Part Eleven
CJ's Apartment
8:13 PM
"Damn rodent," Matthew muttered beneath his breath, then glanced across the table at his father and brother. "Don't touch my cards," he ordered, and they rolled their eyes simultaneously as he stood up and headed toward the living area where the hamster cage sat. As soon as he was around the corner, father and son exchanged conspiratorial grins and both reached for his poker cards, lying face down on the table. "I said don't touch my cards!" Matthew called from the living room, where he stood looking at the hamster, ho was spinning his wheel contentedly.
"How..." William started to ask, shaking his head, and his father called over him, informing his youngest son that they would certainly never cheat.
"Right," he muttered in response, then glanced at the full water bottle in the corner near the wheel. "Ah-ha." With a conniving sort of grin, he lifted the water bottle, angled it just as he wanted it, then squeezed the top as hard as he could. The liquid squirted the wheel, narrowly missing the hamster, who dove off and cowered in the cedar chips inches away.
"What are you doing, son?" his father called from the kitchen.
"Shutting up this rat!"
"Be careful, Claudia Jean's rather fond of it, I think," William informed him, fidgeting restlessly in his seat. He could barely contain the desire to look at his brother's cards. Of course, he'd win without looking, he rationalized, then kicked at the table leg again.
"I'm not killing it, just... silencing it," he replied, returning to the kitchen and taking his seat.
"What did you do, Matt?"
"Oh, nothing. Just scared him a little, that's all," he replied, a grin stretching across his face.
And then, it began again, louder than before and with a more defined creak. "Jesus Christ," the younger man groaned, laying his cards face down again before banging his head on the table. "That thing..."
"Fold," his father muttered.
"Ante up, little brother," William grinned, and Matthew reached upward, tossing in a chip without looking. A few moments later, voice that could barely be heard above the squeaking of the hamster's wheel, he finished, "Okay, I call. What've you got?"
With his forehead still pressed into the table, he flipped his cards over, "I'm going to kill that vermin." Looking upward, he grinned, "Royal flush."
"Ah, man," William sighed, watching Matthew collect the chips.
Standing to his feet, the youngest sighed, "Play the next one without me, I'm going to go turn on the television or something, got to drown out that... thing." He turned the corner to enter the living room, then poked his head back in as his father began to shuffle, "Should've looked at my cards," he grinned.
The two other men exchanged amused expressions, and the cards were quickly dealt again.
Matthew flipped on the television, always tuned to CNN, and was immediately drawn to his sister's image on the screen Turning up the volume, he froze as he caught the breaking news report. "...Thomas Bowman - who suffers from schizophrenia and a related obsessive psychological disease - was hired to work as a temporary secretary for Claudia Jean "CJ" Cregg, the White House Press Secretary, under an assumed name. He had called a Press Conference and was preparing to page Ms. Cregg when she apparently noticed a commotion in the West Wing's Press Room and entered of her own volition, only to be strong-armed into remaining there against her will along with the other reporters. The assailant is armed with some sort of unidentified plastique, and a military issue rifle he took from a guard he injured with an older model revolver. Ms. Cregg has apparently negotiated the release of 22 of the 24 Press Corps reporters as well as the injured Marine. She and two unidentified males are
still reportedly behind held inside the White House Press Room..." the video feed switched to the old footage taken almost half an hour before, her narration continuing. "The White House is under lockdown, no one is allowed to enter or leave, and all Capitol Hill meetings involving members of White House staff, as well as any tours or social events taking place in the building have been cancelled." The woman paused for a moment as images of CJ ministering to the injured Marine flashed on the screen. "We've just received unconfirmed reports that the Marine shot in the Press Room has died. I repeat, we have just received unconfirmed reports that the Marine, who has yet to be identified, has died outside the Press Room..."
"Oh, holy shit," Matthew hissed, finally breaking from his frozen position, turning on his heel and running into the kitchen. "Dad! William! Dad!"
The two men looked up at the panic-stricken tone in the younger voice, "Shit Dad, that freak, that goddamn lunatic, he's got CJ!"
"What?" the elder Cregg stood, his chair screeching on the tile floor.
