Title: A Season in Hell Genre: Drama, impeachment-fic, JDR Rating: PG-13 or so Email: minismith@aol.com Homepage: http://members.aol.com/minismith/ Author's notes: Pre-18th and Potomoc; Donna hasn't been told. Summary: The Deputy Chief of Staff sacrifices everything to save the President. The night before the press conference 8 p.m. "You're fired." Donna Moss stopped in mid-prattle, eyes the size of dinner plates. "Excuse me?" Josh Lyman turned a page in the file folder in his hands before looking up. "You heard me. You're fired." She froze, eyes blinking slowly. "Josh . . ." "Security will watch you clean out your desk," he replied coldly. "Take only your personal effects-no files, calendars, schedules." "Josh, what did I do?" "I'll need your badge," he held out his hand. She swayed for a moment before removing the identification and laying it in his palm. "I don't understand." "I've arranged for your final paycheck to be mailed to Wisconsin to your parents," he repeated. "When you're finished cleaning out your desk you are to leave. Immediately. Security," he waved his hand toward the uniformed officer who'd appeared in the doorway, "will escort you to your car and collect your parking pass." "I don't understand, Josh. Help me understand," she pleaded. "You don't need to understand," he brushed the tails of his jacket back and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You just need to leave." With a nod at the officer, he sat and focused his attention on a thick sheaf of paper. She stood silently, swaying, then turned and walked through the empty bullpen to her desk. The uniformed guard handed her a small box and she began her task. First was her paperweight, a baseball Josh had brought to her from spring training. Next, she opened the middle drawer and pulled out a variety of cosmetics, depositing each in the box. She opened and closed each drawer, pulling out an item here and there. Finally, she picked up a frame which contained a picture of the campaign "road crew" taken next to a fiberglas replica of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. The faces were pale with exhaustion, but fresh, somehow. "We looked so young back then . . ." she whispered before setting the photograph on the top. "Are you through yet, Miss Moss?" the officer glared. She stood back for a moment. "Almost," she said softly, grabbing up a well-worn appointment book before making her final trip into his office. It was empty. With a hard swallow she laid the book on the center of the shortest paper stack. She soughed heavily, "Goodbye, Joshua," then followed the officer down that long empty hall. 9:00 p.m. Tension curdled the air in the Oval Office. "We're sure the host is properly prepared, CJ?" Toby Ziegler scowled. CJ Cregg sniffed, "Yes, Toby, for the nine-hundredth time, he's ready. We've spent the past eight hours preparing. We've spent so much time together, I'm sure I'll be named as correspondent in his next divorce." "Well, at least then it would look like you have a life," Sam Seaborn said quietly. "I think I saw my face on a milk carton last week." "That's better than a post office wall," Ziegler replied sourly. "That'll come soon enough if the Special Prosecutor has his way." Leo McGarry waved a sheaf of papers. "Do we trust these numbers Joey Lucas came up with?" Josh Lyman poked at the ice cubes floating in clear liquid in the tumbler in his hand. "We have to; they're all we have." He took a long drink. Sam looked at Josh, then CJ, who shifted the gaze to Toby who fixed his gaze on McGarry. "Guys," McGarry swallowed hard. "This may be the last opportunity I have to say some of these things." "Leo," Sam interrupted, but only half-heartedly. McGarry held up a hand. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry to have gotten you into this mess. I'm sorry the President got us into this mess. I, um," he paused, "no matter what anyone else may say, you're the finest group of people I have ever known. The President, the whole damn country, is lucky to have benefitted from your substantial abilities." CJ closed her eyes, Toby dragged his hand across his beard, Sam cast his eyes floorward before they filed from the room. Lyman remained, tormenting the nearly-melted cubes for a minute before draining his glass and sticking out his hand. Wordlessly, the older man clasped it in both of his, swaying slightly while a tear, the first Josh Lyman had even seen him shed, slid down the craggy face. Josh grasped the older man's arm, steadying him, tears brimming in his own eyes before, with a sigh, he gathered his things and plodded wearily into the night. Midnight Donna Moss hesitated, knuckles poised to rap on a door she knew only too well. "This is stupid," she muttered to herself, "really, really stupid." Then she heard her knuckles on the door. She waited a moment, then knocked again, and again until she heard the locks grating. With its characteristic creak, the door swung open, revealing the object of her activity. "Go away, Donna," Josh Lyman warned, standing on his bare feet in rumpled Yale sweat pants, whitening cicatrix bisecting his bare chest. He tried to close the door but she stiff-armed it. "Just tell me why, Josh," her voice betraying her confusion. "You owe me that." He shook his head, unruly curls wobbling, "I don't owe you anything." "Please," she pleaded, tears dampening her reddened cheeks, "Josh, tell me what I did . . ." "Josh?" Donna shuddered, recognizing Joey Lucas as the woman emerging from Josh Lyman's bedroom, clad only in a poorly-wrapped towel. "Oh, hi Donna," the toweled woman greeted cheerily. Donna Moss rocked back on her heels, words failing to form on lips gone deadly white. "Go back to Wisconsin, Donna." Lyman tilted his head toward his overnight guest, "There's nothing for you in Washington." Without waiting for a response he closed the door, leaving his former assistant to stare at the wooden panels, wondering if Joey Lucas could hear the sound of her soul shattering. The next night, after the press conference 11:42 p.m. "What are the numbers like?" Leo McGarry paused in front of Josh Lyman's desk. Josh laid the picture he'd removed from his wall in the box on his desk before replying, "Just like before. Shitty." "The California calls could be different . . ." "But you know they won't, Leo." Josh stowed another photograph. "It'll be a couple of months before we have to do that, Josh. Grand jury, impeachment alone could take nearly a year." "I know." "Why don't you let Donna take care of that when it's time?" the older man comforted. "Donna doesn't work here anymore." "Since when?" Leo queried sharply. "Since I fired her yesterday." Another picture joined the pile. "What the hell possessed you to do that?" McGarry lashed out. But when Lyman didn't reply he nearly whispered, "What happened?" Josh shook his head, "Nothing. I just got tired of the constant . . . I just got tired of her." He stowed another photo. "Uh-huh," Leo said suspiciously. "What are you gonna do for an assistant?" "If I need one, I take whatever's in the pool, Leo." Leo watched for a moment while his deputy removed every personal memento from his desk. "Give her a call, Josh," he said with sad desperation. "You two have been through worse things before . . ." "She's gone, Leo. For good." Lyman folded the flaps to close the box. "With any luck, she's safe and sound at her parents' house as we speak." Josh donned his suitcoat, slung his backpack over his shoulder, tucked the box under his arm. "You're not gonna wait for the polling numbers?" Josh shrugged. "See you tomorrow, Leo." "Tomorrow's Saturday, Josh." "Yeah. See you tomorrow." He patted the older man's shoulder gently as he plodded out the door and down the hall, nearly running over Joey Lucas. She smiled broadly at him, looking up and down the corridor before speaking. "I'll come over when we're through," she said thickly. He said nothing, just shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Josh?" "Don't bother," he said slowly, evenly, plainly. Her eyebrows shot up. "But, last night . . ." He shrugged and continued down the hall and into the