Authors: Enigmatic Ellie and Westwinger247
Webpage: http://wing_nuts.tripod.com
*****************
To: Joshua.Lyman@whitehouse.gov
Date: 10/13/2002 3:47:52 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Sub: The Time Has Come
Yankee! Why aren't you glued to your desk, like you normally are? Donna told me that you were sent to the Hill to scare some Congressman. Ever my humble Joshua. Now, while I'd love to sit here and ramble on and on about the world according to Josh Lyman, I have something more important to write.
Two words - World Series.
I know you're rolling your eyes right now. I should remind you that the Orioles swept the A's and took the Yankees in five. I think that if any team should be trying on that glass slipper it's yours.
And that catcher, Mike What's-his-name? He couldn't find second base even if it was a foot in front of him. My base runners will be running on him all inning long. I hope he's exercised enough; that constant up and down can give the thighs quite a workout.
Oh, the National Anthem singer for Game 4: Tony Bennett. Throwing out the first pitch of Game 1: Cal Ripken, Jr.
I'll be thinking of you when we spank the Mets. Take care of yourself. I'll send you a World Champion Baltimore Orioles shirt in two weeks.
Marilyn
****************
From: Joshua.Lyman@whitehouse.gov
To: MRogers@oriolesbaseball.com
Date: 10/14/02 13:52 PM Eastern Daylight Time
Sub: Re: The Time Has Come
What type of medication do they give you to deal with these delusions?
The fact remains, sweetheart, that your team's going to get trounced. I submit to you back-to-back sweeps of the Giants and Cardinals. The Mets are more rested than your Birds. As for Mike PIAZZA? Thirty-six home runs, 102 RBIs. Power over finesse wins every time—it's a basic principle of the universe. Also, least I forget, the pitching of the Mets has a two point ERA average lower than yours.
Be checking your mail. In it you'll find a pumpkin because the clock will hit midnight before you even know it.
You will soon owe me and all Mets fans an apology. However, I will settle for you wearing a Mets cap the next time you visit my office. By the way, planners here are asking Tony to sing at the Inaugural Ball in January, and I've already met Cal--tell him I said hello and thank him again for managing us at the softball game.
If you catch a hint of something in the air, that would be the sweet smell of New York sweep on the horizon.
Don't forget to vote.
--Josh
*****************
The White House
October 23
7:46 p.m.
"Ooo, very nice," Debbie Fiderer whistled lowly as Charlie ambled into the office adjusting his cufflinks. "If you were looking to take me out, I'm just not dressed for it."
"Well, there go my plans," the President's Aide said.
"Do you like these things?" she asked.
"Sometimes yes, sometimes no," Charlie informed her. "Tonight won't be so bad. The best high school musicians in the country are gathered here in Washington to play a selection of American works. I think I can handle it."
"Lots of Gershwin," the President's Executive Secretary surmised.
"That and Soussa," he added.
"It looks like the zombie zoo goes to the opera in the halls tonight," Debbie remarked as Sam passed by the doorway stifling a yawn.
"Yeah, well, it'll all be over soon," Charlie remarked.
"I just started this job," she said. "They'd better win because I don't really want to update my resume again so soon."
"I'll pass that along," Charlie said as he walked toward the Oval Office.
*****************
"I suppose it's the preferred way to spend the evening," Toby sighed as he rubbed his brow.
"Are you sure you don't want to stay home and watch Game 6?" Bartlet grinned.
Toby was taking the knowledge that his beloved Yankees lost to Baltimore in the American League Championship Series stoically. His non-reaction to the reaction to the ALCS finale was more than enough cause for the rest of the staff to keep him highly informed at all possible moments of the status of the World Series. Baltimore was at home that evening, trailing two games to three.
"If there was a game worth watching, I would," Toby replied as Charlie entered the room. "As it is, I'm not sure the Series is even being played. There's a law on the books some place, I'm sure, that if a New York team wins they have to be named the Yankees."
"The Mets are still the underdog for the game," Charlie informed him. "They might lose."
"Please that god wills it," Toby shook his head. "Josh's waving the sports page at me and grinning every morning is unnerving. He's going tonight?"
"Yes," Bartlet said as he pulled on his jacket. "He's talking with Senator Bell about Montana."
"So he's missing the game?"
"Yeah," Bartlet nodded.
"Sir, I don't know that you had anything to do with this, and I'm sure that it had nothing to do with providing me with immeasurable personal pleasure, but thank you," Toby grinned as he followed the President out of the room. "I hope his VCR doesn't work."
"You're all heart, Toby," Charlie smirked.
*****************
John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts
9:45 p.m.
"Donna!" Josh yelled as he made his way through the crowd on the rooftop terrace; he was stopped every fifteen feet by attendees of the night's symphony performance, wishing him and the Bartlet administration well on the upcoming elections. He nodded his thanks and yelled her name again. Donna, clad in a royal blue velvet dress, made no motion of acknowledgement. She tucked a wayward strand of her platinum blond locks behind her ear, then gently touched her French twist to see if it was still locked in place.
He reached her side and touched her arm. "Didn't you hear me?"
"I did," she replied, still not looking at him. She had begged Josh to let her attend the performance, and she wasn't about to have it ruined. "I chose to ignore it. I'd rather look at the Lincoln Memorial. It's so beautiful at night."
Josh glanced over at the beautifully lit memorial and nodded in agreement. "Yeah, nice."
"What do you need?"
Josh moved to face her and pointed to his tie, which was beginning to unravel; he gave her his best dimpled smile.
"Honestly," she sighed, rolling her eyes. "You think with so many formal affairs you attend, you'd be able to tie this thing."
"Then what would you do?" he asked as he slightly grinned.
"I'd be enjoying myself," she replied, returning his grin. "Josh, what is this?"
She spied a dark wire, as dark as his jacket, under the lapel of his coat. She pulled the fabric back to reveal a small case, the size of a credit card and a little over twice as thick tucked in the breast pocket of the jacket. She pulled the wire out to reveal a tiny earphone.
"Change jobs?" she asked. "Is it Special Agent Lyman now?"
"It's an... ear thing," he said as he snatched back the gadget and tucked it away.
"Josh."
"Donna, it's a game," he said.
"Yeah."
"An important game... to me," Josh said. "If I didn't have to be here at this thing, which I technically no longer do, know where I'd be?"
"In the office brooding over the media impact of probably not winning New Hampshire's electoral votes?"
"Yeah, but I'd have a TV with the game on in a distant corner," he brooded. "They're up 5-1."
"The Mets?"
"Yeah," he said, switching on the small radio again and resuming his sereptious listening. "It's the bottom of the fifth. Could you maybe...."
He gestured to his loose tie. Donna rolled her eyes then finished retying the tie and pulled it tight, fighting the urge to cinch it just a bit tighter to show him her playful ire. It was the only thought that crowded out the urge to caress his chest or rest her head on his shoulder to fully enjoy the magnificent setting.
"Is it fixed?" he asked tersely, ruining her dreamy moment.
"Of course," she answered. "All nice and new."
"Thanks," Josh said as he moved away to stand beside her.
"Hey," Sam said approaching in stealth mode.
"Hey," Josh said not really listening.
"He's busy with the national pastime," Donna informed the speech writer.
"Yeah, I saw that," Sam said. "I commend you on your slick use of 1980s technology. A word of caution, though. You're not exactly in the good graces of some people here this evening. You might want to stop writhing in your seat every time there's a close play at second. Dead giveaway that you're not listening to Porgy and Bess."
Josh nodded. He knew what Sam meant. His relationship with the President was in a holding pattern. Things weren't worse--and that was the good news. He staffed the President's days as he had always done, but there was no non-work conversation most days between meetings. His questions to Josh were slightly sharper and his disagreements with his advisor's appraisals more vehement. It was not a good situation. Something needed the change soon or things would become unproductive. Josh was afraid he'd be forced to start updating his resume.
"Did you see who's here?" Sam asked.
"I did," Donna smirked. "They're called people."
"He meant Menken," Josh informed her. "Senator Joseph 'You'll-Never-Win-My-State' Menken. I told you he'd show, Sam. I told Toby that he'd come; that he'd smile and that he'd say it."
"Did he?"
"Yes, he said it," Josh grinned. "He said, the President has my support. He knows that he's got a battle for his seat and he's trying to suck up to us now."
"You called it alright," Donna droned. "You're a regular gypsy."
"I prefer 'professional,'" he nodded in assurance.
A well-dressed usher appeared and announced that the orchestra would resume shortly. The crowd made their way towards the elevator and began filing in.
"I'd prefer not to get a lecture for getting back to my seat late," Sam said and nodded towards the bank of elevators as patrons were streaming back into the Center. "Donna, Mrs. Bennett--the conductor's wife--said she'd like to speak with you about a benefit or something."
"Right," Donna nodded. "It's a literacy thing the First Lady asked me to help with; I'm sitting with Mrs. Bennett during the rest of the concert."
"Great," Sam nodded as he took an available space in a descending car.
Josh and Donna on separate levels of the Kennedy Center and Josh preoccupied with the election and the World Series, Sam thought. Nearly all is well with the world.
