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.
“Ladies and gentlemen, during the lunch break, I took the opportunity to telephone the justice department in Washington, D.C., to seek their advice as to what procedure we should follow in the event of a tie.” This statement elicited a silence that until that moment had not been achieved since the doors opened at nine o’clock that morning. “And to that end,” the mayor continued, “I have a fax signed by the attorney general confirming the due process of law that must now take place.” Someone coughed, and in the hush that had overcome the assembled gathering it sounded like Vesuvius erupting.
The mayor paused for a moment before returning to the attorney general’s fax. “If in an election for governor, any one candidate wins the count three times in a row, that candidate shall be deemed to be the winner, however small his or her majority. But should the vote end in a tie for a third time, then the result shall be decided,” he paused, and this time no one coughed, “by the toss of a coin.”
The tension broke and everyone began speaking at once, as they tried to take in the significance of this revelation, and it was some time before the mayor was able to continue.
He once again waited for complete silence before producing a silver dollar from his waistcoat pocket. He placed the coin on his upturned thumb before glancing at the two contestants as if seeking their approval. They both nodded.
One of them called, “Heads,” but then he always called heads.
The mayor gave a slight bow before spinning the coin high in the air. Every eye followed its ascension, and its even quicker descent, before it finally bounced up and down on the stage, ending up at the mayor’s feet. All three men stared down at the thirty-fifth president, who resolutely returned their gaze.
The mayor picked up the coin and turned around to face the two candidates. He smiled at the man now standing on his right, and said, “May I be the first to congratulate you, Governor.”