darkness. One week after the press conference "It's gonna be really hectic between the regular business and all this extracurricular nonsense," Leo McGarry blew on his lunch before stuffing the spoonful in his mouth. "I'm gonna rely on you to handle the day-to-day more than ever, Josh." "To quote Babish, bring it on, Leo." "Are you sure you can handle it?" McGarry studied his bowl for a moment. "I mean, without an assistant it's gonna be . . ." "I can handle it, Leo." Josh Lyman plunked the spoon in his bowl. "On my own." "Sam, are you gonna eat your chicken and dumplings?" Ainsley Hayes pointed her spoon at Sam Seaborn's lunch from across the table they shared in the White House Mess. Seaborn looked up from the brief he'd been reading, actually re-reading, with an owlish expression. "Excuse me?" "I said, are you gonna eat your chicken and dumplings?" the tiny attorney drawled. Seaborn scowled and pushed his bowl in her direction. "Aren't you hungry?" "Not for a while now, Ainsley. How about you?" "Famished," she replied through a mouthful of his dumplings. "And, pray tell, what sort of nifty lawyering has made you develop what, even for you, is a ravenous appetite?" "Watkins, Lieberman, et al v. the Office of the President and the Congress of the United States," she munched. "Let me guess: a hitherto unpublished work by Gilbert & Sullivan??" "No," she snorted. "A White House tour guide and a Congressional aide are suing to remove the exemption Congress and the White House enjoy in regards to the workplace laws they pass." She buttered a roll and offered it. Sam waved her off, "Why?" "Because," she popped a piece of the roll into her mouth, "They both have developed shin splints and they want the marble floors to be covered with rubber matting." "Why don't they just ask for orthopedic shoes?" "Or that," Hayes replied merrily, spoon plunking into the now-empty bowl. "Thanks for the dumplings, Sam." "Happy litigating." He watched her exit the Mess, then bounce down the hall until she was gone. Two weeks after the press conference "I know it's difficult, Mr. President, but it really would be better if you limited your contact with the Senior Staff," Oliver Babish scribbled on the paper before him. "Better?" the President asked, leaning against his arm chair in the conversation area of the Oval Office, "for whom?" "For them, Mr. President," Babish explained. "The less they talk to you, the less they have to testify about." "Babish, if you're questioning the loyalty of the Senior Staff . . ." McGarry's voice rose. "No, Leo," Babish corrected quickly. "I simply meant that it limits the scope of the time period on which they can be questioned." "That's what you better have meant," Jed Bartlet bristled. "It is, sir," Babish soothed. "It's more for their protection than for yours." The President and his Chief of Staff exchanged wordless glances before McGarry offered, "We can run everything through Josh; limit all other access to an as-needed basis." "That would be good," Babish agreed. "There's one other thing," the Counsel hesitated. "You should send Dr. Bartlet back to New Hampshire." The President smirked, "If you knew the First Lady well, Babish, you'd know that I don't send her anywhere she doesn't want to go." "I know, Mr. President, but at least she'd be spared a constant diet of the mess that is to come." Again the older men shared a wordless conversation before the President said, "I'll try. Not that it'll do much good . . ." "Good, Mr. President. You're doing the right thing." McGarry looked at his watch and stood, "Sir, you have your noon briefing . . ." Babish jumped to his feet, muttering, "Thank you, Mr. President." He hurried down the halls to his office, punched the speed dial and smiled as he said only three words, "He bought it." Three weeks after the press conference Oliver Babish rolled through the halls of the west wing like a spring hurricane. And, like a hurricane, debris lay scattered in his wake-Federal Grand Jury subpoenas for the Senior Staff and all their assistants. For the first time in nearly a year, the west wing went silent. "So it begins," Toby Ziegler said to deputy Sam Seaborn, then gave his assistant, Ginger, a reassuring pat on the shoulder before returning to his office. "Oh, peachy," was CJ Cregg's only comment. Josh Lyman accepted his mutely. "Donnatella Moss?" Babish looked into the glassed office then turned back to his previous victim who had returned to his reading. "Donnatella Moss?" he asked again. Without looking up, Josh replied. "She is, as they say, no longer with us." "Why?" Babish spat. "Because I fired her three weeks ago." Babish waved an envelope. "What should I do with her subpoena?" Josh looked up. "Do you really want me to answer that?" Babish merely glowered. "Her parents live in Madison, Wisconsin." Josh resumed reading. "You might try there." "I get the feeling," Babish tapped the envelope against his hand, "that you don't take this investigation seriously." Lyman's head snapped up, mouth opened to retort but instead he leaned back and chortled. "I would say that the possibility of a Federal fraud conviction and Congressional censure is something I take seriously. I will take it seriously- in two months when they finally get around to calling me. Until then, you'll excuse me if I spend time on little things like the Comprehensive Health Care bill, the prosecution of the tobacco companies and a couple of niggling revolutions in Africa and Haiti. You think that would be okay," he spat the next, "Babbitt?" The White House Counsel spun on his heel and disappeared, Sam Seaborn appearing in his place. "You think it's wise to aggravate him?" "I think I don't care." He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. Seaborn stuffed his hands in his pockets and replied from the doorway. "I think you should." Three weeks and two days after the press conference Donna Moss stood in the door of her parent's home, opening the envelope with shaking hands. "What is it, sweetie?" her mother peered around her shoulder. Donna refolded the paper and stuffed it back into the envelope, tears streaming from darkened orbits. "It's a Federal subpoena. They want me to testify before a Grand Jury." "Grand Jury? About what?" "The President, Mom," she replied testily. "Are you in trouble?" "I don't know." She licked her lips. "I don't think so." "Why don't you show it to Mr. Gein? What's the use of working for a lawyer if you can't . . ." "I can't, Mom. I've only been there a week. I can't walk in with this." "Sure you can." She stroked her daughter's hair. "Promise me you'll ask him. Promise?" Donna swallowed hard before replying, "I promise." Four weeks after the press conference They stared at the television screen in silence-Sam, CJ and Toby in his office, Josh in his office, Leo and the President wherever Leo and the President held their meetings-as the Congressional Roll Call vote was broadcast live. A little blue banner at the bottom of the screen tallied the votes while the anchor intoned, "And so Josiah Barlet becomes the second President to be served with Articles of Impeachment." CJ Cregg sighed, daubed her eyes, and picked up a piece of paper from the Communication Director's desk. "You need help?" Toby asked quietly. She shook her head, striding toward the Press Room. In a moment, her face appeared on the screen with the words "Live from the White House" painted beneath her face. "The President welcomes the opportunity to address the charges and specifications mentioned in these Articles of Impeachment but, more importantly, sends forth hope that, their deliberations ended, the House of Representatives can resume their work to improve the lot and lives of our citizens. Thank you." Questions followed her as she exited the room and locked herself in her office, emerging an hour later with reddened eyes and bloated face. "Do you have the Trenton speech ready?" Toby Ziegler tossed a rubber ball against the wall, snagging it easily on its return. Seaborn retreated to his office with an inarticulate negative grunt, tapping away words of hope that he no longer felt. Josh Lyman dialed his fourth