The Dirty Secret (7 page)

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.

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.”