Can You Count On These Machines?

January 5, 2008

By Clive Thompson, The New York Times Magazine

Jane Platten gestured, bleary-eyed, into the secure room filled with voting
machines. It was 3 a.m. on Nov. 7, and she had been working for 22 hours
straight. "I guess we've seen how technology can affect an election," she
said. The electronic voting machines in Cleveland were causing trouble

For a while, it had looked as if things would go smoothly for the Board of
Elections office in Cuyahoga County, Ohio. About 200,000 voters had trooped
out on the first Tuesday in November for the lightly attended local
elections, tapping their choices onto the county's 5,729 touch-screen voting
machines. The elections staff had collected electronic copies of the votes
on memory cards and taken them to the main office, where dozens of workers
inside a secure, glass-encased room fed them into the "GEMS server," a
gleaming silver Dell desktop computer that tallies the votes.

Then at 10 p.m., the server suddenly froze up and stopped counting
votes. Cuyahoga County technicians clustered around the computer, debating
what to do. A young, business-suited employee from Diebold - the company
that makes the voting machines used in Cuyahoga - peered into the screen and
pecked at the keyboard. No one could figure out what was wrong. So, like
anyone faced with a misbehaving computer, they simply turned it off and on
again. Voil: It started working - until an hour later, when it crashed a
second time. Again, they rebooted. By the wee hours, the server mystery
still hadn't been solved.

Worse was yet to come. When the votes were finally tallied the next day, 10
races were so close that they needed to be recounted. But when Platten went
to retrieve paper copies of each vote - generated by the Diebold machines as
they worked - she discovered that so many printers had jammed that 20
percent of the machines involved in the recounted races lacked paper copies
of some of the votes. They weren't lost, technically speaking; Platten could
hit "print" and a machine would generate a replacement copy. But she had no
way of proving that these replacements were, indeed, what the voters had
voted. She could only hope the machines had worked correctly.

As the primaries start in New Hampshire this week and roll on through the
next few months, the erratic behavior of voting technology will once again
find itself under a microscope. In the last three election cycles,
touch-screen machines have become one of the most mysterious and divisive
elements in modern electoral politics. Introduced after the 2000
hanging-chad debacle, the machines were originally intended to add clarity
to election results. But in hundreds of instances, the result has been
precisely the opposite: they fail unpredictably, and in extremely strange
ways; voters report that their choices "flip" from one candidate to another
before their eyes; machines crash or begin to count backward; votes simply
vanish. (In the 80-person town of Waldenburg, Ark., touch-screen machines
tallied zero votes for one mayoral candidate in 2006 - even though he's
pretty sure he voted for himself.) Most famously, in the November 2006
Congressional election in Sarasota, Fla., touc! h-screen machines recorded
an 18,000-person "undervote" for a race decided by fewer than 400 votes.

The earliest critiques of digital voting booths came from the fringe -
disgruntled citizens and scared-senseless computer geeks - but the fears
have now risen to the highest levels of government. One by one, states are
renouncing the use of touch-screen voting machines. California and Florida
decided to get rid of their electronic voting machines last spring, and last
month, Colorado decertified about half of its touch-screen devices. Also
last month, Jennifer Brunner, the Ohio secretary of state, released a report
in the wake of the Cuyahoga crashes arguing that touch-screens "may
jeopardize the integrity of the voting process." She was so worried she is
now forcing Cuyahoga to scrap its touch-screen machines and go back to
paper-based voting - before the Ohio primary, scheduled for March 4. Senator
Bill Nelson, a Democrat of Florida, and Senator Sheldon Whitehouse, Democrat
of Rhode Island, have even sponsored a bill that would ban the use of
touch-screen machines across the country by 2012.

It's difficult to say how often votes have genuinely gone astray. Michael
Shamos, a computer scientist at Carnegie Mellon University who has examined
voting-machine systems for more than 25 years, estimates that about 10
percent of the touch-screen machines "fail" in each election. "In general,
those failures result in the loss of zero or one vote," he told me. "But
they're very disturbing to the public."

Indeed, in a more sanguine political environment, this level of error might
be considered acceptable. But in today's highly partisan and divided
country, elections can be decided by unusually slim margins - and are often
bitterly contested. The mistrust of touch-screen machines is thus equal
parts technological and ideological. "A tiny number of votes can have a huge
impact, so machines are part of the era of sweaty palms," says Doug Chapin,
the director of, a nonpartisan group that monitors voting
reform. Critics have spent years fretting over corruption and the specter of
partisan hackers throwing an election. But the real problem may simply be
inherent in the nature of computers: they can be precise but also
capricious, prone to malfunctions we simply can't anticipate.

During this year's presidential primaries, roughly one-third of all votes
will be cast on touch-screen machines. (New Hampshire voters are not in this
group; they will vote on paper ballots, some of which are counted in optical
scanners.) The same ratio is expected to hold when Americans choose their
president in the fall. It is a very large chunk of the electorate. So what
scares election observers is this: What happens if the next presidential
election is extremely close and decided by a handful of votes cast on
machines that crashed? Will voters accept a presidency decided by ballots
that weren't backed up on paper and existed only on a computer drive? And
what if they don't?

