Blood and State
By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew
Part 9/22
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
James Shirley: 1596 - 1666
Friday, the day after: The Press Room
Staring at the crowd of reporters crammed like stale sardines into the Press Room, listening to the steady drone of raised voices and catching a few snatches of heated but totally off-base speculation, C.J. Cregg's thoughts filtered back to another day not long ago. The memory was made all the more bitter by the words being carelessly tossed around by the press. Their voices brought another to mind. His voice; words spoken no less heatedly by a man she held in the deepest regard, but with a meaning she hadn't truly comprehended till now.
The threat of violence had prompted those words. Her stubborn refusal to listen had provoked the President's temper and his adamant insistence.
"I don't care." He'd said, ignoring all her protests to the contrary.
"Sir..."
"I don't care!" He wouldn't listen. He never did when his mind was set firmly on what he believed was right and he felt he had just cause. What followed had staggered her. "You're part of my family, and this thing is happening, and I simply won't permit it... sign the piece of paper."
Family. A completely unfair way to debate. Regardless of how the sentiment had touched her, how could she possibly argue with that? C.J. had reluctantly signed the document, beginning what?
Simon Donovan's face still haunted her; ridiculously serious, smiling and thoughtful, she'd never forget him. How could she? That one brief glimpse of the man's kindness with his little brother, Anthony, was one she could not, would not, banish. The memories were a sad reminder, a what if she'd never know the answer to. Violence had cast its long shadow.
Death had been the result.
"... I simply won't permit it." The President hadn't been able to stop it.
A cold shiver of premonition spread over her as she remembered those words. Death was stalking another person she cared for. Another what if that, if not countered, would end it all.
Watching the reporters gather in their seats, notepads ready and recorders primed for whatever she chose to feed them, C.J. stiffened her resolve. With words, she would beat back that shadow; deny it form and substance. Death wasn't going to win this time.
She would not permit it.
"You ready for this?"
"Ron send you to check up on me?" Snapped out of her musings, C.J. eyed Caro Lindstrom askance, challenging the Secret Service agent to offer up a rebuttal. "Or was it Leo?"
Caro smiled grimly, ignoring the edge in the Press Secretary's voice. "Nope. Wrong on both counts." She kept her voice even. Like C.J., they were all on edge, skating on the thin ice of possibility. Given what Caro knew this briefing was about to begin, she didn't begrudge her a bit of nerves. Couldn't blame the woman, really. A lot was riding on this. "You know what to do. Just thought I'd come watch the show."
"Bread and circuses," C.J. muttered, giving the agitated reporters waiting for her appearance a sour look.
"What?"
"Something the President once told me, how the Romans used to keep the populace happy and content. Toss them a few crumbs, give them a spectacle and nobody sees the truth." She clung to that memory, an ironic smile pulling at one corner of her mouth. The parallels hadn't escaped her. "The balance of blood and state; never take your eyes off the magician's hands. You might miss something."
"That's the point, isn't it?" Caro raked the crowd with a withering glance. "Are they for real? I mean, don't they know how ridiculous they look? How they sound?"
"You do this job as long as I have, you begin to realize the media rarely focuses on their own absurdities." C.J. shrugged with morose resignation, then took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. It was time to begin Leo's show. "Most of them will miss the point."
"And the ones who don't?"
"Won't ask the right questions." Of that, she was certain.
Caro nodded, stepping back to give the Press Secretary some room. The game was about to begin. Butterfield had warned them. Be prepared for anything. The admonition was not unwarranted, but expected. "Go get 'em, girl."
C.J.'s lips tightened grimly. "Damn straight," she growled, and stepped into the arena.
~ooOoo~
"Found 'em!" His scavenging a success and the illicit bag of chips in hand, Sam Seaborn shoved the desk drawer shut with his hip. Making his way across Toby Ziegler's office, he settled himself comfortably on the couch next to Josh Lyman. "You know, Leo's up to something," he said in a suitably mysterious hushed voice, tearing open the bag.
"Leo's always up to something." Lyman picked up the remote and turned the TV on. Lowering the volume, he gave his friend a wary glance. Sam embarking on a vague tour of emotional and evidential speculation was never good. "Where have you been lately? Give me some of those." He grabbed the bag.
"No, seriously, Josh. He's up to something. Couldn't you feel it? The man's keyed up, wired like I've never seen him before. He wouldn't look at us during the briefing..."
"If you want to call it a briefing," Lyman interrupted with a disgusted snort.
