The Dirty Secret (28 page)

Sitting in the third row of the courtroom, Monica Boley’s heart skipped a beat.
Oh, God. Please don’t let this be happening.
Please
.

The Judge rubbed her chin. “I understand why you want the Sheriff to seize those items and preserve them for the contest. But West Virginia Code section three dash four-a dash ten vests the
county clerk
with custody of those materials ‘except when in use at an election or when in custody of a court or court officers
during
contest proceedings.’

“The contest begins at 8:30 sharp on Tuesday December 2nd,” Judge Barkwell continued. “Mr. Boley shall maintain custody of the election materials until that time when he shall deliver them to my courtroom. From that time until the contest is over,
whenever
that may be, my bailiffs will exercise responsibility for safekeeping those items.”

Monica felt a wave of relief wash over her.
You have six days to figure out a way to dispose of the incriminating evidence in those ballot boxes. You can do it.

Wilson’s lawyer wrinkled his nose. “I’ll include that language in my order, Judge.”

“And make sure you give it to opposing counsel and obtain her signature before sending it to me,” Barkwill said. “I want everyone to sign that order before I enter it.”

The lawyer nodded. “I have my laptop with me, Judge. If opposing counsel can stick around, I’ll pound out an order in no time.”

The Republican lawyer stood up. “I’ll remain here as long as necessary, Judge. We want that order signed and entered as soon as possible.”

The Judge barked a short laugh. “I’m sure you do. The sooner it’s entered, the sooner you can race down to Charleston to file an appeal with the Supreme Court.”

Royal’s attorney smiled pleasantly. “We all do what we have to do, Judge. If you had ruled the other way, I’m sure my worthy opponent would be doing the same thing.”

CHAPTER 60

WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 12:15 P.M.

Dave slid his pizza bread to the side. “I’m too nauseous to eat,” he announced in a disgusted tone. “I swear to God, this election is going to be the death of me.”

Gil smirked. “What’s the matter, Dave? Too much excitement for ya?”

“My idea of excitement is riding a roller coaster: You know how long it will last, and the whole thing is on rails so no matter how fast it goes, you know it’s under control.
Neither
of which is true here.”

Gil chuckled. “Just sit back and enjoy the ride. This amusement park will close soon and you can get back to your mundane life inside the Beltway.”

“That day can’t come soon enough for me.”

The door swung open, and Mack Palmer charged through it. “The judge in Mercer County ruled against us, too. That makes us oh-for-three today.”

Gil pounded the desk. “Great. Do you have any
good
news to offer?”

Palmer clenched one eye shut and bobbed his head from shoulder-to-shoulder, processing the question. “If there’s a silver lining, the judge in Monongalia County didn’t convene his own contest. He said the presidential election was analogous to a statewide race like attorney general instead of other positions elected by residents of individual counties. Thus, he ordered a three-member ‘special court’ be convened next Tuesday to conduct the contest. That panel will consist of one person designated by each of the two candidates and a third appointed by the governor.”

Gil’s jaw dropped. “
Vincent
would appoint the tie-breaker? That’s the
good news
?”

Dave snapped his fingers. “A-
ha!
If all three contests don’t follow the same procedure, they’re violating the terms of the Supreme Court’s decision in Bush v. Gore.”

Palmer nodded. “
There’s
your silver lining. One reason the Supreme Court put a stop to Florida’s post-election proceedings in 2000 was the lack of ‘uniformity’ among the procedures enacted by different counties. Now we have two judges doing one thing and a third doing something completely different. It strengthens our arguments.”

Gil shook his head. “No wonder the public can’t make heads-or-tails of this crap.”

CHAPTER 61

PLEASANTS COUNTY COURTHOUSE
ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 2:30 P.M.

Rikki heard a knock at her door. Glancing up, she saw Jack smiling sheepishly.

“Have you forgiven me for pushing your buttons yesterday?” he said.

Rikki pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose, staring holes through him. “I’ve
told
you politics are off-limits, haven’t I?”

Remaining tight-lipped, Jack nodded. “I’m sorry. I just got carried away when you started badmouthing Marcus Boley. I’ve met him, and I’m telling you, he’s a good guy.”