"The issue for me is the unknown," Platten told me when we first spoke on
the phone, back in October. "There's always the unknown factor. Something -
something - happens every election."

NEW VOTING TECHNOLOGIES tend to emerge out of crises of confidence. We
change systems only rarely and in response to a public anxiety that
electoral results can no longer be trusted. America voted on paper in the
19th century, until ballot-box stuffing - and inept poll workers who lost
bags of votes - led many to abandon that system. Some elections officials
next adopted lever machines, which record each vote mechanically. But lever
machines have problems of their own, not least that they make meaningful
recounts impossible because they do not preserve each individual
vote. Beginning in the 1960s they were widely replaced by punch-card
systems, in which voters knock holes in ballots, and the ballots can be
stored for a recount. Punch cards worked for decades without controversy.

Until, of course, the electoral fiasco of 2000. During the Florida recount
in the Bush-Gore election, it became clear that punch cards had a
potentially tragic flaw: "hanging chads." Thousands of voters failed to
punch a hole clean through the ballot, turning the recount into a torturous
argument over "voter intent." On top of that, many voters confused by the
infamous "butterfly ballot" seem to have mistakenly picked the wrong
candidate. Given Bush's microscopic margin of victory - he was ahead by only
a few hundred votes statewide - the chads produced the brutal, monthlong
legal brawl over how and whether the recounts should be conducted.

The 2000 election illustrated the cardinal rule of voting systems: if they
produce ambiguous results, they are doomed to suspicion. The election is
never settled in the mind of the public. To this date, many Gore supporters
refuse to accept the legitimacy of George W. Bush's presidency; and by
ultimately deciding the 2000 presidential election, the Supreme Court was
pilloried for appearing overly partisan.

Many worried that another similar trauma would do irreparable harm to the
electoral system. So in 2002, Congress passed the Help America Vote Act
(HAVA), which gave incentives to replace punch-card machines and lever
machines and authorized $3.9 billion for states to buy new technology, among
other things. At the time, the four main vendors of voting machines -
Diebold, ES&S, Sequoia and Hart - were aggressively marketing their new
touch-screen machines. Computers seemed like the perfect answer to the
hanging chad. Touch-screen machines would be clear and legible, unlike the
nightmarishly unreadable "butterfly ballot." The results could be tabulated
very quickly after the polls closed. And best of all, the vote totals would
be conclusive, since the votes would be stored in crisp digital
memory. (Touch-screen machines were also promoted as a way to allow the
blind or paralyzed to vote, via audio prompts and puff tubes. This became a
powerful incentive, because, at the behest ! of groups representing the
disabled, HAVA required each poll station to have at least one "accessible"

HAVA offered no assistance or guidelines as to what type of machine to buy,
and local elections officials did not have many resources to investigate the
choices; indeed, theirs are some of most neglected and understaffed offices
around, because who pays attention to electoral technology between
campaigns? As touch-screen vendors lobbied elections boards, the machines
took on an air of inevitability. For elections directors terrified of
presiding over "the next Florida," the cool digital precision of
touch-screens seemed like the perfect antidote.

IN THE LOBBY OF JANE PLATTEN'S OFFICE in Cleveland sits an AccuVote-TSX,
made by Diebold. It is the machine that Cuyahoga County votes on, and it
works like this: Inside each machine there is a computer roughly as powerful
and flexible as a modern hand-held organizer. It runs Windows CE as its
operating system, and Diebold has installed its own specialized voting
software to run on top of Windows. When the voters tap the screen to
indicate their choices, the computer records each choice on a flash-memory
card that fits in a slot on the machine, much as a flash card stores
pictures on your digital camera. At the end of the election night, these
cards are taken to the county's election headquarters and tallied by the
GEMS server. In case a memory card is accidentally lost or destroyed, the
computer also stores each vote on a different chip inside the machine;
election officials can open the voting machine and remove the chip in an

But there is also a third place the vote is recorded. Next to each machine's
LCD screen, there is a printer much like one on a cash register. Each time a
voter picks a candidate on screen, the printer types up the selections, in
small, eight-point letters. Before the voter pushes "vote," she's supposed
to peer down at the ribbon of paper - which sits beneath a layer of
see-through plastic, to prevent tampering - and verify that the machine has,
in fact, correctly recorded her choices. (She can't take the paper vote with
her as proof; the spool of paper remains locked inside the machine until the
end of the day.)

Under Ohio law, the paper copy is the voter's vote. The digital version is
not. That's because the voter can see the paper vote and verify that it's
correct, which she cannot do with the digital one. The digital records are,
in essence, merely handy additional copies that allow the county to rapidly
tally potentially a million votes in a single evening, whereas counting the
paper ballots would take weeks. Theoretically speaking, the machine offers
the best of all possible worlds. By using both paper and digital copies, the
AccuVote promised Cuyahoga an election that would be speedy, reliable and
relatively inexpensive.

