Mr.
Cooke looked toward Mrs. Hunter and she nodded reluctantly. “I concur that the
one with “Mr. Gates should be president” written across it is indeed invalid.”
Mrs. Hunter smiled.
“However,
the one that has a cross by Mr. Davenport’s name with the added comment, “but
I’d prefer Mr. Gates,” is in my view under election law, a clear indication of
the voter’s intention, and I therefore deem it to be a vote for Mr. Davenport.”
Mrs. Hunter looked annoyed but, aware of the crowd peering down from the
gallery, managed a weak smile. “Now we can turn to the seven votes where Mrs.
Hunter’s name appears on the ballot.”
“Surely
they must all be mine,” said Mrs. Hunter as Mr. Cooke laid them out neatly in a
row so that the two candidates could consider them.
“No,
I don’t think so,” said Mr. Cooke.
The
first had written on it, “Hunter is the winner,” with a cross against Hunter.
“That
person clearly voted for Mrs. Hunter,” said Fletcher.
“I
agree,” said Mr. Cooke as a ripple of applause emanated from the gallery.
“That
boy’s honesty will be the death of him,” said Harry.
“Or
the making of him,” said Martha.
“Hunter
would be a dictator,” was written across the next with no cross against either
name. “I believe that to be invalid,” said Mr. Cooke. Mrs. Hunter reluctantly
nodded.
“Despite
being accurate,” said Jimmy under his breath.
“Hunter
is a bitch,” “Hunter should be shot,”
“Hunter
is mad,” “Hunter is a loser,”
“Hunter
for pope”
were
also declared invalid. Mrs. Hunter did
not bother to suggest that any of these wanted her to be Hartford’s next
senator.
“Now
we come to the final group of sixteen,” said Mr. Cooke. “Here the voter did not
use a cross to indicate his or her preference.” The sixteen votes had been
placed in a separate pile, and the top one had a tick in the box opposite the
name “Hunter.”
“That
is clearly a vote for me,” insisted the Republican candidate.
“I
have a tendency to agree with you,” said Mr. Cooke. “The voter appears to have
made his wishes quite clear; however I will need Mr. Davenport to accept that
judgment before I can proceed.”
Fletcher
looked outside the horseshoe and caught Harry’s eye. He gave a slight nod.
“I
agree that it is clearly a vote for Mrs. Hunter,” he said. Applause once again
broke out in the gallery from the pro-Hunter supporters.
Mr.
Cooke removed the top ballot paper to reveal that the one underneath also had a
tick in the box opposite “Hunter.”
“Now
that we’ve agreed on the principle,” said Mrs. Hunter, “that must also count as
my vote.”
“I
have no quarrel with that,” said Fletcher.
“Then
those two votes go to Mrs. Hunter,” said Mr. Cooke, who removed the second
voting slip to reveal a tick by Fletcher’s name on the one underneath. Both
candidates nodded.
“Two-one
in favor of Hunter,” said Mr. Cooke before he removed that vote, to show the
next had a tick in the “Hunter” box.
“Three-one,”
she said, unable to hide a smirk.
Fletcher
began to wonder if Harry might have miscalculated. Mr. Cooke removed the next
ballot paper to reveal a tick by Fletcher’s name.
“Three-two,”
Jimmy said as the chief executive began to remove the votes from the pile more
quickly. As each one showed a clear tick, neither candidate was able to object.
The
crowd in the gallery began to chant-three-all, four-three-in Fletcher’s
favor-five-three, six-three, seven-three, eight-three, eight-four, nine-four,
ten-four, eleven-four, ending on twelve-four in Fletcher’s favor.
Mrs.
Hunter couldn’t hide her anger as Mr. Cooke, looking up at the gallery,
proclaimed, “And that completes the checking of invalid ballot papers, making
an overall position of fourteen for Mr. Davenport and six for Mrs. Hunter.”
He
then turned back to the candidates and said, “May
I
thank you both for your magnanimous approach to the whole proceedings.”
Harry
allowed himself a smile as he joined in the renewed applause that followed Mr.
Cooke’s statement. Fletcher quickly left the horseshoe and rejoined his
father-in-law on the outside.
“If
you win by fewer than eight votes, my boy, we’ll know whom to thank, because
now there’s nothing Mrs. Hunter can do about it.”
“How
long before we find out the result?” asked
Fletcher.
“The vote?
Only a few
minutes,” said Harry, “but the result, I suspect, won’t be sorted out for
several hours.”
Mr.
Cooke studied the figures on his calculator, and then transferred them to a
slip of paper, which all four of his officials dutifully signed. He returned to
the stage for a third time.
“Both
sides having agreed on the disputed ballots, I can now inform you that the
result of the election to the Senate for Hartford County is: Mr. Fletcher
Davenport 21,218, Mrs. Barbara Hunter, 21,211.” Harry smiled.
Mr.
Cooke made no attempt to speak during the uproar that followed, but once he had
regained the attention of the floor, he announced, “There will be a recount,”
even before Mrs. Hunter could demand one.
Harry
and Jimmy circled the room, uttering only one word to each of their observers.
Concentrate.
Fifty
minutes later, it was found that three of the piles only had ninety-nine votes,
while another four had one hundred and one. Mr. Cooke checked all seven
offending piles for a third time, before returning to the stage.
“I
declare the result of the election to the Senate for Hartford County to be as
follows: Mr. Davenport 21,217, Mrs. Hunter 21,213.”
Mr.
Cooke had to wait for some time before he could be heard above the noise. “Mrs.
Hunter has once again called for a recount.”
This time some
boos mingled with the cheers, as the gallery settled down to watch the counters
begin the entire process again.
Mr.