Josh took one last breath of the crisp evening air then switched off his radio. He'd catch the highlights on SportsCenter when he got home.
He and Donna were among the last to leave the terrace. They grabbed an elevator by themselves.
"I called it," he said, straightening his tie unnecessarily. "I'm on my game, Donna. Finally hitting my stride. Seeing… you know… things. Prognostication. It's an art when you do it this well."
"You can predict things?" Donna observed strategically as the doors closed and the car began to descend.
"Of course," Josh proclaimed. "I'm a visionary, Donna. A prognosticator. I'm in tune with things again. Nothing is going to slip by me now. I'll see it ten steps ahead of it getting here."
Donna nodded and smoothed her dress then turned and grabbed Josh's lapels. She kissed him quickly, parting just seconds before the elevator chimed and came to a stop. She pulled away and wiped her lipstick off his lips.
"Did you predict that?" she asked, exiting the elevator.
Josh stared blankly ahead, flabbergasted as to what just transpired.
"Josh."
"Huh?" he remarked, biting his lip briefly.
"Get out of the elevator," she ordered. "You can't ride it for the rest of night."
Josh shook himself into reality and exited the car.
"Okay."
*****************
Manchester, NH
Tuesday, November 5
Election Day
4:20 a.m.
Josh shook himself awake, his heart hammering and his hands shaking. He felt disoriented as he scanned the room. For a moment, he was certain the windows were in the wrong place.
A hotel room, he told himself. I'm in New Hampshire. It's Tuesday.
It was still an inky pitch outside; dawn was not yet upon the northern town. Josh sat in the darkness, knowing if he closed his eyes he would not fall asleep again. He wasn't certain what had awakened him; he had no recollection of a dream and from the quiet permeating the darkness he did not believe any noise had roused him either. He hated waking like this: alone and restless. He had done it often as a child--finding himself suddenly awake in the still blackness of his room and feeling as though he was about to bolt for the door, yet he was not scared. It was as though he had received a shot of adrenaline for no purpose.
Nothing more can be done, he thought as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. I've done all I can do.
But it wasn't my best; I gave it everything I had, but it still wasnt't my best. I've done better work on less important campaigns. I just couldn't get out of my own way some days. That's not like me. I mean, it is, but never for something this important. Maybe I'm losing my touch, if I ever really had one.... Yeah, I did. I'm good at this. Leo is good, too, and he trusts me. The President trusts Leo. So by extension... No. I mean, that doesn't matter. This isn't about me. This is about 265 million other people today.
Wait, did I vote?
He was gripped by a momentary terror that he had forgotten to mail his absentee ballot before leaving Washington. Then he recalled dropping it in Donna's Out Basket a week earlier. It was the medication he was taking, he realized, that was making him agitated and disturbing his sleep. Antibiotics did that to him. Still, it was better than coming down with pneumonia. Because, with that would have come more than just the ills of being ill. With that would have also come the lecture from the First Lady. Abigail Bartlet knew how to give a lecture. Josh relaxed as he noted he would not be getting one from her any time soon.
Hell, if we lose today, she might even thank me.
He looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was 3:25 a.m. He kicked off the covers and headed to the shower. There was a quick trip to make before his work day began.
*****************
Hotel Lobby
4:55 a.m.
Toby flipped the newspaper over and read the previous day's headlines. He was now reading the newsworthy not-so-relevant news briefs from abroad. Europe's idea of frivilous yet interesting news left much to be desired. The most interesting of the dull stories was a tired headline from Norway. The town of Hell was hit with a sudden and unexpected ice storm and had frozen over.
A cold day in Hell? Amateurs. Our Joey Butafucco's and Lorena Bobbit's beat the pants off you everytime. God bless America.
Toby stroked his brow tossed the paper aside to resume reading the faxes he received from the California precincts late the previous evening. There was no change. They would win California. He knew that. But he was still concerned. They weren't going to win it by as much as he predicted. Though that didn't necessarily mean anything, it didn't mean nothing either.
"Hey," Josh said as he approached him from the stairs.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Why are you awake?" Toby asked, looking at his watch with concern.
"Because I'm not sleeping," Josh said. "I need a favor from you."
"Oh god," Toby groaned softly. "Do we need to have a private chat? Josh, I swear to god whatever it is, you can't be the only one inside. Not today. I need to know everything--I mean, everything--no matter what it is or who told you to keep it quiet."
"Well," Josh leaned in conspiratorially, "you know Ed was hanging back last night when we left the pub?"
"Yeah," Toby said guardedly.
"CJ thinks he asked that waitress back to his room last night," Josh nodded.
"You know, I've never liked you or your sense of humor half as much as you think I do," Toby snarled. "What did you want?"
"Keys," Josh said, holding out his palm. "For the car you rented at the airport. I gotta go talk at someone."
"Yeah?" Toby remarked, fishing the set from his pocket. "Who do you have to see?"
"I'm not going to see anyone," Josh answered truthfully.
"I'm sorry?" Toby said confusedly. "You just said you're going to talk to someone. Are you going to be blindfolded so you don't see them? This is not the kind of thing I need happening today."
"Actually, I said I was going to go talk at someone," Josh corrected him. "Don't worry about it. It's not a thing. Just... a personal matter I need to talk care of."
"Personal?"
"Yeah, that's the part of our lives that happens outside the office when we are not working," Josh explained.
"I don't understand."
"I'll have Sam make up flashcards and explain it to you someday," Josh replied. "I don't always understand it myself, but once you've got the basic premise down..."
"You're breathing my air," Toby growled and waved off further explanation. "Hey, how far away are you going to be?"
"Not too far," Josh said mildly.
"You know what today is?"
"Donna usually keeps track of that for me," he said.
"I would think you of all people would understand why today is not a day for levity," Toby sighed.
"Yeah, I recall that a lot of people who don't like us are voting in a few hours," Josh answered, seeing no need to point out that there was nothing left for the team to do but wait. "That's why I will be back here as quickly as possible. But in order to do that I should leave now."
"How long will you be... wherever? We've got Stimmetz at seven this morning."
"Right," Josh nodded, concentrating to keep the trembles in his hands under control as he took the keys. "I'll be late for that, but Sam is here. You don't really need me anyway."
"The President is going to ask..."
"Toby."
"Josh, he's gonna ask and..."
"He's not going to ask," Josh replied. "He's not going to be at the meeting. You are going to brief Leo about it and he will brief the President. If he asks, he'll ask Leo, but he won't ask because this meeting is nothing more than a grip and grin."
"Yeah," Toby nodded. "Just.... Shouldn't you let someone know where you're going in case... Does Donna know where..."
"Leo will know," Josh said as he took the keys. "And Danny."
"The Washington Post knows, but you won't tell me," Toby remarked. "That means it's either the end of your career or something that no one cares about."
"Lately, they're nearly the same thing," Josh shrugged then nodded to his colleague. "Car's in the side lot?"
"Yeah," Toby said. "Josh?"
"I might be back before you finish with Stimetz," he answered striding purposefully out the door.
*****************
5:30 a.m.
"Who's idea was it to get donuts?" CJ asked, grabbing an oozing jelly filled one from the box.
"Donna's," Charlie responded.
"Are you heading to the Farm now?"
"Yeah, in five minutes," he replied. "I told Donna I'd help see that breakfast got here for you guys."
"Is she here?" CJ asked, looking around and seeing Josh's hovel of an office dark and empty.
"Not right now," he said.
"I left a message for her last night and she didn't get back to me," CJ said. "I was wondering if she got it or not."
"Well," Charlie paused and considered his next words carefully. "Would it be a problem if she hadn't gotten the message?"
"Yeah," CJ said, licking her fingers. "It would mean that my message was ignored by a desk clerk. That kind of bruises the ego, you know?"
"Maybe she didn't go to her room last night," Charlie said strategically and watched her carefully for a reaction.
"Did she spend the night in Josh's room?" CJ asked, rather loudly.
Charlie noted that no one--except Sam--appeared to register the remark. To everyone else, her words meant nothing. S, sitting at a desk assigned to Ginger, went rigid as she spoke. Charlie swiveled his eyes back to the Press Secretary who seemed as unconcerned about her words as the rest of the room was.
"Well, I don't...," Charlie began.
"If he kept her up all night reciting those stupid polling numbers to him ad nauseum, I'm having him committed," CJ said. "He mugs Toby for some car keys before dawn and probably leaves her sleeping at a desk in his room. I'm thinking its time we have a court officially declare that he's not human."
Charlie grinned and relaxed. Sam seemed to do the same as he sunk into his newspaper. Charlie was pleased. CJ was either clueless about the alternative interpretation of his question or she simply didn't care. Either was good in his book. However, it did raise a question for him: Where were Josh and Donna at that moment?
****************
To: music_lady@yahoo.com
Date: 11/5/2002 5:42:36 AM Eastern Daylight Time
Sub: Good Morning!
Good morning, Anna!
Happy Election Day to you. I just wanted you to know that I have saved your new email address in Josh's address book so he'll know how to reach you. He has a hard time recalling that you live in Florida. I think it's asking too much to have him learn another new "location" for you right now .