"In the Press Room, CJ and the Press Corps, they're being held hostage. Or were, there are three of them left inside with him, she negotiated the release of the rest of them. The guard... the guard died, she was trying to save him and..."
Quickly the three men moved to the living room, and the brothers sat silently on the couch, their father standing behind them with a stricken expression on his face. "I'm calling Toby," he whispered a moment later, "and then I'm going down there."
"You can't, Dad, it's under lockdown, they won't let you in... they won't let any of us in," Matthew informed him.
"They sure as hell will let me in! We're family! I'm her father!"
"Dad - " William began, but let his words trail off as the video became full-screen.
"That's my baby girl!" he cried, then reached for the phone. "That's my baby girl and I'll get in there if I have to drive my way through!" Moments later, he dropped the phone into the cradle. "Where's Claudia Jean's address book? I need Toby's cell phone number."
---
Press Room Corridor
8:24 PM
The President, Leo, and Ron had gravitated toward Abbey, who sat on a table that had been pulled into the hallway, watching the men confer. Toby soon arrived, holding his cellular phone in one hand, running the other over his beard.
"Toby..." Bartlet began, "I want to give you some advanced notice as to what is being planned..."
The Jewish man seemed not to have heard him, a bewildered expression on his face. "I can't get in touch with her family... they're going to be worried," he whispered, staring down at his phone, "Line's busy."
"Call the operator?" Abbey suggested, her voice soft, understanding, her emotions still running wild. She'd done many things in her life, seen many things, but none seemed to have affected her so quickly, so gravely, as this.
Toby ignored her words, ignored the hand that hovered over his shoulder once again, the comfort she was offering. He shook his head, "I..." but his voice broke, and he turned away from them, his entire body shuddering with the force he was exerting in his attempt to control the urge to throw something, break something, scream, cry, barge into the Press Room on his own.
"Ron and Nancy think it would be best," the President began, his voice strained with the attempt to sound soothing when he felt anything but, "if we go ahead and have the sharpshooters fall into position."
The Communications Director clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and nodded.
"There are risks, Toby," Leo began, ignoring Ron's urgent head-shaking. "But it's all we can do. We can't send someone in there, and he's not going to let her go on his own."
"Send me in?" he whispered, nearly begging. "Send me in there?"
"No, Toby," the President shook his head, then moved away from the others and turned to face Toby, who was fighting back tears of fear and anger, frustration and weariness. "If you go in there, he'll kill you, and that would kill CJ."
"She might be able to get away..." he pled, then shook his head, his gaze settling on the floor. "I know..." he cut off the older man, "I know it wouldn't work. I just feel so useless, sir, I should be in there... with her. She shouldn't have to face this, not alone, not like... this."
"Maybe it's what she needs, Toby," Abbey broke in, then shook her head at his outraged expression. "Maybe she needs to face the past, her mistakes, her fears, maybe this needs to be settled once and for all, so she can concentrate on her family. You, the baby... Her own worries about... inadequacies, nightmares..."
Silence descended on the room, the television now muted.
Toby's voice was almost sarcastic, "So, what does Ron think?"
"The plastique... we're unsure the strength or type, should a sharpshooter take a shot, the impact could cause an explosion. The West Wing will be evacuated..."
"No," Toby interrupted, "No. You could kill her."
"If we wait until he's away from the podium, where he'd fall against the ground, there wouldn't be much of an impact if we aim for the upper region of the body, he'd fall in the other direction, perhaps roll slightly, but that wouldn't be enough to detonate the plastique."
"I won't leave her," he whispered, and Abbey glanced at her husband, silently begging him to do something, say something, fix it.
Jed sighed, running a hand through his own hair, then began to speak, only to be cut off by the ringing of a cell phone. Still gripping it in his fist, Toby looked at the phone blankly, and after several more rings, he finally came to himself and answered the call. After listening for several seconds, Toby sighed.
"Mr. Cregg, they're doing what they can," the anguish in his voice was unmistakable to those standing near him, but the older man didn't register it until much later.
"And what are they doing?"
"Sharpshooters," he replied wearily. "Sharpshooters are moving into position." He turned to look at the President, who then nodded to Ron, who took up his radio and began to dictate orders. "They'll take him out fairly quickly."
