Title: Branded
Author: The Categorical Imperative
Genre: Drama/Angst
Rating: G
Characters: Ensemble
Feedback: Please either leave here or at All feedback really is greatly appreciated.
Spoilers: None.
Summary: Post-ep to Shibboleth. Ensemble. Toby reflects.
Disclaimer: The characters referred to in the West Wing and who feature regularly do not belong to me nor do I make any money from them. Other subsidiary characters have been created by me and any similarities to real people, dead, alive or yet to come are entirely coincidental. Statistics are either as current as I can find for the U.S. or manipulated percentages from the U.K. Each part of the plots are based on recent news stories on the BBC or New York Times websites but have been taken out of context and divorced from the individuals actually associated with them. They are merely things that could happen to anyone but in fact, they happen to the staff of the West Wing
Authors Note: I do not mean to offend anybody with this piece of fic. It has taken an indecent amount of time to get from conception to publication and many amendments and corrections have been made, however, it is important to state that all mistakes are mine. I hope you enjoy.
The sun shone through the small panel of begrimed glass that served as one of the few meagre sources of natural light in the small basement level apartment; the filtered rays illuminated the rectangular, brown mat that sat in front of the old door, its coarse weave a contradiction to the word 'welcome', emblazoned on it in permanent dye. Its owner, himself a contradiction, was not a fan of the slogan but the prickly piece of carpet served its purpose as an object on which an incomer could wipe their feet, although he never expected anyone but himself to enter the apartment and his attendance was reduced to a minimum because of the many hours he worked. The mat was particularly necessitated by the sub-ground level effects of sustained periods of rain. Should precipitation occur for any length of time, water and soil amalgamated to form muddy deposits on the stairs and at the compact concrete landing near the door.
As the mailman approached, his sleeves rolled up and the collar of his shirt undone, he checked in the bag that hung across his body from his right shoulder and sighed as he saw that there was mail for the basement flat. He cursed the rain that here had been over the past few days, only able to console himself that on that particular day it was fine, bright and summery. He walked cautiously down the steps, having previously been a victim of the slippery substance. He had sprained his ankle and ruined a brand new uniform to boot. Just the one bit of mail for that address, he noticed. As he took the white envelope from the bag, he quickly glanced at the front of it and narrowed his eyes, he then slipped it through the aperture in the old wooden door, the brown paint of which was peeling off.
He had never seen the apartment's resident, neither coming nor going; he was just delivering mail to another anonymous citizen in the metropolis of Washington D.C. Although he had hardly ever seen anyone to whom he delivered the mail, he felt as if he knew every person. He could tell when they had birthdays, he knew those with numerous overseas connections and those who tended only to receive bills. He had sometimes tried to think what some of the people to whom he delivered, whose names he knew as well as those of old friends from Nantucket, might do for a living. He pictured them as lawyers, as doctors, the old political operative but in D.C. you just never knew. He often thought that he would never know whether many of the people to whom he had delivered mail matched the pictures he had generated of them in his head, much to his regret when he though of his projections of Sarah-Jayne Harper of Flat 14a, The Towers.
Having popped the letter through, he turned around and walked back up the steps and onto street level, where he proceeded with his rounds, his association with that address done for the day.
The white envelope that the postman had delivered landed on the unsightly mat, the name of the addressee face up in a neat computer generated font, where it remained until the occupier returned from a hard day's work.
At a quarter to eleven at night, the occupier returned home. He put his hand up and rubbed the small box affixed to the right side of the doorframe, attached at an angle. The man kissed his fingers and then began to fumble in a small pocket in his bag. A key was slipped into the dull brass lock at the top of the door and manipulated to encourage the door to open. In inclement weather, the door was often a little reluctant to co-operate; it would swell in the frame and stick, or the key, being temperamental would refuse to turn completely to unlock the door, barring entry for the owner. Giving the door a hefty shove, it was finally persuaded to open. The man tugged hard to remove the key from the lock, almost losing his hold of it in the struggle; nothing but sheer determination and blind refusal to rescue it from the muddy recesses in the dark, stopped the offending object from being allowed to skitter to the floor outside. Once inside, he placed the key on a small ledge by the door and reached down to pick up the envelope, paying very little heed thereto, then wiped his feet on the abrasive matting. When the ritual was over, the envelope was placed on the shelf and the man untied his shoelaces, lining them up against the wall, just beyond the doormat, from whence they would be retrieved in just a few hours when his return to work was imminent.
He shrugged out of his long black overcoat and hung it on a peg in a miniscule closet; he then retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels and a weighty glass tumbler from their respective repositories in the galley kitchen. He poured a shot of the amber liquid into the stout glass and then replaced the bottle in its cupboard. He went into the sitting room and switched on the television, turned the volume down and changed the channel to CNN. He returned to the shelf to pick up the mail and then settled onto the tatty olive green sofa with his whisky, the television remote control and the envelope. He nestled the glass in his right hand, unconsciously swilling around its contents, transfixed by the flashing images ion the screen before him. He took a periodic sip or two the placed the glass on the floor by the side of the couch. He picked up the envelope distractedly, peering over it, his attention having been taken by something that the news anchor had just said about more fighting in Nngobya. When the report had finished, he returned his attention to the small envelope that had remained in his hands for the duration and studied the front to see whether it would provide any clues as to who might have sent it. The man checked the address, as there had been a recent spate of mistakes. Noting that the address on the front was indeed his, he checked to read the addressee. He quickly reached for the tumbler and picked it up, finishing liquid in one gulp, its warmth running down his throat. He read the front again but the addressee remained unchanged:
'Toby Ziegler, Jewish'.