We're in Manchester for the big day. I must admit to you that I am nervous. Josh, I'm sure, has told you his thoughts on today. He's been very quiet the last three or four days. I mean, quiet when he's in his office or in meetings. Part of that is the dregs of vocal cord strain from the Mets win a week or so ago. It's just disgusting when he's feeling superior and letting everyone within ear shot know it.
He'll be calling you later--I'll make sure of it. He got an early start today, apparently. He left me with 800 tasks to do when we arrived in town last night and I haven't seen him since. He was kind enough to let me sleep in--meaning he left a message with the front desk that I wanted a wake up call at 5 a.m. I half expect him to be pounding on my door any second.
Well, I should get going. Just wanted to say hello. Don't forget to vote. I know you told Josh your mind was made up about who you would support. He's not mad--no matter how much he sputters about it.
--Donna
*****************
7 a.m.
The landscape was so peaceful--too peaceful for Josh. A chilly wind out of the northeast hissed through the bare treetops and the gray flannel sky threatened to cry icy tears. Josh stood before the granite markers, staring at the words etched in the smooth faces. He had placed the second smooth rock--this the sleek, black, shiny one he found outside the hotel in Tel Aviv a year earlier--atop the gravestone. Beside it, on the smaller marker, sat the pale pink rock he found on the beach in Miami.
He shook his head as he ran his finger over the letters of her name. He remembered so little of her--her voice was lost to him as was the color of her eyes and sound of her laughter. But he remember pink was her favorite color, the color of a sweater he vaguely recalled her wearing and the color of the curtains in her room--the one she never wanted him to enter. Josh stood then folded his arms and tucked his hands beneath them to keep warm as the dregs of an unexpectedly chilly storm front swept through New England.
"I never remember weather like this," said an unfamiliar voice suddenly beside him.
Josh looked at the man startled. The man was of such a slight build that the wind could surely knock him down if he turned just so. He was bald in a Friar Tuck sort of way, fringes of wiry gray and silver hair ringed over his ears and the back of his head. His face was creased and of such a pale color he could easily have been in one of the graves rather than visiting them. He stooped when he stood but when fully upright might have roughly been Josh's height. Josh guessed his age to be easily in the late seventies, but his eyes were another story. They were the brightest, shiniest blue Josh had even seen--like electrified sapphires--and were more animated for their sparkle than the leaves dancing on the wind around them.
"I'm sorry?" Josh said after a moment, staring at the man as though he was an apparition.
"Oy, I hear everyone always remembers weather from their youth as though it was so much wilder," the man said. He spoke with a thick accent that was a combination of New York and a centuries-old Jewish community. "The snow was 10 times deeper, they say. The summers were so much hotter and longer, they say. The wind was so much colder, they say. Ah! They don't know where of they speak."
"I guess," Josh shrugged still staring.
"You must be as crazy as I am," the man said, grinning with a pair of pristine false teeth. "To be in a place like this, in weather like this. Oy, a couple of nut jobs is what we are. I'm Solomon Roth. Call me Saul."
"Josh," the perplexed deputy said offering his hand and a questioning grin molded on the one of the man before him.
"Josh?" Saul said as he pumped the hand; his bony digits were much stronger than his appearance. The man suddenly cocked and eyebrow and looked at Josh sharply. "Not Joshua? I think maybe only to your mother... maybe your wife, too. It's in the eyes."
Josh stood still and said nothing, uncertain how to respond.
"I came here to see my Mirna," Saul said, gesturing to a plot with a fresh bouquet being battered by the breeze. "Thirty-four years together and one of her last wishes was to get as far away from our home as she could. Didn't want to be buried in Queens or Flatbush--and who could blame her? We drove through here once--the last time the doctors thought the cancer was in remission--and she said it was nice here. So when the time came, I found this place again. I come here when I can't stand other places any more--that's more and more often lately. I'll be pitching a tent right beside her soon to wait for my reservation to come up."
The man laughed dryly at the joke. Josh wasn't certain how funny it was, but the chuckle in the man's throat was infectious. Josh smirked in return, waiting for Saul to recover from his moment of mirth.
"Family?" Saul asked, gesturing to the larger gravestone beside Josh.
"Yeah, he was my father," Josh informed him.
"Was?" Saul repeated. "He still is. Nothing changes that. I still wear my wedding ring because I still have a wife. Mirna isn't here with me any longer, but she's still my wife. She always will be. Just like he'll always be your father. And this? A sister maybe? Oy, she was young. Poor girl. Was it sickness?"
"An accident," Josh said softly. "A fire."
"Ah," Saul said, looking at Josh and nodding. "You still see it, though. Still, so long ago. That's the difference between today and yesterday. Years ago, when something was in the past, it stayed there. Today, the past never goes away. And that's a shame. It prevents the future from blossoming or exploding--whichever. It's just fear people have. Everything changes so fast, they say. Well, they don't know anything--I've proven that with their theories about the weather, eh? Everything changes at the same speed it always did; it's just that no one lets the past alone. That is an incredible fear of the future, wouldn't you say?"
"I don't know," Josh shrugged.
"You can do better than that," Saul chided. "You're a college man. You know. We all know. There's too much fear in the world. Everyone's afraid for the economy, for the environment. They're afraid of diseases, and of law suits and of terrorism. The truth is that world is actually a much safer place than it has ever been. There is medicine to cure more sicknesses than ever before, and there is media to spread as many versions of the truth you could think of and as for safety... Let someone waltz into the center of Manhattan and set off a nuclear weapon. I think that's rather humane, if you look at how people have been wiped out in the past. Suffering has existed since the dawn of time. It's this fear we have of everything else that won't let us get past it. Life is about choices: Some are bad and some are good, and some are both at the same time. So be it. Make one and move on to the next. My daughter thinks I'm crazy, but I can tell you the meaning of life: There isn't one. And that's a good thing. You play the game and you take a chance. You win; you lose; you play again or you sit down. It's very simple."
"Yeah," Josh said, mulling over the words of his strange companion. "What did you do for a living?"
"You can't tell?" Saul grinned. "A little of this, a lot more of that. I started in advertising. Started with this little firm called Myers and Lebowitz. Of course, there was no Myers or Lebowitz by the end of the first year, but I had business cards so I kept the name; I worked in an apartment on 14th Street back in '49. Then... well, I moved on. In the end, maybe I changed the way the whole world thinks, but no one knows my name. And that's okay with me."
"Okay," Josh nodded, and then turned to leave, offering the man his hand again. "I should be going. It was a... pleasure, Saul."
"I think you mean that," Saul said with a sly wink.
Josh grinned weakly then turned away. He was nearing his car, when he heard the voice beckon to him again. Josh turned to face the man one last time.
"Oh, Mr. Lyman," Saul called. "The President hasn't lost Saul Roth's vote."
"What?" Josh asked, looking at the man in surprise. "What did.... How do you know who I...."
"They say my great grandmother was actually a Romany gypsy," Saul cut him off with a shrug. "But you know what I think about what they say."
*****************
Manchester, NH
7:35 p.m.
"So is it ours or not?" Toby asked tersely into the phone or the third time. "Yeah, I know it's close. Normally you're prepared to call the state with less than seven percent of the votes counted so..."
"Who is he talking to?" Josh asked Sam.
"Mike at Global," Sam answered, cradling a phone with his shoulder. "He wants to know about Ohio."
"Toby," Josh said sternly, catching the man's attention. "Hang up."
"Not until I get..."
"We lost it," Josh said firmly.
"You're sure?" Toby asked.
As an answer, Josh pointed to the magnetic board behind the bank of desks showing a map of the United States. Ohio was on the board with a few other states. It was, however, up there in red--the color of the Republican challenger.
"Thanks, Mike," Toby said and replaced the phone then turned to Josh again. "You're sure?"
"It's gone, Toby," Josh said then focused on the binder in his lap.
The book was much battered--having been through many election nights. It contained a variety of information. Every conceivable Electoral math equation Bruno could conceive in the recent weeks; names and numbers of district "captains" in the most contested areas of the country and a variety of policy memos as to how the campaign was to be run. Keeping hardcopies of such things was rare in the electronic age, but Josh liked having being able to physically put his hands on a document should electricity become scared--it had happened before. And it was happening again, from all reports coming out of Pennsylvania. A blustery nor'easter was whipping through that state during the day and causing power outages. Sam was working the phones to determine if the weather was playing hinky with voting. There were suspicions only--nothing confirmed.
Josh found himself eerily calm. Well, calm compared to many others in the office. CJ was bantering with the press, but her jitters were obvious in her restlessness. Leo was sedate, as expected, but Toby and Sam were agitated and fraying at the edges. Not a good sign, Josh thought as he looked at the clock. There was still a ways to go before the night got interesting.
Josh pondered the big board. He had looked through Bruno's derivations many times. He shook his head. None of them were correct.
That's where the final elements in his election binder became interesting. At the back was a briefing memo of sorts--something he'd written on a historical precedent--and a copy of specific sections of the US Constitution. He leafed through the memo. It was more of a legal brief, actually. He hadn't written one in years, but he had done his research on this one. It was written like it was to be presented in court in support of a motion. He hoped it wouldn't be needed, but it was better to be prepared than to rely on hope.