Little of this held true. When the machines were first used in Cuyahoga
Country during the May 2006 primaries, costs ballooned - and chaos
reigned. The poll workers, many senior citizens who had spent decades
setting up low-tech punch-card systems, were baffled by the new computerized
system and the rather poorly written manuals from Diebold and the
county. "It was insane," one former poll worker told me. "A lot of people
over the age of 60, trying to figure out these machines." Since the votes
were ferried to the head office on small, pocket-size memory cards, it was
easy for them to be misplaced, and dozens went missing.

On Election Day, poll workers complained that 143 machines were broken;
dozens of other machines had printer jams or mysteriously powered down. More
than 200 voter-card encoders - which create the cards that let voters vote -
went missing. When the machines weren't malfunctioning, they produced errors
at a stunning rate: one audit of the election discovered that in 72.5
percent of the audited machines, the paper trail did not match the digital
tally on the memory cards.

This was hardly the first such incident involving touch-screen machines. So
it came as little surprise that Diebold, a company once known primarily for
making safes and A.T.M.'s, subsequently tried to sell off its voting-machine
business and, failing to find a buyer, last August changed the name of the
division to Premier Election Solutions (an analyst told American Banker that
the voting machines were responsible for "5 percent of revenue and 100
percent of bad public relations").

Nearly a year after the May 2006 electoral disaster, Ohio's new secretary of
state, Jennifer Brunner, asked the entire four-person Cuyahoga elections
board to resign, and Platten - then the interim director of the board - was
tapped to clean up the mess. Platten had already instituted a blizzard of
tiny fixes. She added responsibilities to the position of "Election Day
technician" - filled by young, computer-savvy volunteers who could help the
white-haired poll workers reboot touch-screens when they crashed. She bought
plastic business-card binders to hold memory cards from a precinct, so none
would be misplaced. "Robocalls" at home from a phone-calling service
reminded volunteers to show up. Her staff rewrote the inscrutable Diebold
manuals in plain English.

The results were immediate. Over the next several months, Cuyahoga's
elections ran with many fewer crashes and shorter lines of voters. Platten's
candor and hard work won her fans among even the most fanatical
anti-touch-screen activists. "It's a miracle," I was told by Adele Eisner, a
Cuyahoga County resident who has been a vocal critic of touch-screen
machines. "Jane Platten actually understands that elections are for the
people." The previous board, Eisner went on to say, ridiculed critics who
claimed the machines would be trouble and refused to meet with them; the new
replacements, in contrast, sometimes seemed as skeptical about the voting
machines as the activists, and Eisner was invited in to wander about on
election night, videotaping the activity.

Still, the events of Election Day 2007 showed just how ingrained the
problems with the touch-screens were. The printed paper trails caused
serious headaches all day long: at one polling place, printers on most of
the machines weren't functioning the night before the polls
opened. Fortunately, one of the Election Day technicians was James Diener, a
gray-haired former computer-and-mechanical engineer who opened up the
printers, discovered that metal parts were bent out of shape and managed to
repair them. The problem, he declared cheerfully, was that the printers were
simply "cheap quality" (a complaint I heard from many election
critics). "I'm an old computer nerd," Diener said. "I can do anything with
computers. Nothing's wrong with computers. But this is the worst way to run
an election."

He also pointed out several other problems with the machines, including the
fact that the majority of voters he observed did not check the paper trail
to see whether their votes were recorded correctly - even though that paper
record is their legal ballot. (I noticed this myself, and many other poll
workers told me the same thing.) Possibly they're simply lazy, or the poll
workers forget to tell them to; or perhaps they're older and couldn't see
the printer's tiny type anyway. And even if voters do check the paper trail,
Diener pointed out, how do they know the machine is recording it for sure?
"The whole printing thing is a farce," he said.

What's more, the poll workers regularly made security errors. When a
touch-screen machine is turned on for the first time on Election Day, two
observers from different parties are supposed to print and view the "zero
tape" that shows there are no votes already recorded on the machine; a
hacker could fix the vote by programming the machine to start, for example,
with a negative total of votes for a candidate. Yet when I visited one
Cleveland polling station at daybreak, the two checkers signed zero tapes
without actually checking the zero totals. And then, of course, there were
the server crashes, and the recording errors on 20 percent of the paper
recount ballots.

Chris Riggall, a spokesman for Diebold, said that machine flaws were not
necessarily to blame for the problems. The paper rolls were probably
installed incorrectly by the poll workers. And in any case, he added, the
paper trail was originally designed merely to help in auditing the accuracy
of an election - it wasn't supposed to be robust enough to serve as a legal
ballot, as Ohio chose to designate it. But the servers were indeed an issue
of the machine's design; when his firm tested them weeks later, it found a
data bottleneck that would need to be fixed with a software update.

