THE RAREST FAITH III: HEALTHY IRREVERENCE
Classification: Post-administration, political, romance.
Summary: 2008
"Fortunately, there are still those among us who have a healthy
irreverence toward power, even as they seek it."
--Weir Reid
***
New York City February
***
Six people walked C.J. from her dressing room to the studio. They wore
headphones, waved clipboards, and each seemed intent on talking louder than the
others.
"How'd you get the names?"
"Did anyone contact the R.N.C. for a rebuttal? The D.N.C.?"
"Are they white supremacists, too?"
"No, asshole, one of the book's authors is black! But, C.J., what about--"
That did it.
C.J. spun around, hands flailing. "Just stop! Knock it off! I've cleared this
with every official up to and including the president of the network, and
they've given me the green light. I know how to do things like this - this game
was my bread and butter for nine years!"
She succeeded in getting three seconds of stunned silence before the cawing
began afresh. Shrugging her shoulders, she took long-legged strides away from
her pursuers and breezed into the studio.
"C.J.," began Andrew, one of the directors, but C.J. thrust her hand near his
face and waved it.
"No, no, no. And you need to get the Goon Squad out of the hall or someone in
the green room will catch on. This thing won't work if it's not a surprise."
Andrew was one of the few staff members who listened to her. C.J. actually liked
him. He took a step backward and removed his headphones. "It makes me nervous.
It's sort of like a bear trap."
"It's exactly like a bear trap. And I'm the honey," she said, favoring him with
a smile that he made an honest effort to return. "Look, I know you're a little
strung out about what I'm going to do, but I promise you that I've done my
homework - actually, lots of people who are smarter than I am have done their
homework and passed notes to me - and that I'm at the absolute top of my game.
What you see here tonight isn't just about ratings. It's going to galvanize the
country. This fifteen minutes of footage will be played and replayed and
discussed until the end of time."
"That's fitting," Andrew said around a grimace.
"But of course." C.J. squeezed Andrew's arm and went over to her desk. She was
immediately surrounded by makeup artists and cameramen. "Just make sure you
don't let me be shiny. I don't want to be shiny."
"One not-shiny C.J., coming up," said one of the makeup women cheerfully. "You
seem a little edgy - is something the matter?"
"Nah. I just knew the guy from an unpleasant exchange at the White House, and
that memory is replaying like yesterday's lunch." C.J. knew that palpable
tension would be contagious. That would never do. That's why Andrew was
sequestered in his corner and why the vultures in the hall needed to be caged
up. Get the crew in a lather and the guest will be spooked. And oh, what a
guest.
C.J. hated having to read the news, which was particularly bland that evening.
But there were twelve minutes to fill before the first commercial, and rushing
through the stock market report wouldn't get her to her goal any faster.
Besides, her cool, professional, detached reading would lull everyone, including
her guest, into the kind of level complacency that would make him putty in her
hands.
With every fiber of her being, C.J. wished that the old staff could be in the
studio as John VanDyke lumbered into view. Rotund, florid, and clueless, he
stopped one of the gaffers and asked if she were C.J. "Craig."
You're mine, C.J. thought. Son of a bitch, you're mine.
"Reverend - over here," she called, waving toward what was obviously the guest
chair. She forced herself to get up and shake his hand. Clammy. Of course. "I'm
C.J. Cregg, Reverend. You might remember me from the White House."
That jogged his memory. His eyes narrowed into piggy slits below his white
eyebrows. "Ah. Yes."
Truly one of Josiah Bartlet's finest moments had been when he'd said to VanDyke,
Marsh, and Caldwell - although C.J. had a soft spot in her heart for Caldwell -
to get their "fat asses" out of his White House.
The look on Josh's face had been beyond description.
Those, indeed, were the days.
Jed Bartlet wasn't in the studio with her, but C.J. felt his presence as surely
as if he'd been hovering behind her chair with his hands on her shoulders.