"What's going on, Nancy?" asked the President at his briefing with the National Security Advisor and all other White House and military personnel. All officers involved worked in the White House Situation and were reconvening in their regular places around the large table. The meeting had been adjourned from the Cabinet Room and relocated in the Situation Room at the prompting of Doctor Nancy McNally, prompted by a grave security concern in Central Africa that had arisen at the quick-sheet briefing.
"We want to increase the Def-Con Status of Nngobya, Mr. President. We have personnel on the ground. The National Militia are getting closer to the towns, Sir. They're on top of a Doctors Without Borders encampment."
"Give me some background on this thing, would you?"
"Sir," said the Secretary, "Nngobya is a country in Central Africa with a population of approximately 27.9 million and a land area of 226,480 square kilometres. This is an age-old battle of land and ethnicity, Mr. President, where militiamen terrorise all those who do not belong. The country is based principally on a tribal mentality and old religions with the darkest origins of voodoo deeply rooted therein. They rape the women and girls and kill the men who are outside the tribe. This campaign has killed tens of thousands of people and driven two million people from their homes. All of this has been done to demoralise and humiliate the population; to get people to conform and convert."
"This is a racial thing?"
"No, the conflict is religious."
"The Tribe, they're almost a cult, if you'll allow, as part of a ceremony when they are born have a small mark branded on their right forearm, both boys and girls. For many the wound gets infected and they die, those who do not are seen as stronger and superior, blessed by God. Men and women without the brand are sinners and traitors…"
"And the only way to purify them is by raping the women and killing the men?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Nancy, I know that this question may seem a little naïve, but humour me, why can't they resist themselves?"
"The Tribe have developed superior conflict skills that simply cannot be matched by local people. They have neither the means nor the expertise to beat them. The Tribe are used to hunting things down, Mr. President, hunting things down and then killing them. That's how they survive."
"Okay, then, why can't men and women without the mark of the tribe not try imitate the brand themselves?"
"Some do but the brand is intricate and difficult to replicate. Others have their own religion, their faith in God and a promise of salvation is their protection."
The President mentally assimilated the information with which he had just been furnished and then instructed:
"Increase Def-Con status."
"Yes, Sir," said the officers within the room, all of whom had started fiddling with dials and buttons on the consoles in front of them, making lights of all different colours appear on switchboard and the large computer screen that dominated one end of the room
"I want our people out of there, Nancy. This isn't going to turn into another Haiti,"
"They're in no imminent danger, Sir," she assured.
"If there's even the smallest chance, the smallest chance that one person there could get so much as a paper-cut from this thing, I want a complete evacuation."
"Yes, Sir."
"Thank you all for coming," began the White House Deputy Chief of Staff as he took his seat next to Sam Seaborn, the Deputy Communications Director at the long table in the Roosevelt Room. Opposite him were two Senators and two representatives of the Christian Right: Mary Marsh and John Van Dyke, both of whom the men had encountered previously, Josh Lyman in particular. "I know this is short notice, but your attendance really is appreciated…"
"Why have you asked us here, Josh?" interrupted Mary Marsh before Josh had even settled into his place. She seemed defensive as she sat across from Josh in her tailored salmon pink suit. She leaned right forward and Josh could almost smell hostility on her breath. Lyman noticed that John Van Dyke sat back passively in his seat, happy to let Marsh take the lead. Josh couldn't help but notice the buttons that bulged apart around his girth and that he had neglected to completely tuck his navy shirt into his powder blue trousers, the tails of it appearing from underneath his buttercup tank-top. He nonchalantly took a mouthful of coffee from a polystyrene mug and sharply replaced it on the table, its contents slopping over the side. "My colleagues have already made representations to you…"
"Please, Mary, not in front of the visitors," said Josh, indicating to the two Senators.
"You'd like us to stop?" asked Senator Winston Farmer, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward. The junior Senator from California was very tall and cut an impressive figure in his expensive charcoal grey suit. Elected into office as a bad kid come good, he had grown up in East Compton and had, in the past, been involved, although never charged, with gang activity. His behaviour had adapted when his parents moved to the north of California, where he had been the only black member of his high school class. He studied law at UCLA and worked in the P.D.'s office until running for election.
"We would," stated Sam.
"May I ask why?" he raised an eyebrow.
"Because we think that this piece of legislation that you keep harping on about would be ill-advised," responded Josh.
"And can I ask why," asked Senator Walt Parker, undoing his jacket, which was too tight for him, reaching for one of the Danish pastries from the platter on the table. He was a short stout man who wore a significant amount of plaid. As wide from the side as he was up and down, he had tufts of grey hair with honest blue eyes but was renowned on the Hill as much for his novelty socks as his ardent liberalism.
"You don't think it's going to make us look like we're the thought police?"
