A House Once Stolen

14

Chapter 1

The mayor of Miami didn’t really want to hear the ugly truth about election fraud, and Scott Bowles didn’t plan on dying while trying to deliver the crushing news. As he stared into the dark recesses of the garage beneath his condo, Bowles stood perfectly still, frozen with fear. Like a gazelle fleeing from a lion, he was straining with all of his senses to detect the slightest sound or movement. Without even a faint breeze inside the enclosed structure, the smell of oily vapors masked the scent of any predator. With his lungs seizing up, Bowles’ breath was shallow and labored, while his heart surged with wild gyrations. An icy bead of sweat dripped from his forehead, inching slowly down his cheek. Is anybody there? Bowles demanded. He didn’t really expect an answer, but hoped the challenge might cause some movement or noise to confirm his suspicions that he was being followed.

Bowles grimly realized the knowledge he carried could ruin powerful people’s lives and lead to jail time. He had sensed for days that someone was following him, and he had to be certain that a deadly stalker could not impede the path of escape to his car. He was rushing to keep a private evening rendezvous with the mayor at his posh home in trendy South Beach.

In the spring of 2000 Mayor Don Franklin, an honest crime fighter, had received disturbing rumors of bizarre and illegal activities in the Miami-Dade Elections Office. With a national presidential election looming in November, Franklin desperately wanted to prove that no election crimes were occurring in his city. Bowles had been hand-picked by Franklin to quietly investigate even the hint of impropriety, which could leave an embarrassing stain on the mayor’s squeaky-clean image.

Bowles dreaded the meeting, realizing it was far too late to sugar-coat the festering decay of corruption. He had agonized over the report for days, but he still managed to avoid suspicion by maintaining his normal routine of appearing for work each day in the mayor’s office.

At 8:00 P.M. Bowles was ready to keep his fateful appointment. He was trembling from the emotional strain, but his body suddenly stiffened, trying to steel his resolve for the last leg of his mission. He surveyed every corner of the garage one last time, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Satisfied that nobody else was around, he saw a clear path to his silver Triumph sports car. He hurriedly ran straight to his car, nervously opened the door, and jumped into the driver’s seat.

After one last cautious glance behind him, he turned the key to start his car. Cranking the ignition detonated a car bomb in his engine. The huge explosion was violent and deafening, like a cherry bomb going off in the huge coffee can of the garage. The car erupted with the flames surging inward into the eye of a hurricane, gathering a force that exploded outward in a fiery ball. The engine of the Triumph shot straight up in a scalding geyser of billowing grey smoke, slamming into the low ceiling and then crashing back to the concrete floor in burning pieces of black and twisted metal.

Engulfed in flames, Bowles arms were flailing and stretching out as though reaching for the next life, even as he left this one.

Along with Bowles’ charred remains, his secret expose on election fraud in Miami would follow him to his grave.

Fear and anxiety were hanging in the thick and sultry Florida air, like a white funeral shroud draped over a rotting, stinking corpse. After all, the presidential election of 2000 was in theory supposed to be free and fair. Instead, another kind of bank heist was being pulled off by stealthy thieves wearing black ski masks to shield their faces. And just as the darkly tinted car windows blocked the glaring Florida sun and concealed the passengers within, a plot was being hidden from a reporter trying to uncover the truth.

For freelance reporter, Harper Todd, the day of the election was rapidly descending into a nightmare of unexplained events and political dirty tricks. Something was wrong—and he knew it.

Harper had managed to smooze his way into a plum assignment from the New York Times to travel from his home in LA and cover the national story of a presidential election. With only two hectic hours remaining before the polls would close, he was ending his series of eyewitness accounts in a largely black precinct in Miami.

He arrived in the general area of Lincoln Elementary School in plenty of time to finish his last story of the day, but he was again slowed by a long and idle line of cars that was barely inching forward. He was approaching the same type of barricade and police checkpoint that he had encountered repeatedly while traveling around the southern part of the state. The radio had reported that officers were there for crowd control, but Harper found the endless lines of people seemed orderly and really didn’t need any controlling.

As the day’s light faded to dusk, Harper’s blue Toyota rental car finally reached the barricade, with its flashing yellow warning lights. A white officer was inspecting the vehicles and their passengers. He looked inside the car, while staring at Harper.

Are you here to vote, sir?

