Paul Holbourn, the mayor of Madison, was next up on the screen. The septuagenarian politician invited everyone to visit this picturesque seaside town, which would decide who would be the next governor of the state.
"How do you read it?" asked Nat, as Tom continued to enter numbers into his calculator.
"Fletcher leads at the moment by 1,269 and at the last election, the Republicans took Madison by 1,312."
"Then we must be favorites?" ventured Nat.
"I wish it was that easy," said Tom, "because there's a further complication we have to consider."
"And what's that?"
"The present governor of the state was born and raised in Madison, so there could be a considerable personal vote somewhere in there."
"I should have gone to Madison one more time," said Nat.
"You visited the place twice, which was once more than Fletcher managed."
"I ought to call him," said Nat, "and make it clear that I'm not conceding."
Tom nodded his agreement as Nat walked over to the phone. He didn't have to look up the senator's private number because he had dialed it every evening during the trial.
"Hi," said a voice, "this is the governor's residence."
"Not yet it isn't," said Nat firmly.
"Hello, Mr. Cartwright," said Lucy, "were you hoping to speak to the governor?"
"No, I wanted to speak to your father.""Why, are you conceding?"
"No, I'll leave him to do that in person tomorrow, when, if you behave yourself, I'll be offering you a job."
Fletcher grabbed the telephone, "I'm sorry about that, Nat," he said, "I presume you're calling to say all bets are off until tomorrow when we meet at high noon?"
"Yes, and now you mention it, I'm planning to play Gary Cooper," said Nat.
"Then I'll see you on Main Street, sheriff."
"Just be thankful it's not Ralph Elliot you're up against."
"Why?" asked Fletcher.
"Because right now he would be in Madison filling up ballot boxes with extra votes."
"It wouldn't have made any difference," said Fletcher.
"Why not?" asked Nat.
"Because if Elliot had been my opponent, I would have already won by a landslide."
BOOK SEVEN
NUMBERS
it took Nat about an hour to drive to Madison, and when he reached the outskirts of the town, he could have been forgiven for thinking the little borough had been chosen as the venue for the seventh game in the World Series.
The highway was filled with cars festooned with emblems of red, white and blue, with donkeys and elephants staring blankly out of numerous back windows. When he took the turnoff for Madison, population 12,372, half the vehicles left the highway like steel filings drawn toward a magnet.
"If you take away those who are too young to vote, I presume the turnout should be around five thousand," said Nat.
"Not necessarily. I suspect it will prove to be a little higher than that," Tom replied.
"Don't forget Madison is where retired people come to visit their parents, so you won't find it full ofyouth clubs and discos."
"Then that should benefit us," said Nat.
"I've given up predicting," said Tom with a sigh.
No signpost was needed to guide them to the town hall, as everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction, confident that the person in front of them knew exactly where they were going. By the time Nat's little motorcade arrived in the center of the town, they were being overtaken by mothers pushing strollers. When they turned into Main Street, they were continually held up by pedestrians spilling onto the road. When Nat's car was overtaken by a man in a wheelchair, he decided the time had come to get out and walk. This slowed his progress down even more, because the moment he was recognized, people rushed up to shake him by the hand, and several asked if he would mind posing for a photograph with his wife.
"I'm glad to see that your reelection campaign has already begun," teased Tom.
"Let's get elected first," said Nat as they reached the town hall. He climbed the steps, continuing to shake hands with all the well-wishers as if it were the day before the election, rather than the day after. He couldn't help wondering if that would change when he came back down the steps and the same people knew the result. Tom spotted the mayor standing on the top step, looking out for him.
"Paul Holbourn," whispered Tom. "He's served three terms and at the age of seventy-seven has just won his fourth election unopposed."
"Good to see you again, Nat," said the mayor, as if they were old friends, though in fact they had only met on one previous occasion.
"And it's good to see you too, sir," said Nat, clutching the mayor's outstretched hand.