"No," CJ's father argued, "I don't think that's a good idea. Can't..."
"Sir, the President..."
"Let me talk to your President, then!" he argued, voice full of carefully controlled anger. His sons exchanged worried expressions from their positions on the couch.
"Uh, Dad..." William began, preparing to stand and take the phone.
"Sit down, son," he commanded, his voice reminiscent of the no-nonsense Sergeant he'd once been. William obeyed quickly, and the men again looked at each other with more emotion than they'd expressed in years. "Well?" he spoke into the phone.
Toby nodded, forgetting that his soon-to-be-father-in-law couldn't see him, then offered the phone to the Commander-in-Chief. "It's CJ's father, sir."
The President shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then sighed, taking the phone in his hand. "Mr. Cregg?"
"Listen to me... sir," he began, "I fought in Korea, I stayed in the military after that for quite a while, I learned many things, and I've seen explosions, and I've disarmed bombs, and I've seen the best military sharpshooters, snipers or what-have-you, make mistakes, misfire, kill innocent people. I was there, sir, and I don't want my daughter to have to live through that. I don't want her shot, I don't want her hurt, I don't want your people to make a mistake, and God knows that's possible, even if you are the President of the United States."
Bartlet listened quietly, not commenting on the other man's words at first. He mulled them over in his brain, then sighed. "We all make mistakes, even CJ," he reminded him.
"Yes, yes, we all make mistakes. And I know my daughter made a mistake bringing this man into her life. But as I understand it, it was problems with your administration and people within your administration that caused her to take such action in the first place. You want to place sharpshooters around the building and chance my daughter being blown up by a weapon that misfires, or a man whose aim is less than perfect, one bullet hits that... bomb, plastique, my son tells me, and she'll be dead. Or what if she moves when one of your men fires? What if she's shot by accident? My daughter is seven months pregnant with my first grandchild, my only grandchild, and I'm fairly certain that the father of that child is just as worried and angry as I am. What if one of your people makes a mistake, too, Mr. President? What if Claudia Jean was your daughter?"
Silence reigned between the two men. He was right, Jed knew any mistakes made would cost lives, but few options were left. Some risks were a little too frightening. The President bowed his head, phone still at his ear, and began to speak quietly. "Mr. Cregg, you have my utmost respect. You raised a daughter who not only efficiently runs all of the Press Briefings, but suggests policy changes, yells at the President when he's wrong," his face twisted into a sort of ironic smile, "loves her father and brothers dearly, takes care of Toby Ziegler - which is no small task in itself, keeps the rest of the staff in line, and is preparing to raise a family for the first time in her life at age forty-four. And she does it well, balances it. I can only hope my daughters will have done as well as she has when they're closer to her age." The man paused, then began again, "And in every way that counts, I love her as if she were my daughter... sir. I would rather..."
At CJ's apartment, her father bowed his head, tears threatening to spill past closed eyelids. "You're a father too," he sighed, "I know, I apologize for my..."
"You brought things into perspective. Thank you, Mr. Cregg." Without covering the phone, Bartlet motioned to Ron, "Clear shot only, Ron. Only if CJ's out of the way, and there's no chance of misfiring. The man that makes a mistake with this will be crucified by the American public, not to mention CJ's family. Clear shot, kill only, order. Understand?"
Ron nodded his head jerkily, then turned back to his radio, relaying the commands.
The President hit the 'end' button on the phone, then turned to Abbey, who was listening with a somber expression on her face. "Jed..."
"I know, Abbey, I know," he replied, closing his eyes as he slid his arms around her, leaving Toby to lean back against the table, swallowing the fear that threatened to conquer him.
"He won't win," Leo vowed, standing beside Toby, his voice earnest. "We won't let him."
"CJ won't let him," Toby said, voice adamant as his body seemed to be flooded with a sense of peace that had been robbed stolen from him several days before. "God," Toby bent slightly, leaning forward, moving his lips in long-forgotten prayer.
"It'll be over soon," the Chief-of-Staff added, then stopped himself before he finished his sentence. "It'll be over soon... one way or another."
8:48 PM.