The Nov. 6 vote in Cuyahoga County offered a sobering lesson. Having watched
Platten's staff and the elections board in action, I could see they were a
model of professionalism. Yet they still couldn't get their high-tech system
to work as intended. For all their diligence and hard work, they were
forced, in the end, to discard much of their paper and simply trust that the
machines had recorded the votes accurately in digital memory.

THE QUESTION, OF COURSE, is whether the machines should be trusted to record
votes accurately. Ed Felten doesn't think so. Felten is a computer scientist
at Princeton University, and he has become famous for analyzing - and
criticizing - touch-screen machines. In fact, the first serious critics of
the machines - beginning 10 years ago - were computer scientists. One might
expect computer scientists to be fans of computer-based vote-counting
devices, but it turns out that the more you know about computers, the more
likely you are to be terrified that they're running elections.

This is because computer scientists understand, from hard experience, that
complex software can't function perfectly all the time. It's the nature of
the beast. Myriad things can go wrong. The software might have bugs - errors
in the code made by tired or overworked programmers. Or voters could do
something the machines don't expect, like touching the screen in two places
at once. "Computers crash and we don't know why," Felten told me. "That's
just a routine part of computers."

One famous example is the "sliding finger bug" on the Diebold AccuVote-TSX,
the machine used in Cuyahoga. In 2005, the state of California complained
that the machines were crashing. In tests, Diebold determined that when
voters tapped the final "cast vote" button, the machine would crash every
few hundred ballots. They finally intuited the problem: their voting
software runs on top of Windows CE, and if a voter accidentally dragged his
finger downward while touching "cast vote" on the screen, Windows CE
interpreted this as a "drag and drop" command. The programmers hadn't
anticipated that Windows CE would do this, so they hadn't programmed a way
for the machine to cope with it. The machine just crashed.

Even extremely careful programmers can accidentally create bugs like
this. But critics also worry that touch-screen voting machines aren't
designed very carefully at all. In the infrequent situations where computer
scientists have gained access to the guts of a voting machine, they've found
alarming design flaws. In 2003, Diebold employees accidentally posted the
AccuVote's source code on the Internet; scientists who analyzed it found
that, among other things, a hacker could program a voter card to let him
cast as many votes as he liked. Ed Felten's lab, while analyzing an
anonymously donated AccuVote-TS (a different model from the one used in
Cuyahoga County) in 2006, discovered that the machine did not "authenticate"
software: it will run any code a hacker might surreptitiously install on an
easily insertable flash-memory card. After California's secretary of state
hired computer scientists to review the state's machines last spring, they
found that on one vote-tallying se! rver, the default password was set to
the name of the vendor - something laughably easy for a hacker to guess.

But the truth is that it's hard for computer scientists to figure out just
how well or poorly the machines are made, because the vendors who make them
keep the details of their manufacture tightly held. Like most software
firms, they regard their "source code" - the computer programs that run on
their machines - as a trade secret. The public is not allowed to see the
code, so computer experts who wish to assess it for flaws and reliability
can't get access to it. Felten and voter rights groups argue that this
"black box" culture of secrecy is the biggest single problem with voting
machines. Because the machines are not transparent, their reliability cannot
be trusted.

The touch-screen vendors disagree. They point out that a small number of
approved elections officials in each state and county are allowed to hold a
copy in escrow and to examine it (though they are required to sign
nondisclosure agreements preventing them from discussing the software
publicly). Further, vendors argue, the machines are almost always tested by
the government before they're permitted to be used. The Election Assistance
Commission, a federal agency, this year began to fully certify four
private-sector labs to stress-test machines. They subject them to
environmental pressures like heat and vibration to ensure they won't break
down on Election Day; and they run mock elections, to verify that the
machines can count correctly. In almost all cases, if a vendor updates the
software or hardware, it must be tested all over again, which can take
months. "It's an extremely rigorous process," says Ken Fields, a spokesman
for the voting-machine company ES&S.

If the machines are tested and officials are able to examine the source
code, you might wonder why machines with so many flaws and bugs have gotten
through. It is, critics insist, because the testing is nowhere near
dilligent enough, and the federal regulators are too sympathetic and cozy
with the vendors. The 2002 federal guidelines, the latest under which
machines currently in use were qualified, were vague about how much security
testing the labs ought to do. The labs were also not required to test any
machine's underlying operating system, like Windows, for weaknesses.

Vendors paid for the tests themselves, and the results were considered
proprietary, so the public couldn't find out how they were conducted. The
nation's largest tester of voting machines, Ciber Inc., was temporarily
suspended after federal officials found that the company could not properly
document the tests it claimed to have performed.

"The types of malfunctions we're seeing would be caught in a first-year
computer science course," says Lillie Coney, an associate director with the
Electronic Privacy Information Commission, which is releasing a study later
this month critical of the federal tests.

