The Dirty Secret (9 page)

“I can’t stress this point enough. The West Virginia Code
does not permit
this body to substitute ‘backup data’ stored on the AIS servers for the actual memory cards used in these nine voting machines. If you can find a way to correct the problems which these memory cards are currently experiencing – if you can find a way to fix their actual
malfunctions
– and then reprocess the data stored on those memory cards, that would be a permissible action under section twenty-nine of the Code. But
substituting
the ‘backup data’ stored on the AIS servers
does not
correct the
cause
of the errors allegedly experienced by the memory cards and thus does not comply with the procedures outlined in section twenty-nine.”

A murmur swept through the courtroom audience as some suddenly grasped the importance of the distinction drawn by Palmer and attempted to explain it to their neighbors. Reporters furiously scribbled on their notepads while the hot white lights of the television cameras glared down on the lawyer’s bald head. A scowl formed under Monroe’s thick moustache. Pete Warner, the commissioner who belonged to the faction that had supported Jonathan Royal in the recent election, beamed. Ruth Thompson, the third member of the commission, had the same deer-in-the-headlights look she had worn throughout the proceedings.

“So tell me something, Mr. Palmer,” challenged Monroe. “What if we think the memory cards were malfunctioning on Election Night but we
can’t
fix the cards themselves to retrieve the data? Are you saying we should
ignore
the perfectly reliable backup data on the server?”

“Aside from the half-baked opinions offered
now
by the same ‘experts’ from AIS who detected no malfunctions in those machines on Election Day, there is no evidence the data on the server is reliable at all,” Palmer retorted. “Moreover, the Legislature specifically addressed that issue when it passed the law authorizing counties to use electronic voting systems in lieu of paper ballots.” Palmer pulled a sheet of paper from his stack and read directly from it. “Section twenty-nine dictates ‘if the board of canvassers is unable to accurately correct such errors made by said device or equipment and therefore cannot correct the returns to accurately reflect the actual votes cast at such election, the total votes recorded or tabulated on such device or equipment,
despite the fact that such vote may be erroneous
,
shall be accepted as the votes cast
.’”

Mack Palmer casually but neatly reassembled the stack. Monroe’s moustache twitched and his eyes glowered with silent fury.

“All of that being said,” Palmer continued. “The fact remains that the evidence before the Commission clearly demonstrates that the most accurate reflection of the voters’ will as expressed on those nine machines on November 4th is the printed tabulations from the precincts in question after the polls closed. Those results were confirmed when the memory cards were processed a second time at the County Clerk’s Office later that night. The mere fact that the memory cards are apparently malfunctioning now is completely irrelevant to your deliberations in the course of this canvass.”

The lawyer stood at the podium, awaiting questions from the three commissioners. Pete Warner ended the silence. “Thank you very much, Mr. Palmer. It’s refreshing to hear someone cut through this computerized crap and get to the heart of the matter.” Warner then turned to his right, facing his two fellow Commissioners. “Do either of my colleagues have any further questions for Mr. Palmer?”

Monroe shook his head negatively but said nothing. Ruth Thompson was wide-eyed, apparently terrified she might have to speak in front of a wall of television cameras. “Very well,” Warner said. “You may have a seat, Mr. Palmer.”

As the bald-headed lawyer strolled back to his chair, Mark Monroe shook off his funk. “At this time, I think we should go into executive session to discuss this matter with the prosecutor. Would either of my colleagues care to make a motion to that effect?”

“I’ll make that motion,” Ruth Thompson blurted.

“I’ll second it,” Monroe added. “All in favor?”

“Aye,” said all three commissioners.

“The motion carries,” Monroe announced. “The Commission sitting as the board of canvassers for the general election will retire into executive session. These proceedings are hereby adjourned.” Monroe banged his gavel and the commissioners stood and exited the room to the left of the dais, trailed by the county’s tight-lipped prosecutor who carried a thick pile of manila folders and two even thicker green legal books.

Dave Anderson sat directly behind the Royal campaign’s legal team and Mack Palmer approached him, a broad smile across his face. “Great work, Dave,” he said, heartily extending his right hand. “That was some pretty slick lawyering, picking up on that whole ‘cause of the error’ language in the statute.”