Yes, Harper said, pretending to be a voter.

Then pull around the line and head for the school parking lot straight head. The abrupt and edgy tone of the trooper’s voice was an effective tool of control over all people and any situation he surveyed.

Say, officer, what are those other cars in line for?

Never mind about that, the trooper snapped, follow the instructions and head toward the school. The man was tall, burly, and gruff, a guardian of the line not to be toyed with. Even though the sun’s bright glare was yielding to darkness, he still wore mirror sunglasses with his khaki uniform. Harper guessed that ploy was to conceal his eyes along with his true intentions.

The resort weather in Florida had given Harper a dark tan that accented his brown hair and eyes, but he wasn’t prepared for the intense and stifling humidity. The air was close and aggravating, leaving a constant sheen of sweat on his skin. After a morning shower, his soaked and clammy polo shirt soon clung again relentlessly to his athletic body. Yet even repeated showers wouldn’t have solved the sticky irritation he had suffered all day. The seething tension and frustration of voters, along with Miami’s unseasonable but oppressive November heat wave, had finally taken their toll on his psyche.

Harper was also fed up with the same arrogant and deceptive police responses, and his temper suddenly flashed beyond his control. He grabbed his pen and notepad from the car seat and flung open his car door. His wiry but muscular frame of six feet bounded out of the car and straight for the officer. As a white person, Harper seemed to be getting special and very different treatment, and he wanted to know why.

The policeman appeared startled as Harper stalked toward him. What are you doing? I thought I told you to drive to the school.

Harper still had issues with authority from his teenage years, especially when powerful people were hiding their true agendas. Oh I’m going to the school all right, but first I want to get the spelling of your name for my story. Harper’s slightly twisted face showed his anger and frustration.

The officer was put on the defensive for a moment, and tried to recover before he could speak. He wasn’t used to people defying his commands or his authority.

You’re a reporter?

That’s right. Would you like to make a statement about what the police are trying to accomplish with these check points?

The officer’s authoritarian mask broke for a few seconds, as he looked around nervously. People who knew more than they should know posed a threat and a challenge to the orders he had been given. I got nothing to say to the press.

And why doesn’t that surprise me? Well, Officer Stevens, maybe someone at the school will have the decency to tell me the truth about what’s really happening here today.

Harper spun around to head back to his car, but without thinking, the tall and powerful officer grabbed his arm to stop him.

We don’t want you making any trouble at the school. Do your job, and then get the hell out of here.

We? Harper asked suspiciously, who exactly are you referring to?

You know what I mean. The officer cast his eyes to the ground uncomfortably.

Yes, I think I’m beginning to understand. Harper shot an icy stare down to his forearm that the policeman still clenched tightly. How would you like your photo on the front page of the Miami Herald tomorrow?

Following Harper’s withering eyes, the trooper realized he was still holding Harper’s arm and released his tight grip. Harper yanked his arm back to his side indignantly with a dramatic flair.

You know, Officer Stevens, you must be very proud of your work here today, very proud indeed.

Stevens said nothing but only set his jaw and glared back at a reporter who was an unwelcome outsider.

Once Harper returned to his car, he pulled around the line and headed in the direction of the school. As he drove slowly past the row of vehicles, angry dark faces fraught with accusation glared back at him through the open windows of their cars. Why was another white voter allowed to avoid the line?

Harper had received an anonymous tip in September that the national presidential election was going to be anything but normal. His informant had indicated that the most devastating effects of an overall scheme to disrupt the voting would hit the hardest in the critical sunshine state, with its treasure of electoral votes.

Even with that chilling tip in hand, Gary Feldman, the New York Times Political Editor was still no pushover when it came to approving expenses for a story.

This tip of yours is still pretty thin, Feldman grumbled over the phone.

I know that, Gary, but we’ve talked about this for weeks. Your instincts have been screaming to you that something is not right about this election. And if this tip is from an insider, new proof could bring the story home for us.

Feldman reflected on the matter because his personal doubts about the election had existed for a long time. Okay, I’ll give you a week in Florida before the election and a couple days after, but then we have to compare notes. I can’t be paying for fairy tales in this business.

As the seemingly endless election day was grinding to a close, Harper felt emotionally drained and exhausted. He had read that cats were conductors of human emotion, and quickly concluded that he possessed the same ability. By way of osmosis, the anger, resentment, and confusion that he had already witnessed had sapped the energy from his limp body.