phone call since the vote, "Congressman Weathers? This is Josh Lyman. I'm calling on behalf of the President to thank you for your support during the vote and to ask for your help on several initiatives currently before the House . . ." "Well, it's done," Josiah Bartlet said grimly, leaning back in his chair behind the Kennedy desk in the Oval Office. "No, my friend," Leo McGarry warned, "it's only beginning." He spoke gruffly into the phone, "Get Babish." Five weeks after the press conference "Would you pass the steamed vegetables?" CJ Cregg accepted the paper carton from Sam Seaborn and heaped her paper plate, the fragrant steam scenting the conference room which had become their ad hoc dining room. "Sesame chicken?" Seaborn requested, filling his plate. Toby Ziegler plopped into a chair and served himself from the containers which had been pushed toward him. "I thought Josh was eating." Sam shook his head, noodles streaming from his mouth to his plate. "Why not?" CJ asked. "He's in combat mode." "He doesn't eat?" Ziegler asked. "He survives on caffeine and greasy, salty fast food." Seaborn bit a piece of chicken. "Donna used to sneak in some healthy stuff but now . . ." He gestured with his chopsticks. "Have you talked to her recently?" CJ shook her head but Sam's attention had been caught by a tiny blonde stomping past the door. "Ainsley?" he called after her from the doorway. She stopped but did not turn. He followed. "What's wrong?" "Nothing." "Nothing?" He waved the carton in front of her. "Chinese?" "I'm not hungry." She continued to the stairwell and descended. Sam stopped short, shocked, then trailed her to her dungeon. "Has Hell frozen over? Are pigs flying? Are Republicans backing health care for all Americans? Ainsley Hayes isn't hungry?" She plopped in her chair and tapped at her computer. "So?" He fanned his hand over the top of the container toward her. Whenshe continued typing he gathered a mouthful onto the chopsticks and held it under her nose. "Stop it." She rose quickly and rummaged in a file cabinet. "Well?" he mumbled through the mouthful. "I lost a case." Sam grinned. "What case?" "Watkins, Lieberman, et al." His blank look prompted her to continue. "You know, the White House employee and Congressional employee suing for OSHA coverage?" Recognition finally lit up his face. "We lost. The bleeding- heart liberal judge," she crossed to stand directly in front of him, "ruled for the plaintiff!" "Who was the judge?" "Dworkin!" She nearly choked when he stuffed the loaded chopsticks in her mouth. "Dworkin? He's so far right he makes Mary Martin look like Gloria Steinem!" He chewed another mouthful. "Well," she said through the mouthful he'd just fed her, "today he got in touch with his inner-liberal." "Can you appeal?" "Probably not," she shook her head, and a tear formed in the corner of each eye. Setting down the now-empty carton, he waved a white handkerchief in front of her. She daubed away the tears, then laughed softly. "Even your handkerchiefs are monogrammed." She choked back a sob. "How main-line Republican of you." The sob escaped. "Well, you don't have to be insulting," he faked umbrage, then circled his arms around her tiny shoulders, swaying silently until she breathed easily again. "Now you think I'm some weak woman who cries at the drop of a handkerchief." She retreated to the safe distance behind her desk, dangling the now-sodden linen square. He hesitated for a moment then backed her against her credenza and chair. She was so tiny he could feel her breath warming the monogram on his chest pocket. "I've never called you weak," he lifted her chin with his right index finger until her eyes met his. "You're lucky to be a woman, you know," he shuddered and it shook every cell of her body, "at least you're allowed to cry." A traitorous tear betrayed his sadness but before she could brush it away, he was gone. Six weeks after the press conference "We've been preparing for hours; I'm ready." Toby Ziegler dragged his hand across his beard. "It shouldn't have come to this, you know. You're supposed to be defending the President, Babish." "I thought that's what I was doing." Ziegler snorted. "You act more like a prosecutor. You're defending him by sticking him in front of the firing squad and telling him where to stand to be hit by the fewest bullets." "I'm a lawyer, Toby, not a magician; there's only so much I can do with what you politicians handed me." Toby's face reddened as the White House Counsel slammed the door. Seven weeks after the press conference Josh Lyman increased the volume on the lobby TV when he spied CJ Cregg adjusting her glasses on the screen. "With the Grand Jury and Impeachment Hearings running concurrently, the Senior Staff is spread a little thin. I will try to keep you as informed as possible about who's where and when. The Senior Staff continues its Grand Jury testimony this afternoon when Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman testifies. On the Hill, the assistants to the Senior Staff are being questioned. This is, of course, subject to change." "Subject to change," Josh Lyman groused, sitting in an unpadded chair outside the Grand Jury chamber while the press conference continued on the too-red television screen. "Lyman," Oliver Babish stormed down the hall. "You were supposed to see me before you testified. You need to prepare." "I'm a lawyer, Babish," Josh snorted. "I shouldn't need preparation to tell the truth." "You're a politician with a law degree," Babish retorted. "That's like letting a TV doctor do brain surgery." "This isn't brain surgery," Lyman disagreed, then walked over and turned up the television again. "That's Margaret." "How would you characterize your relationship with Leo McGarry?" the senior Senator from Kentucky intoned gravely, his words echoing around the chamber where the Impeachment hearings were convened. Margaret paused for a moment, hands fluttering over the table. "He's my employer." "Good girl," Babish whispered. "Here it comes," Josh warned. "Have you ever lied at the instruction of, or on behalf of, Leo McGarry?" the Senator continued. Her response was nearly inaudible. "Excuse me, ma'm?" the Senator bellowed. "I didn't hear your response." A curtain of auburn draped around her face. "Yes." The Senator smiled triumphantly. "Were you ever asked to lie about the President's health?" "Careful . . ." Babish warned the television. "Not to my knowledge," came the trembling reply. "Not to your knowledge?" the Senator shouted, unleashing a verbal barrage on the meek witness that left her so shaky she dropped a glass of ice water, then knocked her notes to the floor before she could even answer. "Son of a bitch," Lyman said viciously. "He's trying to rattle her," Babish explained. "No he's not, you idiot." Lyman sputtered. "He's trying to rattle Leo. He did the same thing to Ginger, Carol and Susan. They're loyal and faithful and he's emotionally raping them on national television. He's roughing them up so the President and the Senior Staff will 'come clean' out of guilt. That way he can look like the tough guy when election time rolls around next year." "Smart," Babish said, appreciatively. "Coward." Josh stood and paced. "There's nothing to come clean about, Babish. They know nothing. None of us knew anything." "Those kinds of statements can get you in trouble, Lyman." "Shut up." "Joshua Lyman?" the bailiff called and the witness followed. "Don't screw it up," Babish warned. "Like it could get worse?" Lyman riposted and Babish couldn't disagree. Eight weeks after the press conference Wednesday, 6:00 p.m. Josh Lyman emerged from the Metro tunnel at Dupont Circle, jogging stiffly after his last day of testimony in front of the Federal Grand Jury. He hustled into the coffee bar at the Crown Bookstore and ordered espresso- regular, not decaffeinated, smiling at the memory of how Donna would have chided him for it. She would have chided him for a lot of other things including . . . he dragged a pill bottle out of his pocket and shook it. "Damn." He'd forgotten-- again- to have it refilled. Spying the drugstore across the circle, he