"Congratulations on your reelection comunopposed, I'm told."
"Thank you," said the mayor. "Fletcher arrived a few minutes ago, and is waiting in my office, so perhaps we ought to go and join him." As they walked into the building, Holbourn said, "I just wantedto spend a few moments taking you both through the way we do things in Madison."
"That's fine by me," said Nat, knowing that it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference if it wasn't.
A crowd of officials and journalists followed the little party down the corridor to the mayor's office, where Nat and Su Ling joined Fletcher and Annie and around thirty other people who felt they had the right to attend the select gathering.
"Can I get you some coffee, Nat, before we proceed?" asked the mayor.
"No thank you, sir," said Nat.
"And how about your charming little wife?" Su Ling shook her head politely, not fazed by the tactless remark of a past generation. "Then I'll begin," the mayor continued, turning his attention to the crowded assembly that had squeezed into his office.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he paused, "and future governor," he tried to look at both men at once. "The count will commence at ten o'clock this morning, as has been our custom in Madison for over a century, and I can see no reason why this should be delayed simply because there is a little more interest in our proceedings than usual." Fletcher was amused by the understatement, but wasn't in any doubt that the mayor intended to savor every moment of his fifteen minutes of fame.
"The township," continued the mayor, "has 10,942 registered voters, who reside in eleven districts. The twenty-two ballot boxes were, as they always have been in the past, picked up a few minutes after the polls closed, and then transferred into the safe custody of our chief of police, who locked them up for the night." Several people politely laughed at the mayor's little joke, which caused him to smile and lose his concentration. He seemed to hesitate, until his chief of staff leaned forward and whispered in his ear, "Ballot boxes."
"Yes, of course, yes. The ballot boxes were collected this morning and brought to the town hall at nine o'clock, when I asked my chief clerk to check thatthe seals had not been tampered with. He confirmed that they were all intact." The mayor glanced around to observe his senior officials nodding their agreement. "At ten o'clock, I shall cut those seals, when the ballots will be removed from the boxes and placed on the counting table in the center of the main hall. The first count will do no more than verify how many people have cast their votes. Once that has been established, the ballots will then be sorted into three piles. Those who have voted Republican, those who have voted Democrat, and those that might be described as disputed ballots. Though I might add, these are rare in Madison, because for many of us, this might well be our last chance to register a vote." This was greeted by a little nervous laughter, though Nat wasn't in any doubt he meant it.
"My final task as the election officer will be to declare the result, which in turn will decide who is elected as the next governor of our great state.
I hope to have completed the entire exercise by midday." Not if we continue at this pace, thought Fletcher. "Now, are there any questions before I accompany you through to the hall?"
Tom and Jimmy both began speaking at the same time, and Tom nodded politely to his opposite number, as he suspected that they would be asking exactly the same questions.
"How many counters do you have?" asked Jimmy.
The official once again whispered in the mayor's ear. "Twenty, and all of them are employees of the council," said the mayor, "with the added qualification of being members of the local bridge club." Neither Nat nor Fletcher could work out the significance of this remark, but were not inclined to ask for further clarification.
"And how many observers will you be allowing?" asked Tom.
"I shall permit ten representatives from each party," said the mayor, "who will be allowed to stand a pace behind each counter and must at no time make any attempt to talk to them. If they have a query, they should refer it to my chief of staff and if it remains unresolved, he will consult me."
"And who will act as arbitrator should there be anydisputed ballots?" asked Tom.
"You will find that they are rare in Madison,"
repeated the mayor, forgetting that he had already expressed this sentiment, "because for many of us this could well be our last chance to register a vote." This time no one laughed, while at the same time the mayor failed to answer Tom's question. Tom decided not to ask a second time. "Well, if there are no further questions," said the mayor, "I'll escort you all to our historic hall, built in 1867, of which we are inordinately proud."