Harper had reported isolated fraud in other elections before, but the nature and scope of the acts in Florida were troubling. His growing suspicion that a fair American election was somehow being hijacked for political gain had left a large and gaping hole in his journalistic soul.

While driving toward the school, Harper’s seething anger was still on a slow burn. Even though the Florida election smelled of corruption, most reporters would recognize the futility of their situation and give up. Harper wasn’t going to find and catch the crooks in one week of election reporting anyway, so why not report the story he could prove and then return to California. But no, the great Harper Todd just couldn’t let it go. He had to prove something to himself, and everyone else. Even as the story’s point of no return loomed in front of him, Harper grimly realized that his stubbornness and pride could lead to his ultimate downfall.

Harper’s tight smile was bittersweet as his mind careened back to his high school days in Illinois, when he had given up football his sophomore year to take up the gentleman’s game of tennis. The wealthy kids, with their years of private tennis lessons, had also beaten him, at least at first. But he had resolutely stayed on the courts long after darkness, obsessed with the extra practice needed to improve his game. He had relentlessly returned tennis balls against a concrete wall until his hands bled. Finally after endless repetitions, the power and accuracy of his strokes drew even with those of the privileged kids.

His coach had secretly spotted him one night long after practice and was impressed by Harper’s perseverance. A raw and headstrong kid was then tutored, or tortured until Harper could match strokes with champions, and many trophies followed.

Still, Harper had to wonder if the proud, fond memory of his youth had any application to his present predicament. A monster story like this one could take even the best reporter to places where he really didn’t want to go. And along the way, Harper Todd could be chewed up and spit out along the roadside.

After parking in the school’s lot, Harper left his car and headed down a long and open hallway toward the polling place. As he approached another huge line, Lincoln Elementary seemed no different than the other schools he had monitored.

The scent of dried-out Bermuda grass instantly reminded him of high school football practice. Always on the verge of heat stroke, he had sweat profusely like a gushing fountain, and was repeatedly tackled and driven to the turf of the dry and itchy grass. As he surveyed the school trying to figure out what to do, his memories and the same powerful smell of the grass told him it was fall.

The Miami radio stations had reported that lines were much longer than in other elections, and the one he approached snaked across wide spans of open lawn into the street. But the strange thing to Harper was that even after considering the higher election turnout, these meandering ribbons of humanity didn’t seem to be moving forward at the normal pace of other elections he had covered.

The anxious and suspicious voters standing in these lines seemed to sense that something was being stolen from them that would never be returned. They couldn’t see the culprits lurking just behind the black and billowing curtain, and yet they felt their presence all the same.

Harper slid along the line searching for a place to crowd in so he could observe what was happening. Because he was white, this was not always the easiest task to perform in black and Cuban neighborhoods.

The people were agitated over the endless hours of waiting and very vocal with their displeasure. He decided to stop at one group of complaining black women who seemed particularly outraged, and not timid about letting the people around them know it.

As Harper tried to insert himself inside the group, the oldest lady spied him immediately and was in no mood to tolerate another crowder. The woman, who appeared determined to cast her vote, was heavy and as sturdy as an eighteen-wheeler. Even from a distance, her body language and gestures warned Harper that she could be a real battle-ax when she wanted to be. She was about to lay into him for his transgression, until he flashed his press credential and winked at her. She responded with a knowing nod of her head, realizing that he was spying for a newspaper or TV station. When the other women noticed him, they were going to confront him too, but the older woman quickly intervened.

Who the hell is this guy? a younger black woman angrily demanded.

Uh, he’s with me, girl, the woman in her sixties said protectively to smooth the ruffled feathers of her companion. Harper used the same tactic that had worked all day, and when the younger woman saw his press pass, she was on to the game.

Well, I heard that! It’s about time somebody witnessed this fiasco. I’ve never seen anything this bad in all my born days.

For Harper the reporter, jeans, old loafers, and a decent looking shirt were standard issue. He wanted to appear like a passerby who people could confide in. He found that looking like everyone else caused people to let their guard down and share what was on their minds. Complete strangers felt more comfortable telling their stories and secrets, or what they thought were secrets, to a normal looking person they would never see again.