vowed to refill the prescription as soon as . . . the pay phone outside the store rang. "Die, Blue Devils, die," he greeted the caller. "Yale sucks," the caller responded. Lyman leaned wearily against the kiosk. "How is she?" "Okay, I think. The idea of testifying before a Federal Grand Jury spooked her a little bit, but they seemed to take it easy on her." "No doubt because she was represented by the formidable barrister Lawrence Gein of that prominent Madison, Wisconsin, law firm of Wilson, Lambert and Gein," Lyman breathed easier. "She still living with her parents?" "Yeah," the caller replied. "It'll be a while before she'll get up the nerve to get out on her own again. What did you do to her, man?" "A mercy killing." He swallowed hard. "Better to break her heart than have her suffer through all this." "But she is suffering. She watches the hearings all the time through the Internet. I thought she was going to have a heart attack when her friend Maggie . . ." "Margaret." "Margaret was testifying. Is she going to have to go through that, too?" Josh looked around uneasily. "Not if I can help it. I'm calling in every favor I have to keep her out of it." "And if she testifies?" Lyman closed his eyes. "I'm the administration's enforcer, Larry. They'll rip her to shreds just for sport." "And so you called me." "Yeah," Lyman chuckled. "I owe you, really owe you, for giving her a job." "Are you kidding? She's good, Josh. Too good for you. I'm gonna have to give her a raise to keep another law firm from taking her away." Josh imagined his friend's moon-faced grin, then Donna's smile and his chest tightened. "Huh?" "I said do you have any messages for Donna?" "No!" he shouted, but a thousand pleas begged to be released. "Don't tell her anything, Larry. She can't know. Ever." "Okay," Larry replied slowly. "Same time next week?" "Yeah," Lyman fished in his pockets for a slip of paper with the number of a phone booth near the Smithsonian. "Call 555-1212, same area code. Thanks, Larry. For everything." Josh jammed the receiver under his ear while he disconnected the call with one hand and plopped a handful of change on the shelf with the other. Awkwardly, he punched in the digits. "Hey, it's me. You got something?" He scribbled in a file folder he'd dragged out of his backpack, covering nearly a page before slamming down the receiver and repacking his satchel. He cut across the park toward the pharmacy. "Planning a new lifestyle?" Sam Seaborn's voice asked from behind him. Lyman slowed and Seaborn caught up. "Sam, I'd be happy just to have the old one back." He cut around the statue at the center of the park in the circle past several pairs of men engaged in intimate conversations. "What about you? Considering a change yourself?" "No," Sam replied quickly. "I had a late meeting with the Democratic Women . . ." "Anyone in particular or all of them?" "The Ethics Committee," Sam replied and Josh scowled sympathetically. "Anyway I was strolling down to the Metro when I spotted you." "Oh." Josh motioned Sam across the busy circle. "Talking on a pay phone." Josh held open the pharmacy door mutely. "When you have a cell phone in your pocket." Josh handed an amber vial to the pharmacist who said, "It'll be a few minutes." "A little something to help you sleep?" Seaborn observed wryly. "A little something to help me live," Lyman replied. "Blood pressure medicine." "Since when?" "Since Rosslyn." Josh paid the pharmacist and strode onto the sidewalk, popping one of the tablets with a mouthful of espresso. "I suppose that's decaf . . ." "Are you channeling the spirit of Donna Moss now, Sam?" Josh walked counter-clockwise around the circle to the Metro station. "Somebody has to," he quipped, following Josh onto the platform. "Have you talked to her?" he asked too casually. "No." Josh tapped out a rhythm on his backpack strap. "Why not?" "I fired her, Sam." "Well, she had lunch with Margaret and Carol and Ginger when she was here to testify and . . ." "I don't want to hear it." "Why not?" Sam's brows knitted. "That's in the past," Josh explained, ruefully. "Our train," he nodded and Sam followed in silence. They grabbed onto hand straps, swaying as the train pulled out. "What did they say?" Josh asked quietly over his shoulder. Sam's face split into a Cheshire-cat grin. "Excuse me?" "What did Carol and Ginger say about their lunch with Donna?" Nine weeks after the press conference "Carson Dial was my brother," Cary Grant intoned from the flickering screen while on the front row, the President sat, uncharacteristically silent, with youngest daughter, Zoey, occasionally leaning his head near hers. From his seat on the back row, formerly Josh and Donna's, Sam Seaborn groaned then beat a hasty retreat to the empty hallway. Mindlessly, he wandered until he spotted the illuminated desk lamp in his friend's office. "It's almost too surreal." He plopped in the desk chair. Josh Lyman startled, looking up mole-like from his stack of in-progress legislation. He blinked stupidly for a few seconds before replying, "What isn't these days?" "Am I the only one," Sam's voice rose, "who sees the twisted irony in the fact that this President, who is currently under investigation of Federal fraud charges and defending himself against impeachment, is sitting quietly in the theater watching a movie called 'Charade'?" Lyman capped his pen, leaning back in his chair. "It's his way," he closed his eyes as a cello swelled in the background, "of keeping her close." "Who?" Lyman smiled and retrieved two beers from the refrigerator in his storage area. After a long swig he replied, "The First Lady." "Why would he be missing her?" "Babish," Lyman spued the name, "exiled her to New Hampshire." He drank again. "To shield the President from her legal troubles." "And, of course, the President agreed," Seaborn sneered. "What's one more?" "One more what?" Seaborn shrugged as he drank again. "One more betrayal?" Seaborn studied trails he'd drawn in the bottle condensation with his thumbs. "You feel the President's betrayed you," Lyman stated flatly. Seaborn paced. "Don't you? Of all people, don't you? My God, Josh, you nearly . . . you almost . . ." "Died?" "Died for him and this is how he repays you?" Seaborn finished his bottle. "We all gave up everything for him and this is how he repays us?" Music swelled in the background and Josh closed his eyes, swallowing hard before whispering, "You don't know what it's like." "Excuse me?" Sam asked sharply. Josh stared at the ceiling, "You can't know what it's like to have a chronic illness." "What does that have to do with lying?" "It has everything to do with it." Lyman stood, matching his friend's glare across the no-man's land of his cluttered desk. "You're in perfect health, Sam. You don't know what it's like to have people pity you. Even your friends." Seaborn shook his head and shrugged. "Do you think I don't see the way you look at each other? You, Toby, CJ, Leo, even the President? I can't have heartburn without you worrying I'm having a heart attack. I can't have a headache with out you thinking I'm about to stroke out. I can't have a cold without you wondering, just a little, if my heart is finally giving up." "Josh, we're just concerned . . ." "I know you are." He ran his fingers over the heavy cover of HR 276. "I would give anything," he whispered hoarsely, "to have my privacy -my dignity, my manhood-- back." Sam stared at his friend for a long while before his face reddened. "I'm sorry," his face fell. "Yeah, me, too," Josh smiled ruefully. Sam dragged his palm across his face then leaned back in the chair. "And the movie?" "One of Dr. Bartlet's favorites. It's his way of keeping her close." "Why not just keep her close? You'd think that . . ." "No man," Josh gazed into the empty glass office before continuing, "wants the woman he loves to see him fail. Especially not Josiah Bartlet." Mellifluous cello banished the silence while Sam replenished their drinks from the cooler. He shared one, then sat mutely while his friend returned to his comfortable chair. "Yo-yo Ma?" he asked when the selection ended. Josh nodded as another