“Maybe. But even good guys do bad things sometimes; especially in politics. That’s all I was saying.”

“Fair enough, counselor. I’ll try not to get your goat anymore, and we’ll just ‘agree to disagree’ as you put it.”

Rikki smiled widely. “Aw, Jack … You know the quickest way to warm my heart is to quote
me
, because that means you know
I was right
.”

Jack chuckled. “On that one small point anyway.”

“So what brings you here, Jack? I’m sure apologizing isn’t all that’s on your agenda.”

“Right again, counselor. Beria emailed me a draft contract for the Petromica deal. Nothing’s final, of course, until they complete their ‘due diligence’ investigations.”

Jack grabbed a chair and scooted up to Rikki’s desk. Lifting his beat-up leather briefcase onto her desk, he unlatched the lid, pulled out an inch-thick document and dropped it on her desk. “Here it is.”

Rikki thumbed through it. “Dear Lord! This looks horrible! I hope you’re not expecting
me
to read this whole thing!”

“Sure I am. You’re my lawyer, aren’t you? And Petromica wants our response by the close of business on Monday. Beria’s email said something about a ‘non-disclosure agreement’ I have to sign before they’ll even discuss the deal any further.”

Rikki stared back at him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. “Jack, tomorrow is
Thanksgiving
. I do
oil and gas
, not mergers and acquisitions, plus I just took office as the county prosecutor. Throw in that Schoolcraft lease cancelation suit of yours, and my plate is completely full. There’s no way I could review that thing before Monday, and there’s no way I could get someone else to look at it any sooner due to the holiday. You need more time. See if they’ll give you until next Wednesday, at least.”

McCallen frowned. “I don’t know. They seem eager to get this deal finalized. What I’ll probably do is just nod it on through at this point. Before I actually sign a purchase agreement, I’ll have you rustle up someone to go over it with a proctoscope. Your pre-nup guy did a great job, so I trust you’ll find me a good mergers and acquisitions guy, too.”

Rikki reclined her chair. “So how
is
the home life going for you?” she asked, imbuing her words with compassion instead of gawky curiosity.

Jack’s mouth tightened. “
Schizophrenic
would be a good word to describe it.”

“Sorry to hear that. Let me know if I can do anything.”

“Thanks, Rikki. I appreciate that.”

Jack put the contract in his briefcase and rose to his feet. “And on that note, I’ll take my leave. Tell your mom I said, ‘Hi,’ and you guys have a Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You, too, Jack. I’ll try to find someone to review that contract on Monday, and you buy some more time. That thing might be thicker than the Kyoto Protocol.”

McCallen’s eyes twinkled devilishly. “Leave it to a granola-cruncher like you to bring up the Kyoto Protocol. I thought politics were supposed to be off-limits.”

Rikki acted like she was looking for something to throw at him. “Get out of here, Jack, before I bean you upside the head.”

The oilman ran out the door. As he rounded the corner and entered the stairwell, Rikki heard his laughter bellowing with each step.

WEST VIRGINIA REPUBLICAN HEADQUARTERS
CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 26, 4:45 P.M.

“Yes, Mom,” Dave said into his phone. “I’ll be there for Thanksgiving dinner. No, I don’t know when I’ll make it … It depends on what the Supreme Court does with the appeals we filed this afternoon.”

His phone beeped, and he saw Palmer was calling on the other line. “Mom, I gotta take this call. I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s going on. Love you, too. Bye.”

Dave flashed over to the incoming call. “Talk to me, Mack.”

“We have a stay of execution, my friend. The Court voted four-to-one to hear our petition. They’ve ordered the three lower courts to halt their respective contests.”

“Hot damn! So when will they rule on our petition?”

“Don’t know, but they put it on the quickest rocket docket I’ve ever seen. All parties must submit written briefs by noon on Monday, and oral arguments are on Tuesday, December 2nd at eleven.”

Dave whistled. “Wow. You weren’t joking. That’s quick!”

“They know the clock’s ticking. The federal ‘Safe Harbor Provision’ expires seven days after oral arguments. This whole fiasco must be over by December 9th or West Virginia could lose its right to cast ballots in the Electoral College altogether.”

