I apologize in advance...the last scene got a little odd, but it did it all on its own. Just kinda happened that way...

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Chapter 2

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They sat in silence for a moment, Bartlet unsure of how to respond, and Sam clearly unwilling to say anymore. Jed called Charlie in to bring Sam a glass of water and watched as the younger man stared into the glass.

After taking a few sips, Sam finally regained his composure enough to speak. "I dealt with it a long time ago, sir. I spent more than five years in therapy afterward. I've never gotten over it, but I've dealt with it. This morning…well, it's just that things like that still get to me, and the way Toby was treating it was a little too much for me. I apologize for losing my cool."

Jed shook his head. Of all the things for the kid to think about at the moment. "Don't worry about it, Sam. I would like you to tell me about it, however. Just…what you can."

"There's not much to say. The kidnappers requested a ransom, and my parents refused to just pay it and be done with it. They got the police involved in it, so the kidnappers kept me for nearly six months, until the police finally caught up with them. It wasn't a fun time."

Sarcasm…Sam's most classic defense mechanism. Jed fought the urge to shake his head. "What happened to you?"

"When I was with them?" Bartlet nodded and after a moment the speechwriter replied, "The same thing that's happening to those kids." His voice was so soft that Jed could barely hear him, and his eyes were fixed on the floor.

"I see." He was silent for a moment before asking, "How did you deal with what happened?"

"Other than running up therapy bills and being afraid of my father?" Sam asked, looking up and raising an eyebrow. He went on without waiting for a response. "I, ah, I had a lot of trouble, actually. I drank pretty heavily when I was in high school. College too, and law school."

"Drugs?"

The other man looked down again, fixated on his hands. "In high school, and the beginning of college. But once I could drink legally, it was mostly alcohol. I never went through AA and I don't consider myself an alcoholic, because I never felt like I NEEDED to drink…I just wanted it. When I realized it was a problem – that was toward the end of law school – I was able to stop without difficulty. Now, I try to only drink socially, but sometimes…well, let's just say it amazes me that Leo's been able to go so long in his job without a drink. Sometimes that's the only thing that can help me relax at the end of the day." He raised his eyes and almost cracked a smile.

"If you went by technical definitions, I think that the only person working in this building – this city, really – who isn't an alcoholic would be Mrs. Landingham," the President said. Then he leaned forward conspiratorially, whispering, "And I'm not even sure about her." As he sat back, he winked.

The comment brought a real smile to Sam's face and Jed smiled inwardly, satisfied with his success. He elected to change the focus of their conversation from Sam's own past to what was happening in California now. "Sam, I've already said I want to take your advice on the situation in California. I also want to keep up on what's happening. I want to know numbers every day until it's resolved, and I want to know what the FBI is doing about it. I'd like for you to be in charge of that, provided you're willing."

Sam looked surprised. "Of course, sir."

"All right. I'd like to speak to someone from the FBI this afternoon, preferably someone who actually knows something. Talk to Mrs. Landingham about when I'm free, will you? And would you plan to sit in on the meeting? If Toby has a problem, tell him to stuff it."

Sam nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."

"All right; I'll see you later, Sam. And if you need anything, let me know."

Jed watched him rise, looked into the haunted eyes once more, and felt badly for a moment for bringing up such a painful past. But he didn't feel badly enough to regret it. "Yes, sir," Sam repeated as he turned to leave.

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By what Sam could only call a miracle, he made it back to his office without completely losing his composure. He reached for the phone the moment he sat down, intending to call the D.C. Field Office for the Bureau, but instead his fingers dialed the direct number to Josh's office. "Yeah?" the Deputy Chief of Staff answered distractedly.

"I told him."

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So much for distraction. Those three simple words and Sam had Josh's full attention. "You told him?"

"He knew. Somehow, he knew." Sam's voice was shaking. "I told him everything. The ransom, the abuse, the therapy, the drinking, the drugs. I told him everything," he repeated.

"I'll be right there." Josh hung up the phone quickly, jumping out of his chair. He tossed a file at Donna as practically ran past her desk, ignore her annoyed yelp. When he reached Sam's office, he saw that the other man was still holding on to the phone. No, not holding. Clinging was probably a better choice of words. "Sam?" Josh called his name gently. "You can hang up now." He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Sam looked up at Josh, startled by his words. His gaze traveled from the phone in his hand to the man in the doorway, confusion written all over his face. Josh walked the rest of the way into the office, kneeling beside Sam's chair. When the speechwriter gave no sign of moving, Josh reached over and took the phone from the other man's hand, resting it on the cradle. "Feel like talking?"

"Not really," Sam responded hollowly, shaking his head repeatedly.