selection began, his gaze wet, far away and full of regret. Sam regarded his friend, desperately searching through his limitless entrepot for words to assuage the abject loneliness he saw before him until he realized there were none. So, he sat, silent, too, hoping his presence would convey what his language could not. "Sam?" "Hm?" a mouthful of beer drowned out any more substantive response. Finally, a sad, tiny smile dimpled his friend's face. "Yo-yo Ma rules." Ten weeks after the press conference Tuesday CJ Cregg slammed the Press Room door behind her and strode directly into her boss' office. "Toby, it's damn hard being the spokesperson for a person with whom you never speak." "I think you did okay in there," Ziegler replied uneasily. Sam Seaborn slipped through the doorway and perched on the edge of the couch. "Yeah, well, it's really easy to not screw up when all you can say is I don't know." Somehow, she seemed taller when she was angry. "Trust me, you're not the only one," Sam consoled. "I'm writing speeches for someone whom I never see." "Toby, when was the last time you spoke with the President?" CJ pressed on. "More than just to say hello?" "Weeks," he finally admitted. "Sometimes it feels like we're back in the beginning," Sam loosened his necktie, "when he didn't trust any of us." "It's not a matter of trust," Josh Lyman leaned against the door facing. "Then what is it?" CJ challenged. "It's what's called a Chinese wall. Leo and the President seem to think if they don't talk to us, they're limiting our exposure to culpability on the conspiracy." Sam paused in the doorway. "It's a little late for that, don't you think?" Josh shrugged while CJ passed sullenly to her office. Lyman quietly closed the door and collapsed into a chair, pressing his palms into his orbits. "You look like hell." "Looks ain't deceivin'," the younger man closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "At least it won't be long." "The Grand Jury or the Senate?" Lyman grinned. "The Special Prosecutor, meticulous bastard that he is, has just subpoenaed every piece of paper the President has touched in the last ten years. The people on that panel will be lucky to be through before the next election." "What's the fallout?" "I think you, Sam and CJ will be okay: you only found out a week ahead of the country. The President is cooked- fraud and conspiracy. I figure they'll get Leo and me on conspiracy, maybe fraud." "And the Senate?" "The Senate," the smile upended, "word is the vote will be late Friday." Ziegler sat up. "That only gives us two days . . ." "To do what, Toby?" Ziegler's mouth opened, then closed, lips pressed thinly before he spoke, "They're falling on their swords, Leo and the President. That's why they've maintained the Chinese wall." He looked around, helplessly, "They're taking the fall for the rest of us." "That's the goal, I think," Josh leaned forward. "The Republicans have the votes, Toby. After Friday, Jed Bartlet will no longer be the President." Toby Ziegler soughed. "Until then?" "I've got two days to push two years' worth of legislation through the House." Lyman stood, "I've got a lot of people to see on the Hill." "Tomorrow?" "Tonight, tomorrow, tomorrow night . . ." Ziegler stood and offered his hand, "Well, if anybody can do it, you can." "From your mouth to God's ear," Josh accepted his friend's hand then bounded out the door. Thursday "They've got the votes, Leo," Josh Lyman stood under the Capitol Rotunda, cell phone jammed to his ear. "They'll impeach tomorrow." He snapped the phone shut and stood for a moment before striding down the stairs and into the barber shop. Fingering the manila envelope in his brief case, gruffly, he ordered a razor cut. "That's pretty radical for a young man like you," Senator Howard Stackhouse's voice emitted from beneath a towel covering the face of the customer in the next chair. "Yeah, well, radical times deserve . . ." the buzzing of the razor cut off the rest of the reply. "I hear things are going badly," the Senator sat up, towel now in his hand. "I'm sorry." Josh merely shrugged. "Sometimes things are darkest before the dawn. Good luck tomorrow," the Senator offered his hand, genuinely. The younger man swallowed hard. "Thank you, sir," watching as the elderly gentleman hobbled out the door. Josh followed soon after, hailing a cab, then daydreaming of golden days that would never be, until he was deposited in front of the Holocaust Museum. He followed a familiar path until he stood in his usual place, in front of the Auschwitz-Birkenau exhibit. "I'm sorry, Grandpa," he whispered, tracing his finger over the name on the wall. He stood, motionless, until the sun faded to black. "I thought I'd find you here," Leo McGarry stepped from behind the exhibit. "I just needed to think -- to figure out what I could have done better." "Stop thinking. You did everything you could do- everything anyone could have asked of you." He placed his hand on the younger man's arm. "Your dad and your grandad would both have been proud of you." "Sure," he agreed, half-heartedly. "Come on," the older man tugged at his sleeve. "Let me give you a lift." "I can make it home on my own, Leo," Josh Lyman protested but, nonetheless, joined McGarry in the back of the limousine. "I know you can, but when?" "Leo . . ." "Look, Josh, you're dead on your feet what with testifying before the Grand Jury and Congress and running the floor for the different bills we're still trying to push through. You've got to get some rest or you're gonna have a thing." "I'm fine, Leo." "You look like hell," McGarry chastised. "You think I could face your father knowing I let you work yourself to death?" Lyman sank wearily into the seat, idly drawing in the condensation on the window. Pavement and cobblestones rattled beneath the tires until they slid into a space in front of Josh's apartment. Gathering his backpack, he yanked on the door handle before turning his face to the older man. "Do you ever regret losing Jenny?" McGarry searched the younger man's face, the callow smoothness of youth now crackled and careworn, before responding. "Yeah, I do. Every damn day." A horn blared across the street. "Do you regret losing Donna?" The younger man closed his eyes, tilted his head downward, before sighing, "Every damn day. Goodnight, Leo." He plodded up the steps, unlocking the outside, then swinging open the inside door and froze in the doorway. It was light; the lights were on in his apartment. Sweet smells emanated from the kitchen, almost nauseating in their normality. The table was set simply for two. He followed the odors, like a man in a dream, until the subject of his daily nightmare stood before him, flaxen hair now waist-long, denim-clad and humming while stirring a steaming pot. His shadow fell on her and she wheeled, breathless. "Oh, it's you." "You shouldn't be here," he scolded while she removed his backpack and coat to their assigned places. "You shouldn't be here!" "Well, I am here so shut up and sit down to dinner. Leo was right, you look like a scarecrow." "Leo sent for you?" Josh sighed as he sat. Donna nodded before calling from the kitchen, "And Sam and CJ and Toby and Charlie and the President and First Lady and at least six members of Congress. My telephone's been ringing off the wall." She returned with steaming bowls which she set on the table. He dutifully ladled green beans and spaghetti onto his plate but the first forkful stopped short of his mouth. "I'm not really hungry." The fork plunked onto the plate. "When was the last time you ate?" "I'm eating," he defended weakly. "I ate a bagel," he ground his palms into his orbits, "yesterday?" Mutely, he surrendered and downed the first bite, looking at everything in the room but his dinner mate. "You cleaned up." "Yes." "Thank you." He continued until only a few bites remained when he pushed the plate back. "Dessert?" she asked but he shook his head. "Why don't you take a shower while I clean up the dishes?" Too tired to argue, he plodded to the bathroom, afterwards plopping onto one end of the couch damp and soap- scented. "You shouldn't be here," he