RPAGF Chapter 323 - 159: The 0.4% Miracle
Chapter 323 - 159: The 0.4% Miracle
The press hall in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.
Twenty full days had passed since the primary election.
For an ordinary person, those twenty days might have been just a few pages turned on a calendar. But for those caught in the vortex of this election, every second had been stretched into drawn-out torture.
On the massive LCD screen in the hall, the red and blue progress bars remained locked in a suffocating stalemate.
The vote count in all sixty-seven of Pennsylvania’s counties was complete. All that remained was the confirmation of this final number.
Leo Wallace stood before the video wall in the Pittsburgh campaign headquarters, his eyes fixed on the cursor.
The only sounds in the room were the low-frequency hum of countless computer case fans and the stifled breathing of several dozen people.
It was a silence more agonizing than noise.
Murphy sat in the leather sofa, which had begun to sag where he sat. His tie had long since been ripped off and tossed aside, and the collar of his shirt was open, revealing a sweat-drenched neck.
He clutched an empty plastic water bottle in his hand, the plastic deforming with a sharp CRACKLE as he squeezed it.
"Here it comes."
The image on the screen suddenly froze.
The Secretary of State walked up to the podium, holding the final, certified document stamped with an official seal.
He read aloud the number that would decide the fate of countless people.
"In accordance with the election laws of the state of Pennsylvania, and after final verification by each county’s board of elections, the final vote count for the Democratic Party primary for Federal Senator is as follows."
The numbers on the screen flickered, then locked into place.
Aston Monroe: 49.8%.
John Murphy: 50.2%.
Between the two numbers lay a minuscule yet insurmountable gulf.
Total vote difference: 3,421 votes.
In a Swing State with millions of registered voters, a margin of just over three thousand votes was smaller than the crowd at a single college football game.
It was like a marathon where the winner finished only half a step ahead of the runner-up.
But in the logic of politics, this was the distance between life and death.
The difference between a winner and a corpse.
"We won..."
Murphy stared at the number, his lips trembling. But he didn’t leap up and cheer as he might have expected, nor did he shed tears of joy.
It was as if his spine had been ripped out; he went limp, collapsing back into the sofa, his chest heaving violently.
In the very moment of victory, an overwhelming sense of fear drowned out any joy.
He turned his head to look at Leo, who was standing in the shadows.
Murphy’s eyes were filled with awe.
As a veteran who had been in politics for twenty years, he knew better than anyone where those 3,421 votes had come from.
They were the votes that Leo and his pack of wolf-like lawyers and volunteers had clawed back, one by one, from the piles of discarded ballots destined for the shredder in one counting center after another.
"We... survived," Murphy muttered, his voice as faint as a breeze.
Leo didn’t respond.
He remained standing before the screen, hands in his pockets, watching the final result with a blank expression.
He didn’t smile or even relax his brow.
He just slowly raised a hand and loosened his meticulously knotted tie, giving his constricted throat a bit of room to breathe.
’Mr. President,’ Leo called out silently in his mind. ’We won.’
Roosevelt’s voice rang out.
"Yes, Leo. This is victory."
"These are the seams of democracy."
"Monroe lost, not because his policies were bad or because he didn’t have enough supporters. He thought elections were won by the law of large numbers, by trends, by the so-called tide of public opinion."
"But he forgot that even a flood is made of individual drops of water."
"You slipped into that seam. You grabbed the drops he ignored. With naked ballots, flawed signatures, and the trash produced by bureaucracy, you built a bridge to victory."
"What tripped up Monroe wasn’t these three-thousand-odd votes, but his contempt for the rules."
Roosevelt let out a soft chuckle.
"Now, it’s all over."
"The history books will only record that Representative John Murphy defeated Aston Monroe in the primary to become the Democratic Party’s candidate for Senator."
"No one will remember the arguments about envelopes, no one will remember the lawyers shouting in the counting stations, and no one will dig into how much of that 0.4% margin was just plain luck."
"Winner take all."
"That is the only truth in this game."
Back in the campaign headquarters, the suppressed cheers finally erupted.
Although Murphy was still slumped on the sofa, Sarah, Ethan, Frank, and the red-eyed volunteers were already hugging and screaming.
A champagne cork popped, spraying white foam into the air.
Leo watched the celebrating crowd, feeling as if he were in another world.
While the people in this room were cheering over a slim 0.4% advantage, the atmosphere in another campaign headquarters in Philadelphia was heavy to the point of suffocation.
Aston Monroe stood before the massive data wall, staring intently at the 49.8% that represented his defeat.
"No, this is impossible."
Monroe’s face was ashen, his voice trembling slightly.
"The margin is less than 0.5%, that’s within the recount threshold! They’re cheating! They stole my election!"
He whipped around and roared at his campaign manager, Paul Turner, "Paul! Contact our legal team immediately! I want to demand a recount! I want every single mail-in ballot investigated!"
Turner stood there, not moving.
"Boss, calm down."
Turner advised in a low voice.
"Calm down? How can I calm down?" Monroe pointed at the screen. "It’s just over three thousand votes! If we can just flip a few small precincts, I can..."
"Phone."
Turner cut him off, handing him a constantly vibrating cell phone.