"No, I think it's going to make you look like you're responsible."
"Senator, we've been here before, you remember Lowell Lidell?"
"Who?" Walt asked, not understanding what bearing that might have on the issue at hand.
"High School Kidd from Dakota…"
"Minnesota," corrected Sam, "St. Paul."
"Whatever," said Josh as he waved a hand at his colleague, perturbed that the flow of his narration had been interrupted.
"I do," interrupted Senator Farmer as Josh prepared for the resumption of his tale, "he was a seventeen year old kid, a high school senior, who died from massive trauma after some kids younger than him beat him up, stripped him naked, tied him to a tree and threw rocks at his head. The assailants were thirteen. He died on 23rd December in the Saint Paul memorial hospital and all because of the fact that he was gay. Don't presume, Mr. Lyman, that I come to these meetings ill-prepared; you floated a test balloon back then, it sank but that doesn't make any legislation to the contrary wrong, it makes it more necessary. There is obviously some confusion somewhere within society; let's shout louder, make more people hear, the message obviously isn't getting through." Josh opened and closed his mouth a moment, trying to think of something with which to respond. After a moment's pause he asked the Senator:
"Have you been doing some work with Joey Lucas?"
"I'm sorry?" the Senator narrowed his eyes, looking perplexed.
"She spoke to me once about numbers for…I can't remember what…She said that if that many people say they don't agree with you, you haven't gotten your message through. There are people you have yet to persuade, so you've gotta dial it up…" Sam sent Josh a sideways look, quickly flicking a stray piece of hair that had fallen down over his glasses. "You're saying that's what we need to do?"
"This is a real problem, of course it needs addressing. On any generic document pertaining to equality you will find race, age, sex, disability and yes, religion. We absolutely cannot stand by a moment longer, Josh, when there are people out there who are being persecuted for what they believe and the fact that this White House that has always been so big on the Bill of Rights has conveniently forgotten the very essence of the First Amendment!"
"Woah, down, there!"
"Don't patronise me, Josh. I'm making you feel uncomfortable, I understand but I have numbers for you, if you're willing to listen. As America is still seeking to form a more perfect union, I can't think of anything that would be more fundamental."
"I think its fine, I think its admirable," said Josh as he leaned into the back of the seat "but you come in here asking for protection of religious rights and although you've mentioned them, I don't here you screaming about gender disparity, racial equity, the destruction of disability discrimination or the abolition of ageism."
"They're being addressed, although rather poorly in the Bill passing through the House as we speak. Religion was too contentious, apparently; it was omitted.
"Josh…" interrupted Van Dyke, who seemed bored, "why have we been asked here?"
"Because we're against this law," interrupted Mary. She neatly removed her jacket to reveal a raspberry-coloured silk blouse. Josh marvelled at her temerity, to wear an ensemble that was so…pink. He was almost distracted by the thought.
"How does it feel to be on our side?" asked Sam politely, Mary Marsh glared at him.
"You're against this law?" asked Senator Farmer, "as Christians, how can you, in all good conscious, stand in front of us and object to a law promoting religious equality."
"We have teachings, Senator, from the bible that offer us advice and wisdom. It teaches us of society and the value of things, about equality and respect for all men. It is not something that needs to be legislated; it is natural that no man should recognise distinction between Gentile nor Jew, as we do as Christians, we do not recognise distinction between Ugandan and Canadian, rich or poor. Everyone is equal in they eyes of God."
"Not strictly true though, is it Mary," suggested Josh, "or is that just my New York sense of humour making me temperamental," Marsh glared at him while Josh assumed a self-satisfied smirk.
"That seems very noble to me," concurred Farmer. Mary Marsh sat back in her seat, she felt like she had proven her point, "however," continued the Senator, "despite the teachings that you have cited here today, the views of your contemporaries, seem to me, to differ entirely when it comes to equal rights recognition between men and women who want to be ordained; you seem to forget, also, I observe, the equality that should be afforded to gay men who want to enter ministry!"
"It offends the sanctity of God," stuttered Marsh.
"While you offend God's teachings. You seem to me to be vindictive. You champion rights for all yet you do not observe them. You say it is innate, yet you demonstrate to the contrary. You think nothing of love and justice. Your religion can be complacent and your ignorance, ma'am, offends me." Josh tried to hide the smile that was tugging at his lips.
"That's nice and all, and I really do appreciate the point you're trying to make, Senator, but it has little forbearance on the agenda for today."
"That would be to get us to stop pushing for this Bill?" asked Parker.
"It would," agreed Josh, nodding resolutely.
"Fine, then, let's talk about this," said Walt as he took a large bite of his sticky pastry, leaving a litter of crumbs all over the smooth mahogany table. "Let's talk about your policing figures. I think that all Republicans and a few Democrats, too, I shouldn't wonder, think that your law and order record is pretty abysmal…"
"Our law and order record is fine," interjected Sam, his tone matter-of-fact, as he picked up a pen and scrawled something on the yellow legal pad in front of him. Josh leaned into the back of his seat for a moment, tracing around the edges of something invisible on the dark wooden table with the lid of his pen.