In any case, the federal testing is not, strictly speaking, mandatory. The
vast majority of states "certify" their machines as roadworthy. But since
testing is extremely expensive, many states, particularly smaller ones,
simply accept whatever passes through a federal lab. And while it's true
that state and local elections officials can generally keep a copy of the
source code, critics say they rarely employ computer programmers
sophisticated enough to understand it. Quite the contrary: When a county
buys touch-screen voting machines, its elections director becomes, as Warren
Parish, a voting activist in Florida, told me, "the head of the largest
I.T. department in their entire government, in charge of hundreds or
thousands of new computer systems, without any training at all." Many
elections directors I spoke with have been in the job for years or even
decades, working mostly with paper elections or lever machines. Few seemed
very computer-literate.

The upshot is a regulatory environment in which, effectively, no one assumes
final responsibility for whether the machines function reliably. The vendors
point to the federal and state governments, the federal agency points to the
states, the states rely on the federal testing lab and the local officials
are frequently hapless.

This has created an environment, critics maintain, in which the people who
make and sell machines are now central to running elections. Elections
officials simply do not know enough about how the machines work to maintain
or fix them. When a machine crashes or behaves erratically on Election Day,
many county elections officials must rely on the vendors - accepting their
assurances that the problem is fixed and, crucially, that no votes were

In essence, elections now face a similar outsourcing issue to that seen in
the Iraq war, where the government has ceded so many core military
responsibilities to firms like Halliburton and Blackwater that Washington
can no longer fire the contractor. Vendors do not merely sell machines to
elections departments. In many cases, they are also paid to train poll
workers, design ballots and repair broken machines, for years on end.

"This is a crazy world," complained Ion Sancho, the elections supervisor of
Leon County in Florida. "The process is so under control by the vendor. The
primary source of information comes only from the vendor, and the vendor has
a conflict of interest in telling you the truth. The vendor isn't going to
tell me that his buggy software is why I can't get the right time on my
audit logs."

As more and more evidence of machine failure emerges, senior government
officials are sounding alarms as did the computer geeks of years ago over
the growing role of private companies in elections. When I talked to
Jennifer Brunner in October, she told me she wished all of Ohio's machines
were "open source" - that is, run on computer code that is published
publicly, for anyone to see. Only then, she says, would voters trust it; and
the scrutiny of thousands of computer scientists worldwide would ferret out
any flaws and bugs.

On Nov. 6, the night of the Cuyahoga crashes, Jeff Hastings - the Republican
head of the election board - sat and watched the Diebold technicians try to
get the machines running. "Criminy," he said. "You've got four different
vendors. Why should their source codes be private? You've privatized the
essential building block of the election system."

The federal government appears to have taken that criticism to heart. New
standards for testing voting machines now being implemented by the
E.A.C. are regarded as more rigorous; some results are now being published

Amazingly, the Diebold spokesman, Chris Riggall, admitted to me that the
company is considering making the software open source on its next
generation of touch-screen machines, so that anyone could download, inspect
or repair the code. The pressure from states is growing, he added, and "if
the expectations of our customers change, we'll have to respond to that

IF YOU WANT TO GET a sense of the real stakes in voting-machine politics,
Christine Jennings has a map to show you. It is a sprawling, wall-size
diagram of the voting precincts that make up Florida's 13th district, and it
hangs on the wall of her campaign office in Sarasota, where she ran for the
Congressional seat in November 2006. Jennings, a Democrat, lost the seat by
369 votes to the Republican, Vern Buchanan, in a fierce fight to replace
Katherine Harris. But Jennings quickly learned of an anomaly in the voting:
some 18,000 people had "undervoted." That is, they had voted in every other
race - a few dozen were on the ballot, including a gubernatorial contest -
but abstained in the Jennings-Buchanan fight. A normal undervote in any
given race is less than 3 percent. In this case, a whopping 13 percent of
voters somehow decided to not vote.

"See, look at this," Jennings said, dragging me over to the map when I
visited her in November. Her staff had written the size of the undervote in
every precinct in Sarasota, where the undervotes occurred: 180 votes in one
precinct, 338 in another. "I mean, it's huge!" she said. "It's just
unbelievable." She pointed to Precinct 150, a district on the south end of
Sarasota County. Buchanan received 346 votes, Jennings received 275 and the
undervote was 133. "I mean, people would walk in and vote for everything
except this race?" she said. "Why?"

Jennings says he believes the reason is simple: Sarasota's touch-screen
machines malfunctioned - and lost votes that could have tipped the election
in her favor. Her staff has received hundreds of complaints from voters
reporting mysterious behavior on the part of the machines. The specific
model that Sarasota used was the iVotronic, by the company ES&S. According
to the complaints, when voters tried to touch the screen for Jennings, the
iVotronic wouldn't accept it, or would highlight Buchanan's name
instead. When they got to the final pages of the ballot, where they reviewed
their picks, the complainants said, the Jennings-Buchanan race was missing -
even though they were sure they'd voted in it. The reports streamed in not
merely from technophobic senior citizens but also from tech-savvy younger
people, including a woman with a Ph.D. in computer science and a saleswoman
who actually works for a firm that sells touch-screen devices. (Even Vern
Buchanan's wife reported havi! ng trouble voting for her husband.)