The hall had been built to house just under a thousand people, as the population of Madison didn't venture out much at night. But on this occasion, even before the mayor, his executives, Fletcher, Nat and their two respective parties had entered the room, it looked more like a Japanese railroad station during the rush hour than a town hall in a sleepy coastal Connecticut resort. Nat only hoped that the senior fire officer was not present, as there couldn't have been a safety regulation that they weren't breaking.
"I shall begin proceedings by letting everyone know how I intend to conduct the count," said the mayor, before heading off in the direction of the stage, leaving the two candidates wondering if he would ever make it.
Eventually the diminutive, gray-haired figure emerged up onto the platform and took his place in front of a lowered microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "My name is Paul Holbourn, and only strangers will be unaware that I am the mayor of Madison." Fletcher suspected that most people in that room were making their first and last visit to the historic town hall. "But today," he continued, "I stand before you in my capacity as elections officer for the district of Madison. I have already explained to both candidates the procedure I intend to adopt, which I will now go over again ..."
Fletcher began looking around the room and quickly became aware that few people were listening to the mayor as they were busy jostling to secure a placeas near as possible to the cordoned-off area where the vote would be taking place.
When the mayor had finished his homily, he made a gallant effort to return to the center of the room, but would never have completed the course if it hadn't been for the fact that proceedings could not commence without his imprimatur.
When he eventually reached the starting gate, the chief clerk handed the mayor a pair of scissors.
He proceeded to cut the seals on the twenty-two boxes as if he were performing an opening ceremony.
This task completed, the officials emptied the boxes and began to tip the ballots out onto the elongated center table. The mayor then checked carefully inside every box-first turning them upside down, and then shaking them, like a conjuror who wishes to prove there's no longer anything inside. Both candidates were invited to double-check.
Tom and Jimmy kept their eyes on the center table as the officials began to distribute the voting slips among the counters, much as a croupier might stack chips at a roulette table. They began by gathering the ballots in tens, and then placing an elastic band around every hundred. This simple exercise took nearly an hour to complete, by which time the mayor had run out of things to say about Madison to anyone who was still willing to listen. The piles were then counted by the chief clerk, who confirmed that there were fifty-nine, with one left over containing fewer than a1 hundred ballots.
In the past at this point, the mayor had always made his way back up onto the stage, but his chief clerk thought it might be easier if the microphone was brought to him. Paul Holbourn agreed to this innovation and it would have been a shrewd decision had the wire been long enough to reach the cordoned-off area, but at least the mayor now had a considerably shorter journey to complete before having to deliver his ultimatum. He blew into the microphone, producing a sound like a train entering a tunnel, whichhe hoped would bring some semblance of order to the proceedings.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, checking the piece of paper the chief clerk had placed in his hand, "5,934 good citizens of Madison have taken part in this election, which I am informed is fifty-four percent of the electorate, being one percent above the was average for the state."
"That extra percentage point might well turn out to our advantage," Tom whispered in Nat's ear.
"Extra points usually favor the Democrats," Nat reminded him.
"Not when the electorate has an average age of sixty-three," rebutted Tom.
"Our next task," continued the mayor, "is to separate the votes of both parties before we can begin the count." No one was surprised that this exercise took even longer, as the mayor and his officials were regularly called on to settle disputes. Once this task had been completed the counting of the votes began in earnest. ,; Piles of tens in time multiplied into hundreds before being placed in neat little lines like soldiers on a parade ground.
Nat would have liked to circle the room and follow the entire process, but the hall had become so crowded that he had to satisfy be himself with the regular reports relayed back to him by his lieu tenants in the field. Tom did decide to fight his way around and came to the conclusion that although Nat looked as if he was in I the lead, he couldn't be sure if it was sufficient to make up the 118-vote advantage that Fletcher currently enjoyed following the recount of the overnight ballots.
It was another hour before the counting had been completed, and the two piles of slips were lined up facing each other. The mayor then invited both candidates to join him in the cordoned-off area in the center of the room.
There he explained that sixteen ballots had beenrejected by his officials, and he therefore wished to consult them before deciding if any should be considered valid.