CJ's Apartment
8:13 PM
"Damn rodent," Matthew muttered beneath his breath, then glanced across the table at his father and brother. "Don't touch my cards," he ordered, and they rolled their eyes simultaneously as he stood up and headed toward the living area where the hamster cage sat. As soon as he was around the corner, father and son exchanged conspiratorial grins and both reached for his poker cards, lying face down on the table. "I said don't touch my cards!" Matthew called from the living room, where he stood looking at the hamster, ho was spinning his wheel contentedly.
"How..." William started to ask, shaking his head, and his father called over him, informing his youngest son that they would certainly never cheat.
"Right," he muttered in response, then glanced at the full water bottle in the corner near the wheel. "Ah-ha." With a conniving sort of grin, he lifted the water bottle, angled it just as he wanted it, then squeezed the top as hard as he could. The liquid squirted the wheel, narrowly missing the hamster, who dove off and cowered in the cedar chips inches away.
"What are you doing, son?" his father called from the kitchen.
"Shutting up this rat!"
"Be careful, Claudia Jean's rather fond of it, I think," William informed him, fidgeting restlessly in his seat. He could barely contain the desire to look at his brother's cards. Of course, he'd win without looking, he rationalized, then kicked at the table leg again.
"I'm not killing it, just... silencing it," he replied, returning to the kitchen and taking his seat.
"What did you do, Matt?"
"Oh, nothing. Just scared him a little, that's all," he replied, a grin stretching across his face.
And then, it began again, louder than before and with a more defined creak. "Jesus Christ," the younger man groaned, laying his cards face down again before banging his head on the table. "That thing..."
"Fold," his father muttered.
"Ante up, little brother," William grinned, and Matthew reached upward, tossing in a chip without looking. A few moments later, voice that could barely be heard above the squeaking of the hamster's wheel, he finished, "Okay, I call. What've you got?"
With his forehead still pressed into the table, he flipped his cards over, "I'm going to kill that vermin." Looking upward, he grinned, "Royal flush."
"Ah, man," William sighed, watching Matthew collect the chips.
Standing to his feet, the youngest sighed, "Play the next one without me, I'm going to go turn on the television or something, got to drown out that... thing." He turned the corner to enter the living room, then poked his head back in as his father began to shuffle, "Should've looked at my cards," he grinned.
The two other men exchanged amused expressions, and the cards were quickly dealt again.
Matthew flipped on the television, always tuned to CNN, and was immediately drawn to his sister's image on the screen Turning up the volume, he froze as he caught the breaking news report. "...Thomas Bowman - who suffers from schizophrenia and a related obsessive psychological disease - was hired to work as a temporary secretary for Claudia Jean "CJ" Cregg, the White House Press Secretary, under an assumed name. He had called a Press Conference and was preparing to page Ms. Cregg when she apparently noticed a commotion in the West Wing's Press Room and entered of her own volition, only to be strong-armed into remaining there against her will along with the other reporters. The assailant is armed with some sort of unidentified plastique, and a military issue rifle he took from a guard he injured with an older model revolver. Ms. Cregg has apparently negotiated the release of 22 of the 24 Press Corps reporters as well as the injured Marine. She and two unidentified males are
still reportedly behind held inside the White House Press Room..." the video feed switched to the old footage taken almost half an hour before, her narration continuing. "The White House is under lockdown, no one is allowed to enter or leave, and all Capitol Hill meetings involving members of White House staff, as well as any tours or social events taking place in the building have been cancelled." The woman paused for a moment as images of CJ ministering to the injured Marine flashed on the screen. "We've just received unconfirmed reports that the Marine shot in the Press Room has died. I repeat, we have just received unconfirmed reports that the Marine, who has yet to be identified, has died outside the Press Room..."
"Oh, holy shit," Matthew hissed, finally breaking from his frozen position, turning on his heel and running into the kitchen. "Dad! William! Dad!"
The two men looked up at the panic-stricken tone in the younger voice, "Shit Dad, that freak, that goddamn lunatic, he's got CJ!"
"What?" the elder Cregg stood, his chair screeching on the tile floor.