"We'll just get someone to slip that microphone on you, Reverend, and when we
get back from commercials and the local news break, I'll introduce you. In the
meanwhile, would someone get Reverend VanDyke some water, and maybe a little
more powder? He's glowing just a bit."
"That's very kind. Thank you."
"You're welcome." She managed a bright smile. "I think we're about to go."
"Live," called Andrew as if on cue, "in four...three...two..."
"Good evening, and welcome back to the show. My guest this evening is the
Reverend John VanDyke, newly-elected Chairman of the Council for American
Policy. Thank you for being here tonight, Reverend."
"Thank you, Miss Craig."
C.J. decided to let the "miss" slip. "Cregg, but don't worry, lots of people
make that mistake." Yeah, but not on national television as an invited guest,
squidboy.
"I beg your pardon."
You ain't seen nothin' yet, bud.
"Not necessary at all, Reverend. Now, what can you tell me about your
organization, the Council for American Policy?"
VanDyke faced the camera with the red light on it - nice, good that you know
that much - but made the mistake of "barreling," of staring directly into the
diaphragm of the lens. Watching her monitor, C.J. noticed, with amusement, that
he looked as if he were on a "wanted" poster.
"We're a think-tank, Miss Cregg, of conservatives in both the Democratic and
Republican parties. A non-partisan organization that devotes itself to
conservative principles."
"And what, exactly, does your group espouse?"
"Conservative principles."
Could this be any better? No, probably not.
"Are you speaking of fiscal conservatism, social conservatism...?" She leaned
forward with her eyebrows raised, taking notes in the margin of her little book.
"Ah. I see." He stopped and took a sip of water. "Our primary concern is a
conservative social agenda."
"Could you give an example?"
"An end to the fraudulent use of welfare by women unwilling to earn their
livings, and to the needless propagation of indigent children."
"So you support birth control? Contraceptives being covered by health
insurance?"
"Uh, well, we think that abstinence is the best...uh, method."
C.J. scribbled Sam's name in the margin and drew a heart around it. "So your
organization believes that the best method of population control is to keep poor
people celibate?"
I dare you to say no, asshole.
Still staring directly into the lens of the camera, VanDyke wiped his face with
a handkerchief. "Well, if people can't afford to have children, then perhaps
some reduction in...appetites...could be useful."
She let that one hang in the air for a while. Gave the public a few moments to
soak in the incredible stupidity of the remark.
"Going back to - am I quoting you correctly here? 'Fraudulent use of welfare by
women unwilling to earn their livings?' Could you clarify that for our viewers?"
"I mean simply that anyone who takes from the system should give back to the
system. We say that forty hours a week is what most Americans work, and these
women should be no different."
"Goodness knows I work a lot more than forty hours a week - and I'm sure you do,
as well."
"Naturally!" VanDyke seemed relieved to be in agreement with C.J. on something.
Therefore, it was time to strike. C.J. kept her smile bright as she looked at
VanDyke over the rims of her glasses. "So, of course, the C.A.P. has plans for
funding daycare so that the women whose lives are bound up by poverty and poor
education will have a chance to redress these problems."
Nothin' but net.
She decided to plunge right back in. "While you're thinking about that,
Reverend, perhaps I could ask you about the C.A.P.'s reading program."
VanDyke blinked. "I'm sorry, I don't understand the question."
Even though she knew this information better than her own phone number, C.J.
pretended to consult her notebook. "Sources report that the organization has a
reading list, a sort of book club. Could you let us know what sort of books
you're reading?"
Shifting in the chair, VanDyke forced a smile. "Well, of course, we start off
with readings from Scripture. And we don't meet on government property, so don't
even start about church and state issues."
Ooh, almost a fair fight. She put her hand over her heart and opened her eyes
wide. "That wasn't at all what I was about to ask, Reverend." Take three beats,
she heard Toby say in her mind, then go for the killshot. "Is your group
familiar with a series of books called "End of Days?"
"We...I mean, I don't know for certain what every man in the Committee for
American Policy keeps on his bookshelf..."