Josh leaned back in his chair and began reading the brief again. He'd know if he needed it no later than 10 p.m.
*****************
9:43 p.m.
"How's it going?" Bartlet asked, keeping much but not all of the anxiousness from his voice.
Leo was with the President at his farm--roughly 20 minutes from the campaign's main offices in the business district of Manchester. It was a dark and chilly night. He could feel the winter creeping through the air and he didn't like it. Cold in New England was always colder than other places in the country and Leo was never sure why. He thought it must be the clean air.
"Yeah, I just talked to Bruno," Leo said. "It's going about the same. We're ahead in the popular vote, and we've swapped a few times with the electoral votes. We're up right now, but they've flip-flopped Pennsylvania a couple times."
"What's the story with the power?"
"Sam says our people in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia are up in arms about the tallying," Leo replied. "It's flawed because the check sheets showing how many people showed up to vote don't match the vote tallies coming out of the machines. Even the exit polling is more accurate right now. They closed the polls a few hours ago, but the governor is considering declaring a state of emergency because of the roads in some places. So, it'll probably be morning before that one is resolved."
"Thanks," Bartlet said, sliding his arms into his jacket. "I meant is the power back on and if not when will it be. There are a lot of people in the dark there tonight, Leo."
"Yeah," Leo agreed and shook his head. "They're going to brief you on all this when we get to town. Sam has all the stuff on the power."
"Enlightenment is a good thing," Bartlet proclaimed as he breezed down the hall.
"Whatever," Leo said, grabbing his jacket and following the President.
*****************
10:14 p.m.
"Good evening, Mr. President," Donna called as Bartlet entered the main room of the office. "I trust you had a good dinner with your family."
"Indeed I did, Donna," Bartlet said pleasantly. "Keeping things under control here?"
"Doing my best, sir," she replied and went back to her area to deal with the fistful of phone messages Josh had handed her minutes before.
Leo surveyed the room. The bustle of Election Night was one of the wonders of the world in his mind. A sea of chaos to the untrained eye, it was a study of focus and order to the initiated. He looked at his troops. They were on phones and computers and oblivious to the fact that it was nearly 70 degrees in the room and none had likely eaten since lunch.
This is living, he thought.
"Josh!" he called across the room.
Josh cut through the tangle of people surrounding his area with surgical precision to arrive promptly. He was sporting a look that Leo needed defined.
"We need to talk," Josh said simply.
"First, brief the President," Leo commanded.
"No," Josh said. "Leo, I... We need to talk."
****************
Bartlet For America Headquarters
10:23 p.m.
"We're waiting for the numbers now," Sam said. "There were three major power fluctuations across the state. The place is turning into Hell in February. The Governor declared a state of emergency 20 minutes ago. The weather forecast for the rest of the night is for still colder temperatures, but the winds should be dying down."
"Well, that's something at least," Bartlet said, looking at the clock on the wall. "Thank you, Sam. So, anyone know where Leo and my briefing are or did I come all the way out here to get the rundown on TV from Peter Jennings and Wolf Blitzer?"
****************
Supply room
10:24 p.m.
"You're not serious," Leo shook his head.
"Leo, I could think of jokes a hell of a lot funnier than this," Josh said, waving his binder in the air. "This is what's happening. It's over. Okay?"
"New Hampshire's gone, too?" Leo asked, knowing that might sting the President more than any other news of the night.
"We knew that weeks ago," Josh sighed.
"Some of the polls have even closed," Leo argued half-heartedly as he looked at his watch. "A lot of these towns don't even have electronic counting machines. They're doing it by hand. They won't have an accurate number for another..."
"Leo."
Leo sighed. He would be the one to tell the President. All things considered, Josh might be the appropriate person for explaining this information, but he was the wrong messenger for this candidate at this time.
"I said to him in the car on the way over here, I said that there was still time," Leo said, though from his Deputy's face he knew there wasn't. "I don't know why I did. You're certain?"
"So are you," Josh informed him and handed Leo his recent summary and interpretation of the electoral tables. Leo read them one more time then looked up with a stunned expression.
"I've gotta go in there now," Leo said. "He's gonna ask me what's the score. He's gonna want to know, in a word, who's gonna win this thing. And you want me to say..."
"No one."
****************
Operations Bullpen
Nov. 14, 7:45 p.m.
Donna made her way towards her desk as the sun started its descent in the late afternoon sky. While her watch signaled that most people in the country were making their way home, Donna was hitting the next stage of her work. She looked at the mass of folders and briefing memos that had apparently been placed on her desk by Josh while she made a brief jaunt to the Mess to grab her dinner.
She rubbed the back of her neck and sat down. Her eyes darted back between the folders and the memos; she couldn't decide which pile to tackle first. She picked up a pink highlighter and threw it up in the air; it landed on the folders.
Guess that's where I'll start, she thought. She flipped open the top folder and began scanning the contents when the phone rang.
"Josh Lyman."
"Funny," the caller replied. "You sound like my sister Donnatella."
"Ralph?" Donna said, shocked to hear the sound of her brother's voice. Donna hadn't spoken with her older brother since the previous Christmas – yet another holiday that Donna missed at the Moss Family Condo.
"That's Raphael, if you please," chuckled the male on the other end of the line.
"Since when?"
"Birth," her brother answered succinctly.
"I meant since when do you…"
"Since Liz got on a proper name kick a couple weeks ago," Ralph relented as he bemoaned yet another of his wife's quirks. "She's requesting that everyone call her Elizabeth. I called her at home last week and said 'hi, Liz;'she hung up on me."
"You probably deserved it for something else you've said recently," Donna observed, still looking through the files before her.
"I'd disagree, but I couldn't be convincing," he agreed with her. "So, the slave-driver still keeping you at the office?"
"Well, you did find me here," Donna sighed. "But he's not a slave driver – he's just… busy and… demanding. We're trying to win the election."
"Wasn't it like two weeks ago?"
"Yes," she said.
"So who won?"
"Ralph."
"Seriously, I'm asking," he said. "I voted, but I didn't pay much attention. I know it was up in the air for a while. You mean it's not settled?"
"Not exactly," she sighed. "We won the popular vote, but not the electoral vote."
"So the other guy won?"
"No," Donna said. "He didn't win that either. No one got the required 270 electoral votes because a strange thing happened. Rev. Mitchell got a three electoral votes--Rhode Island--and Senator Stackhouse got Vermont's three so... Well, we're ahead in the electoral count, too, but we didn't get the amount we needed to win."
"What happens now?"
"They have an arm wrestling match on CNN," she deadpanned.
"What?"
"Well, it seems about as logical as what's going to happen," Donna replied. "They, the people of Pennsylvannia in the form of a DNC backed lawyer named Milo Reed, are seeking a court order to recount the votes."
"Why there?"
"Because there is evidence that massive power outtages affected the tallying of votes and the final totals didn't add up to the voter rolls," she said. "No one knows really who won in Pennsylvania. Of course, if the court says the tallies are off, then all the tallies for all the state ballot issues are off and some people contesting that--people who won close races."
"Like your man from Florida?"
"Him and all sorts of town and state politicians who think they won their races and maybe did or maybe didn't, but they'd just as soon not tempt fate twice," Donna sighed.
She'd heard this discussion so often in the past week and a half that was was starting to hear it in her sleep. It was getting worse than Leo's Big Block of Cheese Day speech.
"So what happens if they recount and Ritchie still wins in Pennsylvania?" Ralph asked.
"That's a longer conversation than either you or I have time for," Donna replied.
"I guess you're working a few extra hours then, huh?"
"Me and 100 other people in the office," she said. "No one has time to go home right now. We can't all be vice presidents of our in-laws' sporting goods stores."
"True," he conceded. "I did marry well."
"Yeah," Donna replied. "How are Liz… I mean, Elizabeth and the kids? I sent Tad a birthday card."
"He got it and tried to eat it," Ralph replied. His tone quickly changed. "Have you spoken with Mom recently?"
"No," she answered. "I haven't had time. The last time I called was back when Daddy was refusing to go to the doctor."
"I see."
"Why?" Donna asked as she scanned a file. "What's wrong?"
"Dad's in the hospital," he replied solemnly.
Donna dropped her highlighter. "What? Why?"
"He had a dizzy spell two days ago when he was having coffee with Uncle Vern," Ralph replied. "They took him to the ER, and they kept him for observation."
"Two days ago?" Donna repeated, slightly elevating her voice. She glanced around to bullpen, seeing if anyone was looking in her direction. Finding no one, she lowered her voice. "Why am I just hearing about this now?"
"I don't know," Ralph answered honestly. "Have you been home long enough to check you machine?"
"Yes," she replied shortly. "And there have been no messages. Why hasn't Mom called?"
Donna could hear Ralph sigh.
"I can't answer that, Donna," he said. "My best guess would be that Dad didn't want any of us knowing. I only found out by accident. I happened to call home to see if he wanted that new fishing rod, and Aunt Louise was there and answered the phone. She told me. I called Frannie, and it was news to her as well. No one kept anything from you specifically."