"In the Press Room, CJ and the Press Corps, they're being held hostage. Or were, there are three of them left inside with him, she negotiated the release of the rest of them. The guard... the guard died, she was trying to save him and..."
Quickly the three men moved to the living room, and the brothers sat silently on the couch, their father standing behind them with a stricken expression on his face. "I'm calling Toby," he whispered a moment later, "and then I'm going down there."
"You can't, Dad, it's under lockdown, they won't let you in... they won't let any of us in," Matthew informed him.
"They sure as hell will let me in! We're family! I'm her father!"
"Dad - " William began, but let his words trail off as the video became full-screen.
"That's my baby girl!" he cried, then reached for the phone. "That's my baby girl and I'll get in there if I have to drive my way through!" Moments later, he dropped the phone into the cradle. "Where's Claudia Jean's address book? I need Toby's cell phone number."
---
Press Room Corridor
8:24 PM
The President, Leo, and Ron had gravitated toward Abbey, who sat on a table that had been pulled into the hallway, watching the men confer. Toby soon arrived, holding his cellular phone in one hand, running the other over his beard.
"Toby..." Bartlet began, "I want to give you some advanced notice as to what is being planned..."
The Jewish man seemed not to have heard him, a bewildered expression on his face. "I can't get in touch with her family... they're going to be worried," he whispered, staring down at his phone, "Line's busy."
"Call the operator?" Abbey suggested, her voice soft, understanding, her emotions still running wild. She'd done many things in her life, seen many things, but none seemed to have affected her so quickly, so gravely, as this.
Toby ignored her words, ignored the hand that hovered over his shoulder once again, the comfort she was offering. He shook his head, "I..." but his voice broke, and he turned away from them, his entire body shuddering with the force he was exerting in his attempt to control the urge to throw something, break something, scream, cry, barge into the Press Room on his own.
"Ron and Nancy think it would be best," the President began, his voice strained with the attempt to sound soothing when he felt anything but, "if we go ahead and have the sharpshooters fall into position."
The Communications Director clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and nodded.
"There are risks, Toby," Leo began, ignoring Ron's urgent head-shaking. "But it's all we can do. We can't send someone in there, and he's not going to let her go on his own."
"Send me in?" he whispered, nearly begging. "Send me in there?"
"No, Toby," the President shook his head, then moved away from the others and turned to face Toby, who was fighting back tears of fear and anger, frustration and weariness. "If you go in there, he'll kill you, and that would kill CJ."
"She might be able to get away..." he pled, then shook his head, his gaze settling on the floor. "I know..." he cut off the older man, "I know it wouldn't work. I just feel so useless, sir, I should be in there... with her. She shouldn't have to face this, not alone, not like... this."
"Maybe it's what she needs, Toby," Abbey broke in, then shook her head at his outraged expression. "Maybe she needs to face the past, her mistakes, her fears, maybe this needs to be settled once and for all, so she can concentrate on her family. You, the baby... Her own worries about... inadequacies, nightmares..."
Silence descended on the room, the television now muted.
Toby's voice was almost sarcastic, "So, what does Ron think?"
"The plastique... we're unsure the strength or type, should a sharpshooter take a shot, the impact could cause an explosion. The West Wing will be evacuated..."
"No," Toby interrupted, "No. You could kill her."
"If we wait until he's away from the podium, where he'd fall against the ground, there wouldn't be much of an impact if we aim for the upper region of the body, he'd fall in the other direction, perhaps roll slightly, but that wouldn't be enough to detonate the plastique."
"I won't leave her," he whispered, and Abbey glanced at her husband, silently begging him to do something, say something, fix it.
Jed sighed, running a hand through his own hair, then began to speak, only to be cut off by the ringing of a cell phone. Still gripping it in his fist, Toby looked at the phone blankly, and after several more rings, he finally came to himself and answered the call. After listening for several seconds, Toby sighed.
"Mr. Cregg, they're doing what they can," the anguish in his voice was unmistakable to those standing near him, but the older man didn't register it until much later.
"And what are they doing?"
"Sharpshooters," he replied wearily. "Sharpshooters are moving into position." He turned to look at the President, who then nodded to Ron, who took up his radio and began to dictate orders. "They'll take him out fairly quickly."
