“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 any disputed 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 place as 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 a 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, which he 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 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 himself with the regular reports relayed back to him by his lieutenants 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 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 been rejected 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 aba
ndoned 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-earned lunch, 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, although he 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…”
Nat felt embarrassed and muttered to Su Ling, “He’d better be right.”
“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight…” Fletcher said nothing as Jimmy joined in the counting.
“Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one….” And suddenly there was a hush; the observer had been correct, because the forty-second ballot had a cross against Cartwright’s name. The mayor, the chief clerk, Tom and Jimmy all checked the offending ballot and agreed that a mistake had been made, and therefore the overall result was a tie. Tom was surprised by Nat’s immediate response.
“I wonder how Dr. Renwick voted.”
“I think you’ll find he abstained,” whispered Tom.
The mayor was looking exhausted, and agreed with his chief of staff that they should call for a recess, to allow the counters and any other officials to take an hour’s break, before the next recount at two o’clock. The mayor invited Fletcher and Nat to join him for lunch, but both candidates politely declined, having no intention of leaving the hall or even straying more than a few feet from the center table, where the votes were stacked up.
“But what happens if it remains a tie?” Nat heard the mayor ask the chief clerk as they made their way toward the exit. As he didn’t hear the reply, he asked Tom the same question. His chief of staff already had his head buried in the Connecticut State Elections Manual.
Su Ling did slip out of the hall and walked slowly down the corridor, remaining just a few paces behind the mayor’s party. When she spotted LIBRARY printed in gold letters on an oak door, she came to a halt. She was pleased to find the door unlocked and stepped quickly inside. Su Ling took a seat behind one of the large bookcases, leaned back and tried to relax for the first time that day.
“You too,” said a voice.
Su Ling looked up to see Annie sitting in the opposite corner. She smiled. “The choice was another hour in that hall or…”
“…or lunch with the mayor, and further epistles of the apostle Paul on the virtues of Madison.” They both laughed.
“I only wish it had all been decided last night,” said Su Ling. “Now one of them is bound to spend the rest of his life wondering if he should have canvassed another shopping mall…”
“I don’t think there was another shopping mall,” said Annie.
“Or school, hospital, factory or station, come to think of it.”
“They both should have agreed to govern for six months each year, and then let the electorate decide who they wanted in four years’ time.”
“I don’t think that would have settled anything.”
“Why not?” asked Annie.
“I have a feeling this will be the first of many contests between them that will prove nothing until the final showdown.”
“Perhaps the problem for the voters is that they are so alike it’s impossible to choose between them,” Annie suggested, looking carefully at Su Ling.
“Perhaps it’s just that there is nothing between them,” said Su Ling, returning her gaze.
“Yes, my mother often comments on how alike they are whenever they’re both on TV, and the coincidence of their shared blood group has only emphasized that feeling.”
“As a mathematician I don’t believe in quite so many coincidences,” said Su Ling.
“It’s interesting that you should say that,” ventured Annie, “because whenever I raise the subject with Fletcher, he simply clams up.”
“Snap,” said Su Ling.
“I suspect if we combined our knowledge…”
“We would only live to regret it.”
“What do you mean?” asked Annie.
“Only that if those two have decided not to discuss the subject, even with us, they must have a very good reason.”
“So you feel we should remain silent as well.”
Su Ling nodded. “Especially after what my mother’s been put through…”
“And my mother-in-law would undoubtedly be put through,” suggested Annie. Su Ling smiled and rose from her place. She looked directly at her sister-in-law. “Let’s just hope that they don’t both stand for president, otherwise the truth is bound to come out.”
Annie nodded her agreement.
“I’ll go back first,” said Su Ling, “and then no one will ever realize this conversation took place.”
“Did you manage to get some lunch?” asked Nat.
Su Ling didn’t have to reply as her husband was distracted by the reappearance of the mayor clutching a piece of paper in his right hand. He look
ed far more relaxed than when last seen disappearing in the direction of his office. On reaching the center of the room, the mayor gave an immediate order that another recount should commence. The satisfied look on his face was not the result of good food and even better wine; in fact the mayor had forgone lunch to phone the justice department in Washington and seek the advice of the attorney general’s office on how they should proceed in the event of a tie.
The tellers were, as ever, thorough and meticulous, and forty-one minutes later came up with exactly the same result. A tie.
The mayor reread the attorney general’s fax, and to everyone’s disbelief, called for a further recount, which, thirty-four minutes later, confirmed the deadlock.
Once the chief clerk had reported this to his elected representative, the mayor began to make his way toward the stage, having asked both candidates to join him. Fletcher shrugged his shoulders when he caught Nat’s eye. So keen were the onlookers to discover what had been decided that they quickly stood aside to allow the three men to pass, as if Moses had placed his staff on the Madison waters.
The mayor stepped up onto the platform with the two candidates in close attendance. When he came to a halt in the center of the stage, the candidates took their places on each side of him, Fletcher on his left, Nat on his right, as befitted their political persuasion. The mayor had to wait a few more moments for the microphone to be returned to its original position before he could address an audience that had not diminished in size despite the holdups.