repeated when she'd seated herself at the other end, her long legs curled beneath her. "I don't want you here." "You need me." "That doesn't matter, Donna. There's nothing for you here." "You said that two months ago and it was a lie then, too. You need me to take care of you." "I can take care of myself . . ." "Look at you! You've lost thirty pounds and I bet your blood pressure is up thirty points. You look like," she paused, "your grandfather - like those pictures taken just after he was liberated." Josh lowered his head, right thumb circling over the spot on the inside of his left wrist-the spot where his grandfather had borne his tatoo. "The impeachment vote's tomorrow, Josh, and then the Federal trial . .." "There isn't going to be a Federal trial," he rose and crossed to the window, holding the curtain aside while he stared into the dark. "Why not?" Donna followed. "Why isn't there going to be a Federal trial?" He glanced at her but did not reply, returning his gaze to the street. "I'm gonna miss Washington," he whispered. "Josh," she splayed her hand across his cheek, tugging gently until he faced her. "You've done something." He tried to avoid her eyes but she followed his looks. "Something monumentally stupid, by the looks of it. Josh?" her voice quivered. Tears brimmed in the blackened orbits. "It was the only way I could save them." He walked toward the dining table, hands gripping the back of the chair. Donna followed. "What? What was the only way to save them?" She grabbed his arm, once muscular but now bony. "Joshua, what have you done?" she said quietly. He tried to wrest away from her grip, but she held firm. He'd seen, and succumbed to, that determined look before. "I made a deal." "What kind of deal?" He crossed back to the window. "I plead nolo contendere to Federal election fraud charges in exchange for eighteen months and a promise not to prosecute Leo and the President." She blinked for several moments before replying. "Are you crazy? You didn't know . . ." "It doesn't matter, Donna. The Special Prosecutor needs a trophy on his wall and I'm it. Nobody particularly wants the President prosecuted and Leo will be destroyed by the impeachment itself. They both have families, Donna." "What about Toby or CJ or Sam? Why can't they take the fall?" Josh stroked his hand up and down her arm. "Because I'm the Deputy Chief of Staff. I should have known. I should take the fall. Besides, I don't have anyone . . ." "You have me." Her chin jutted upward. He gazed out the window. "I sent you away, Donna. I wanted to protect you from . . ." "I didn't need protection, Josh. I didn't want it." She stepped back. "You always do this; you always assume I can't handle the tough things! Just because I make one stupid choice-pick the wrong man- you think I'm weak! Damn you!" Her face flushed, breaths shallow, but eyes blazing. She turned but he captured both hands in his. "You're the strongest person I know, Donna," he said gently. "I never would have made it this far, this year, without your strength. You gave me back my life." He tugged her closer, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear before cupping her cheek. "I can't repay you by taking yours." "But, Josh . . ." He pulled her until their foreheads touched. "It's a done deal, Donna, papers signed today. I turn myself in tomorrow after the vote and leave for the Federal Prison Camp at Eglin Air Force Base the next day. With good behavior I'll be out in twelve months." His voice sounded assured but his eyes betrayed him. "But the President and Leo won't allow . . ." "Neither the President nor Leo can do a damn thing about it. Hoynes would have to pardon me and we both know he can't - won't - do that." "I'll wait for you," she sobbed, "I'll write and I'll visit and . . ." "Don't," he held her at arm's length, eyes locked with hers. "Go find the life you deserve and don't look back." She blinked three times before the tears overflowed and she buried her face in his neck. "Promise me one thing," he stroked her hair, "whoever the lucky guy who gets you is, you won't get him coffee either." He held her until the shaking stopped and he gently tilted her face up. "You've have a big day. Do you have someplace to stay?" She shook her head. "You take the bed; I'll crash on the couch. Tomorrow morning I'll put you on a plane to Wisconsin." "You take the bed," Donna ordered. "I can be comfortable here on the couch." Head hanging low, he led her to the other room stopping at the door. "You take the bed," he said quietly. "I can't sleep in there." "Why?" "It still smells like her." Anger flashed in her eyes until she saw the contrition in his. She took his hand and led him into the room, but halfway to the bed he pulled her close. "Not tonight, Donna; not like this," he pleaded. "Why not?" "Because," he panted, "I would be using you, just like all the other men. And you deserve better." Tearfully, she nodded, slipping into the bathroom and returning in a demure blue cotton nightgown. Lacing one hand with his, she led him to the bed and pulled back the comforter, sliding between the sheets and pulling him beside her. They lay facing one another, touching only hands until he opened his embrace and pulled her head into the crook of his left shoulder while rolling onto his back. Instinctively, as if they'd done it for a thousand nights, she slid her leg over his, velvet over sandpaper, while her hand snaked under the Harvard shirt to rest over his mended heart. His right hand covered hers, thin cotton between them, while his left hand smoothed her hair before resting on her hip. She pressed her lips to his chest, tears soaking the material betwixt them. He buried his face in the crown of her silky hair, deposited a light kiss before wishing for her, "May all your sweet dreams come true." * * * Sam Seaborn shakily motioned to the bartender for a refill. "Don't you think you've had enough?" a voice twanged from behind him. He turned and tried to focus on the petite blonde figure who'd spoken. "I understand you do really stupid things when you get drunk." "So I'm told," he admitted, returning to his freshened glass. "So, Ainsley," he grinned thickly to the visitor now perched on the barstool beside him, "what's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?" He punctuated the question with a long drink. She took the glass from his hand and emptied it. "Rescuing a friend before he makes a bad situation worse." She stood and offered her hand. "Come on, Sam. Let me take you home." "Home?" he leered. "Home," she confirmed. "You to yours then me to mine." "Damn." "Them's the breaks," she threw a few bills on the bar then dragged him out and poured him into her car. He closed his eyes and was snoring softly when she slid into the space in front of his building. Lightly, she brushed her fingers against his cheek. "Wake up, Sam, we're here." "Where's here?" his eyes followed her around to the passenger door, then took her proffered hand. "Home; your home." Tugging him up the steps, she propped him against his door. "Keys?" He fished in his pockets stupidly until, with a dismissive wave, she fished on her own. In an instant she'd retrieved the keyring, but not without provoking a rapturous groan from her passenger. "Not fair," he whined as she shoved him through his door and toward the bathroom. "You to your home, me to mine." Turning the water to near-boil, she peeled off his coat, then suit coat, tie, shirt, shoes, and socks, depositing them in a pile on the floor. Steam puffed from the shower as she tugged at his belt, eliciting a growl this time. His hands covered hers, guiding them. "I think," she stepped back, "you can do this part on your own." She closed the door behind her, then searched the drawers until she found a pair of pyjama pants. Timidly she tossed them into the bathroom, then turned down the sheet and comforter. The bathroom door opened with a billow of steam and he stumbled past her, landing heavily on the bed. Gently she pulled the covers over him, gasping when he caught her hands again. "Stay?" he focused on her face. "Please?" She shook her head, hearing