Cooke was punctilious in making sure that each pile was checked and
double-checked, and if there was any doubt he went over it again himself. He
didn’t walk back onto the stage until a few minutes after one in the morning,
when he asked both candidates to join him.
He
tapped the microphone to be sure it was still working. “I declare the result of
the election to the Senate for Hartford County, to be Mr. Fletcher Davenport
21,216, Mrs. Barbara Hunter 21,214.” The cheers and boos were even louder this
time, and it was several minutes before order could be restored. Mrs. Hunter
leaned forward and suggested to Mr. Cooke in a stage whisper that as it was
past one, the council workers should be allowed to go home, and a further
recount should take place in the morning.
He
listened politely to her protestations, before returning to the microphone.
However, he had clearly anticipated every eventuality. “I have with me,” he
said, “the official election handbook.”
He
held it up for all to see as a priest might the Bible. “And I refer to a ruling
on page ninety-one. I will read out the relevant passage.” The hall fell silent
as they waited for Mr. Cooke’s deliberations. “In an election for the Senate,
if any one candidate should win the count three times in a row, by however
small a majority, he or she will be declared the winner. I therefore declare Mr
..
.” But the rest of his words were drowned by Fletcher’s
cheering supporters.
Harry
Gates turned around and shook Fletcher by the hand. He could hardly make out
the former senator’s words above the uproar.
Fletcher
thought he heard Harry say, “May I be the first to congratulate you, Senator.”
ACTS
Nat
was ON the train back from New York when he read the short piece in the New
York Times.
He
had attended a board meeting of
Kirkbridge
and Co., where
he was able to report that the first stage of building on the Cedar Wood site
had been completed. The next phase was to lease the seventy-three shops, which
ranged in size from a thousand to twelve thousand square feet. Many of the
successful retailers currently on the Robinson’s site had already shown an
interest, and
Kirkbridge
and Co.
were
preparing a brochure and application form for several hundred potential
customers. Nat had also booked a full-page ad in the Hartford Courant and
agreed to be interviewed about the project for the weekly property section.
Mr.
George Turner, the council’s new chief executive, had nothing but praise for
the enterprise, and in his annual report, singled out Mrs.
Kirkbridge’s
contribution as project coordinator. Earlier in the year, Mr. Turner had
visited Russell’s Rank, but not before Ray Jackson had been promoted to manager
of their New-
ington
branch.
Tom’s
progress was somewhat slower as it had taken him seven months before he plucked
up the courage to invite Julia out for dinner. It took her seven seconds to
accept.
Within
weeks Tom was on the 4:49 P.m. train to New York every Friday afternoon,
returning to Hartford on Monday morning. Su Ling kept asking for progress
reports, but Nat seemed unusually ill-informed.
“Perhaps
we’ll find out more on Friday,” he said, reminding her 3i5 that Julia was down
for the weekend, and they had both accepted an invitation to join them for
dinner.
Nat
reread the short piece in the New York Times, which didn’t go into any detail,
and left the impression that there was a lot more behind the story.
William
Alexander of Alexander
Dupont
Bell,
has announced his resignation as senior partner of the firm founded by his
grandfather. Mr. Alexander’s only comment was that for some time he had been
planning to take early retirement.
Nat
looked out of the window at the Hartford countryside speeding by. He recognized
the name, but couldn’t place it.
“Mr.
Logan Fitzgerald is on line one, Senator.”
“Thank
you, Sally.” Fletcher received over a hundred calls a day, but his secretary
only put them through when she knew they were old friends or urgent business.
“Logan,
how good to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m
well, Fletcher, and you?”
“Never
better,” Fletcher replied.
“And
the family?” asked Logan.
“Annie
still loves me, heaven knows why, because I rarely leave the building before
ten, Lucy is at Hartford Elementary and we’ve put her down for Hotchkiss. And
you?”
“I’ve
just made partner,” said Logan.
“That’s
no surprise,” said Fletcher, “but many congratulations.”
“Thanks,
but that wasn’t why I was calling. I wanted to check if you’d spotted the piece
about Bill Alexander’s resignation in the Times.”
Fletcher
felt a chill go through his body at the mere mention of the name.
“No,”
he said, as he leaned across the desk and grabbed his copy of the paper. “Which
page?”
“Seven,
bottom right.”
Fletcher
quickly flicked through the pages until he saw the headline,
Leading
lawyer resigns.
“Hold
on while I just read the piece.” When he’d come to the end, all he said was,
“It doesn’t add up. He was married to that firm, and he can’t be a day over
sixty.”
“Fifty-seven,”
said Logan.
“But
the partners’ mandatory retirement age is sixty-five, and even then they keep
you on as an in-house advisor until you’re seventy. It doesn’t add up.”
Fletcher repeated.
“Until you dig a little.”
“And
when you dig a little, what do you find?” asked Fletcher.
“A hole.”
“A hole?”
“Yes,
it seems that a large sum of money went missing from a client’s account
when...”
“I
have no time for Bill Alexander,” Fletcher cut in, “but I do not believe that
he would remove one penny from a client’s account. In fact I’d stake my
reputation on it.”
“I
agree with you, but what will interest you more is that the New York Times
didn’t bother to report the name of the other partner who resigned on the same
day.”
“I’m
listening.”
“Ralph
Elliot, no less.”
“They
both went on the same day?”
“They
sure did.”
“And
what reason did Elliot give for resigning? It certainly can’t have been because
he was planning to take early retirement.”
“Elliot
gave no reason; in fact their PR spokeswoman is reported to have said that he
was unavailable for comment, which must be a first.”
“Did
she add anything?” asked Fletcher.
“Only
that he was a junior partner, but she failed to point out that he was also
Alexander’s nephew.”