There was a knock on the door of the Roosevelt Room and Toby Ziegler entered. He had evidently just arrived for work as he was still wearing his long, brown coat, although, Josh observed, he must have been to his office and deposited his morning cup of coffee, his copy of the New York Times and his briefcase.
"Josh, I need you a moment." Josh looked at Toby, a little concerned. The bearded man looked a little flustered; Josh had not seen him like that since the period immediately after the shootings at Rosslyn. Although when he had visited Josh at home, as per Donna's rules, he had done his utmost to appear calm, it was evident to Josh he was not; he saw some of that anxiety reflected in Toby's deep brown eyes as he stood in the doorway. Josh was concerned too, because Toby had clearly arrived late that morning; it was already eight forty-five and Toby was usually installed in his office by six-thirty at the latest. Despite being late in, which to the casual observer might have suggested that a lie-in had been on the cards, Toby looked as if he hadn't slept and seemed pale. His fingers were fidgeting nervously and his eyes darted; he looked as if he was trying to ensure that nobody was watching him. Josh quickly got up and followed Toby to the far side of the hallway.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly when he had approached Toby, putting his hand firmly on the other man's arm, "you look a little strung out."
"Did you get any mail at home yesterday?"
"Toby, what the hell?" Josh concluded it was a rather unamusing joke and turned away, preparing to leave, "you drag me out of a meeting just to ask me whether I got any mail yesterday, where the hell do you get off?"
"Wait," Toby snagged Josh's arm urgently as he was turning around and walking back towards his meeting. He had forgotten that Toby would not joke; he had seen the anxiety in his friend's eyes. The bearded man pulled him towards him and pulled something out of his pocket, "this, did you get one of these yesterday?"
"Toby, it's a white envelope I don't get…" Josh trailed off as he saw what was written on it. "What the hell is that?"
"You didn't get one?"
"Have you had any threats - anything?" Josh had to do his utmost to control the volume of his voice.
"You didn't get one?" Toby persisted, running his hand quickly and nervously over his beard; it was as if he hadn't heard Josh.
"No." he responded abruptly, "who's it from?"
"I don't, I didn't know whether to open it." Josh looked Toby dead in the eye, he had never seen him so hesitant before, "man this has really shaken you up," Toby continued to move his hands, swapping the envelope around and putting his free hand in his trouser pocket, from whence he removed an old tissue, the remnants of which he began to tear into little shreds.
"It's not…Josh, I'm incensed. I'm a practicing Jew, I go to temple when I get the opportunity, that news is nothing to people who know me but why would I get mail addressed to me in the name of Toby Ziegler, Jewish." Toby's voice was undergoing constant increases in volume, "I mean is it part of a premium for a better mail service, I doubt it? Why would it need denoting? I'm Jewish," his voice dropped, it was incredibly quiet. Josh felt drawn into his oratory, he understood how intimate an undertaking this was, "it's an intensely private part of my life. Does it affect the way I work, the way I make decisions, sometimes; does it affect the way I advise the President? Once. But it's mine and mine alone not everything has to be knowni."
"You want me to open it?" Josh held his hand out for Toby to give him the envelope, the Communications Director did not.
"It's nothing, right?" he said as he pulled tentatively at the flap that sealed the envelope. When it was split across the top, Toby hesitantly removed the piece of paper, quickly skimmed it and let out a nervous laugh. "It's come from a charity!"
"But why?"
"I don't know, but you can bet your ass that I'm gonna find out. Whoever's repsonsible's gonna get to know about this."
"You're okay?" the tension on Toby's face, although still present, had metamorphosed from the anxiety of anticipation to anger.
"Yeah. Go back to your meeting. I have a few phone calls to make."
"Ah-kay," said Josh as Toby quickly made his way through the Communications Bullpen to his office, where the red engaged light soon appeared on his telephone. Joshua Lyman turned around and walked back into the Roosevelt room, stopping just inside the doorway and holding the door with one hand to keep it from closing on him.
"Get me numbers," he said, as he deftly switched the hand that was on the door and turned around, preparing to leave. He had expected the Senators to need a recess, assuming that they had gone with little information, knowing that their campaign was lost before it was almost started. He had expected that they would have to leave to go back to the Hill to find an intern to gather the information that they needed. His expectations had been wrong.
"I got numbers," said Farmer, pushing forward a folio bound in black leather and indicating it discreetly with his hands. Josh sat back down and pulled his chair nearer the table. Mary Marsh and John Van Dyke both flicked their eyes to the side. They looked disgusted that what they perceived as a preposterous exercise was going to take even more of their time. It was made worse by the realisation that they were once again playing their game as opponents to the White House.
"Let's talk."
"Claudia Jean," began President Josiah Bartlet, as he looked up from the dossier that sat balanced on his lap, "is there an actual reason for us to do this or did Charlie just set the two of us up?" C.J. laughed nervously.
"Sir, you know these instructions came straight from the Chairman of the DNC…"
"I always thought that man was an idiot…"
"Yes, Sir," appeased C.J., "only it turns out that people, many people…voters…think that Democrats lack coherent values."
"Just how uncomfortable are you having this conversation with me?"