Harper turned to the older woman as the apparent leader of the group. My name is Harper, what’s been going on here today?

Noreen, the woman answered to introduce herself, and you name it, and it’s been going on. When we tried to park, we were met with cops in squad cars. The radio is calling them check-points, but all they seem to be checking is whether you’re black or white. Noreen’s face was clouded with anger and resentment, while her account seemed to square with Harper’s observations at other barricades, including the one he had just been cleared to pass through.

And what did these officers actually say to you?

They said they’re here for crowd control, but they also said that there weren’t any parking places at the school, so we would have to come back later, or find a place on the street.

Was that true?

Hell no! We suspected they were lying to us, and we found plenty of open spots in the school lot. Lincoln is a huge school for God’s sake. Come back later? Anybody can see through that bullshit. They didn’t want us coming back at all. So a lot of people simply gave up, and the rest of us have been here in line for three hours.

Noreen was a salt-of-the-earth type of person who seemed to have a firm grasp of the overall situation. Harper glanced back trying to locate the end of the line. If someone’s sinister intent was to delay or discourage black voters from casting their votes, the plan seemed to be working.

A friend of mine finally got inside, Noreen said, and she told us there aren’t nearly enough voting booths. Besides that, when she had questions on the ballot, they made her wait in another separate line. But the white folks seem to get their questions answered right away. I tell you this ain’t right. They need to investigate this whole damn election, and the radio said the same thing today.

Harper’s handsome and boyish face winced, as a tight ball was knotting in his stomach. His instincts were telling him now that some of the racial slights could be imagined, but others seemed painfully real. The beginning of his career with the Chicago Tribune had taught him that any given story could wildly swing his emotions from idealistic to cynical in an instant, and at thirty-five he had seen his share of unfairness.

A good reporter was supposed to remain independent and aloof as he reported only the facts. Even so, when one side was obviously getting screwed, a few well-placed keystrokes or subtle observations in an article could often cleverly restore some balance to the scales of justice.

Harper had spent a week in Florida tracking down leads, including the whispered rumors that new voters were not being added to the rolls. The election had come to resemble a political soap opera with the main characters and dialogue changing daily. Meanwhile, the plot had more twists than a gifted lap dancer.

He quickly decided to enter the school and investigate the voting process for himself. In a large room chosen for voting, he saw another group of black people standing in an area off to the side and away from the voting booths. He approached the group and took his press pass out again.

Are you folks waiting to be helped?

The other people are, an older black man with snowy white hair answered, but these jokers keep telling me I can’t vote because I’m a felon. I told them that I’m no felon, and the stupid thing is they keep calling me Mr. Conrad. I repeatedly told them that my name is Connor, but they show this other guy listed at my address. This is crap, man, and they say I can’t vote if I’m not listed on the rolls. I’ve never failed to vote in my entire life!

Before the election, Florida courts had upheld the right of felons to vote, yet Harper discovered that felons were still being prevented from voting, along with other people with similar names.

He looked around the room for a moment trying to assess the damage of a concerted scheme of dirty tricks. He wasn’t a conspiracy theorist, but the events he had witnessed all day appeared suspicious, rather than simple mistakes.

Harper felt powerless to do anything on a national election day that was almost over. But even if many people were conspiring behind the scenes, he wondered who would ever believe a lone reporter with a wild conspiracy theory about stealing an election.

The physical toll of an endless day of monitoring precincts was beginning to show on Harper. He was worn out and considered returning to his hotel after witnessing enough of a pattern for his story. But as he debated what he should do next, he noticed one of the election workers staring at him. When the man saw that he had captured Harper’s attention, he walked over to him holding a pack of cigarettes. White and in his seventies, the man looked like the typical retiree who helped out on Election Day.

I’m going to take a smoke break, would you like to join me? The man’s face seemed anxious and desperate to corner Harper alone. Harper took the subtle hint and followed him outside.

You’re a reporter aren’t you? the man asked as he lit his cigarette. I noticed you right away. This whole disaster is a travesty that someone should be reporting.

The man, who was privy to the inner workings of this particular precinct, seemed genuinely troubled. Harper was hoping to get some semblance of the truth from an insider.

What’s causing it? Harper asked.

Well, we don’t have enough voting machines and booths for one thing. We were told days ago that we would have plenty, along with back-ups for the higher turnout.