only the sound of his heavy sigh as she stepped out again into the night. * * * "What?" CJ Cregg shouted to the knocking door. Gathering her wet hair into a towel, she stormed to the door and threw it open. "Hi," Danny Concannon stood shyly on the threshold. "What do you want?" Her face nearly matched her vermilion silk pyjamas. He cupped her cheeks with his hands, standing so close his breath warmed her face. "I left my notebook at home." Wetly, she smiled, closing the door with them both on the inside. * * * Toby Ziegler had not even slammed the door to his apartment before he knew he wasn't alone. Stealthily, or at least as stealthily as possible with a couple of scotches under his belt, he pushed on the half-closed bedroom door. The wedge of light revealed a fan of strawberry blonde hair spread over his pillow. "Toby?" she pushed herself up on one elbow, creamy shoulders bared by creamy sheets. "Come to bed." "In a minute." In the steamy shower, he tried vainly to wash the disappointment of the day down the drain before surrendering his heart. "How did you know, Andrea?" he whispered as he slipped between the sheets. "I always know, Toby," she turned to face him, then pulled him into her embrace. "I always know." * * * "You're not supposed to be here, Abby," Jed Barlet chastised. "You're supposed to stay in Vermont." "How could I have stayed in New Hampshire tomorrow, Jed? We've faced everything else together; we'll face this." He began to protest, but stopped, pride swelling in his heart because he had a partner who refused to stop loving him. * * * "Mallory, what are you doing here?" Leo McGarry folded his coat over the wing chair near the door. "I just thought you could use some company, Daddy." Wordlessly he crossed the room and gathered his daughter into his embrace. The Vote "I should have put you on a flight to Wisconsin like we agreed," Josh Lyman fidgeted as Donna Moss straightened his inaugural tie that he was wearing with his inaugural suit. "I'll go tomorrow," she smiled with a false brightness that managed to light up the dark passageway outside the Senate chamber. "I don't want you to come with me," Lyman whispered. "I'm coming." "What on earth could that old curmudgeon want, Leo?" the President asked. "What more could he think of to plague us?" "With Stackhouse, you never know Mr. President," the Chief of Staff replied from the Chief Executive's side. With his staff in a somber phalanx behind him, the Leader of the Free World asked for admittance to the court that could well seal his fate. The President and his Counsel sat at the respondent's table, his staff in the seats behind. On the President's far right was his Chief of Staff, next was the Deputy Chief of Staff. Beside him was the Director of Communications and his Deputy, then the White House Press Secretary. At the far left was the President's personal assistant. Behind the staff were the other attendees- Dr. Abigail Bartlet behind McGarry, Donna Moss behind Lyman, and Representative Andrea Wyatt behind Ziegler. Each was dressed in funereal black, sitting ramrod straight, faces wooden. "Before I call for the vote," the Chief Justice intoned, "the senior Senator from Minnesota has further questions." Josh blinked twice, to clear his vision, for he thought he saw the jurist flash a sly smile. "Mr. Chief Justice, Mr. President and fellow Senators, I beg your indulgence at these final questions I wish to put to the respondent." He unfolded his glasses and perched them on his nose. "Mr. President, are you a citizen of the United States?" The President looked confused. "Yes," he answered cautiously. "And as such do you consider yourself subject to the penalties and privileges its laws afford its citizens?" "Yes, I do," the President held his hands palm up. "Would one of those laws be the Americans with Disabilities Act?" Sam's head snapped up and Josh nearly jumped out of his skin while Babish looked slightly ill. "Mr. Stackhouse, it is my understanding that the White House and Congress are exempt from the workplace laws they enact." "In the past," Stackhouse agreed. "But late last evening the Court of Appeals held that exemption as unconstitutional when they upheld the lower court's ruling in Watkins, Lieberman, et al v. The Office of the President and the United States Congress. Were you aware of that?" "No, sir, I was not." Bartlet shot daggers at Babish who swallowed. Hard. "Mr. Chief Justice, I respectfully request that you rule on the applicability of this decision to these proceedings before we vote." The old man placed the bound sheaf on the dais. The Chief Justice adjusted his glasses. "I have followed the Watkins, Lieberman case for some time, Senator," the Justice stared at Babish, "and I feel it does apply directly to the situation at the bar. I am therefore directing that the vote be rescheduled for Monday to give each member of the court time to consider the effect this ruling should have on their vote." He banged his gavel. "These proceedings are adjourned until noon Monday." Babish disappeared before anyone could catch him, as did Joshua Lyman and Donna Moss. "I told you I didn't want you to come with me," Lyman chastened, nonetheless clinging to his assistant's hand as the Justice Department elevator lurched to a stop. "Are you sure you still have to come since the Senate postponed the vote?" "Better to be safe than sorry," he mumbled, then presented himself to the receptionist who motioned them through the door the the Marshal's office. "Joshua Lyman?" the granite-faced Marshal asked. "Yes." "Mr. Lyman, please remove any jewelry, necktie, belt, suspenders, and shoelaces you may be wearing." Slowly, he slid the watch from his wrist, laying it in Donna's upturned palms. Hands shaking, he fumbled with the necktie, "I seem to have developed carpal tunnel syndrome." She reached to help but he swallowed hard and yanked on the cravat, folding it on top of the watch. Sheepishly, he reached for his belt as the opening door revealed the Special Prosecutor. "We've run into a hitch with your plea bargain." He waved a folder. "The Watkins, Lieberman decision has thrown a kink into everything so I've asked the Supreme Court for an expedited review of its applicability and the Americans with Disabilities Act to this case. Didn't your office contact you?" "My office?" Josh grabbed his pager and scowled at the message on the screen. "Some woman named Margaret . . ." Josh showed the pager to Donna, who winced. "When will we know?" "They've promised it Monday morning, first thing. For now, you're free to go." Lyman grasped Donna's hand and chuffed, "For now." * * * "What in the name of the twelve apostles did he think he was doing?" Jed Bartlet bellowed so loudly that crystals on the candlesticks shivered, staring out the French doors behind his desk in the Oval Office. "My job." Josh Lyman stood directly on the Presidential seal. "How could you be so stupid as to think," the President stopped short at his first real look at the appearance of the Deputy before him. The black suit hung limply at the sagging shoulders, slacks cinched so that they bagged, buttoned collar swallowing the neck, red eyes swimming in darkened sockets, mane shaved to prison-length, but chin held high with determination. "My God," he breathed. "Mr. President," Lyman stepped around the chair to the desk, "I'm the only logical choice. You and Leo have reputations and families . . ." "That doesn't matter, Josh," Leo chastised. "Of course it does, Leo! The President and the Chief of Staff will not be convicted of something that shouldn't even be a Federal crime as long as I am the Deputy!" He shoved his hands in his pockets, voice moderating. "I have the least to lose, but am high enough in the chain of command to satisfy the Special Prosecutor's blood lust." "That's not enough. Leo, call the Attorney General," the President growled. "Please don't." Josh rocked back and forth before speaking. "Nobody wants to see the President convicted of a Federal crime. The nation forgave Nixon for Watergate; they forgave Reagan for Iran-Contra; they'll forgive you. Hell, they may even be smart