We Don’t Know the Election Results, But We Do Know We’re Screwed

Detroit — The polls have just closed. I don’t know how the election in Michigan will turn out. We’ll know tomorrow morning, perhaps. Perhaps next week, when the final absentee ballots are eventually tallied.

What I do know tonight is that there is huge international interest as to the goings on in Detroit, the center of the bogus ballot rumor of 2020. I worked the polls in Detroit then, just as I did last week, as a ballot processor in what used to be called Cobo Hall, then TCF Center, and now Huntington Place. The joint has had more aliases and facelifts than “Jack Rabbit” John Dillinger.

In order to avoid disputes and errors this year, the beleaguered Detroit City Clerk slowed the process to a snail’s pace. One ballot at a time to avoid counting imbalances and tabulator defaults. This was an improvement.

But gone this year were computers to log the ballot in, giving the sacred document an electronic stamp at the time of its processing. This was a necessary redundancy, as it proved in 2020 that the phantom 150,000 ballots did not magically appear at TCF at 4 a.m.

It was a mistake to get rid of the computers, in my opinion, since the national distrust for the election process is on high boil.

Nevertheless, the tortoise-like process appeared to me to be on the up and up. There were poll challengers from each party, who stood over our shoulders as we corrected and duplicated numerous ballots. Many citizens gummed up the process when they check-marked their choices instead of fully filling in the ovals next to the candidate’s name. The check marks caused the tabulator to spit out the ballot, since it could not read them. We poll workers would then have to fill out a new ballot by hand, filling in circles where the check marks had been scribbled.

The challengers hovered over us to be sure we weren’t cheating. They worked for free. Their motivation seemed to be for the love of their country.

Suckers.

We poll workers were paid $300 a day for three days; four to a station. My table processed about 600 ballots over those three days, which comes to $6 a ballot. This didn’t include the supervisors’ salaries, the hall rental or the cost of coffee and Danish.

While duplicating these ballots, it dawned on me: I had done a journalism piece on at least 40% of the primary office seekers. This included four candidates for president; two for senator; one for congress, state representative, county prosecutor; two for sheriff, the treasurer, clerk, and register of deeds. There were judges for district, circuit, and supreme court. Even a couple of school board hopefuls.

Oh, the stories! The imbroglios! The deceit! For example, there was the fake priest who absconded with the parish poor box. The war criminal who white-washed the responsibility from her resume. The tax cheats who took deductions for homes they did not live in. Settlers of sexual harrassment suits with taxpayer money. And your run-of-the-mill backroom back scratching deals that did the public no favors.

The ballot read like a precinct bulletin board of America’s most unscrupulous. I reveled in the glory of it all, the memories of insanity and municipal insolvency. It amused me for a half-dozen ballots, until a pall of cold reality washed over me.

No matter how this election turns out, we’re screwed.

Charlie LeDuff is a reporter educated in public schools.