But they never arrived.

No, and when I broke for lunch, the radio said the same shortage is showing up in many precincts in this area. Kind of odd, don’t you think? I’m sure you noticed the police check points down the street. Those tactics may have represented Florida fifty years ago, but today?

What about the confusion on the rolls between regular voters and felons?

That’s happening way too often to be a simple case of confusion. Sure, you could have a mix-up once in awhile, but over and over? No way. If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone in the elections office has purposely mixed felons and people with no criminal record together, which prevents all of them from voting. Of course, the courts have already ruled that felons could vote, anyway. I’ve been working elections for twenty-five years, and I’ve never witnessed the strange events that I saw today. There was a long, disgusted silence as the man puffed on his cigarette.

With the mounting evidence of unfair and illegal political tactics, Harper’s professional objectivity was all but gone. Like many other stories, this was one had turned ugly all on its own.

Anything else you can tell me?

No, but I have a friend who works in the Miami-Dade Elections Office downtown, and I think you should talk to him. Boy, has he got some bizarre stories for you.

The man pulled out a white piece of paper, wrote a name and phone number on it, and silently passed it to Harper. Harper thanked the election worker for his help and then decided to leave the precinct the same way he had had entered it.

As he returned to the room where the voting was taking place, Harper quickly noticed that the atmosphere had degenerated into a scene that was akin to a bar room brawl. The people who had been prevented from voting were yelling and screaming at election officials, and a shoving match had ensued between the two warring factions. Assaults and accusations were being hurled like sharp spears across the room, and Harper quickly decided he had seen enough for one day. This boiling crescendo of emotion seemed to mirror the frustrations felt around the state. Such a final pitched battle on a historic election day would make a striking and climactic scene for one of his articles.

Harper left the boisterous and chaotic room with his prized lead and headed for his car. But as he passed the angry line of voters again, he noticed a man standing back in the shadows who seemed oddly out of place. Harper didn’t want to draw the onlooker’s attention by staring at him, but he was white, and seemed to be quietly assessing what was going on from a distance. He was stocky and muscular with the athletic build of a linebacker. Harper’s typing of the man as a football player seemed appropriate, since he didn’t have any neck to speak of, and his head was attached to his powerful shoulders like a steel wrecking ball.

The mysterious Chet Ford had no plans of confronting a passing reporter, but he studied Harper’s every movement with his steel grey eyes. For Ford, there was nothing new or even complicated about the election business. He had monitored elections in Chile, Argentina, and Venezuela.

Still trying to avoid Ford’s intense stare, Harper recalled the officer at the checkpoint saying, We don’t want you making any trouble at the school. As he walked over the grass, Harper began to wonder if the man watching him was part of the overall conspiracy that was forming in a reporter’s creative mind.

A thicker charcoal darkness had descended over the school, so Harper took a long, dimly lighted hallway with classrooms on both sides for his return trip to the school parking lot. As he walked, he heard soft footsteps far behind him on the concrete walkway. But when Harper stopped, the sound of someone walking also stopped. He continued on his way and tried his experiment a second time. The echoing sound of steps fell silent again. Harper walked faster this time, and the footsteps also picked up the pace. Harper finally decided to stop abruptly to see who was following him. But when he spun around to look behind him--nobody was there.

The first in a series of Harper’s articles hit the New York Times the day after the 2000 election. Yet even though Harper knew what he had witnessed, he still couldn’t really prove anything.

The why part was easy because Republican Richard Blackstone had won a razorthin victory over Democrat Ted Jamison, and the bitter and highly contested election would take its place in the annals of American political history.

Luckily, Gary Feldman understood his reporter’s frustration as the entire country, including the media, was in an uproar. Similar events to those that Harper had depicted so graphically in Florida had also been reported in other key battleground states. President Blackstone’s critics charged that they had been robbed, while his campaign staff shot back that Ted Jamison and his defeated camp were simply poor losers.

Harper’s instincts told him he was on to a much bigger story, but he needed additional time to report it.

It’s against my better judgement, Feldman said from New York, but I’m going to approve another return visit for you to Miami."

I knew it, Harper said. You suspect foul play as much as I do.

