.

Warner scowled, but continued his work. “381622. Okay. 743559. 381407. 569872. Hmmph. They all have the same numbers announced at the canvass.”

Perkins raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “Scandalous, isn’t it? You wanna go through
all
the machines from the other 38 precincts while we’re down here, Pete? I mean, it’s not like I have anything
better
to do right now. You know … Like
do my job
and keep tabs on people who might be up to no good.”

Warned raised himself from the floor. Staring up at Perkins, he was tight-lipped. “I suppose not. We’ll just check out the courthouse video surveillance footage. That should show us if anyone’s been up to any funny business around here.”

Perkins grinned. “Suuuuuurrrre,” he said slowly. “Let’s do that right now. I just hope the power surge before the blackout didn’t knock the backup system outta whack.”

“What do you mean?” Warner demanded.

“I’ve been complaining for years that the County Commission keeps short-changing my department,” the sheriff replied, a bit defiantly. “With a tight budget, you have to make hard decisions from time-to-time. Do I keep fuel in my cruisers and keep deputies on the road, protecting the community? With the price of gas these days, that’s no easy task. Or do I leave a cruiser parked so I can spend money on some fancy battery-powered backup system for the courthouse surveillance system?” Perkins rocked back on his heels, smiling smugly. “What choice do
you
think I made?”

CHAPTER 42

WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 8:30 A.M.

Dave looked across the cherry conference table at Gil Dean, the executive director of West Virginia’s Republican Party, and asked, “Are we ready to begin the conference call?”

Gil nodded. His hand hovered over a speakerphone.

Dave exhaled, flicking his arms to get his blood circulating. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Gil hit a button and the speakerphone came to life.

“All right, everybody,” Dave said loudly. “The recounts kick off in thirty minutes. Let’s do a roll call to make sure everyone’s here. Barbour County?”

“Chip Walton here in Barbour County,” a young man responded.

“Berkeley County?”

“This is Monica Boley in Martinsburg,” a female voice declared.

“Boone County?”

The cattle call was met with silence. “Boone County?” Dave repeated.

“Hey, Dave. This is Ned Hopson here.”

Dave smiled. “Glad to know Boone County’s in good hands, Ned!”

The roll call continued through all 55 counties. At the end, Dave clapped once. “All right, guys. We’ve prepared you for this recount. Now, it’s all up to you. We’ll have conference calls at the bottom of every hour until the recounts are completed. If you’re tied up, make sure
someone
calls in with the latest numbers from your county.”

Dave paced along the perimeter of the conference table. “During our first call, tell us the
specific
precincts that are being recounted in your county. Five percent of each county’s precincts will be hand-counted today, and knowing the identities of those precincts will help us here at headquarters.

“We want four pieces of information from you during every call,” Dave said, motioning with his hands as he spoke. “One: We want the total number of votes tabulated for each of the two candidates at the time of the call.”

“Two: We want the net difference, at that time, between the votes reported on Election Night and the votes tallied during the recount. If Governor Royal has gained two votes during the recount, say, ‘Plus two.’ If Wilson has narrowed our lead by two votes, say, ‘Minus two.’

“Three: Let us know which precinct in your county is currently being recounted. When a particular precinct’s recount is over, let us know that and tell us what the final net vote difference in that precinct was.”

“And fourth,” Dave stressed. “For the 53 counties that used optical scan ballots or touchscreens, tell us if the net difference between the votes reported on Election Night and the votes tabulated during the recount has exceeded 1 percent of the total votes cast for president in those random precincts. If the net difference from those random precincts ends up being more than 1 percent, then
every
precinct in that county will be recounted. If not, the recount will end once the hand count of the sample precincts is over.”

Dave stopped moving and squared his shoulders to the phone, as if facing an invisible audience. He glanced at his watch. The recount was scheduled to start in seven minutes.

“It’s almost show time. Keep your crucial phone numbers handy. The video guys need good vantage points, especially if you think the Dems are trying to pull a fast one.

“And finally, remember to be reasonable and play fair if at all possible. But scrutinize
every single ballot
as if the election depends on it, because it very well may. Thanks for all your hard work, folks, and good luck.”

As the county reps said goodbye, Gil disengaged the call. “Nice pep talk,” he said.

Dave sat down and took in a deep breath, nodding. At that moment, he honestly felt he had done everything in his power to help Royal hold onto his margin of victory. Now, they just had to stay on their toes and react swiftly as developments occurred.

He leaned forward with a sigh, placing both elbows on the conference table, and rested his face in his hands.
This is going to be one hell of a long day
.

CHAPTER 43

MINGO COUNTY COURTHOUSE
WILLIAMSON, MINGO COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 9:00 A.M.

“Madam Clerk … Will you please remove two cards from the bowl?”

Mark Monroe’s voice jolted the County Clerk from her daze. She glanced to her right. All three county commissioners awaited her next move.

The Clerk rose from her desk and slowly walked across the courtroom, trying not to fall down in the process. A table with a bowl full of cards sat in front of the Commission’s dais.

Standing at the table, her right eye began itching terribly. Although she desperately wanted to scratch at it, the thought of drawing any attention to her eyes right now terrified her.

Stay calm. This will be over in two minutes and you’ll be 500,000 dollars richer.

The Clerk looked into the glass bowl that was the center of her universe. Staring at the 39 folded slips of paper lying inside it, the sheriff’s voice floated through her mind: “
The first card you pull out can be any damn precinct you want
,” he had told her yesterday evening as they discussed his proposal. “
But the second card
must
be Gilbert Middle School. Precinct Number 75
.”

She stuck her hand in the bowl and swirled the cards around. Staring at the cards, she patiently looked for the sign.

Suddenly, she saw the pale yellow dot she was looking for. She abruptly stopped stirring and grabbed one card with her hand while memorizing the location of that
other
card which bore the luminous ink she had dabbed on it this morning.

She pulled out the first card. Unfolding it, she announced, “Tug Valley High School. Precinct Number 41.” Turning around, she displayed the slip to Monroe before carrying it to both ends of the platform so Ruth Thompson and Pete Warner could examine it, too.

Monroe absent-mindedly swiveled his chair from left to right, clutching his gavel tightly. “Tug Valley High School is the first precinct we will recount today,” he confirmed.

A sudden flash of movement from Governor Royal’s lawyers caught the Clerk’s eye. One man was smiling and subtly yanking his right arm in a motion that looked like he was repeatedly pulling an oven door toward him.

The Clerk looked away from the disturbing spectacle of happy lawyers and put the first slip aside. It would have been difficult enough to watch without these weird contacts in her eyes. Under the circumstances, however, the whole scene looked discolored and downright surreal.

Now for the tricky part. The cash is riding on this one
.

Staring into the bowl, the Clerk blocked out everything around her except for the cards. She returned her gaze to the area she had committed to memory and…

Voila! There it is!

She felt her hand tremble as she reached for the card with a luminous yellow dot on one corner. Grasping it tightly with her thumb and three fingers, she carefully plucked it from the bowl and ritualistically unfolded it before the watchful eyes of the audience.