Donna's shoulders drooped. "Well… Oh my god. Do you know how long he's going to be in the hospital? Should I go home?"
"Donna," Ralph began. "Aunt Louise said none of us should drop what we're doing and head home. The doc's just doing tests. She's pretty sure they'll find out he's had rabies all his life where doctors are concerned and they'll kick him out of there pronto."
"Do you think it's serious?"
Ralph paused then answered honestly.
"Yes," he said.
Donna placed her hand over her mouth to try and stop the emotions from spilling over.
"This can't be happening," she said softly. "He was at Allison's wedding last year. And you know Mom's been on a health kick since she started volunteering at the nursing home."
"Things just happen," Ralph explained.
"I know."
"I didn't call to get you upset," Ralph said. "I thought you should know, that's all. Hang in there. I doubt Mom's home right now, but if you try to call her later, you'll probably catch her."
"I'll call the hospital and find out where Dad is," Donna replied.
"Okay," he replied. "Frannie said you'd be the best one. Mom is more comfortable telling you things anyway. Call me if you find out anything else."
"I will," she answered, then disconnected.
Donna sat at her desk for several moments, staring at her hands but seeing nothing. It didn't seem real. Her father was the strongest man she ever knew. She never even recalled him having a cold. The thought of him in a hospital bed was too outlandish to believe, but the cold feeling in her stomach told her it was true. She shook her head and prepared to find the hospital's phone number when Sam breezed through the bullpen.
"Hey Donna," Sam said. He stopped mid-stride when he saw her down-trodden expression. "Is everything all right?"
"My… my… father," she stammered. "He's in the hospital, and we don't know why."
Sam eyes widened. "I'm so sorry," Sam consoled her. "Is he all right? Is he sick? Was it an accident?"
"I think it might be his heart," she replied shakily. "I don't know what I should do."
"Do you need time off?" he asked. "Have you spoken with Josh?"
"He's still with Leo and Bruno," Donna replied. "I really should get through these two piles here and...."
"Donna, go home," Sam suggested. "I'll let Josh know where you went."
"I'd rather work, Sam," Donna replied as she picked up a pencil. "Keeping busy keeps me from thinking about things that are not in my control."
Donna turned her attention to her task. She skimmed a piece of paper and jotted down notes. She then furiously scratched through her writing and rewrote her line. Sam glanced down at the piece of paper and noted that Donna had written the same line as she had before. Sam gently took the pencil from Donna's hands and lifted her out of her seat.
"It's okay," Sam hugged her. "Everything will be fine."
Donna leaned into his hug. She so much wanted to believe the words he said. At that moment, Josh entered the bullpen and noted the scene in front of him.
"What's up?" Josh asked.
"Nothing," Donna replied as she let go of Sam. She returned to her seat and resumed her work.
"Sam?"
"Donna got some bad news from home," Sam said. "Her father is sick."
"What happened?" Josh asked.
"My father's in the hospital," Donna stated simply. "They have to do tests."
"For what?" Josh asked.
"I don't know," she nodded.
"Donna," he began, taking a tentative step forward. "Is…everything all right?"
"I'm fine," she assured him. "Ralph called to let me know; Mom doesn't want any of us up there right now; she obviously doesn't think it's serious. I'm going to call her later."
"Do you need to go home?"
"No," Donna answered. "I'd rather work."
"Okay," Josh said as he turned toward his office. "I'll be in here."
Sam watched as the two parted ways. He noted the distance between them; the lack of connectivity. He said his goodbye to Donna—offering any assistance she needed that he could give--then headed to his office.
There's no spark between them anymore. There was always been a spark, even before I… Have I really driven that much of a wedge between them that they can't care about each other as friends? What have I done?
Sam entered his office and shut the door.
*****************
Office of the Deputy White House Chief of Staff
Sunday, Nov. 24
10:30 a.m.
The phone rang. Josh snatched the instrument out of its cradle.
"Josh Lyman," he sighed.
"Hey," Donna sighed. "I figured you'd be at the office."
"Yeah," he replied. "Your flight just get in? I need you to..."
"No," she cut him off.
"No?"
"My flight didn't.... I mean, I'm not in Washington," she said.
"How long are delayed?" he asked trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he reminded himself that she could not control airtraffic.
He had feared this would happen on Friday evening when she left. She had arranged to go home to Wisconsin that evening with plans to return Sunday morning. News from her mother had not been encouraging about her father. Artemis Moss was vowing he would not go back to the hospital even though the tests he had submitted to previous apparently showed there was reason for concern. The Moss children were descending on the family condo in Wisconsin for a mini-intervention of sorts.surmised.
"It's not a flight delay, Josh," Donna interrupted. "I need to take a leave of absence."
"A leave of absence?" he repeated, having to say the phrase himself to make certain that he heard her correctly. "Why? Donna, no one is even taking lunch breaks for the next few weeks until this thing is settled. You said this was only going to be a weekend thing. Why do you need more time?"
"My father a heart attack three hours ago – just before they were going to take me to the airport," she choked out. "I'm at the hospital right now. It was serious. I need to be here, Josh."
A knot in the pit of Josh's stomach formed as he heard the desperation in her voice.
"Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," she said, taking a deep breath and resuming her composure. "I'm sorry I have to do this to you. I know that this is inconvienent, but I… I just can't leave him."
"I understand," Josh replied automatically. "You stay with him as long as you need to. We'll manage here."
"Thank you," Donna responded,. A little hint of disappointment crept into her mind as he was not comforting her as much as she wanted. "As soon as I know what's going on with Dad, I'll call."
"Sure, I gotta go farm some stuff out," he said and then disconnected.
He ran his hand over his face. Inconveinent was an understatment. This news couldn't have come at a worse time. But Josh also knew this was a serious situation; he would never deny her time with her father. He knew all too well about not spending time with family when they were sick and needed you.
Josh rose from his chair slowly made his way down the hall towards Leo's office.
****************
Nov. 28
Thanksgiving Day, 9 p.m.
Leo McGarry waited for an answer to his summons at the door. There was a muffled ruckus coming from inside.
"Um, who's there?" CJ called from inside.
"The Tooth Fairy," Leo responded flatly. "CJ, you just buzzed me in a minute ago."
"Oh, right," she said as she opened the door in mid-guffaw. "Hi, Leo."
Leo stared at her before entering. A long, glistening noodle was draped over her shoulder and there are appeared to be a congealing substance in her hair. The sound of laughter and shuffling feet could be heard deeper in the apartment.
"What the hell is going on?"
"We're finishing dinner," she said with a wide grin. "The turkey sort of got burned so we're on Chinese now. Come on in. You look beat, Leo. Are you Okay?"
From down the hall Leo listened to the so-called dinner in progress.
"I'm going to be picking peas out of my beard for a week," Toby announced from somewhere unseen.
"Toby!" Sam exclaimed. "I'm on your team."
"There are no sides here," Toby replied instantly.
"Like hell," Josh interjected. "Sam's on my team. Grab the rest of that egg roll. Toby, surrender now or…. Hey!"
"Ooo, right in the eyes," Sam observed. "Does it sting?"
"Where were you?" Josh asked. "Sam, you're supposed to cover me. You're on my team."
"I was," Sam said impotently. "But I was blocked."
"Yeah," Josh replied. "By me."
"What's going on in there?" Leo asked CJ. "And what is that in your hair?"
"Probably duck sauce," she giggled. "Sorry, Leo. We were just…. It got out of hand. Toby said throw me the spring rolls so Josh did—literally. He tossed one to Toby, and he missed it, sort of. It bounced out of his hands and landed in Sam's lap. Sam jumped and knocked over the wanton soup and…. Well, now this."
"So it's true that the White House staff really is a bunch of 5th graders?" Leo observed.
"Right now, it's a toss up," she answered. "My kitchen is a massacre, but it was fun. I don't know why. I guess a food fight is a good way to let off some steam."
The alliances in the kitchen were apparently shifting yet again as Leo got the low down from CJ. A chair was knocked over and Sam groaned. Indications were, the other two had seen an opportunity to exploit.
"That's how we do it in Brighton Beach," Toby crowed. "How does it feel to be taken down by the Jewish Wonder Twins?"
"The what?" Josh asked.
"You and me," Toby responded. "The new dynamic duo."
"I was on Josh's team," Sam reminded them.
"Yeah, and then you fell down," Toby pointed out. "Survival of the fittest. He saw your weakness then joined forces with…"
"Enough," Sam groaned again. "Truce."
"Agreed," Josh and Toby responded.
CJ shrugged and picked the noodle off her blouse unabashedly. There was a mess to clear in the next room—one she could understand and successfully complete with the assistance of her compatriots without any fears of it impacting her job. That was no small feat considering what their lives entailed outside the apartment.
"I think it's safe now, Leo," she said as she headed toward the kitchen.
"Did you say Leo?" Josh called and poked his head around the corner.
Leo shook his head as he spied rice in his Deputy's hair and spots where veggies had stuck him on his shirt.
"Hey," Josh greeted him, the giddiness of moments earlier gone. "What's going on?"
"Let me see your hands," Leo ordered.