"It’s Washington."
Monroe froze for a second and glanced at the caller ID.
It was Harrison Boyd, Chairman of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee.
He answered the phone, his hand shaking.
"Mr. Chairman, I was just about to report to you. There’s a strong suspicion of fraud here, I’m requesting..."
"Aston, stop."
The voice on the other end of the line was devoid of warmth, leaving no room for negotiation.
"The election is over."
"But Mr. Chairman, the margin is only 0.4%! By law, I have the right to..."
"I said, it’s over."
Boyd’s voice turned stern.
"Do I need to be clearer? Every second we waste, the Republican, Warren, is watching us."
"The Party needs to be united."
Boyd’s tone softened slightly, but it was more like an ultimatum.
"Aston, you’re still young. You’re still the Vice Governor of Pennsylvania. You have a long road ahead of you in the Party. Don’t ruin your future over a moment of pique."
"Concede defeat."
"Congratulate Murphy."
"Then, get your people together and throw your full support behind him to win the general election."
"That’s an order."
The call ended.
Monroe held the phone, still in the posture of listening, motionless for a long time.
He could hear the sound of his own dreams shattering.
He had thought he was the chosen one, the darling of the Establishment Faction.
But in the face of the bigger picture, he was just another pawn, ready to be sacrificed at any moment.
As long as the winner was a Democrat, as long as they could hold onto the Senate seat, it didn’t really matter to the bigwigs in Washington who exactly was sitting in it.
Turner walked over and gently patted his shoulder.
"Boss, let’s issue a statement," Turner sighed. "As long as you’re still Vice Governor, there will be other chances."
Monroe slowly lowered his phone, glancing at the glaring number on the screen.
He had lost.
"Alright."
A deep exhaustion permeated Monroe’s voice.
"Prepare for a press conference."
"I will concede."
"I will... congratulate him."
Pittsburgh Campaign Headquarters.
The cheers had died down a bit as everyone waited anxiously for a reaction from Philadelphia.
If Monroe really demanded a recount, it would turn into a protracted legal battle, and the fruits of their victory could spoil at any moment.
Suddenly, the image on the television wall changed.
Aston Monroe appeared on the screen.
He looked a bit haggard, but he still maintained the unique brand of dignity characteristic of the elite.
"Ladies and gentlemen."
Monroe faced the camera, forcing a standard, professional smile.
"A moment ago, I called Representative John Murphy."
"Although the margin was small, the people have made their choice."
"I congratulate Representative Murphy on securing the nomination, and I call on all of my supporters to unite behind him in the upcoming general election. Let us fight for a Democratic Party victory and for the future of Pennsylvania."
Another cheer erupted in the room.
This time, it was one of pure relief.
The sword hanging over their heads had finally been removed.
Murphy let out a long breath, his whole body relaxing into the sofa.
He’d won.
He’d really won.
Leo stood by the window, watching Monroe on the television.
He knew that the only reason Monroe had conceded was because Washington had intervened.
On a higher level of power, this primary farce had to be brought to an end.
’Mr. President,’ Leo said silently, ’we cleared the hurdle.’
"Yes, you have," Roosevelt responded. "But don’t celebrate too soon."
"Take your eyes off this room, Leo."
"Look toward Washington."
"There, a pair of eyes has been watching us the entire time."
Leo thought of the name.
Russell Warren.
The Republican titan who had been entrenched in the Senate for thirty years. The true abyss.
While the Democrats were tearing each other apart in the primary, Warren had been watching coldly from the sidelines.
He watched Murphy and Monroe rip each other to shreds, watched Leo use every trick in the book.
He might have even been fanning the flames from the shadows, enjoying the thrill of his opponents’ infighting.
Now, the civil war was over.
The Democratic Party had chosen a battle-scarred candidate, a controversial figure who had scraped by with a razor-thin margin.
For Warren, the prey was exhausted. And he, the beast of prey who had been resting and conserving his strength, was about to enter the field for the kill.
’He’ll be a hundred times harder to deal with than Monroe,’ Leo concluded. ’He controls the real machinery of the state, with resources we can’t even imagine.’
Roosevelt’s voice grew serious.
"Then get ready."
"Warren won’t bother with legal procedures, and he won’t be tripped up by your clever little tricks."
"He will crush you with sheer power."
"But, Leo."
"This is also our only chance."
"Only by defeating Warren, only by taking that Senate seat, can we truly thrust our hand into the heart of Washington."
"Your Pittsburgh revival, your Industrial Alliance, all of your grand ambitions—they all need that seat to protect them."
Leo nodded.
He straightened his suit and stepped out of the shadows.
He walked toward Murphy, toward the cheering crowd, a confident smile on his face.
He raised his hand, signaling for quiet.
"Everyone."
Leo’s voice echoed through the room.
"Tonight, we made history."
"We proved that even a margin as slim as 0.4%, when brought together, can shatter high walls."
Thunderous applause followed.
Leo looked at the crowd, but his eyes remained calm deep down.
"But, save half the champagne."
"Because when the sun rises tomorrow."
"We will face an enemy ten times more powerful than the one we defeated tonight."
Leo raised his glass.
"To Pittsburgh."
"To Pennsylvania."
"Cheers."