Dust bunnies and gum wrappers, C.J. thought, but she said nothing.
"...but I know that a number of Christians have read and learned a great deal
from the books. The sixth volume was number one on the Times bestseller list for
most of last year."
"Yes, indeed." Andrew was making a "go to commercial" sign but C.J. pretended
not to notice. Let the network make its money back in the replay rights. "From
what I hear, members of your committee have given a great deal of input to
President Schiller on his Middle East policy, as have the books' writers, Tommy
Jansen and Gerald Hayward."
"We serve at the pleasure of the President, of course," VanDyke said smoothly,
and C.J. had to fight back the urge to retch. "We Christians believe that we
must don spiritual armor and offer our full support to the Jewish state.
Something that, I must add, many leftist Jewish groups are failing to do."
C.J. got a mental image of the cozy living room of a beautiful old New Hampshire
home, where steam was coming out of Toby's ears. And somewhere in Washington,
D.C., Josh was doing a spit-take with a mouthful of beer.
"And what is the interest of conservative Christians in a Jewish state? Could it
be that you're interested in getting Jews to leave this one?"
"Not just the Jews," VanDyke started, then he stopped himself and just stared
into the camera.
The entire crew stopped moving.
"I'm sorry, let me rephrase that."
"Please do," C.J. said, letting iciness creep into her tone at last.
"While we would welcome the realization of the Jewish people that they've been
wrong to reject the messiahship of our Lord, Jesus Christ, our interest in the
state of Israel is purely altruistic."
"And has nothing to do with the widely-held belief that the existence of Israel
is essential for the second coming of Christ?"
"I don't have to answer that question," VanDyke huffed.
"No, Reverend, you do not - although I believe you just did. I won't need your
answer. I also won't need the sworn affidavits of two former clerks whose jobs
were threatened if they didn't read the books and come to meetings, and I
probably won't need the list of names of the prominent Republican and Democratic
lawmakers, judges, and other public figures who, interestingly enough, backed
the 'Christian Nation' bill that didn't get out of committee and are treating
these books as modern-day gospel."
"We believe in the End of Days!" cried VanDyke. "And you, who claim to be a
Christian, you should believe, too. But you're too busy fornicating with a Jew!"
"That's it, I'm going to commercial," Andrew declared, and the red light on
VanDyke's camera winked off. VanDyke got out of the chair as fast as his
corpulent frame would allow, and shook his finger at C.J. "You should be
ashamed. I will rebut your villainous statements and make you regret them all."
"Are you threatening me?" C.J. asked, keeping her voice low and controlled.
"You can be sure of that. And you can be sure that my people will come after
you, and all your bleeding-heart liberal friends, and make you sorry that you
ever dared cross me. Our organization counts as loyal members not only
Congressmen and Senators, but also the Vice-President of the United States."
Motherlode on the B-roll. Andrew had left one live camera off to the side.
"C.J., Reverend, excuse me, but we're hot," he said, furrowing his brow in mock
concern.
"I thought we went to commercial," C.J. replied, trying not to burst out
laughing at the way VanDyke's eyes bulged.
"We did, but this is being fed to our affiliates. Of course I'll put out a call
that it's not to be used. I'll, uh, take care of that right now." Andrew walked
off in the opposite direction of his office, leaving C.J. with her apoplectic
guest.
"Bartlet pulled this same stunt," VanDyke muttered.
"That's 'Former President Bartlet,' and, yes, he did." C.J. folded her arms and
stepped back to the news desk. "I only steal from the best, Reverend. And now,
if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare for tomorrow's show. Your dresser will
walk you back to the green room so you can collect your things."
"You haven't heard the last of this!"
C.J. dropped her gaze to the desktop as she set her glasses down with
exaggerated care. "I can only hope not," she said as VanDyke was led away, still
waving his arms and talking about retribution.
June came by with C.J.'s purse. "Your cell is going off about every ten
seconds," she said, handing the bag to her boss.
"Can't imagine why that's happening," C.J. replied as she reached for the
phone.