"What?"
"Put 'em up, palms facing me," he commanded again.
"You don't trust me," Josh smirked as he followed the direction.
"Sure I do," Leo said as he approached the kitchen. "Just don't forget that I can fire all of you—all of you."
"Care to join us for Thanksgiving dinner, Leo?" Sam asked, offering him a half-full carton of shrimp fried rice.
"Eating it or wearing it?" he asked.
"Either. Both," Toby offered. "Your choice."
"The President suggested I stop by to check in with you all," Leo said. "I don't know what I'll tell him."
"Tell him that things are good," Sam said, slipping into spokesman mode. "We had a light and refreshing break from the office and enjoyed a warm meal and the pleasure of each other's company."
Leo gave Sam a dubious look as he took in the kitchen to see the table a shambles with overturned cartons and each of his senior staffers wearing more of the meal than they had probably ingested.
"CJ started what could have been an nine alarm fire by not preparing the turkey properly so Toby ordered take out for us," Sam summarized. "And, no matter what else you hear, none of this is my fault."
"Except that it absolutely was," Toby said leaning in to add his information. "Although, I think we could shift most of the culpability here to CJ."
The Press Secretary slapped the Communications Director's arm, sending a noodle on his shoulder sailing forward until it landed squarely on Leo's lapel.
"Oh my," CJ said softly. "Leo… That was an accident."
"Yeah," Leo replied, picking the noodle off and placing it on the table. "I need him. Josh, come with me. Guys, pick up this mess."
He pointed to Josh before turning on his heel and exiting the room. Josh exchanged looks with his colleagues before following the boss into the living room.
"What's going on?" Josh asked when they were alone.
"We got a call from Pennsylvania," Leo said in a low tone. "Milo Reed called me."
Josh nodded; his mostly empty stomach cinched a notch tighter. He knew what was coming next.
"They're meeting in a special session tomorrow," Leo continued.
"He said they're not granting it," Josh surmised.
"Yeah," Leo said. "No recount."
"Damn it," Josh seethed. "We thought…. That was… Arugh!"
"Well put," Leo nodded. "We can appeal but…"
"It's not worth it," Josh finished. "The Circuit is no friend of ours there and… They're not big on overturning the will of the state's judges when it comes to election decisions. Damn it."
"What does Milo say?"
"He's coming to town," Leo stated. "He'll be here Saturday morning. We'll do a sit down, but...."
"It won't change anything," Josh sighed.
"No, it won't," Leo agreed. "I know you guys thought this was gonna be over and… It will be, eventually."
"This is a whole new thing," Josh said. "We've got to start over."
"Not exactly."
"No, I'm recommending that we do," Josh said. "No more talk about court challenges. I think we should let it ride."
"You're not serious," Leo questioned.
"Not serious about what?" Toby asked, joining the conversation with Sam and CJ in tow.
"Pennsylvania is not going to grant the recount," Josh said.
"But we won the state," Toby said. "All exit polling showed we won. More than half of the most populated precincts said they had problems after that power outage and they believe—they came to us, we didn't go to them—that the power flux flummoxed the electronic tallying. All they need to do is run that program and…"
"I know," Leo said.
"It'll take less than 24 hours," Sam insisted.
"I know," Leo agreed again.
"Forget it," Josh said. "We lost that round. We move forward. I told Leo that I think we should let it ride."
"What does he mean?" CJ asked Leo with a leery glance at Josh.
"He wants the House to decide," Toby translated.
"And that means?" CJ started.
"Just what you think," Leo said. "Anyone else?"
"You want the throw it to the House of Representatives to vote?" CJ inquired. "Are you crazy? Is the MSG getting to you? Josh, we don't control the House; they tried to Impeach us a year ago."
"They conducted hearings that might have led to the Impeachment of the President," Josh corrected her. "But that never happened. And it's not about who controls the House... Not exactly."
"Each state gets one vote," Sam added. "Each state delegate votes in a private ballot and the winner of those mini-elections get the state vote."
"How does that help us any?" CJ asked.
"It saves us from getting our asses kicked in the circuit courts," Sam argued.
"A House vote is our only chance," Josh said. "We're out of viable options."
"We're down to this being viable?" Toby shook his head. "Good thing I did eat anything today."
"It's been done before?" CJ asked, recalling vaguely that it had.
"1824," Toby responded. "Adams."
"He didn't win the election," Sam pointed out.
"Neither did we," Leo said.
"I meant that he didn't have the popular vote," Sam explained. "We at least have that."
"True," Leo agreed. "But in 1824, Andrew Jackson had the popular vote, and he lost the House vote. Anyone else?"
"We're betting against history and Andrew Jackson here," CJ observed. "Sounds like bad karma to me."
"Can we win in the House?" Sam asked.
"It's possible," Josh said, tallies starting in his head.
"Yeah, but is it probable?" Toby asked, similar tallies going on in his.
Josh thought for a moment. Their eyes all fixed on him.
"Probably."
TIME Magazine,
Special Election Edition
Editor's Note: At the beginning of each Presidential Election season, writers are chosen to follow each candidate and campaign with the orders to observe only. They are granted unfettered access to the campaign with the understanding they will publish nothing until the election is over. This year, freelance writer Dave McCraw was chosen to follow President Josiah Bartlet's bid to keep office. However, in light the remarkable circumstances on the last few weeks--namely the fact that the election is over but there is no clear winner--features written by these writers are being published. For an inside glimpse of the other candidates, see the other features in this edition.
Pulitzer Prize-nominated writer Dave McCraw has been following the Bartlet campaign for the last nine months. The following is a glimpse at 24 hours behind the scenes from his perspective.
Down These Dark Halls
By DAVE MCCRAW
Special to TIME
WASHINGTON, D.C. -- It's 3 a.m. on a Tuesday in the West Wing of the White House.
The distinctive crack of horsehide striking toughened yet distressed leather echoes in the hall outside what's known as the Communications Bullpen. Toby Zeigler, White House communication's director, casts a calculated gaze down the corridor then goes into his motion.
It is a fluid maneuver that sends the baseball rifling down the hall at a stinging velocity.
CRACK!
"I don't care about the numbers," proclaims Joshua Lyman, White House deputy chief of staff, while catching the ball then hurling it back with equal force and grace. "It's got nothing to do with numbers. You either like them or hate them. There is no in-between."
If you guessed he means Gov. Robert Ritchie, Republican challenger for the White House, you'd be wrong. Lyman and Zeigler haven't once mentioned any politician in this half-hour debate.
Make no mistake. The President's men are locked in serious discourse. Only, it's not about the election that never ended.
They're talking baseball.
Specifically, they're debating the merit's of Zeigler's beloved Yankees verse's Lyman's recently-crowned World Champion Mets.
With the mighty and weighty mantel of their future (and that of the country) resting firmly on their shoulders, the political gurus of this presidential re-election bid are playing catch, hours before dawn, in the White House--less than 40 feet from the Oval Office.
Before cries of irresponsibility or unprofessionalism sound, take this into account: Their careers, their beliefs and their life's work are on the line (hanging by a precarious thread, some would say, after the returns three weeks ago), yet Zeigler and Lyman are calm, collected and, without question, in control.
"Chaos is an old friend," Lyman says as the scene he is taking part in is described to him for comment. "You've got a choice. You can roll with it, dance with it, wrestle with it, woo it if you want to--just about anything. Only don't fear it. If you do, the game is over, and you lose."
Zeigler agrees--something he claims he doesn't like to do with Lyman though it happens frequently.
Zeigler is an intense man whose stare is legendary; as powerful as a laser, it could split concrete.
He's also a pragmatist about their current predicament. He believes there's no mystery nor any secret solution to this pending election finale. It is, he insists, elementary.
He believes the hard part was done more than 200 years ago when the Constitution was written. The process was put in place. Now all that needs to be done is to follow the directions.
"Chaos is not entropy," Zeigler explains, finding a means to part ways with Lyman philosophically. "People confuse the words, or their definitions; they use them interchangeably, and that is wrong. The country is not falling apart; democracy is not falling apart and certainly our re-election bid is not falling apart. Those would be examples of entropy. What we have now is what might be chaos. That's nothing more than order with desperation being kicked up behind it--trailing it like a comet's tail."
And so the break from the strategy sessions--as well as the day-to-day business of running the country (both men are still doing their regular jobs on top of their campaign obligations)--continues with the conversation meandering between baseball, physics, history and even architecture.
The one subject noticeably absent is politics.
"We know what happened, and we know what needs to be done," offers Samuel Seaborn as he wanders out of his office. "The facts don't change if you drag them out to review them or fret over them at 3 a.m."
Seaborn, the deputy communication's director, has just awakened after a nap at his desk. He takes a seat on the floor between his two colleagues and suggests they set up a batting cage on the south lawn if the weather holds.
They're comfortable having a feature writer around, scribbling down their words and actions. They also know others are doing the same thing with their opponents not so far away.
The interesting fact to note here is: They don't care.
They don't wonder what the Ritchie camp is doing, thinking or plotting. They know their chances; they believe in their campaign; and they ardently support their candidate.
They are unafraid.