Well, Feldman said, I’ve always been the suspicious type anyway, but when similar events occur in a number of battle ground states, those activities really get my attention. However, I want to wait a week before sending you back. That time will allow us to monitor the other national papers to see what leads they come up with. We’ll let other papers do some of the heavy lifting, hoping they can give you other angles to work on besides your source in the Miami-Dade Elections office.

Horace Green had advised Harper to meet him shortly after six P.M. at the Miami-Dade Elections Office, when most of the office workers would be gone for the day. If there were too many people milling around, Horace was supposed to signal him to come back in an hour. But since Harper arrived late and the coast was clear, Horace quietly ushered him in.

Horace was in his forties with pale blue eyes and a thin, light complexion that couldn’t tolerate much tanning in the brutal Florida sunshine. Not a sports enthusiast, Horace was much more the intellectual, who loved reading and programs on the History Channel. His immaculately pressed shirt and slacks suggested a very careful and precise man, not given to flights of fancy and wild election stories. The manner in which he carefully studied Harper when they met, also told a reporter that Horace was a keen observer. These traits in an informant often led to accurate and reliable information.

They walked down a long, drab hall covered with generic brown paint. The dim yellowish glow of light from above gave the impression of walking through a medieval dungeon, which most people also associated with a government building.

Harper assumed that Horace’s friend at the school precinct had already vouched for his credibility as a reporter, which usually made an interview easier. Horace could tell his story with a measure of trust, without any fear of reprisals. As they reached Horace’s office and closed the door, Harper tried to approach the subject of election fraud gingerly. I’ve heard that you may have witnessed some unusual occurrences before the election.

I’ll say, Horace said, and that was before the election. It was much worse after that.

Start from the beginning, Harper advised him.

There were several strange individuals showing up before the election, and they were people I had never seen before.

And what did these people seem to be doing?

That part was all very secretive and vague. I stumbled on to one fellow completely by accident.

Where did you see him?

In the basement. We never use the basement anymore, and I went down there to pull an old record. Here was this man I had never seen before working on reams of computer sheets that held the lists of voters. I asked him what he was doing, but he told me it was a special project and to check with my supervisor.

In the initial stages of his interviews, Harper had to decide if his source was real, completely mistaken, or simply lying. In reality, Horace could be crazy or set on his private agenda of revenge against his supervisors or employer, for some real or imagined wrong which he had suffered.

In this case, Horace seemed to be a sincere public servant who may have witnessed illegal activities by outsiders. He had dedicated his life and career to the validity and fairness of free elections, and was now trying to alert the public that the normal process had somehow been altered in violation of the election laws.

The last phase in Harper’s screening process for informants was his truth meter. Like a Geiger counter, detecting even slight traces of nuclear material, the voices of Harper’s sources had to register a tone and tenor of honest emotion to be considered real. Harper had learned from experience that this last criterion was difficult to fake, even for the best of flim-flam sources. Horace’s voice was ringing true with a high reading on Harper’s meter.

What did your supervisor say about the man you saw?

He told me not to worry because he was only a consultant who was helping us to update the rolls. However, that explanation made no sense, because I was specifically told that severe budget restrictions had prevented our office from hiring any outside consultants.

What projects was your office working on at the time?

We were still purging felons from the lists of registered voters. The courts had already ruled that felons could vote, so don’t ask me why we were defying a court order. And we were supposed to be adding the staggering number of newly registered voters. Horace was a stickler for the rules and realized the wisdom of following them. He understood that straying from election regulations for any reason was not the proper conduct for a good public servant, with twenty years on the job.

I read that Democrats had a large numerical advantage among those new voters, Harper said.

They certainly did in our county.

Did you ever see this man again?

I saw him having lunch with my boss right before the election. It was in one of those out-of-the-way places that nobody goes to from this office. Luckily, my boss didn’t realize that I had seen them together. Horace had a dramatic flair for telling the clandestine elements of his account, which were very different from the normal and humdrum procedures in his office.

Could you describe, or even recognize, this man if you saw him again?

I think so, because I saw him here again on election night with my boss.

Here in your office? Harper was stunned by the allegation. If the man who kept popping up was unauthorized, his presence required a daring boldness to reappear in the county’s office on election night. And if Horace was telling the truth, complicity from within the office was essential to make the plan work.

Yes, Horace said, "on election night the man was standing with my boss in a back room where we usually keep ballots that have some kind of problem. I interrupted them, never realizing they would be