The atmosphere in the Residence last evening had been heavy and strained from the cloud of indecision and... fear hanging over all of them. Lyman didn't like the word, but it was the only one he could find to apply. Even the normally indomitable First Lady had been uncharacteristically silent and grim. Lyman couldn't blame her, not while her husband was lying there with the results of the attack still fresh and painful to behold. Damn, but even the President himself had been... off. The man had been too quiet, too… resigned. Yet another word he didn't like one bit.
Other than the reassurance that he was well and able to continue with his duties, Lyman hadn't any idea why the President had summoned his senior staff in the first place. Nothing had been accomplished, no sure strategy outlined for how they were going to handle or spin this.
A thought occurred to him, one that annoyingly played right into Sam's rather stretched assumptions. Had it perhaps been Leo, reassuring them and himself at the same time? As much as he hated to admit it - and give Sam the satisfaction - there had been another layer to that somber gathering.
Over the years, Lyman had become as astute as any of the other staffers at reading the hidden messages that passed between the President and his Chief of Staff. Sure, they never really knew what those messages were or meant, but they all knew when a pass had been made. Maybe someday they'd all even learn how to interpret them.
Either way, Lyman didn't like it. No more than he liked being out of the loop on this, or listening to Sam play around with the possibilities.
"He wouldn't look at us, Josh," Sam was insisting stubbornly, snatching the bag back and stuffing a chip into his mouth.
"Considering his mood, you wanted him to single you out for attention? Make direct eye contact? You got a death wish?"
Seaborn blinked. He was right. That sort of attention wasn't something any of the senior staff sought out from Leo McGarry, at least not deliberately. And considering his and Josh's track record with the man lately, definitely not something either one of them needed a repeat performance on. The resulting ego burns were worse than the nastiest case of road-rash and stung just as badly.
Still, he did have a point and was going to make it whether his friend liked it or not. "Well, no. Not really. I mean... you know what I mean. Don't dodge the issue, Josh."
"Yeah. Issues." Lyman rubbed his eyes tiredly, giving Sam that small bit of acknowledgment. Maybe just a tiny bit of support would shut him up. "Issues abound and let's just pretend you do have one."
"Yeah, I do."
"So?"
"So what?"
Lyman resisted the urge to throw a cushion at him. "You started this."
Searching through the bag for the perfect chip, Seaborn ignored him for a moment. Finding one, he held it up for further, intense scrutiny and muttered, "Toby wasn't there."
"Maybe Toby had a thing."
"One I wouldn't know about?"
Lyman gave his cohort a long, steady look and grabbed the bag. Maybe taking away the brain food would get him off this track.
"Okay." So much for that idea. Ziegler's poker face was legendary. If he did know something, no amount of observation or pestering would pry it out of him. Seaborn had tried and failed on any number of occasions. He preferred the road-rash. Disappointed at having that point skewered by questionable logic, Seaborn sullenly ate the perfect chip and hungrily eyed the bag now in Josh's hands. "We'll let that one slide."
Smirking, Lyman drawled, "Best do."
"Josh..."
"Sam!" Exasperated, Lyman shoved the bag back into Sam's hands. Taking it away hadn't worked. Maybe keeping his mouth full would. "Nobody knows anything, not for certain. You know as much as I do."
"Did you see Agent Butterfield's face?" Seaborn switched his attack vector. He had high hopes one or the other would get through Josh's defenses.
"Once," Lyman admitted reluctantly. "I tried to avoid any second glances. Not good for my ulcers or my mental health."
"You've got ulcers?" Seaborn let the whole mental issue slide. None of them were really up to par right now.
Repeating that earlier long look, Lyman added a scowl and a cynical lip curl for good measure.
Not deterred in the least, Seaborn persisted doggedly, "He wasn't happy."
"Ron?"
"Yeah."
"When is he ever?"
"Well," Seaborn crunched another chip and thought about it, "There was that time he got to body-slam that intruder..."
"You think he wanted to body-slam someone?"
A long pause and Seaborn said softly, testing the idea, "Maybe Leo?"
"Just another reason for me not to take another look at the man's face."
"So why did they pack Toby off to Manchester with the President?"
Lyman considered taking the bag away from him again. "Sam, what are you fishing for?"
"I don't know!" Seaborn raised his voice, then glanced warily at the closed door. There were a lot of people just outside. Softening his tone a bit, he repeated his earlier charge. "They're up to something."
"I thought you said Leo was up to something?" Lyman pointed out reasonably.
"They all are."
A knock at the door and Donna poked her head in. "What's up, guys?"
Two guilty looks were exchanged and both men stammered in unison, "Nothing."
