UNSTUFFING THE BALLOT BOX: Eric Cioe (wearing pin) mediates a dispute outside a North Philadelphia polling place where candidates took voters into the booth. : Michael T. Regan

Outside, a battalion of people wearing red ponchos and "Cartagena" hats occupied turf; one man, decked in a camouflage military outfit, stationed himself in front of the door and handed out campaign literature. Inside, four or five middle-aged people swarmed voters, offering assistance and accompanying them into the polls. I probably saw more people voting with assistance than without. When I and three other Seventy volunteers confronted these folks, they explained that they were candidates for committee seats.

I had not expected this. Yes, in 2005, the American Center for Voting Rights had named Philadelphia the nation's number-one election-fraud "hot spot," but the group's motives were quickly questioned (it turned out the founders had strong links to the GOP) and much of their evidence was discovered to be anecdotal. Christopher Sheridan, the policy director for Seventy, speculates that ACVR's intent was to cast doubt on Philly's electoral process, thereby encouraging changes that would make it harder for people in the bluest sector of this purple state to get out the vote—changes such as requiring ID of all voters (currently only required for first-time voters).

Still, Philly has had its shenanigans, and Seventy, which believes voting should be as easy as possible, did not want to give the voter-ID movement any ammunition. So on Tuesday, the group sent about 60 volunteer poll watchers to the sites of the city's most contentious races. They saw it, in large part, as a test run for the November midterms, when Pennsylvania will have two of the nation's most important races: the contest for governor, and the Senate battle between Bob Casey and Rick Santorum.

We had each endured a one-hour training session in the basics of election monitoring: no electioneering within 10 feet of the polling place; ballots and instructions must be posted in clear view; watch out for burly guys in union T-shirts. We were also supposed to give voters exit surveys evaluating their voting experience. But the impression I got was that our primary purpose was to inspire confidence in the free and fair nature of Philadelphia elections.

Shortly after arriving, I conducted an exit survey with Angel Rivera, who said his experience was terrible; the poll workers tried to say he didn't live in his house. "There's a personal vendetta from the ward leader against me," he explained. The poll workers "work for Carlos Matos, they're on his payroll."

Rivera said that Matos, the 19th Ward leader, had once been in league with the incumbent, but had turned on him and picked Cartagena to unseat him. Rivera preferred Cruz, and that angered Matos, whom Rivera described as an old-fashioned power broker. He pointed at Pichin's Place, across the street, which many Cartagena volunteers seemed to be using as a headquarters. Several large, young men stood guard out front. "Matos is inside that bar," he said.

Meanwhile, the other three volunteers had been drawn into a dispute: Antonio Medina, a write-in candidate for committeeman, had been approaching voters inside the school, then accompanying them into booths with a stamp bearing his name. When someone confronted him, he claimed he was just helping people who wanted to vote for him.

It was our understanding that people could either stand outside of a polling place and "electioneer"—promote a particular candidate—or, if they had a blue poll-watcher's certificate (and everyone seemed to), they could stand inside and silently observe. As for "helping" voters, a voter could go up to a desk and ask for assistance, then fill out an affidavit and ask any citizen, including candidates, for assistance. It seemed, however, that at this polling place, "assisting" voters had become a method of competing for votes. Along with Medina (affiliated with Cruz), committee candidates Maria Mantilla (Cartagena) and Marta Hernandez (Cruz) were regularly going into booths with voters. One volunteer speculated that the voters, many of whom were older immigrants, thought they had to fill out the assistance affidavit in order to cast a vote.

We asked the candidates to at least do their recruiting outside the polling place. Medina and Hernandez complied, but Mantilla barely acknowledged us. The scene devolved quickly into a chaotic barrage of questions and accusations.

Hernandez to Seventy volunteer: "They say I can't go in there, but [Mantilla's] in there!"

Rivera to Cartagena worker: "You can't be here, you work for the city!"

Hernandez to me: "What if I'm helping one person, and another person comes in and wants my help before I can get outside?"

As we tried to sort through the gray areas and, I'm sure, answered the same question several different ways (at one point, an anonymous woman convinced me that candidates were not allowed to help people vote, though they are), we lost what little authority we had. Now there were shouting matches and blatant electioneering inside the polling place, and we were calling for backup from Seventy and the district attorney's office.

The trouble wasn't that Seventy had failed to educate us (although we were far from experts); it was that the rules had little relationship to reality. What was reasonable and what was legal were two completely different things, and the socially accepted norms of voting were not understood by many of the voters.

By mid-morning, the polling place had gone bananas. Polling machine operators were calling candidates over to assist voters, and every two minutes, it seemed like someone else was in charge. Suddenly, a large, bearded man materialized, and with a booming voice, called for everyone to calm down. It worked: He seemed to hold some alpha-male status with both sides.

"That's Carlos Matos," whispered Angel Rivera, who, for some reason, hadn't gone home (he clearly had more of a vested interest than he had initially let on).

Between Matos, the end of the morning rush, and the blessed arrival of more Seventy volunteers—especially the cool-under-fire Eric Cioe—order was restored. I left shortly thereafter not knowing if my polling place was exceptional, or if required ID would have helped the situation. (Probably not; it was really the candidates who needed regulating.)

All I know is this: come November, when Santorum and Casey are trying to "help" people vote, Seventy will need more volunteers.