***
Part two
Classification: Post-administration, political, romance.
Summary: 2008
"Fortunately, there are still those among us who have a healthy
irreverence toward power, even as they seek it."
--Weir Reid
***
New York City February
***
Six people walked C.J. from her dressing room to the studio. They wore
headphones, waved clipboards, and each seemed intent on talking louder than the
others.
"How'd you get the names?"
"Did anyone contact the R.N.C. for a rebuttal? The D.N.C.?"
"Are they white supremacists, too?"
"No, asshole, one of the book's authors is black! But, C.J., what about--"
That did it.
C.J. spun around, hands flailing. "Just stop! Knock it off! I've cleared this
with every official up to and including the president of the network, and
they've given me the green light. I know how to do things like this - this game
was my bread and butter for nine years!"
She succeeded in getting three seconds of stunned silence before the cawing
began afresh. Shrugging her shoulders, she took long-legged strides away from
her pursuers and breezed into the studio.
"C.J.," began Andrew, one of the directors, but C.J. thrust her hand near his
face and waved it.
"No, no, no. And you need to get the Goon Squad out of the hall or someone in
the green room will catch on. This thing won't work if it's not a surprise."
Andrew was one of the few staff members who listened to her. C.J. actually liked
him. He took a step backward and removed his headphones. "It makes me nervous.
It's sort of like a bear trap."
"It's exactly like a bear trap. And I'm the honey," she said, favoring him with
a smile that he made an honest effort to return. "Look, I know you're a little
strung out about what I'm going to do, but I promise you that I've done my
homework - actually, lots of people who are smarter than I am have done their
homework and passed notes to me - and that I'm at the absolute top of my game.
What you see here tonight isn't just about ratings. It's going to galvanize the
country. This fifteen minutes of footage will be played and replayed and
discussed until the end of time."
"That's fitting," Andrew said around a grimace.
"But of course." C.J. squeezed Andrew's arm and went over to her desk. She was
immediately surrounded by makeup artists and cameramen. "Just make sure you
don't let me be shiny. I don't want to be shiny."
"One not-shiny C.J., coming up," said one of the makeup women cheerfully. "You
seem a little edgy - is something the matter?"
"Nah. I just knew the guy from an unpleasant exchange at the White House, and
that memory is replaying like yesterday's lunch." C.J. knew that palpable
tension would be contagious. That would never do. That's why Andrew was
sequestered in his corner and why the vultures in the hall needed to be caged
up. Get the crew in a lather and the guest will be spooked. And oh, what a
guest.
C.J. hated having to read the news, which was particularly bland that evening.
But there were twelve minutes to fill before the first commercial, and rushing
through the stock market report wouldn't get her to her goal any faster.
Besides, her cool, professional, detached reading would lull everyone, including
her guest, into the kind of level complacency that would make him putty in her
hands.
With every fiber of her being, C.J. wished that the old staff could be in the
studio as John VanDyke lumbered into view. Rotund, florid, and clueless, he
stopped one of the gaffers and asked if she were C.J. "Craig."
You're mine, C.J. thought. Son of a bitch, you're mine.
"Reverend - over here," she called, waving toward what was obviously the guest
chair. She forced herself to get up and shake his hand. Clammy. Of course. "I'm
C.J. Cregg, Reverend. You might remember me from the White House."
That jogged his memory. His eyes narrowed into piggy slits below his white
eyebrows. "Ah. Yes."
Truly one of Josiah Bartlet's finest moments had been when he'd said to VanDyke,
Marsh, and Caldwell - although C.J. had a soft spot in her heart for Caldwell -
to get their "fat asses" out of his White House.
The look on Josh's face had been beyond description.
Those, indeed, were the days.
Jed Bartlet wasn't in the studio with her, but C.J. felt his presence as surely
as if he'd been hovering behind her chair with his hands on her shoulders.
"We'll just get someone to slip that microphone on you, Reverend, and when we
get back from commercials and the local news break, I'll introduce you. In the
meanwhile, would someone get Reverend VanDyke some water, and maybe a little
more powder? He's glowing just a bit."