“Well, you’ve made my day,” Dave said. “I’ll spread the word. You have my cell if you need me over the weekend.”

Palmer chortled. “Yeah, and I have your parents’ number, too. So don’t pretend you have no cell service up there because I’ll track your ass down regardless.”

“I won’t. Now I can drive to Saint Marys tonight.”

“Well, enjoy the breather while you can,” Palmer said.

Dave quickly called his mom back. The thought of her homemade cranberry sauce was already making his mouth water.

CHAPTER 62

VIENNA, VIRGINIA
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 12:35 P.M.

Yuri Petrenko was sprawled on his couch with a bottle of beer watching the day’s first NFL game when his phone rang. Carefully inserting his Bluetooth headset into his mangled ear, he answered, “Hello?”

“Good afternoon, Yuri. This is Tyson. How’s your Thanksgiving going?”

“Good,” Petrenko replied, still watching the game. “What can I do for you?”

“Bowen’s on the line and I’ve conferenced us all together. You there, Dick?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Bowen said.

“Dick doesn’t think our odds of influencing West Virginia’s Supreme Court decision next week look too good. Dick, could you explain?”

Bowen cleared his throat. “Our five Supreme Court justices are politicians in their own right who have gone through grueling statewide campaigns to win those elected seats. All the skeletons we know of are fairly common knowledge and won’t elicit much fear in the justices.”

Petrenko sighed and muted the game. “Give me their names. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

“That’s what we hoped,” Bowen said. “First, we have Sam Willoughby. W-I-L-L-O-U-G-H-B-Y. Generally a middle-of-the-road guy, he’s originally from Wheeling. He was the only justice who voted
against
accepting Royal’s petition.”

Petrenko scribbled the info down. “Got it. Next?”

“Chief Justice Andrea Reddick. R-E-D-D-I-C-K. She’s a judicial conservative. Comes from Huntington and old family money.”

“Reddick,” Petrenko repeated. “Okay.”

“Third is Scott Turner from Lewisburg, the lone Republican on the Court. Even though I doubt he’d vote our way
this
time, we’d still love to get some dirt on that sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch. It could come in handy later.”

“My only goal is to win this election,” Petrenko coldly retorted. “I don’t care what you do with this information afterwards. Who’s next?”

After a brief moment of silence, Bowen continued. “Next is Don Gammalo. G-A-M-M-A-L-O. He’s from Clarksburg and has a big pro-union background. But he’s a wild card.”

Petrenko’s brow furrowed. “How so?”

“He got beat in the Democratic primary by a more pro-business candidate. The Chamber of Commerce dumped gobs of money into his opponent’s campaign, and Don kinda blames Governor Vincent for his loss. Let’s just say he still has some hard feelings towards us.”

“Gotcha,” the Russian stated. “And last up, we have …”

“Brock Lilly, a Democrat from Beckley. L-I-L-L-Y. He’s another wild card, in that he didn’t run for re-election. Between the 14 years he spent as a circuit judge and the 12 years he just finished on the Supreme Court, he has enough time to retire. And that’s
exactly
what he’s doing January 1st, so he never has to worry about running for election again.”

Petrenko finished his notes. “We’ll see what comes up.”

“Thanks,” Vasquez said. “And by the way…How are your other projects going?”

“Too early to tell, but I’m optimistic. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Excellent,” Vasquez said. “Happy hunting and I’ll talk to you later.”

“
Hasta
.” Hanging up the phone, he turned up the volume in time to hear Detroit’s crowd go wild over an interception returned for a touchdown.

Sinking into his sofa, Yuri placed his notes on the coffee table and took another drink of beer.
I can dig up dirt on hillbilly judges later. Right now, there’s a game on.

CHAPTER 63

CHARLESTON, WEST VIRGINIA
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 27, 3:55 P.M.

Wearing an apron, Governor Vincent ladled mashed potatoes onto a white Styrofoam plate. “There you go, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “You have a Happy Thanksgiving.”

Years ago, a blue-collar entrepreneur began hosting a holiday dinner for Charleston’s less fortunate. When he died, he left a trust fund with enough money to carry on the tradition. Now the dinner had grown so big that West Virginia’s elites fought over the honor (and free publicity) associated with acting as servers for the event.