"No," CJ's father argued, "I don't think that's a good idea. Can't..."
"Sir, the President..."
"Let me talk to your President, then!" he argued, voice full of carefully controlled anger. His sons exchanged worried expressions from their positions on the couch.
"Uh, Dad..." William began, preparing to stand and take the phone.
"Sit down, son," he commanded, his voice reminiscent of the no-nonsense Sergeant he'd once been. William obeyed quickly, and the men again looked at each other with more emotion than they'd expressed in years. "Well?" he spoke into the phone.
Toby nodded, forgetting that his soon-to-be-father-in-law couldn't see him, then offered the phone to the Commander-in-Chief. "It's CJ's father, sir."
The President shifted his weight from one leg to the other, then sighed, taking the phone in his hand. "Mr. Cregg?"
"Listen to me... sir," he began, "I fought in Korea, I stayed in the military after that for quite a while, I learned many things, and I've seen explosions, and I've disarmed bombs, and I've seen the best military sharpshooters, snipers or what-have-you, make mistakes, misfire, kill innocent people. I was there, sir, and I don't want my daughter to have to live through that. I don't want her shot, I don't want her hurt, I don't want your people to make a mistake, and God knows that's possible, even if you are the President of the United States."
Bartlet listened quietly, not commenting on the other man's words at first. He mulled them over in his brain, then sighed. "We all make mistakes, even CJ," he reminded him.
"Yes, yes, we all make mistakes. And I know my daughter made a mistake bringing this man into her life. But as I understand it, it was problems with your administration and people within your administration that caused her to take such action in the first place. You want to place sharpshooters around the building and chance my daughter being blown up by a weapon that misfires, or a man whose aim is less than perfect, one bullet hits that... bomb, plastique, my son tells me, and she'll be dead. Or what if she moves when one of your men fires? What if she's shot by accident? My daughter is seven months pregnant with my first grandchild, my only grandchild, and I'm fairly certain that the father of that child is just as worried and angry as I am. What if one of your people makes a mistake, too, Mr. President? What if Claudia Jean was your daughter?"
Silence reigned between the two men. He was right, Jed knew any mistakes made would cost lives, but few options were left. Some risks were a little too frightening. The President bowed his head, phone still at his ear, and began to speak quietly. "Mr. Cregg, you have my utmost respect. You raised a daughter who not only efficiently runs all of the Press Briefings, but suggests policy changes, yells at the President when he's wrong," his face twisted into a sort of ironic smile, "loves her father and brothers dearly, takes care of Toby Ziegler - which is no small task in itself, keeps the rest of the staff in line, and is preparing to raise a family for the first time in her life at age forty-four. And she does it well, balances it. I can only hope my daughters will have done as well as she has when they're closer to her age." The man paused, then began again, "And in every way that counts, I love her as if she were my daughter... sir. I would rather..."
At CJ's apartment, her father bowed his head, tears threatening to spill past closed eyelids. "You're a father too," he sighed, "I know, I apologize for my..."
"You brought things into perspective. Thank you, Mr. Cregg." Without covering the phone, Bartlet motioned to Ron, "Clear shot only, Ron. Only if CJ's out of the way, and there's no chance of misfiring. The man that makes a mistake with this will be crucified by the American public, not to mention CJ's family. Clear shot, kill only, order. Understand?"
Ron nodded his head jerkily, then turned back to his radio, relaying the commands.
The President hit the 'end' button on the phone, then turned to Abbey, who was listening with a somber expression on her face. "Jed..."
"I know, Abbey, I know," he replied, closing his eyes as he slid his arms around her, leaving Toby to lean back against the table, swallowing the fear that threatened to conquer him.
"He won't win," Leo vowed, standing beside Toby, his voice earnest. "We won't let him."
"CJ won't let him," Toby said, voice adamant as his body seemed to be flooded with a sense of peace that had been robbed stolen from him several days before. "God," Toby bent slightly, leaning forward, moving his lips in long-forgotten prayer.
"It'll be over soon," the Chief-of-Staff added, then stopped himself before he finished his sentence. "It'll be over soon... one way or another."
8:48 PM.