enough to see you're the best thing to happen to the nation since FDR." He smiled wanly. "Even the staff members who went to jail are doing well." He rocked again. "They're sending me to Club Fed. I'll be okay." The President growled, depositing himself in the chair in front of the seal while Josh and Leo sat in opposing couches. Leo leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What about Watkins, Lieberman?" "Does that help us or hurt us?" The President mirrored McGarry's posture. "Well," Lyman propped his ankle on his knee, "if the Supreme Court rules that it is applicable to the case before the Grand Jury - and I, personally, am hoping that it does - it's possible we could all escape Federal sanctions. The Senate, on the other hand, is an unique and wondrous creation." "So there's no telling if they would convict." Josh held up his hands and shrugged. The President leaned back. "Where in God's name did this Watkins, Lieberman case come from?" Both men looked to Lyman who smiled, cryptically, "Let's just say that we still have a few friends on both sides of the aisle, Mr. President. Friends who," he flittered his hand in search of the words, "think enough of us to send us an insurance policy." "Why didn't Babish take this into account?" A knock preceded Charlie Young's face at the door, "Mr. President? Several members of the Senior Staff would like to see you . . ." "Not now, Charlie." "I'm sorry, Mr. President," Sam Seaborn pushed into the room dragging Ainsley Hayes, "but I think you need to hear what we have to say." We followed the Associate Counsel in the form of Toby Ziegler and CJ Cregg. "Guys," Leo warned but Ziegler cut him off. "It's time we each stopped functioning in a vacuum and started working together as a team." "We're still under threat of Federal indictment," Josh warned. "Screw the indictment," Sam Seaborn replied. "The other teams have stacked the deck against us. Ainsley?" "I was assigned to represent the White House in the Watkins, Lieberman case. Since, obviously, it might have repercussions in the impeachment and Grand Jury proceedings, I personally delivered regular updates to Mr. Babish. I had no idea that he wasn't using them." "Which brings to mind," CJ Cregg continued, "the question of why he wouldn't be using it." "And this morning," Toby Ziegler held up a videotape, "this copy of 'All the President's Men' appeared on my desk." He pulled the tape from the case and a yellow sticky note flapped. "With a special added trailer," Seaborn continued. "Of Vice-President Hoynes meeting with," Ziegler's voice rose, "what I would assume, would be his prospective cabinet." "All from the Senate." CJ Cregg took a deep breath before finishing. "Babish was there." McGarry broke several moments of silence with, "The son of a . . ." "Obviously, the White House Counsel had a great deal at stake in this case," Lyman observed wryly. "I want Babish and Hoynes' heads on a pike before the sun sets," the President rumbled. "No," Josh's face curled into a smile. "I've got a better idea." The Vote Redux Monday "I can't believe we're back in these suits again," Josh Lyman pushed a toast wedge into his scrambled eggs. "Stop fidgeting or the First Lady will regret she invited us for breakfast." Donna picked at her fruit plate. "I can't eat," Sam Seaborn set his plate down and inspected the brushstrokes on a painting over the sideboard. "Relax, Sam," Toby Ziegler advised. "You're making us all nervous." Sam replied over his shoulder. "I just don't see how anybody can be relaxed. In a few hours, Josh may be going to prison, the President may be impeached and the country in the hands of John Hoynes." CJ Cregg flanked him. "Josh isn't relaxed, Sam; he's about to crawl out of his skin." Josh perched his plate in the edge of the table and Donna, following behind, pushed it out of harm's way. "And Leo and the President aren't much better." "Sam, we owe it to Josh to be as calm as possible until we know exactly what we're dealing with." Ziegler's eyes followed the Deputy Chief of Staff to the window, where the younger man stood, hands stuffed in his pockets, staring into the bright morning. In an instant his assistant slid beside him, and lay her head on his shoulder. His hand entwined with hers and they stood, silently, seemingly stronger for the joining they shared. "The Special Prosecutor is on line two for Josh," Charlie Young announced from the door. Planting a quick kiss on the top of his partner's head, Lyman sighed heavily before picking up the telephone. "Josh Lyman." After what could only have been a few words, the Deputy Chief of Staff quickly turned his back to the room. His shoulders sagged and he leaned heavily against the table. Donna Moss' eyes snapped shut and her hand unsuccessfully covered a gasp. "Thank you, sir," Josh laid the handset in its cradle after several wordless minutes and, shoulders shaking, held an inviting arm to Donna. At her touch he faced the room and wrapped his arm around her, face tear-stained but smiling. "In an eight-one decision, the Supreme Court ruled that the President is protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act and that he was under no obligation to reveal his illness." He licked his lips. "In light of the ruling, the Special Prosecutor has suspended the Grand Jury. Any actions, including plea bargains, arising from his investigation are hereby dismissed without prejudice." A chorus of congratulations filled the room but four of its occupants were oblivious. Abby Bartlet placed her hand over her heart then pulled her husband into an embrace. Josh Lyman leaned back against the table, arms still encircling his assistant, vowing that he'd never again let her go. Charlie Young slipped quietly into the room and flipped the ever-present television to C-SPAN. The blue banner at the bottom tallied the votes as the White House Senior Staff watched in silence. The vote was tied at fifty ayes and fifty nays at the end of the Roll Call. "Who breaks the tie?" CJ asked. "The Chief Justice," Josh replied quietly. "Does anyone know who the dissenter was?" Toby Ziegler's brow furrowed. The President of the Senate turned to the Chief Justice. "The deciding vote, Mr. Chief Justice," he said with inflated pomposity, "is up to you." The Chief Justice hesitated for an instant and, in that moment, Josh Lyman's face broke into a smile. "Nay." There was no celebration in that instant, no applause, no whoops or cheers. There was silence, be it prayer or merely reflection on the great opportunity they'd been given. "What about Babish?" Toby asked. "I suspect he'll be returning to his practice in Chicago soon," Leo replied sharply. "Hoynes, too?" Cregg asked. "Not immediately," Lyman suggested. "We can take the time to be selective." To Cregg's puzzled look the President explained, "Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." "Hoynes will be on his best behavior once the video tape turns up on his desk." Ziegler smiled. "So," Leo McGarry announced, "did I hear wrong or do we still have a country to run?" While the staff filtered out, Leo dragged his Deputy into his office. "You pull a stunt like that again and I will fire you." The younger man turned toe-to-toe with his mentor. "Then don't put me in a situation like that again." McGarry nodded, ruefully. "You could have lost it all, you know, Donna included." Josh stuffed his hands in his pockets. "If I had lost Donna, none of the rest of it mattered much anymore." McGarry studied the face before him. "You're not the brash kid I hired three years ago." "And you're not the icons I started working for three years ago. You're very human now, flesh and blood and feet of clay." "Disappointed?" Worry furrowed McGarry's brow. The man before him had given up so much for the cause they shared; could they - he and the President - measure up to that sacrifice? The younger man's face split into a grin reminiscent of earlier days. "Leo, I serve - we serve - at the pleasure of the President of the United States of America. How could I be disappointed in that?" End "A Season in Hell"
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