He did not look at the charts. Instead, he unrolled a fresh draft of the redistricting map across his desk, holding the edges down with two marble paperweights.
“We are just looking at options, Clara,” he said, giving a dry, gravelly chuckle.
“The eastern line here is drawn three miles off the census tract,” I said, pointing to the blue boundary line.
“Let’s keep this particular draft between us for now,” he said, smoothing the paper with the side of his palm.
I nodded, assuming the committee was still debating the preliminary proposals.
I met Phil Berger near the brass elevators on the third floor of the courthouse at two o’clock. Phil was sixty-six and carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man who owned the building. He stopped, smoothing his silk tie with a slow, deliberate movement of his hand.
“Clara, do you still keep the spare keys to the basement vault on your desk?” he asked, his voice a slow, measured drawl.
“The main key stays on my brass ring, Senator,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “We want to make sure the historical records are secure, though those old boundaries are hardly relevant to the modern growth we are managing.”
He stepped into the elevator before I could ask him which records he meant.
The hum of the old fluorescent lights seemed louder after the rest of the staff left. I was packing my bag when the brass handle of the office door slowly turned.
Don Davis stood there, water dripping from his raincoat onto the linoleum floor. He held a thin folder tightly against his chest, his eyes scanning the empty hallway behind him before he stepped inside.
“I brought my personal copy of the rural statistics,” he said, slipping the files onto my desk.
“The offices closed at five, Representative,” I said.