"Well," the tall Press Secretary said as she crossed her legs and began wringing her hands, "I imagine that as uncomfortable as I am now, that this whole thing will be getting a lot worse before long." C.J. was sitting on one of the sofas, her shoulders hunched as she tried to fold herself within the contours of the furniture. She wore a dark mushroom skirt suit with a white blouse; simple but elegant. The President sat up straight in one of the wingback chairs, his steaming mug of coffee resting on a small table to his side.
"Okay."
"They think we talk too much about programmes,"
"Aren't programmes good? They show we're doing things, right? That we're not just identifying problems and thinking, 'oh, well, I see a problem but I am so thoroughly absorbed in sustaining my values that I have no earthly way of trying to concoct a plan to dig us out of the damned hole we've fallen into."
"Sir, I appreciate your point…"
"We've won an election C.J., surely our record speaks for itself,"
"Well, Mr. President I think the DNC, pleased as they are to have won this election, may be even happier if they win the next one and the one after that and the one after that. They don't want the party to lose its way."
"I don't believe I have lost my way. I fought an election campaign, which I won by the way, on issues and with not only values, but programmes, I'm a…"
"A practical President, yes, Sir, I know…"
"What do they want me to do?" The President sighed, C.J. just looked uncomfortable.
"They want…Sir… they want you to talk to some people…"
"Who?"
"The list is on page twelve," said C.J. looking down at her lap and smoothing her skirt as the President turned to the relevant page. He skimmed down the list of names and then took of his glasses, looking pointedly at his Press Secretary.
"C.J." he said in a tone that could have been construed as being located between accusatory and threatening.
"Sir, I know this doesn't look good but they think it will give the party a common cau…" She fiddled nervously with a button on her jacket, her long fingers manipulating it round, back and forth.
There was a sharp rap on the door that separated the Oval Office from that of Leo McGarry, the White House Chief of Staff. The diminutive but powerful man opened the door crisply and addressed the President.
"Sir, I've just got a message from Nancy McNally," Leo did not need to finish his sentence; the President had already risen to his feet and pulled on his jacket.
"And we," he addressed C.J., "will continue with this later."
"Yes, Sir," she said as she carefully piled papers up onto her copy of the DNC's report, proceeding to leave via the office shared by Charlie Young and the President's Executive Secretary.
"Approximately 18 of all hate crimes have a religious motivation and of all hate crimes, it is the one with the highest occurrence increase, while other classifications of hate crime are decreasing, thanks partially to the piloting of new legislation. Religious animosity is undergoing a significant increase. That's why something has got to be done."
"You know how underreported hate crimes are, I heard the President speak on it way back on the House Floor." Said Walt. "Things haven't changed, you know that and if you don't that seems a little complacent of a White House that was itself the victim of a hate crime." Both were Freshman Congressmen together many years before.
Mary Marsh sat back and crossed her arms in front of her. She fixed a pointed glare at Sam across the table.
"Oh no," stuttered Sam, "don't you dare, don't you even dare try to turn this back round onto us…" the Deputy Communications Director rose to his feet, leaning forward on his hands which were rested on the table.
"Sit down, Sam." Josh instructed quietly in something of an authoritative tone. Seaborn obeyed, sparing a glance at Mary Marsh.
"Hate crime occurrences rose by about a third last year alone, anti-Semitic threats are up 323, and that's 323 of the principal area of religious hate crimes, those against Jews, they constitute 82.86. In these days of paranoia combined with the so-called Eastern threat, hate crimes against Jews blow even the number of crimes against Muslims into oblivion. Think about it this way; all the other religions there are in the world, all of the other religions that there are in the United States today, and the group most at risk of being the victim of a hate crime are the Jews." Josh almost felt Senator Hyde's comment punch him in the stomach. "This isn't just about a single mean-spirited comment," he continued, a very powerful and evocative speaker, "this is about assaults, physical assaults, of which there have been an enormous proliferation. So great has the increase in physical attacks been, that it has surpassed all other forms of malice. By malice I do of course include vandalism, the desecration of property, of holy places: Synagogues and Jewish cemeteries. You know over in Maryland, two days ago, a temple there was broken into, inside they had taken cans of spray paint and painted swastikas on the wall. The Nazi Swastika mean anything to you Josh?"
"My grandfather was in Birkenau," Josh answered quietly, "but I guess you already knew that. I also guess that somewhere behind all of this is a conversation with Jeff Breckinridge."
"He and I are friends," stated Senator Parker, "where more appropriate for this to originate than the office of the Assistant Attorney General for Civil Rights."
"He put you up to this?" asked Josh.
"No, he just gave me a little background. Really Josh, we need a national programme."
"It's not a federal thing, it's something that states can legislate, Walt, okay if I call you that?" Walt nodded, "in fact, many states already have done."
"But by no means all of them and by no stretch is that legislation consistent; Arkansas, Hawaii, Indiana, Kansas, New Mexico, South Carolina and Wyoming have no legislation at all but that is not the extent of the problem, no sir. That's not the worst thing we have to contend with."
"And what would that be?" asked John Van Dyke. His mouth was covered with jam and sugar from the doughnut that he had just devoured.
"I think we'd all like to hear." Sam said, still aggrieved by the previous comment about the victimisation of the White House.