If the election had been in Cuyahoga, the paper trail might have settled the
story. But the iVotronic, unlike Cuyahoga's machines, does not provide a
paper backup. It records votes only in digital memory: on a removable
flash-memory card and on an additional flash-memory chip embedded inside the
machine. Since the Jennings-Buchanan election was so close, state law called
for an automatic recount. But on a paperless machine like the iVotronic, a
recount is purely digital - it consists of nothing but removing the flash
memory inside the machine and hitting "print" again. Jennings did, indeed,
lose the recount; when they reprinted, elections workers found that the
internal chips closely matched the original count (Jennings picked up four
more votes). But for Jennings this is meaningless, because she says it was
the screens that malfunctioned.

As evidence, she brandishes pieces of evidence she says are smoking
guns. One is a memo from ES&S executives, issued in August 2006, warning
that they had found a bug in the iVotronic software that produced a delay in
the screen; after a voter made her choice, it would take a few seconds for
the screen to display it. This, Jennings noted, could cause problems,
because a voter, believing that the machine had not recorded her first
touch, might push the screen again - accidentally deselecting her initial
vote. Jennings also suspects that the iVotronic's hardware may have
malfunctioned. An August HDNet investigation by Dan Rather discovered that
the company manufacturing the touchscreens for the iVotronic had a history
of production flaws. The flaw affected the calibration of the screen: When
exposed to humidity - much like the weather in Florida - the screen would
gradually lose accuracy.

Elections officials in Sarasota and ES&S hotly disagree that the machines
were in error, noting that the calibration problems with the screens were
fixed before the election. Kathy Dent, Sarasota's elections supervisor,
suspects that the undervote was real - which is to say, voters intentionally
skipped the race, to punish Jennings and Buchanan for waging a particularly
vitriolic race. "People were really fed up," she told me. Other observers
say voters were simply confused by the ballot design and didn't see the
Jennings-Buchanan race.

To try to settle the question, a government audit tried to test whether the
machines had malfunctioned. The state acquired a copy of the iVotronic
source code from ES&S and commissioned a group of computer scientists to
inspect it. Their report said they could find no flaws in the code that
would lead to such a large undervote. Meanwhile, the state conducted a mock
election, getting elections workers to repeatedly click the screens on
iVotronic machines, voting Jennings or Buchanan. Again, no accidental
undervote appeared. Early results from a separate test by an
M.I.T. professor found that when voters were presented with the Sarasota
ballot, over 16 percent accidentally skipped over the Jennings-Buchanan race
- suggesting that poor ballot design and voter error was, indeed, part of
the problem.

These explanations have not satisfied Jennings and her supporters. Kendall
Coffey, one of Jennings's lawyers, has a different theory: the votes were
mostly lost because of a "nonrecurring software bug" - a quirk that, like
the sliding-finger bug, only crops up some of the time, propelled by voter
actions that the audits did not replicate, like a voter's accidentally
touching the screen in two places at once. For her part, Jennings brushes
off the idea that voters were punishing her and Buchanan. Plenty of
Congressional fights are nasty, she says, but they almost never yield 13
percent undervotes.

And on and on it goes. ES&S and Sarasota correctly point out that Jennings
has no proof that a bug exists. Jennings correctly points out that her
opponents have no proof a bug doesn't exist. This is the ultimate political
legacy of touch-screen voting machines and the privatization of voting
machinery generally. When invisible, secretive software runs an election, it
allows for endless mistrust and muttered accusations of conspiracy. The
inscrutability of the software - combined with touch-screen machines'
well-documented history of weird behavior - allows critics to level almost
any accusation against the machines and have it sound plausible. "It's just
like the Kennedy assassination," Shamos, the Carnegie Mellon computer
scientist, laments. "There's no matter of evidence that will stop people
from spinning yarns."

Part of the problem stems from the fact that voting requires a level of
precision we demand from virtually no other technology. We demand that the
systems behind A.T.M.'s and credit cards be accurate, of course. But if
they're not, we can quickly detect something is wrong: we notice that our
balance is off and call the bank, or the bank notices someone in China
bought $10,000 worth of clothes and calls us to make sure it's
legitimate. But in an election, the voter must remain anonymous to the
government. If a machine crashes and the county worries it has lost some
ballots, it cannot go back and ask voters how they voted - because it
doesn't know who they are. It is the need for anonymity that fuels the quest
for perfection in voting machines.

Perfection isn't possible, of course; every voting system has flaws. So
historically, the public - and candidates for public office - have
grudgingly accepted that their voting systems will produce some errors here
and there. The deep, ongoing consternation over touch-screen machines stems
from something new: the unpredictability of computers. Computers do not
merely produce errors; they produce errors of unforeseeable magnitude. Will
people trust a system when they never know how big or small its next failure
will be?

ON THE FRIDAY BEFORE the November elections in Pennsylvania, I wandered into
a church in a suburb of Pittsburgh. The church was going to serve as a poll
location, and I was wondering: Had the voting machines been dropped off?
Were they lying around unguarded - and could anyone gain access to them?

