The Dirty Secret (25 page)

“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 destiny; 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.

The anchor sounded grim. “For those folks just joining us, here’s what we know so far.”

“The only county still conducting its recount is Berkeley County,” he explained. “Explosive growth fueled by its close proximity to the nation’s capital has helped this once rural area become the second most populous county in West Virginia. Only three precincts remain: Trinity Lutheran Church, Back Creek Valley Elementary School, and The Woods Resort.”

The graphics disappeared from the screen, replaced by the anchorman’s serious-looking visage. “Mr. Boley just announced the official recount results from the Arden United Methodist Church precinct, where Senator Wilson has suffered a net loss of 41 votes, shrinking her current statewide lead to 119.”

“Phil Maxwell is on the scene for us in Martinsburg,” the anchor segued. “Phil, what can we expect from these remaining precincts?”

A handsome, rugged-looking man with a fine head of dirty blond hair appeared on the screen, positioned in front of the county’s red brick neoclassical courthouse. The building’s shining gold-painted dome, adorned with the state seal and topped with a hexagonal steeple, was framed in floodlights over his right shoulder.

The reporter laughed and responded, “Expect the unexpected. It seems the machine used to tabulate the county’s optical scan ballots was experiencing a slight malfunction on Election Night, causing it to credit Senator Wilson with votes she did not actually receive. This glitch has affected the results in some precincts, but not all, and there doesn’t appear to be any rhyme or reason as to how much the results were affected.

“Local observers tell me these three precincts historically tilt Republican. However, Senator Wilson performed better than expected in two of those precincts on Election Night. The million-dollar question is: Was that result an illusion created by a mechanical glitch?”

WEST VIRGINIA STATE CAPITOL
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY NOVEMBER 24, 8:50 P.M.

Governor Vincent remained holed up in his private office, watching CNN with Dick Bowen. Their exuberance had given way to excruciating suspense and anxiety.

Marcus Boley handed a paper to his deputy before turning from the cameras. As the deputy approached the bank of microphones stationed 30 feet away from the recounting area, the camera briefly focused on Boley as he grabbed the last metal ballot box from the back table.

“The teams have finished recounting the ballots in Precinct Numbers 46A and 47,” the deputy announced. In her late fifties, she had shoulder-length silver hair and she was wearing a navy blue skirt and a white blouse. A red ribbon adorned her lapel.

“In Precinct Number 46A, Governor Royal received 328 votes, while Senator Wilson received 203 votes. Those figures represent a net gain of 46 votes for Governor Royal. In Precinct Number 47, Governor Royal had 262 votes, while Senator Wilson received 295 votes. Those figures represent a net gain of one vote for Senator Wilson.

“Up next is our last precinct from The Woods Resort. That precinct has 784 ballots and we hope to be finished in about an hour. Thanks for your patience.”

The deputy stepped away from the microphones, and the talking heads immediately began pseudo-analyzing the latest results.

Vincent muted the TV and asked, “Where do we stand?”

Bowen tapped on a pocket calculator with his thick fingers. His tongue protruded from the side of his mouth and his eyes narrowed. With one final flourish, Bowen raised his head. “We’re up 74 with just one stinking precinct to go.”

Vincent exhaled, unfastened the top button on his white dress shirt and loosened the knot in his royal blue silk tie. “Thank God! I can’t take much more of this.”

“I bet the whole
country
feels that way.”

CHAPTER 53

ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 24, 10:05 P.M.

Rikki lay in her king-sized cherry sleigh bed, reading the latest Nicholas Sparks novel. A brass lamp by her bed illuminated the book, while the TV across the room aired CNN.

She knew Sparks’ books were formulaic but loved them nonetheless.
So what if they’re predictable?
They tugged at her heartstrings in a good way, and they never failed to restore her faith in the innate goodness of human beings. Compared to the bitterness and rancor of the election saga, she welcomed the uplifting romantic respite his novels delivered.

Rikki had cheered the news when Senator Wilson took the lead in West Virginia. Although the state’s voters sometimes fell under the sway of Republican presidential candidates, Rikki thought Wilson’s progressive platform had been appealing enough to break that trend.

Raising her eyes to the TV, she saw Marcus Boley approaching the media. Resting her book face-down on the bed, she turned up the volume with the remote.

The camera zoomed in on Boley, and Rikki saw he held a single sheet of paper in his hand. “I apologize for the delay in reporting these last figures to you, but as the ballots from Precinct Number 48 were being recounted, a heated debate broke out between a few of our recount workers, which took some time to resolve.”