"Sam, I don't like your tone right now,"
"I'm sorry Senator," Seaborn added nonchalantly.
"Give us a minute," said Josh as he led Sam just outside the room.
"You've got the wrong thing going on in there, Sam." He said, keeping his voice to a minimum, looking back into the room over his shoulder the representatives of the Christian Right and the two Senators were sitting there talking to their respective colleagues but not to each other, waiting for the staffers' return, seemingly oblivious to the conversation that was going on outside. "You've got exactly the same tone you adopted with Mary Marsh and the Christian right over those Chinese immigrants and the thing with the playwright." Sam unconsciously glanced at them.
"Josh, I gotta say, its rich, but what I said to Mary Marsh is nothing compared with what you said to her. On television." Josh took another quick, nervous glance into the room and pulled the door shut, then he yanked Sam's jacket forcefully, coercing him to the other side of the hallway.
"Now listen, they're trying to help, do some good and something they genuinely believe in, now I don't know what your problem is but I suggest either you sit down and play nicely with the other children or you go and bother Toby, who I can assure will be considerably more pissed than I am at the moment. Now I don't know if you're pissed at them or you're pissed at me, but either way, that attitude does not go back into that room, you got me?"
"We met this morning; you said to me then, and I distinctly remember you said that there was no way we were going to do this!"
"I did."
"You said side with Mary Marsh,"
"I did,"
"So what does my attitude towards Parker and Farmer matter?"
"It matters a lot!"
"He was talking about Rosslyn, Josh, you telling me that he didn't mean anything…"
"He wants to help people, now if you and your hormones aren't happy sitting in this meeting, then, you know, I'm sure there are about ninety-six other things that you could be doing.
"You were as much against us taking this meeting as I was when Leo suggested it, and you know he only made us take it because he still hasn't forgiven us for something – I don't even know what – that we did, only it wasn't necessarily so much us as you and yet somehow I…"
"Sam," Josh placed his hands on Sam's shoulder, "we've been given this to do, and we owe it to everyone to do it right and to the best of our abilities even though it's not what Leo said. He trusts us to do what is right. Besides, I was wrong," Sam's eyes opened wide as he looked at his colleague. He could hardly believe that Josh had voluntarily admitted that he was wrong.
"Why the change?"
"I've realised what's important; the people at the heart of this,"
"You're just getting…C.J.'s been saying that all along and although I know I had no particular convictions on hate crimes, you know that I try to think about the people…" Sam stuttered a little. He was finding it difficult to understand Josh's change of heart.
"It's not until it's tangible, though. Until it's real to you that you realise quite how much that this is the very thing we should be fighting for…in order to form a more perfect union."
"We're producing new legislation as we speak,"
"But we left out religion, we sold it off for the women, for the disabled. We lost our focus on equality for all…"
"I said that. I stood there in Leo's office three weeks ago and said that and every time you shouted me down, you assured me that this would be THE Bill and now you're telling me it's not."
"I am." Sam stared hard at him, looking him directly in the eye. The intensity behind the look made Josh feel a little uncomfortable, however, he kept his expression open and honest and hoped that Sam would understand.
"Fine," Sam nodded and led Josh back into the Roosevelt Room. "I feel it would be prudent," Sam began, "if I apologised. We all thought your coming here would be a waste of time, that this was a foregone conclusion, you knew that too. Yet you're still here trying to do the right thing. I treated you with disrespect, I'm sorry. It turns out that somewhere, while we've been talking, the goal posts moved and I was the only one who didn't realise it." Mary Marsh and John van Dyke picked up their bags and left the room without uttering a single word.
Leo McGarry entered the Situation Room first with the President following closely behind. Everyone in the room rose to their feet immediately, showing the due respect for their Commander in Chief.
"Keep your seats," The President said as he took his place at the head of the long desk, looking directly at the images that were on the large screen in front of him. "Nancy, what's happened?"
"We've been making plans to remove our people, Sir, when we got news from Doctors Without Borders. Militia forces are within the principal towns; they are attacking anyone without the mark of the tribe."
"I think this has gone a little beyond a tribe now, Nancy,"
"Yes, Sir,"
"Get them out, get them all out of there,"
"Sir, we can't,"
"Get them all out of there."
"There's nobody near enough, they'd never make it on time. They've stormed the encampment. Some personnel have managed to find a strong hold and a battery radio, which is how we got this information. There's a transcript of the communication in front of you. Sir; they don't expect the door to hold out for very long,"
"Okay. We have their details so that I can call their families?"
"Mr. President, these aren't combat personnel, they're doctors and nurses…"
"And they will have died in service of this country's beliefs. You get me the names," he instructed. As he rose to his feet, so did everyone else within the Situation Room. He picked up the transcript then turned around and walked through the sturdy double doors with Leo close behind in his wake. When he had gone, those left returned to their duties and the Secretary of Defence ordered that someone should be despatched to find the names and contact details of those people who had gone to help and were about to die for their good will.
"You've already told me what happened and apologised now all I want you to do is tell me who I can complain to…"
"If I can just put you on hold, Sir, until someone who can answer your question is available…"
"Wait, wait, wait," Toby Ziegler said quickly, trying to beat the chirrupy woman on the other end of the phone who was endeavouring to put his call on hold for the sixth time. Her voice was several octaves too high for Toby to tolerate comfortably; every word she said threatened to pierce his eardrums.