When I approached the side door of the church at 6 p.m., two women were
unloading food into the basement kitchen. (They were visitors from another
church who had a key to get in, but they told me they'd found the door
unlocked.) I held the door for them, chatted politely, then strolled into
the otherwise completely empty building. Neither woman asked why I was

I looked over in the corner and there they were: six iVotronic voting
machines, stacked up neatly. While the women busied themselves in their car,
I was left completely alone with the machines. The iVotronics had been
sealed shut with numbered tamper seals to prevent anyone from opening a
machine illicitly, but cutting and resealing them looked pretty easy. In
essence, I could have tampered with the machines in any way I wanted, with
very little chance of being detected or caught.

Is it possible that someone could hack voting machines and rig an election?
Elections officials insist that they are extremely careful to train poll
workers to recognize signs of machines that had been tampered with. They
also claim, frequently, that the machines are carefully watched. Neither is
entirely true. Machines often sit for days before elections in churches, and
while churches may be wonderfully convenient polling locations, they're
about as insecure a location as you could imagine: strangers are supposed to
wander into churches. And while most poll workers do carefully check to
ensure that the tamper seals on the machines are unbroken, I heard reports
from poll workers who saw much more lax behavior in their colleagues.

Yet here's the curious thing: Almost no credible scientific critics of
touch-screen voting say they believe any machines have ever been
successfully hacked. Last year, Ed Felten, the computer scientist from
Princeton, wrote a report exhaustively documenting the many ways a Diebold
AccuVote-TSX could be hacked - including a technique for introducing a
vote-rigging virus that would spread from machine to machine in a
precinct. But Felten says the chance this has really happened is remote. He
argues that the more likely danger of touch-screen machines is not in malice
but in errors. Michael Shamos agrees. "If there are guys who are trying to
tamper with elections through manipulation of software, we would have seen
evidence of it," he told me. "Nobody ever commits the perfect crime the
first time. We would have seen a succession of failed attempts leading up to
possibly a successful attempt. We've never seen it."

This is a great oddity in the debate over electronic voting. When state
officials in California and Ohio explain why they're moving away from
touch-screen voting, they inevitably cite hacking as a chief concern. And
the original, left-wing opposition to the machines in the 2004 election
focused obsessively on Diebold's C.E.O. proclaiming that he would help "Ohio
deliver its electoral votes" for Bush. Those fears still dominate the
headlines, but in the real world of those who conduct and observe voting
machines, the realistic threat isn't conspiracy. It's unreliability,
incompetence and sheer error.

IF YOU WANTED to know where the next great eruption of voting-machine
scandal is likely to emerge, you'd have to drive deep into the middle of
Pennsylvania. Tucked amid rolling, forested hills is tiny Bellefonte. It is
where the elections board of Centre County has its office, and in the week
preceding the November election, the elections director, Joyce McKinley,
conducted a public demonstration of the county's touch-screen voting
machines. She would allow anyone from the public to test six machines to
ensure they worked as intended.

"Remember, we're here to observe the machines, not debate them," she said
dryly. The small group that had turned out included a handful of
anti-touch-screen activists, including Mary Vollero, an art teacher who wore
pins saying "No War in Iraq" and "Books Not Bombs." As we gathered around, I
could understand why the county board had approved the purchase of the
machines two years ago. For a town with a substantial elderly population,
the electronic screens were large, crisp and far easier to read than
small-print paper ballots. "The voters around here love 'em," McKinley

But what's notable about Centre County is that it uses the iVotronic - the
very same star-crossed machine from Sarasota. Given the concerns about the
lack of a paper trail on the iVotronics, why didn't Centre County instead
buy a machine that produces a paper record? Because Pennsylvania state law
will not permit any machine that would theoretically make it possible to
figure out how someone voted. And if a Diebold AccuVote-TSX, for instance,
were used in a precinct where only, say, a dozen people voted - a
not-uncommon occurrence in small towns - then an election worker could
conceivably watch who votes, in what order, and unspool the tape to figure
out how they voted. (And there are no alternatives; all touch-screen
machines with paper trails use spools.) As a result, nearly 40 percent of
Pennsylvania's counties bought iVotronics.

Though it has gone Democratic in the last few presidential elections,
Pennsylvania is considered a swing state. As the political consultant James
Carville joked, it's a mix of red and blue: you've got Pittsburgh and
Philadelphia at either end and Alabama in the middle.

It also has 21 electoral-college votes, a relatively large number that could
decide a tight presidential race. Among election-machine observers, this
provokes a shudder of anticipation. If the presidential vote is close, it
could well come down to a recount in Pennsylvania. And a recount could
uncover thousands of votes recorded on machines that displayed aberrant
behavior - with no paper trail. Would the public accept it? Would the
candidates? As Candice Hoke, the head of Ohio's Center for Election
Integrity, puts it: "If it was Florida in 2000 and Ohio in 2004, everyone is
saying it's going to be Pennsylvania in 2008."