At least of the opposition. There is one thing that will break up this game of catch.
"Didn't I tell you to sleep?" White House Chief of Staff Leo McGarry growls as he rounds the corner.
It's now 3:30 a.m. and McGarry is arriving to start his work day. He left early last evening--11 p.m. His parting words at that time were, in fact, directed at these men about sleep.
"Come on," Lyman protests. "My homework's done; I ate dinner; and I even took Sam for a walk."
"Actually, I lost a bet, and I had to go get his dinner," Seaborn offers. "I did walk, though."
McGarry shakes his head and proclaims that he feels like a camp counselor.
"Five more minutes," pleads his deputy.
"No," McGarry commands. "Go home or hit a couch some place around here. Three hours at least--I mean it. And what did I say to you guys about playing ball inside?"
Lyman flips the ball and his glove to Seaborn then walks dutifully toward the conference room in the basement--a dark, cavernous space that has become a makeshift hostel for the staff in recent weeks. Though arguably the most defiant of McGarry's employees, one can't help but notice that Lyman is also the one who listens to the man most closely.
But that doesn't mean he's behaving entirely.
"Hey, Leo," Lyman mentions as a parting comment. "Sam wants to ask you about setting up a batting cage on the South Lawn."
The speechwriter gapes at his departing colleague as the Chief of Staff looses a sigh of both frustration and admiration for the both of them.
* * *
Wednesday
It's 8 p.m. in the Presidential Residence in the White House.
"She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climbs and starless skies, all the best of of dark and light meet in aspects in her eyes."
President Josiah Bartlet is fond of quotes--poetry is no exception.
While the beautiful phrasing, all the more provocative when delivered in his eloquent tone, is one of tribute that is not the reason he's speaking those words tonight.
The President is battling his Press Secretary, Claudia J. Cregg.
It's a friendly squabble that started 20 minutes ago during dinner in the private residence. The dispute is whether the Commander-in-Chief overlooked Cregg's birthday this year for 24 hours or not. She seems pleased this might be the case, though precisely why is not clear to anyone at the table but her.
However, the President insists she was sent her traditional bouquet from he and the First Lady. That an international dateline interfered with the precise timing of the delivery is not a fault Bartlet is willing to accept as being his.
How or why the poetry entered the discussion is no longer clear, though neither debater seems to think the quote is irrelevant to the discussion.
Cregg looks as tired as her compatriots--currently three flights down and 1,000 yards to the west still working on their day-job tasks. McGarry has also given Cregg orders about getting some sleeping but not until after the administration declares a full lid and puts the press corps to bed.
That's still 3 hours away. After that, she's got to "meet with the boys" to see "what damage they've done" for her to deal with tomorrow.
"Take it all down and put my name to it," Cregg says confidently. "They're my spin boys. They're the best. They're confident and capable and courageous, and I swear to you right now that if they ever put live turkey in my office again, I will hurt each of them."
"CJ," the President interjects knowingly. "They didn't think year, but as I recall, when they did, you grew quite fond of your feathered friends."
"Well, they kind of reminded me of Sam and Josh," she said. "Chopping off their heads and serving them as dinner has crossed my mind several times."
She smiles as she says this; it's evident there is more to this story--it's apparent in her eyes--but the moment fades as an aide arrives with a message: The "boys" need her in the conference room--before her final briefing.
* * *
Thursday, 1 a.m.
Charles Young, the President's personal aide, has just left the private residence, signaling the President's work day is over and the Commander-in-Chief's day has finally gone to bed.
Young traverses the colonnade in quick, efficient strides, pausing briefly to glance across the sweep of shadows that cloak the White House grounds, before he reenters the building.
"You'd think this place was asleep right now," Young says in response to being asked what he sees in his survey. "But this building is alive--it's like the stones themselves each have a pulse--every second of every day. I don't know how it's been with other staffs, but I can tell you that when you or I would succumb to exhaustion is when these people find another gear. I don't know if they'll find the right one to bring us over the finish line this time, but if I was a betting man, I know where I'd lay my money."
Young occupies the most unique position on this staff. He is neither a senior advisor nor is he a member of the publicly-unsung yet internally-valued support staff. He spends more time at the President's side than any other person in this building--including the First Lady--but you'd never know it.
That is to say, he'll never tell you.
Not a thing. Not a hint. Not even a telling expression.
An unyielding air of integrity and propriety surrounds this man-child like impenetrable armor. Its strength is rivaled only by his modesty, something that is as genuine as his dedication to his job.
"The folks here are the most professional people I've ever known--or even heard about," Young says. "I could say I'm just an aide, but I know what I do is important. All of us serve important roles. Some might think that vital roles belong to just the senior staff, but they'll be the first to say their support staff and assistants are their most valuable asset. There's a hierarchy for sure, but we're all a team. No one gets left behind."
To prove his point, he raises a name familiar to these dispatches since the primaries started: Donnatella Moss.
She is the assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff, and she is not here for the final battle of this campaign. She's at home in the mid-west helping to care for an ailing family member.
And in the middle of all the political mayhem and maneuvering here in the Capital--that side of governance that gives politicians a bad name and leaves them looked upon with scorn and disdain--someone on staff always manages to check in with Moss regularly to ask how she and her family are fairing.
"Leadership and compassion aren't contradictory," Young asserts. "It's just that people have come to expect so little of others that we tend to think of those two things as mutually exclusive. I can tell you without a doubt that they're not. Those people down in the conference room, they prove that every day."
* * *
If it's three a.m. again, it must be the West Wing.
"Either put some pepper on it or go take a nap," Seaborn calls to Zeigler.
They're the ones wearing the mitts now.
Seaborn worked methodically from 10 p.m. until moments ago on a draft of the Inaugural Address.
"I was a Boy Scout," Seaborn proclaims. "I'm always prepared."
After his perusal of the sample, Zeigler declared the speech worthy of another draft. Lyman is now sitting on the floor reading it. His expression is unreadable as he flips the pages.
One has to wonder, is it presumptuous to be finalizing the Inaugural Address with the odds so greatly stacked against the re-election bid? Should this display be taken as arrogance or a firm prognostication of victory in the near future?
Lyman fields the question first, glancing briefly up from his reading as he does.
"The best way to predict the future is to create it," he says simply, then starts reading again.
And there it is, a summary of all great endeavors, stated (not crowed) matter-of-factly, in a weary yet firm voice that is tempered with pragmatism and highlighted by dreams, here long before a single ray of light will creep over the horizon into this building.
Usually there is doubt in darkness; usually there is fear.
But not this time; not in this place; not with these people.
There is concern; there are questions, but there is also hope.
Victory might not be theirs in the end, but here and now there is palpable certainty of one over-riding thing: All the answers can be found down these dark halls.
*****************
The Moss Home
Nov. 30, 6 p.m.
Donna put down the magazine article and looked at the cover again. The four candidates splitting the biggest blocks of votes were assembled in separate shots and appeared to be looking at each other. She had seen better pictures of the President. The pictures inside the magazine were nicer. Several were courtesy of the White House photographers. The photo of the long hallway with Toby and Josh playing catch was nice. They were in stark contrast to those of the Ritchie campaign where, regardless of the alleged hour, his staff always wore ties and none of their sleeves were ever rolled up.
"It looks posed to me," she said to Margaret on the phone. "Ritchie's people. That doesn't look real."
"That's what I said," Leo's secretary echoed. "Toby is worried that we look like a bunch of slackers. I told him that our opponents look phony."
"How is everything?" Donna asked.
"Donna, I honestly don't know," Margaret said in a hushed tone. "I don't think any of them know really what to do. I mean, they understand what they need to do, but they don't seem.... inspired to do it. I think they're a little shell shocked from Election Night."
"Leo will keep them on track," Donna replied confidently.
"I think something's bothering him," Margaret said. "He's not himself. He's not concentrating like he normally does. And he looks tired."
"Leo looks tired?"
"Yeah."
"That's not good."
"No," Margaret agreed. "How's your dad?"
"They're going to try to operate again," Donna informed her. "He had that fever and they wanted to hold off with the bypass until it came down. Whatever the infection was, it seems to be gone. They're supposed to try again on Wednesday. He's been home this week so I think we may need to sedate him to get him to the hospital."
"Not a fan?"
"That's an understatement," Donna replied.
"Well, if you need anything, let us know," Margaret said. "We'll be here... I hope."
*****************
Dec. 1, 7 a.m.
"Run that by me again," Bartlet commanded.
His staff and the lead counsel for the Plaintiffs in Pennsylvania were gathered in the Oval Office early to conduct a new strategy session with the President. He had flown back from his brief stint in New Hampshire for the holiday with his family. His mood was as brusque and chilly as the weather outside.
"The court is standing by its decision," Milo Reed explained. "They haven't publicly said what they're going to decide about a recount, but I can tell you with certainty that they will not grant one, Mr. President."
Reed was a spry man of an indeterminate senior age. His hair was silver and wild and his eyes were a sharp, piercing green. He came with the highest of praise from Leo McGarry and the blessing of the chiefs at the DNC.
"They know the tallies are flawed, but they don't feel compelled to fix the mistake?" Bartlet asked again.