Dave smiled and shrugged his shoulders in an ‘aw-shucks’ manner. “I’m glad you found my two cents was worth something. I haven’t practiced law in eons, but even a blind squirrel finds an acorn every now and then.”

Palmer relinquished the handshake and slapped Dave on the shoulder. “Say what you want, but Governor Royal knew what he was doing when he sent you down here. I think we might actually pull this thing out.”

Dave exhaled. “I hope you’re right, Mack. I hope you’re right.”

CHAPTER 17

ST. MARYS, PLEASANTS COUNTY, WEST VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 4:00 P.M.

The cherry conference table in Rikki’s office looked like someone had backed up a U-Haul truck and used a forklift to cover it with three-feet-high stacks of documents. With a black ink pen clamped loosely between her full lips, Rikki surveyed the piles of manila folders and papers before her, telling herself that answering these discovery requests was not akin to trying to empty the Ohio River with a teaspoon.

“Okay,” she said wearily. “Let’s move on to request for production number eight, Jack. They’ve asked us to produce ‘copies of any and all financial records, bills, invoices, statements or other documents pertaining to any expenses which you or any of your predecessors in interest claim to have incurred, whether paid or unpaid, in connection with the development, operation, maintenance or repair of any oil or gas wells situate on the Schoolcraft lease premises during the preceding ten years.’”

Jack McCallen loosened his forest green silk tie and unfastened the top button of his lightly starched white dress shirt. His whole face was coated with a sweaty residue, and the sight amused Rikki in her quasi-punch-drunk state of mind.
He looks like someone sprayed him down with a bottle of diluted pancake syrup
, she thought.

The oilman slowly made his way around the table before stopping at a mangled-looking banker’s box directly across the table from Rikki. “Our expenses related to the wells?” he asked, fingering through the folders in the box without glancing up at his lawyer.

“Yeah. Have you found them?”

McCallen navigated through the box and pulled out a folder. “I have all the expenses
we’ve
incurred on those wells. But anything I got from the people who sold me the lease is either back at my office or in storage. I’ll dig that stuff up and get it to you next week.”

Rikki’s mouth tightened into a frown. “Get it to me this weekend. Wednesday is our deadline and I’ll need time to figure out what we have to turn over and what we can object to.”

McCallen sighed loudly and began pawing at his iPhone. “Fine. I’ll start working on it tomorrow. If the Lord’s willing and the creek don’t rise, you’ll have it by Sunday afternoon.”

As mentally drained as she was, Rikki could not help but manage a weak grin. “You and your crazy country sayings! I grew up here, and I
still
have no idea where you come up with some of that stuff.”

Jack stretched himself the full length of his six-feet-one frame and smiled proudly. “Well, it’s not your fault your folks didn’t grow up here, Rikki. I’m sure some of our favorite euphemisms probably weren’t all that popular back in India.”

“True. Even so, I think you probably have more of those goofball phrases floating around your head than anybody I’ve ever met. Except for Dave, maybe.”

McCallen’s eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

Realizing the comparison she had made, Rikki felt her mouth drop open. Her face felt warm, and she knew it would be turning bright red if not for her dark brown complexion.

“It must be something in the water around here,” she blurted. “Because I’ve never seen so many bullshit artists come out of one place in my entire life.”

McCallen snorted. “Call it bullshit if you want, but I prefer to think sayings like that are just a good old-fashioned way of making people relax and feel at home.”

Rikki’s lips tightened, and she folded her arms across her buxom chest. Jack stared back blankly but said nothing. Finally, the silence grew too uncomfortable. “Dear God, Jack! I can hear him using those exact same words. It’s like you’re
channeling
him or something!”

“Dave always did have a good head on his shoulders,” he quipped.

“Yeah, except for that whole ‘leaving his fiancé to watch her dad die alone’ thing, huh?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

The glint in McCallen’s eyes faded and softened. “It’s a damn shame,” he remarked with a shake of his head, tapping a manila folder against the palm of his left hand.

