‘What does that mean exactly?’ asked Mrs Kirkbridge.
‘You put up $1.8 million, the bank finances the rest of the project, and once the debt has been recouped, all the profits will be divided fifty-fifty.’
‘No bank fees, and the money loaned at prime rate?’
‘I think we would consider that,’ said Nat.
‘Then why don’t you leave all the details with me, Mr Cartwright, and I’ll come back to you. How long have I got before you need a decision?’
‘I’m meeting two other possible investors while I’m in New York,’ said Nat. ‘They were also bidders for the Robinson’s site.’
From the expression on her face, there was no way of telling if she believed him.
Mrs Kirkbridge smiled. ‘Half an hour ago,’ she said, ‘I had a call from the chief executive of the Hartford City Council, a Mr Cooke.’ Nat froze. ‘I didn’t take the call as I thought it would be prudent to see you first. However, I find it hard to believe that this was the type of case study they expected you to analyse at Harvard Business School, Mr Cartwright, so perhaps the time has come for you to tell me why you really wanted to see me.’
35
Annie drove her husband to City Hall, and it was the first time they had been alone all day. ‘Why don’t we just go home?’ said Fletcher.
‘I expect every candidate feels that way just before the count.’
‘Do you know, Annie, we haven’t once discussed what I’m going to do if I lose.’
‘I’ve always assumed you’d join another law firm. Heaven knows enough have been knocking on your door. Didn’t Simpkins and Welland say they needed someone who specializes in criminal law?’
‘Yes, and they’ve even offered me a partnership, but the truth is that politics is what I enjoy doing most. I’m even more obsessed than your father.’
‘That’s not possible,’ said Annie. ‘By the way, he said to use his parking space.’
‘No way,’ said Fletcher, ‘only the senator should occupy that spot. No, we’ll park down one of the side streets.’ Fletcher glanced out of the window to see dozens of people walking up City Hall steps.
‘Where are they going?’ he asked. ‘They can’t all be close relations of Mrs Hunter.’
Annie laughed. ‘No, they’re not, but the public are allowed to watch the count from the gallery. It’s an old Hartford tradition,’ she added as she finally found a parking space some distance from City Hall.
Fletcher and Annie held hands as they joined the crowds heading into the hall. Over the years, he had watched countless politicians and their wives holding hands on election day, and often wondered how many performed the ritual simply for the cameras. He squeezed Annie’s hand as they strolled up the steps trying to look relaxed.
‘Do you feel confident, Mr Davenport?’ asked a local newscaster, thrusting a microphone into his face.
‘No,’ said Fletcher honestly. ‘Nervous as hell.’
‘Do you think you’ve beaten Mrs Hunter?’ tried the reporter again.
‘I’ll be happy to answer that question in a couple of hours’ time.’
‘Do you believe it’s been a clean fight?’
‘You’d be a better judge of that than me,’ said Fletcher as he and Annie reached the top step and walked into the building.
As they entered the hall, there was a ripple of applause from some of those seated in the gallery. Fletcher glanced up, smiled and waved, trying to look confident, even though he didn’t feel it. When he glanced back down, the first face he saw was Harry’s. He looked pensive.
How different City Hall felt from the day of the debate. All the chairs had been replaced by a horseshoe of long tables. In the centre stood Mr Cooke, who had presided over seven previous elections. This would be his last, as he was due to retire at the end of the year.
One of his officials was checking the black boxes, which were lined up on the floor inside the horseshoe. Mr Cooke had made it clear during the briefing he had given both candidates the previous day that the count would not begin until all forty-eight ballot boxes had arrived from their polling stations and had been authenticated. As the poll closed at 8 p.m. this procedure usually took about an hour.
A second ripple of applause broke out, and Fletcher glanced round to see Barbara Hunter enter the room, also displaying a smile of confidence as she waved to her supporters in the gallery.
Once all forty-eight boxes had been checked, their seals were broken by the officials and the votes emptied on to the tables ready for counting. Seated on either side of the horseshoe were the hundred or so counters. Each group consisted of one representative from the Republican party, one from the Democrats and a neutral observer standing a pace behind them. If an observer was unhappy about anything once the counting had begun, he or she would raise a hand and Mr Cooke or one of his officials would go to that table immediately.
Once the votes had been emptied on to the tables, they were separated into three piles — a Republican pile, a Democratic pile and a third, smaller pile of disputed ballot papers. Most of the constituencies around the nation now carried out this entire process by machine, but not Hartford, although everyone knew that would change the moment Mr Cooke retired.
Fletcher began walking round the room, watching as the different piles grew. Jimmy carried out the same exercise, but strolled in the opposite direction. Harry didn’t move as he watched the boxes being unsealed, his eyes rarely straying from what was taking place inside the horseshoe. Once all the boxes had been emptied, Mr Cooke asked his officials to count the votes and place them in piles of one hundred.
‘This is where the observer becomes important,’ Harry explained as Fletcher came to a halt by his side. ‘He has to be sure that no ballot is counted twice, or two aren’t stuck together.’ Fletcher nodded, and continued his perambulation, occasionally stopping to watch a particular count, one moment feeling confident, the next depressed, until Jimmy pointed out that the boxes came from different districts and he could never be sure which ones had come from a Republican stronghold and which from a Democratic area.
‘What happens next?’ asked Fletcher, aware that Jimmy was attending his fourth count.
‘Arthur Cooke will add up all the ballots and announce how many people have voted, and calculate what percentage that is of the electorate.’ Fletcher glanced up at the clock — it was just after eleven, and in the background, he could see Jimmy Carter on the big screen, chatting to his brother Billy. The early polls suggested that the Democrats were returning to the White House for the first time in eight years. Would he be going to the Senate for the first time?
Fletcher turned his attention back to Mr Cooke, who appeared to be in no hurry as he went about his official business. His pace did not reflect the heartbeat of either candidate. Once he had gathered up all the sheets, he went into a huddle with his officials, and transferred his findings on to a calculator, his only concession to the 1970s. This was followed by the pressing of buttons, nods and mutters, before two numbers were written neatly on to a separate piece of paper. He then walked across the floor and up on to the stage at a stately pace. He tapped the microphone, which was enough to bring silence, as the crowd was impatient to hear his words.
‘God damn it,’ said Harry, ‘it’s been over an hour already. Why doesn’t Arthur get on with it?’
‘Calm down,’ said Martha, ‘and try to remember that you’re no longer the candidate.’
‘The number of people who cast votes in the election for the Senate is 42,429, which is a turnout of 52.9 per cent.’ Mr Cooke left the stage without another word, and returned to the centre of the horseshoe. His team then proceeded to check the piles of one hundreds, but it was another forty-two minutes before the chief executive climbed back on to the stage. This time he didn’t need to tap the microphone. ‘I have to inform you,’ he said, ‘that there are seventy-seven disputed ballots, and I will now invite the two candidates to join me in the centre of the room so that they can decide which ones should be considered valid.’