"It's not that simple, Mr. President," Josh interjected.
"You don't say."
"Okay," Leo broke in. "That's all we've got for now. CJ, tell the press that the President has confidence that the will of the people will prevail and the Court will do what the law clearly states it should do. That'll put a little heat back on them."
"I'll make some notes for the radio address," Toby said. "Civic duty and whatever."
"That's the spirit," Bartlet remarked.
"We're done," Leo nodded as they all rose. "Josh, in my office for a minute."
The others left the room leaving Milo with the President.
"Should I go?" Milo remarked. "No one gave me orders."
"Me either," Bartlet grinned wearily. "Sit. I wanted to talk with you for a moment since we've put you on the front lines in this thing in Pennsylvania."
Milo did as commanded and sat on the couch. The President sat beside him then sipped his coffee.
"I'd have done it anyway, Mr. President," the attorney said. "It's cheating. No matter who actually won the votes, the public has a right to know the accurate results. That is more important to me than whether the Democrats get the electoral votes."
"I understand," Bartlet nodded. "For that, I wanted to thank you, personally. Don't get me wrong, if those votes are mine, I want them. But you're right. We owe a debt to greater truths than merely emerging as the victor."
"I agree," Milo said. "And, if the courts do what they are leaning toward doing, we'll lose. But just so you know, I think the race was close, Mr. President. Pennsylvania was no different than the rest of the country. It was close. I know it seems little tenuous right now, but I think this is the way elections should be. It shouldn't be easy to choose a leader."
Bartlet nodded. On some level, he agreed. On another, he knew he'd done a better job on his worst days than Ritchie could hope to do on his best. To him, naturally, the choice had been simply and clear.
"You're from Pennsylvania?" Bartlet asked.
"Not originally," Milo responded. "Wyoming. I went to school on the east coast and stayed."
"So you know Leo from his days in Boston?"
"Yes," Milo answered. "I actually met him through Noah Lyman."
"Josh's father?"
"Yes," Milo responded. "It was when I was assisting Noah's firm on the Bennington case. It was ... Well, the details don't matter. It was a horrible case; everything around then was horrible. At the start, there were certain nuances that Noah wanted an opinion on and he called in Leo."
"Did you win?"
"That case?" Milo shook his head and looked grave. "No, not initially. Things fell apart three weeks into the trial. Noah had to step down and.. Well, so long ago."
"I see," Bartlet nodded. "So you've known Josh for some time."
"I met him briefly when he was a child," Milo replied. "I actually got to know him when he was an adult. My oldest, Mark, and Josh met each other at college and shared a house with Chris Wick and a few others. They nearly got thrown out of Harvard because of some prank with a fish. Noah and I were not pleased with them that day, but the two of us had quite a laugh over dinner about it afterward. Oh, seems like another life time."
"I understand he was quite a person to know," Bartlet said.
"Noah?" Milo questioned. "He was a good man. In someways, Josh is just like him and in other ways, he is so different."
"How so?"
"Style and substance, I suppose," Milo mused. "The way I've seen Josh react and behave when he's supporting a cause is like watching Noah electrify a court room. The phrasing, the gestures, the expressions. It's like seeing a ghost. But Noah himself told me this, Josh is smarter than his father. Noah was wise and clever and knowledgable, but for all this talents, what made him most proud was that his son was even sharper than he was. Which isn't to say Josh doesn't have his shortcomings. For instance, I was kidding Josh in the hallway before we came in here. I asked him, why are you a lawyer? Know what he said?"
"He wanted to be like his father?"
"No," Milo grinned. "He said, 'because I passed the bar exam.' No creativity in that boy about some things."
"Yeah," Bartlet said.
The need for further conversation ended as Leo returned with Josh in his wake. They thanked Milo again and summoned Charlie to escort him to a car waiting to take him to the airport.
From their expressions, Bartlet knew Leo and Josh's tête-à-tête was over, and they were going to have a recommendation for Bartlet. He knew what it would be; he had read the briefing memos and had long discussions with both Leo and Bruno on the topic the previous evening. It seemed a lost cause, but he was willing to go through the motions for the sake of history. Someday students would read about his failed re-election bid in their textbooks--assuming public schools survived the test of time and textbooks were not a luxury.
"So, have you had a chance to consider our discussion?" Leo asked.
"Yeah," Bartlet sighed. "Do it."
"Sir, the best chance we have is..." Leo began.
"The best chance was a month ago," Bartlet said closing the memo. "This is our only real option. It's not a good one, but it's what we have. So do it."
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. President," Josh said as turned to exit.
"Josh," Bartlet called. "Stay here."
"Sam and I are going to meet with the leadership," Leo said, eyeing Josh carefully.
"Send them my love," Bartlet quipped as he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk.
"Yes, sir," Leo said then departed with a dire expression.
"Was there anything else you wanted, Mr. President,?" Josh asked.
"Yes," the President replied as he retrieved the board and box containing the game pieces. "Sit. You're playing chess with me."
*****************
10:02 a.m.
"I think we made progress," Sam said as he and Leo exited the office. "They didn't expect that we weren't going to enter another court challenge. The pressure's on them now--sort of. I mean, the electoral college votes next week and they'll come up short with 270 for anyone so now the game starts over. I think we're starting off right. I mean, Rossiter didn't react the way I expected and that's not as promising as I hoped, but over all, this was a step forward. And some progress is better than none, right?"
The meeting had not gone as Sam expected--particularly on his side of the table. Leo was unexpectedly quiet, almost withdrawn during the discussion. They had ended the meeting with more questions on the table than when they entered. Still, the talk had not dissolved into a shouting match or anyone predicting dire results to a House vote in two weeks, so that was a good thing in Sam's book.
"Progress is a good thing," Leo said slowly.
Larry, accompanying he and Sam, looked at the Chief of Staff with a questioning expression. There was something odd about the comment and about the sound of Leo's voice as he spoke. It was soft and distant as though he was half asleep and half out of breath.
"Leo?" Larry asked, touching the man's elbow to get his attention.
"The President said a while back, that... that," Leo paused. "What we're doing here is... Other countries can't do this; it would be chaos. What we do next sets us apart. This, what we're doing, this is what keeps us from join that league."
"What league?" Larry asked as Leo stopped walking. "Sam, hold up. Leo?"
"The league of ordinary nations," he said with a blank expression as his face went flush.
Sam turned around at Larry's request. What he saw concerned him. Leo was a couple of paces behind him, loosening his tie. Sam noticed how considerably pale Leo looked; how little beads of sweat formed around his forehead.
"Leo?" Sam asked, returning to the man's side. "You don't look good all of a sudden. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he replied taking a deep, labored breath. "Are we done here?"
"Yeah, we finished," Sam said, eyeing the Chief of Staff with grave concern.
"Right," Leo nodded and rubbed a trembling hand over his brow. "That's right."
"We should head back," Larry observed.
"Yeah," Sam agreed and turned to speak in a hushed tone to Larry. "Get the driver to bring the car around."
As they spoke, anxious to return to the White House to plan the next level of strategy, they failed to notice Leo grasping the wall to balance himself.
"Do you want me to call Josh or Toby so they have a heads up?" Larry asked. "Oh my god! Sam!"
Sam, whose back was to Leo, saw only the expression on Larry's face. It was a look of shock and possibly horror--for a moment, all Sam could think of was that night in Rosslyn. Larry pushed past Sam and reached forward. Sam whipped around to see Leo's knees buckle as the man collapsed. Sam, thurst his hand out and grabbed Leo's elbow as Larry took hold of his shoulders.
In that instant, the door to the office of Representaive Chris Wick openned. An intern for the Wick was in the door way.
"What's going on?" the man asked then registered the scene before him.
Sam and Larry laced Leo's arms over their shoulders and swiftly moved him into the private confines of the office.
"Get help," Sam ordered Larry then turned to the intern. "Help him out; do it quickly and quietly."
*****************
10:15 a.m.
"What are you doing?" Bartlet questioned sharply as he looked at the board.
"That was my move," Josh shrugged.
"That.... Why did you... That's not a.... Don't you have any strategy?" Bartlet asked. "I thought you could play."
"I can," Josh replied. "Just not well. I know my limits."
"Meaning?"
"I can't beat you," Josh responded.
"How do you know?" Bartlet growled. "You haven't even tried! Josh, every move you have made has no forethought. You're supposed to think 10 steps ahead in chess. That's how you win. You out think and therefore outmaneuver your opponent."
"I wasn't trying to win," Josh explained.
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm just trying not to lose," Josh replied.
"That's what you've been doing?" Bartlet asked, startled by the admission. "Trying not to lose? You're playing me to a stalemate? That was your goal?"
"My goal was not to lose," Josh said again. "It's not the same as winning, but when you know you can't win, it's the next best thing. It's better than losing."
Bartlet looked up from the board to observe the man. There was no taunt in his expression. His words were matter-of-fact, like he was telling the time. Before Bartlet to comment on the strategy Josh was employing, Charlie entered with a pained and grave expression on his face as he handed the President a folded piece of white paper.
*****************
Up next, Chapter 24: Rites
of Succession