"Sir," she drawled, Toby swore he could almost hear her bubble gum popping, "I need to put you on hold,"
"You've put me on hold, you've put me on hold, five times, in fact…" Suddenly he heard the familiar music playing its repetitive strains over and over in the never-ending loop.
Toby had been on the telephone for an hour and ten minutes to the charity firm who had sent him the offending letter. He was growing impatient and more than a little angry at the obfuscation he seemed to keep receiving. As the 'music', which sounded like a particularly tacky elevator music continued, Ginger, one of the Communications Aides, slipped through the glass door into Toby's office.
"I'm on the phone," he said to her sharply but she was not deterred.
"Charlie called. The President needs you in the Oval Office. Now." Toby quickly replaced the telephone's handset on the cradle and rose rapidly to his feet, half running half lolloping through the door and along the hallways as he made the sixty-three feet journey from his office to the Oval Office.
As the President finished briefing his staff on the situation in Nngobya, he furnished C.J. with a copy of the radio transcript. Everybody in the room stood. This meeting was incredibly formal and the solemnity of the occasion leant itself to all the dignity and pride that could be afforded by all of the President's most senior staff.
"We're not releasing names yet but I think there are some things in there for the Press Briefing."
"Mr. President."
"We're done." As all of the White House Senior Staff began to leave, the President called after C.J., "everyone but you, Claudia Jean."
She walked across the room and stood tentatively on the large seal of the President in the carpet. She stood with her hands in front of her, fiddling nervously.
"I believe you and I have some unfinished business,"
"Yes, Sir," she said as she took a seat at the President's indication. He resumed his position in one of the chairs while C.J. sat back on the sofa.
The President leaned forward to pick up his copy of the DNC report and recommendations from the coffee table where he had put them earlier. He picked up the mug that was on there and took a sip. He tried not to spit it back out when he realised that it was evidently the same mug from earlier and that it was now stone cold. He replaced the cup and opened the report.
"They want me to talk to Church Leaders, marketing gurus from Silicon Valley," he raised his eyes and let out an exasperated snort, "and a linguist so that we can redefine ourselves and discover a message that will sell at the polls? Do you want to tell Toby that?" Without giving C.J. time to answer, the President carried on, "What's wrong with the message we used last time anyway, it worked well enough, we won, unless of course there's something somebody would like to tell me and there's someone else sitting somewhere in a room identical to this one as we speak. And here, it says in bold capital letters, you shouldn't quote the bible, just to avoid mistakes…"
"Sir," C.J. ventured, "I didn't bring my copy, I thought that this meeting was about something else. I could go back…" she said, her fingers making nervous pointing movements in the direction of the door contemporaneously trying to extricate the President from his rant and looking for an excuse, any excuse, to make a quick getaway.
"I don't think you're gonna need it."
"Sir?" C.J. asked. She suspected she knew where the President would be taking this discussion and if he did, she was hoping that she would not have to be the one to report back to the DNC Chairman.
"When I got back I looked at this."
"Sir?" She waited for the President to go on.
"We've just heard about a major tragedy on the other side of the world. American citizens have lost their lives. They were part of a programme, they were doing some good; they were helping people. Now it comes to me to help people and I can't do that just by saying: "I believe this, I hold this to be true". I was elected as President of this country, I'm the Commander in Chief of its armed forces and I'm saying I can't simply abandon pragmatism to ideology and the detriment of others. Ideology is good but to not be able to act? There are problems to be solved, real problems and I can't just say 'Hang on for a moment, would you please, I need to run this by my marketing guru, who needs to run this past certain Church Leaders and their linguists, in between appointments with Microsoft. So, if you could please not do whatever it is that you're about to do until that has happened in about eight hours, twenty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds time, that would be great." We couldn't run a faucet like that, never mind a damned country. That would make me impotent, it would make the office powerless. It would compromise the very heart of this country and the documents that founded it. I was elected by the people of the United States, they wanted me to be their President, but I can't do that if the Chairman of the DMC starts bleating on about 'holier than thou' crap. Values are important, intent says a lot; action to that end is fundamental."
"Yes, Sir."
"C.J., we're not gonna do it, I won't be that guy."
"Sam, go back to the room, would you, I need to talk to Toby for a moment." Sam looked at Josh inquisitively, wondering what was going on and whether it was anything to do with Toby's impromptu interruption earlier.
Toby and Josh spoke about his and Sam's meeting as they made their way to Toby's office.
"What meeting are you in now?"
"Hate crimes,"
"I didn't think we were going to do that,"
"We weren't."
"What happened?"
"You tell me," Josh said plainly.
Josh and Toby walked through the Communications Bullpen to Toby's office. Toby went straight to his large desk chair, while Josh perched on the lip of the bookcase on which Toby kept his television, files containing the text of old speeches, his coffee pot and a microwave.
"You found out what happened?"
"Eventually," Toby stated.
"And?" Enquired Josh.
"I give regularly to a selection of charities, one of which has sold my personal details on to other 'non-profit organisations',"
"You know," said Josh, "I heard once that they could make as much as nine hundred and forty million dollars annually by renting out lists of donors."