"That's very kind. Thank you."
"You're welcome." She managed a bright smile. "I think we're about to go."
"Live," called Andrew as if on cue, "in four...three...two..."
"Good evening, and welcome back to the show. My guest this evening is the
Reverend John VanDyke, newly-elected Chairman of the Council for American
Policy. Thank you for being here tonight, Reverend."
"Thank you, Miss Craig."
C.J. decided to let the "miss" slip. "Cregg, but don't worry, lots of people
make that mistake." Yeah, but not on national television as an invited guest,
squidboy.
"I beg your pardon."
You ain't seen nothin' yet, bud.
"Not necessary at all, Reverend. Now, what can you tell me about your
organization, the Council for American Policy?"
VanDyke faced the camera with the red light on it - nice, good that you know
that much - but made the mistake of "barreling," of staring directly into the
diaphragm of the lens. Watching her monitor, C.J. noticed, with amusement, that
he looked as if he were on a "wanted" poster.
"We're a think-tank, Miss Cregg, of conservatives in both the Democratic and
Republican parties. A non-partisan organization that devotes itself to
conservative principles."
"And what, exactly, does your group espouse?"
"Conservative principles."
Could this be any better? No, probably not.
"Are you speaking of fiscal conservatism, social conservatism...?" She leaned
forward with her eyebrows raised, taking notes in the margin of her little book.
"Ah. I see." He stopped and took a sip of water. "Our primary concern is a
conservative social agenda."
"Could you give an example?"
"An end to the fraudulent use of welfare by women unwilling to earn their
livings, and to the needless propagation of indigent children."
"So you support birth control? Contraceptives being covered by health
insurance?"
"Uh, well, we think that abstinence is the best...uh, method."
C.J. scribbled Sam's name in the margin and drew a heart around it. "So your
organization believes that the best method of population control is to keep poor
people celibate?"
I dare you to say no, asshole.
Still staring directly into the lens of the camera, VanDyke wiped his face with
a handkerchief. "Well, if people can't afford to have children, then perhaps
some reduction in...appetites...could be useful."
She let that one hang in the air for a while. Gave the public a few moments to
soak in the incredible stupidity of the remark.
"Going back to - am I quoting you correctly here? 'Fraudulent use of welfare by
women unwilling to earn their livings?' Could you clarify that for our viewers?"
"I mean simply that anyone who takes from the system should give back to the
system. We say that forty hours a week is what most Americans work, and these
women should be no different."
"Goodness knows I work a lot more than forty hours a week - and I'm sure you do,
as well."
"Naturally!" VanDyke seemed relieved to be in agreement with C.J. on something.
Therefore, it was time to strike. C.J. kept her smile bright as she looked at
VanDyke over the rims of her glasses. "So, of course, the C.A.P. has plans for
funding daycare so that the women whose lives are bound up by poverty and poor
education will have a chance to redress these problems."
Nothin' but net.
She decided to plunge right back in. "While you're thinking about that,
Reverend, perhaps I could ask you about the C.A.P.'s reading program."
VanDyke blinked. "I'm sorry, I don't understand the question."
Even though she knew this information better than her own phone number, C.J.
pretended to consult her notebook. "Sources report that the organization has a
reading list, a sort of book club. Could you let us know what sort of books
you're reading?"
Shifting in the chair, VanDyke forced a smile. "Well, of course, we start off
with readings from Scripture. And we don't meet on government property, so don't
even start about church and state issues."
Ooh, almost a fair fight. She put her hand over her heart and opened her eyes
wide. "That wasn't at all what I was about to ask, Reverend." Take three beats,
she heard Toby say in her mind, then go for the killshot. "Is your group
familiar with a series of books called "End of Days?"
"We...I mean, I don't know for certain what every man in the Committee for
American Policy keeps on his bookshelf..."
Dust bunnies and gum wrappers, C.J. thought, but she said nothing.