Rikki could feel anger rising in her chest. “What’s that, Jack?” she asked brusquely, a tone of defiance in her voice.

“That a good man like Dave could spend his entire life paying for one bad decision,” McCallen observed. “And that a good woman like you might never find it in her heart to forgive him for being less than perfect.”

Her client’s words pierced the bubble of Rikki’s anger, leaving a faint vapor of sadness in its wake. She bit her lower lip and rapped her fingertips lightly against the inside of her opposite bicep. “It’s not that simple.”

Jack smiled like a wizened uncle. “Yes it is,” he said softly. “You just don’t realize it.”

Rikki uncrossed her arms, and her posture slackened. Letting out a sigh, she flopped down in a chair at the end of the conference table. “I hear what you’re saying, Jack. I really do. My mom tried telling me the same thing a few days ago when we saw Dave on TV.”

Jack sat down in a chair to her right. Leaning toward her, he laced his hands together and rested them on top of the conference table. “So why don’t you try
listening
to us for a change? Carrying around that kind of anger can’t be good for you, Rikki.”

“I know that,” she replied edgily. “It’s just that I’m good at a lot of things, Jack, but forgiveness isn’t one of them.”

Jack nodded sympathetically. “Have you thought about counseling?”

Rikki guffawed loudly. “No way I’m letting some shrink start poking around in
my
noggin, Mr. Senator,” she said, breaking into a broad smile. “That’s fine and dandy for some people and God love ‘em for it. But not for me, thanks.”

“Well, I can’t say I blame ya there. Just thought I’d throw it out there. Lord knows it hasn’t done much for me and Tabatha.”

Rikki knew all about his marital problems, as Jack had consulted her many times when he had seriously contemplated divorce. “Are things still rough on the home front?” she asked.

Now it was Jack’s turn to laugh, and he let out a thunderous one. The bitterness in his expression was apparent, and it made Rikki cringe. “You could say that. It usually feels more like the Western Front than the home front.”

“That bad, huh?”

McCallen paused, seeking the right words. “Every night,” he said solemnly, “I pray that God will grant me the strength to keep from choking her to death in her sleep.”

“Ouch. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Jack slumped. “You have no idea how bad it is, Rikki, unless you experience it yourself. Until you live under the same roof with someone you love
and
despise, you just can’t comprehend how miserable life can be. And never in a million years would I wish that on you.”

Rikki listened to him vent. Years spent dealing with distraught clients had taught her to know when to offer advice, and when to simply listen to their frustration and heartache. Knowing how to distinguish the two separated good lawyers from mediocre ones, and Rikki prided herself on being one of the best.

“I know you two have been through a lot lately. Between your campaign and getting hit with this lawsuit, the stress has to take a toll on your relationship.”

Jack shook his head. “Things have been even rockier lately, sure. Things have been bad for years but all we ever do now is argue. About
everything
. It’s gotten old, and now I’m pretty sure she’s cheating on me.”

Rikki tried to look surprised, but she had seen the way Tabatha acted toward other men at political functions and felt Jack’s suspicions were not borne from paranoia. “Why do you say that?” she asked, both to gather more information and to let Jack vent a little steam.

“Lots of little things, but if you put them all together, they just don’t make any sense.”

“Such as?”

“Well, let’s see. To begin with,” he said, touching the tip of his right index finger to his left pinky finger as he spoke, “I saw her with a new cell phone about six months ago. Not the cell phone I call her on, which is paid for by McCallen Resources, but a
different
one. She claimed that it belonged to her friend, Betsy, who accidentally left it at a restaurant after dinner one evening. But I’ve seen that same damn phone in her purse on at least three different occasions, and I don’t think even
Betsy
is that damn stupid to lose her phone three times.”

Rikki chuckled. “Go on.”

“Then,” he continued, moving his fingertip to the top joint of his left ring finger, ticking off the next item on his list, “she’s acted real weird a few times, dropping whatever it is she’s doing on a moment’s notice, telling me one of her friends is ‘having a crisis’ of some sort. But before she ‘runs off’ to help this ‘friend,’ she’ll take the time to fix herself up like she’s going out on the town. And sometimes I won’t even see her again until the next day.”