The prospect of being thrust into the national spotlight has already
prompted many counties to spar over ditching their iVotronics. The machines
were an election issue in Centre County in November, with several candidates
for county commissioner running on a pledge to get rid of the devices. (Two
won and are trying to figure out if they can afford it.) And the opposition
to touch-screens isn't just coming from Democrats. When the Pennsylvania
Republican Rick Santorum lost his Senate seat in 2006, some Santorum voters
complained that the iVotronics "flipped" their votes before their eyes. In
Pittsburgh, the chief opponent of the machines is David Fawcett, the lone
Republican on the county board of elections. "It's not a partisan issue," he
says. "And even if it was, Republicans, at least in this state, would have a
much greater interest in accuracy. The capacity for error is big, and the
error itself could be so much greater than it could be on prior systems."

GIVEN THAT THERE IS NO perfect voting system, is there at least an optimal
one? Critics of touch-screen machines say that the best choice is "optical
scan" technology. With this system, the voter pencils in her vote on a paper
ballot, filling in bubbles to indicate which candidates she prefers. The
vote is immediately tangible to the voters; they see it with their own eyes,
because they personally record it. The tallying is done rapidly, because the
ballots are fed into a computerized scanner. And if there's a recount, the
elections officials can simply take out the paper ballots and do it by hand.

Optical scanning is used in what many elections experts regard as the
"perfect elections" of Leon County in Florida, where Ion Sancho is the
supervisor of elections. In the late '80s, when the county was replacing its
lever machines, Sancho investigated touch-screens. But he didn't think they
were user-friendly, didn't believe they would provide a reliable recount and
didn't want to be beholden to a private-sector vendor. So he bought the
optical-scanning devices from Unisys and trained his staff to be able to
repair problems when the machines broke or malfunctioned. His error rate -
how often his system miscounts a ballot - is three-quarters of a percent at
its highest, and has dipped as low as three-thousandths of a percent.

More important, his paper trail prevents endless fighting over the results
of tight elections. In one recent contest, a candidate claimed that his name
had not appeared on the ballot in one precinct. So Sancho went into the Leon
County storage, broke the security seals on the records, and pulled out the
ballots. The name was there; the candidate was wrong. "He apologized to me,"
Sancho recalls. "And that's what you can't do with touch-screen
technology. You never could have proven to that person's satisfaction that
the screen didn't show his name. I like that certainty. The paper ends the
discussion." Sancho has never had a legal fight over a disputed election
result. "The losers have admitted they lost, which is what you want," he
adds. "You have to be able to convince the loser they lost."

That, in a nutshell, is what people crave in the highly partisan arena of
modern American politics: an election that can be extremely close and yet
regarded by all as fair. Not only must the losing candidate believe in the
loss; the public has to believe in it, too.

This is why Florida's governor, Charlie Crist, stung by the debacle in
Sarasota, persuaded the state to abandon its iVotronic machines before the
2008 presidential elections and adopt optical scanning; and why, in Ohio,
Cuyahoga County is planning to spend up to $12 million to switch to optical
scanning in the next year (after the county paid $21 million for its
touch-screens just a few years ago).

Still, optical scanning is hardly a flawless system. If someone doesn't mark
a ballot clearly, a recount can wind up back in the morass of arguing over
"voter intent." The machines also need to be carefully calibrated so they
don't miscount ballots. Blind people may need an extra device installed to
help them vote. Poorly trained poll workers could simply lose ballots. And
the machines do, in fact, run software that can be hacked: Sancho himself
has used computer scientists to hack his machines. It's also possible that
any complex software isn't well suited for running elections. Most software
firms deal with the inevitable bugs in their product by patching them;
Microsoft still patches its seven-year-old Windows XP several times a
month. But vendors of electronic voting machines do not have this luxury,
because any update must be federally tested for months.

There are also serious logistical problems for the states that are switching
to optical scan machines this election cycle. Experts estimate that it takes
at least two years to retrain poll workers and employees on a new system;
Cuyahoga County is planning to do it only three months. Even the local
activists who fought to bring in optical scanning say this shift is
recklessly fast - and likely to cause problems worse than the touch-screen
machines would. Indeed, this whipsawing from one voting system to the next
is another danger in our modern electoral wars. Public crises of confidence
in voting machines used to come along rarely, every few decades. But now
every single election cycle seems to provoke a crisis, a thirst for a new
technological fix. The troubles of voting machines may subside as optical
scanning comes in, but they're unlikely to ever go away.

Clive Thompson, a contributing writer for the magazine, writes frequently
about technology.

In accordance with Title 17 U.S.C. section 107, this material is distributed without profit or payment to those who have expressed a prior interest in receiving this nformation for non-profit research and educational purposes only. Citizens for Election Integrity Minnesota has no affiliation whatsoever with the originator of this article, nor is Citizens for Election Integrity Minnesota endorsed or sponsored by the originator.