No one could accuse the mayor of not believing in open government, because all sixteen ballots had been laid out on the center of the table for everyone to see. Eight appeared to have no mark on them at all, and both candidates agreed that they could be rejected. "Cartwright should have been sent to the electric chair," and "no lawyer is fit to hold public office," were also dismissed just as quickly. Of the remaining six, all had marks other than crosses against one of the names, but as they were equally divided, the mayor suggested that they should all be validated.
Both Jimmy and Tom checked the six votes and could find no fault with the mayor's logic.
As this little detour had yielded no advantage to either candidate, the mayor gave the green light for the full count to begin. Stacks of hundreds were once again lined up in front of the counters, and Nat and Fletcher tried from a distance to gauge if they had won or lost enough to change the wording on their letterhead for the next four years.
When the counting finally stopped, the chief clerk passed a piece of paper to the mayor with two figures printed on it. He didn't need to call for silence, because everyone wanted to hear the result.
The mayor, having abandoned any thought of returning to the stage, simply announced that the Republicans had won by a margin of 3,019 to 2,905. He then shook hands with both candidates, obviously feeling that his task had been completed, while everyone else tried to work out the significance of the figures.
Within moments, several of Fletcher's supporters were leaping up and down once they realized that, although they had lost Madison by 114, they had won the state by four votes. The mayor was already on his way back to his office, looking forward to a well-earnedlunch, by the time Tom had caught up with him. He explained the real significance of the local result, and added that on behalf of his candidate, he would be requesting a recount. The mayor made his way slowly back into the hall to be greeted with chants of recount, recount, recount, and, without consulting his officials announced that was what he had always intended to do.
Several of the counters who had also begun to pack up and leave quickly sidled back to their places.
Fletcher listened carefully as Jimmy whispered in his ear. He considered the suggestion for a few moments, but replied firmly, "No."
Jimmy had pointed out to his candidate that the mayor had no authority to order a recount, as it was Fletcher who had lost the vote in Madison, and only a losing candidate could call for a recount. The Washington Post wrote in a leader the following morning that the mayor had also exceeded his authority on another front, namely that Nat had beaten his rival by over one percent, also rendering a recount unnecessary. However, the columnist did concede that rejecting such a request might well have ended in a riot, not to mention interminable legal wrangles, which would not have been in keeping with the way both candidates had conducted their campaigns.
Once again, the stacks were counted and recounted, before being checked and double-checked. This resulted in the discovery that three piles contained 101 votes, while another had only ninety-eight. The chief clerk did not confirm the result until he was sure that the calculators and the hand count were in unison. Then he once again passed a piece of paper to the mayor with two new figures for him to announce.
The mayor read out the revised result of 3,021 for Davenport to 2,905 for Cartwright, which cut the Democrat's overall lead to two votes.
Tom immediately requested a further recount, althoughhe knew he was no longer entitled to do so. He suspected that as Fletcher's majority had fallen, the mayor would find it difficult to turn down his request. He crossed his fingers as the chief clerk briefed the mayor. Whatever it was that the chief clerk had advised, the mayor simply nodded, and then made his way back to the microphone.
"I shall allow one further recount," he announced, "but should the Democrats retain an overall majority for a third time, however small, I shall declare Fletcher Davenport to be the new governor of Connecticut." This was greeted by cheers from Fletcher's supporters, and a nod of acquiescence from Nat as the counting procedure cranked back into action.
Forty minutes later, the piles were all confirmed as being correct, and the battle looked to be finally over, until someone noticed one of Nat's observers had his hand held high in the air. The mayor walked slowly across to join him, with the chief clerk only a pace behind, and inquired what the query was. The observer pointed to a pile of one hundred votes on the Davenport side of the table, and claimed that one of the votes should have been credited to Cartwright.
"Well, there's only one way of finding out," said the mayor as he began to turn the ballots over, with the crowd chanting in unison, "one, two, three.