Josh just stared at his friend for a moment. Sam's face was pale, and his eyes dull. As Josh studied him, he stared back vacantly, as if he wasn't really seeing Josh at all. A moment later, though, he shook his head, and the strange look in his eyes was gone. "Sorry, I must have spaced out for a minute. What were you saying?"

"Sam?" Josh shook his head. "That's it. You're going home."

The speechwriter looked taken aback. "No, I don't. I have a meeting with someone and the President this afternoon."

Staring incredulously, Josh echoed, "Someone and the President? Sam, do you even know what you're talking about?" He'd known Sam to be vague on a regular basis, but that was a little much even for him.

"Yes, I do," he replied, sounding irritated. "I have to arrange a meeting with someone from the FBI. I said someone because I won't know specifically who we're meeting with until I call and set up the meeting."

"Why someone from the FBI?" Josh asked, relieved that Sam was making sense again.

"The President wants to talk to somebody about California. He wants to know everything they're doing, and how things are looking out there. He wants us monitoring it, and he asked me be in charge of that."

That could be a good thing or a very, very bad thing. "What made him go our way instead of Toby's?"

Sam looked at him, eyes once again dark with barely concealed emotion. "Me, I think."

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Sam led the agent, a woman named Stephanie Lewis, through the halls of the West Wing and stopped by Charlie's desk. "Is he—"

"I'll tell him you're here," the young man said, standing and walking to the door to the Oval Office. As he opened it, Sam heard him say "Sam's here, Mr. President." He heard Bartlet answer back, but couldn't make out the words, and then Charlie nodded and turned around. "You can go in," he told them as he walked back to his desk.

Sam nodded and motioned for Stephanie to precede him into the office. "Mr. President, this is Special Agent Stephanie Lewis. She's the liaison for the San Diego office, which is the field office that's handling most of the leg work."

Bartlet held a hand out to her, and she returned the gesture. "Honored to meet you, sir, though I wish it was under different circumstances."

"As do I," he replied. "Have a seat." He sat down on one of the couches as they took the other. "Tell me what you know."

She smoothed out her skirt. "Very little, unfortunately. The children who have been released know nothing. All they can tell us is that they drove around for hours in a car with leather seats. They were blindfolded and kept in a windowless room. When they were returned to their parents, they were blindfolded, driven around for hours, and dropped off in an alley, always near a police station, hospital, fire department, or school. Each child whose parents have cooperated has been returned within 72 hours of the ransom being delivered."

"And what happens to the children while they're being held?" Bartlet asked.

Sam drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. This was the part he didn't want to hear. He could just envision himself breaking down in the Oval Office, in front of the President. If that happened he thought he'd go home and shoot himself.

It wasn't like the thought had never crossed his mind before.

He shook himself out of those thoughts in time to catch most of what Stephanie was saying. "—blindfolded, again, the entire time. The men who beat them or otherwise assaulted them rarely spoke."

"Assaulted," Bartlet repeated. "You're referring to sexual assault?"

"Yes." Stephanie nodded and Sam caught a glimpse of pain in her eyes. "There are physical and emotional signs that the children have been molested, repeatedly in most cases. Those that have been willing – or able – to talk to medical staff have described different forms of abuse, in varying degrees of detail."

"All right. Agent…"

"Lewis," Sam supplied.

"Agent Lewis, I'd like to issue a statement of support to those families who've been affected by these kidnappings. I'd also like to keep abreast of what's going on. Would you be so kind as to work with Sam on a statement – make sure he gets the facts straight and that the statement doesn't say anything it shouldn't?"

"Of course, sir."

"And also keep him informed, so he can keep me informed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think you could also make sure he eats and sleeps?"

"Sir?" The agent raised an eyebrow as Sam felt his face redden.

"Well, my staff…certain of them in particular…have a habit of forgetting that such things as food and rest are important. If you could…"

"Mr. President," Sam protested weakly.

"Have you eaten since we spoke?" Sam felt his face grow even warmer, and Bartlet smiled smugly. "My point. So, if you could, even just while you were working, make sure he swallows a…a jellybean, or something."

"A jellybean, Mr. President?" Sam echoed, not quite certain that this conversation wasn't ENTIRELY a figment of his imagination.

"Well, something…it was the first thing I could think of," the President replied defensively.

Sam arched an eyebrow. "Have you been taking your back medication again, Mr. President?"

"I have not." He looked quite offended. "I just need someone to make fun of once in a while, Sam. Mrs. Landingham is always on my case…I need a target of my own."

Sam looked down at the folder in his hands, trying not to laugh, especially considering it would be at his own expense. "Thank you, Mr. President."