"...but I know that a number of Christians have read and learned a great deal
from the books. The sixth volume was number one on the Times bestseller list for
most of last year."
"Yes, indeed." Andrew was making a "go to commercial" sign but C.J. pretended
not to notice. Let the network make its money back in the replay rights. "From
what I hear, members of your committee have given a great deal of input to
President Schiller on his Middle East policy, as have the books' writers, Tommy
Jansen and Gerald Hayward."
"We serve at the pleasure of the President, of course," VanDyke said smoothly,
and C.J. had to fight back the urge to retch. "We Christians believe that we
must don spiritual armor and offer our full support to the Jewish state.
Something that, I must add, many leftist Jewish groups are failing to do."
C.J. got a mental image of the cozy living room of a beautiful old New Hampshire
home, where steam was coming out of Toby's ears. And somewhere in Washington,
D.C., Josh was doing a spit-take with a mouthful of beer.
"And what is the interest of conservative Christians in a Jewish state? Could it
be that you're interested in getting Jews to leave this one?"
"Not just the Jews," VanDyke started, then he stopped himself and just stared
into the camera.
The entire crew stopped moving.
"I'm sorry, let me rephrase that."
"Please do," C.J. said, letting iciness creep into her tone at last.
"While we would welcome the realization of the Jewish people that they've been
wrong to reject the messiahship of our Lord, Jesus Christ, our interest in the
state of Israel is purely altruistic."
"And has nothing to do with the widely-held belief that the existence of Israel
is essential for the second coming of Christ?"
"I don't have to answer that question," VanDyke huffed.
"No, Reverend, you do not - although I believe you just did. I won't need your
answer. I also won't need the sworn affidavits of two former clerks whose jobs
were threatened if they didn't read the books and come to meetings, and I
probably won't need the list of names of the prominent Republican and Democratic
lawmakers, judges, and other public figures who, interestingly enough, backed
the 'Christian Nation' bill that didn't get out of committee and are treating
these books as modern-day gospel."
"We believe in the End of Days!" cried VanDyke. "And you, who claim to be a
Christian, you should believe, too. But you're too busy fornicating with a Jew!"
"That's it, I'm going to commercial," Andrew declared, and the red light on
VanDyke's camera winked off. VanDyke got out of the chair as fast as his
corpulent frame would allow, and shook his finger at C.J. "You should be
ashamed. I will rebut your villainous statements and make you regret them all."
"Are you threatening me?" C.J. asked, keeping her voice low and controlled.
"You can be sure of that. And you can be sure that my people will come after
you, and all your bleeding-heart liberal friends, and make you sorry that you
ever dared cross me. Our organization counts as loyal members not only
Congressmen and Senators, but also the Vice-President of the United States."
Motherlode on the B-roll. Andrew had left one live camera off to the side.
"C.J., Reverend, excuse me, but we're hot," he said, furrowing his brow in mock
concern.
"I thought we went to commercial," C.J. replied, trying not to burst out
laughing at the way VanDyke's eyes bulged.
"We did, but this is being fed to our affiliates. Of course I'll put out a call
that it's not to be used. I'll, uh, take care of that right now." Andrew walked
off in the opposite direction of his office, leaving C.J. with her apoplectic
guest.
"Bartlet pulled this same stunt," VanDyke muttered.
"That's 'Former President Bartlet,' and, yes, he did." C.J. folded her arms and
stepped back to the news desk. "I only steal from the best, Reverend. And now,
if you'll excuse me, I have to prepare for tomorrow's show. Your dresser will
walk you back to the green room so you can collect your things."
"You haven't heard the last of this!"
C.J. dropped her gaze to the desktop as she set her glasses down with
exaggerated care. "I can only hope not," she said as VanDyke was led away, still
waving his arms and talking about retribution.
June came by with C.J.'s purse. "Your cell is going off about every ten
seconds," she said, handing the bag to her boss.
"Can't imagine why that's happening," C.J. replied as she reached for the
phone.
***
Part two