Laurel and Hardy were back. Her initial impressions confirmed, Donna invited herself in and shut the door. She'd been looking for a sanctuary of her own, some comrades to share a quiet moment with amidst the emotional chaos raging through the bullpen. It looked like she was stuck with these two.
Donna supposed she could have done worse. "You're hiding in Toby's office."
"We wanted to watch C.J.'s briefing," Lyman told her innocently. "Toby has the best TV."
"Toby's TV works," Seaborn added.
"Yeah, right." Donna wasn't fooled by the tandem innocent act. She wasn't that gullible. The evidence was there in Sam's hands. "Toby's got the best munchie stash, too. You're up to something."
Lyman groaned.
Grinning at the backhanded support of his argument, Seaborn patted the seat next to him and invited Donna to sit. Elbowing Josh over to make room and handing her the bag of chips as a peace offering when she sat down, he said, "Somebody sure as hell is."
Rolling his eyes, Lyman leaned across Sam and grabbed the bag from Donna. Giving his assistant a stern warning, he growled, "Don't encourage him, Donna. That's an order."
"You actually follow his orders?" Seaborn asked ingenuously, quickly leaning back and saving his chin from a good crack as Donna angrily reached across his chest and recaptured the chips from her boss. Beneath the crackle of the bag, he heard a simultaneous snort of disdain from both of them.
"I try to humor him," Donna replied with a haughty toss of her head. "It doesn't take much."
Lyman snorted again.
Donna gave him her best 'you're gonna get it later' look and stuffed a handful of chips in her mouth. Chewing away, she dared Josh to respond.
Lyman ducked the look - he was a past champion at it - and had the temerity to wink at her.
Brushing a few stray chips off his lap, Seaborn shook his head. "You two need a referee."
"Or something," his friend grinned.
Even Donna had to acknowledge the hit. Graciously handing Josh the bag, she merely chewed and smiled. Something was certainly what she had planned. It was really a pity neither of these two spin-boys had a clue as to what.
"Hey!" Seaborn made a grab for the munchies as they were passed and missed. Frowning at Josh, he muttered plaintively, " I'm hungry, too."
"Go steal your own bag."
"I did steal that bag."
"Toby's going to hurt you guys when he gets back," Donna pointed out with a wicked little smile. "You know how he is about his starch stash."
Around a mouthful, Lyman offered his best legal rebuttal. "You're eating them, too."
"I'm not holding the bag."
Lyman shoved the bag into Seaborn's startled hands.
Blinking at the evidence now sitting in his hands, Seaborn gave the whole legal issue of possession some rather deep thought before shrugging. "What the hell. I'm hungry." Besides, if they ate the evidence, where was the proof? Then his earlier argument returned to him. "Besides, Toby's up to something."
"Oh, God," Lyman moaned, melodramatically slapping his forehead. "Not again."
"He is!"
"You said Leo..."
Seaborn didn't let him finish. "They're both jumping around like... I dunno, fleas on a griddle."
"Toby's not here, so how do you know he's hopping?" Lyman's face screwed up into a mask of deep, troubled thought. "And isn't that supposed to be a duck on a hot-plate?"
"Why would you want to put a duck on a hot-plate?"
"Why would you want to put a flea on a griddle?"
"Why would you two even be having this conversation?" Donna's beleaguered question was playful, but the underlying meaning was not. How could it be?
Under siege, speculation was all they had and emotions were running high. Nobody had any answers and if those few in the loop had any ideas, they were playing them close. If the ones left out of the know had to turn to the ridiculous to fill in the blanks while they waited, then so be it.
At least it was something.
"The best and the brightest," Donna muttered with a fond shake of her head. She shoved an elbow into Sam's ribs and liberated the chips with a clean jerk, sending more than a few flying. Smiling serenely at his yelp of protest, she observed dryly, "How have you two managed to keep your jobs?"
"Josh has you to clean up after him," Seaborn grinned. "Me, I'm just cute."
Donna rolled her eyes.
Speaking of cleaning up, the Deputy Chief of Staff was eyeing the scattered crumbs now decorating the floor and the couch. Lyman's keen legal mind regarded the mess worriedly. "That's evidence," he observed unhappily.
"Donna did it," Seaborn retorted archly, although he wasn't any more pleased than his friend. "Where do they keep the vacuum cleaner?" Best not to have any witnesses other than Donna.
"Both of you, shush." Donna picked up the remote and turned up the volume. "C.J.'s on."
On the screen, C.J. Cregg had stepped up to the podium, standing tall in front of the White House Seal. The chorus of shouts followed soon after, voices demanding and becoming one combined howl.
"C.J.!"
To be continued…