"That's a comforting thought," muttered Toby.
"Hang on," said Josh, a thought coming to him, "how did they know you were Jewish, I mean, it's not like you have to declare it on a form or anything,"
"That's the thing, they suggested at first that it may have been because I had donated money to Jewish charities but then I pointed out that I do not pick a charity by faith, I mean, I give money to Christian Charities, I give money to international charities; I don't discriminate."
"Then how do they know you're Jewish?"
"Turns out they took one look at my surname and assumed. The girl on the telephone told me that they had also assumed things about other people,"
"What?" Josh almost gasped in disbelief.
"Some people received envelopes addressed to 'Joe Regular, Catholic', or 'Taj Mahal, Hindu'." Toby continued, "Why don't they just put a yellow star on the labels for good measure, they could put pink triangles on mail going to people they have decided are gayii." Toby's voice reached its crescendo, causing many querying looks to be exchanged by concerned staffers working in the Communications Bullpen, outside his office.
"You're okay, though?"
"I will be when I've found someone to threaten with legal action,"
"Well you go there, Toby," said Josh, not entirely sure whether the other man was being serious.
"You're going back to your meeting now?"
"Yeah,"
"Good!"
"Good afternoon…"
"C.J." called the reporters. Katie Witt stood up and asked:
"C.J., is it true that there have been U.S. citizens killed in Nngobya?"
"We've had reports that the Doctors Without Borders compound has been compromised,"
"What does that mean?" asked Steve.
"That members of the Nngobya militia have stormed the compound and are pursuing their purification campaign there."
"Has there been a statement from the authorities in Nngobya?"
"It's important to know," C.J. responded, "that the authority within Nngobya at the moment consists only of the militia, although we have received a statement. The governing authority are saying that the aid groups are fabricating this to justify their work and while acknowledging isolated cases, they deny the national purification campaign and they deny the attack on the Doctors Without Borders compound. How can they deny this?" C.J. asked plaintively, "That kind of activity is not part of their culture."
"How does the President feel that non-military personnel have been affected?"
"Obviously the President is shocked and saddened by the way a peaceful international force were treated but he commends their bravery and their work. Work that was absolutely vital in a country where girls as young as ten are being raped by soldiers. Where five men will hold a woman captive over night after she has ventured for freedom, where they will rape her repeatedly under a tree until she is able to escape in the morning. Where a woman flees a town with her two brothers, she is raped, they are both murdered. That woman was helped to the Doctors Without Borders compound after she had spent days wandering through the desert looking for water and having been set upon by bandits. No, the President does not regret being part of the multinational task force that sent them there. His regret is that he could not save them."
"We're sorry to keep you, Senators," said Josh as he retook his place at the table in the Roosevelt Room, "it feels like we're getting close to something. I think we all know that we should do this, that we should supplement the current Hate Crimes Bill and add this section as an Amendment or a latch-on at a later date, but I need a good reason why,"
"Approximately 63.3 of hate crimes reported last year were offences against persons, 36 offences against property and 0.7 were crimes against society. Intimidation accounted for 31.5 of the total; destruction, damage and vandalism for 30; simple assault 20.8 and aggravated assault 10.6. Nearly a third of all hate crimes either happen in or near the residence of the victim. The demographic for hate crime offenders tends to be teenagers; 31 of violent offenders and 46 of property offenders last year were under the age of eighteen."
"I didn't know that," said Sam.
"What do you propose we do?" questioned Josh, impressed at the knowledge held by the younger of the two Senators.
"We need strong and effective legislation, we need to work closely with community groups and in education; we need to form a singular, national policy and create an anti-hate crime programme that prevents all hate crimes," The door nearest to the Communications Bullpen opened to allow entry to Toby Ziegler. He sat at the table and listened to the discussion as it swung from Senator Farmer and back to Josh. Josh caught sight of him and thought he looked edgy, a little pale maybe, like he had when he entered the meeting earlier, but he focused on the discussion, intending to interrogate Toby later.
"We do," the Deputy Chief of Staff nodded, "I just don't know how we can sell it." No one spoke for a moment.
"You're talking about hate crimes?" Toby asked after a moment of silence. Walt Parker nodded,
"Mr. Ziegler."
"I have a message," Toby took a deep breath and leaned forward, resting both of his forearms on the table. His expression seemed intense, his brow set fast. "I just took a telephone call; a man in Maryland received a letter this morning through the mail before he went to work. The letter denoted him as a Jew. He finished work early today and headed home. A black Swastika had been painted on his door. Someone had seen the envelope that was delivered to him: at the sorting office; the mailman; the thing had gone astray in the mailroom, maybe and someone had found it and decided, after reading the front to deliver it along with the special surprise. After he had gone inside and sat down in front of the television, someone threw a Molotov cocktail through his window; they don't know who it was. He's in a critical condition and conscious but in a lot of pain, with full-thickness burns. Just so you know." Toby stood up making no sound and left the silent room. Josh watched his back as he went.
i Amended from remarks made by a member of Congress when Democrats were being pushed to put greater emphasis on values.
ii Ira Glasser, President of Drug Policy Alliance