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Chapter or Story
The Pretender: The Administration
by Dash Nolan
The Crackpots and These Women
by Dash Nolan
The Crackpots and These Women
"Bonnie, I needed those stats on diabetes hours ago!"
"It's been twenty minutes."
Phones continuously rang, and even though people were picking up receivers, the amount of ringing never seemed to lessen. The glass partitions sectioning this part of the building off from the rest of the flow were well-placed and elegant from an architect's point-of-view, but they did little to take away from the chaos in the halls outside. Jarod looked up from the magazine in his lap to watch as a man walked briskly into what had been dubbed the "Communications Bullpen." He was a gruff man, the hair on his head forming two rings: one around the back of his head ending over each ear, and the other surrounding his mouth. Despite the air of perpetual annoyance that Jarod could practically taste from his direction, the man's large eyes and small pot belly painted a sympathetic picture.
The man continued past the desk of a young black woman who gave him a practiced look of irritation. This was how the two of them had learned to operate, and something in the look he gave the woman told Jarod that the pair had built up an unbreakable relationship of professional respect. He smiled.
"Jarod's here to see you," she said, nodding at the Pretender.
The man didn't stop moving toward his office as he gestured for Jarod to follow him inside. He smiled at the assistant, whose name he had learned a few minutes ago was Bonnie, and stepped into the office, closing the door behind him. Bonnie's apparent director tossed a stack of papers onto the desk before finally turning toward Jarod.
"So," he said, exhaling with every few words. "You're our new relations guy."
Jarod nodded and extended his hand. "Jarod Sorkin."
"Toby Ziegler," the man said, shaking Jarod's hand with little energy.
"You're the Director of Communications. I met Sam Seaborn yesterday, he said not to expect the warmest welcome."
Toby moved behind his desk and picked up the papers he had put down a minute ago. He shuffled through the first few sheets, stopped to read something, then dropped them onto the desk again. Picking up a manila folder on the edge of the desk, he flipped it open and kept his eyes on the papers inside as he spoke.
"We just started prep work for the State of the Union last week. It doesn't get much worse around here than during these months."
Jarod smirked. "And it can't help that I'm another voice to challenge ideas and slow everything down."
Toby looked up from the file just long enough to give him a humorless smile. "Not really, no. These would go by much smoother if no one was here to remind us of the eight-trillion people who are going to be watching live or hearing about it for the following week. Expect to be representing the lowest common denominator for the next seventy-or-so days."
"Aren't they the majority of the voters that got you guys here?"
"Yes, it's terrifying. What did you want to talk about?"
Jarod leaned forward, his fingers interlaced. "I know I don't have time for much catching up, so I'll ask what I can and run with that. When it became clear that Charlie Young's relationship with President Bartlet's daughter was the force behind the Rosslyn shooting, why didn't you address it in any of the following conferences?"
Toby started to step out from behind his desk, the stopped, looked down, and messaged his forehead. It was several long seconds before he responded.
"I don't see what this has to do with being the target of our annoyance while we plan-" Toby said, stopping himself with a slow breath. "By the time we had all recovered enough to get back to work, it was too late to use it. It would've looked bad."
"To those who thought about it too much, maybe. But that press wave could have secured the President's reelection right there through the ethnic vote. You had the chance to simultaneously put the Klu Klux Klan on the most-wanted list, and get the most Black support behind a President since Lincoln. Why did you tell him not to?"
Jarod didn't like what he was doing. These were old wounds that probably still hadn't healed. The President that these good people were willing to walk through fire for had taken a bullet, and Josh Lyman, the capitol hound dog that everyone in the West Wing either greatly loved or greatly respected, had been a lung down and inches from death. Jarod also knew this was his best chance to get inside and come away with the information he needed. But he didn't have to like it.
"For that first month, we would have had the whole country behind us. His approval rating was something ridiculous, around eighty percent." Toby's words were louder, but not quite to the point where others would take notice. This was now a debate. "Afterwards, we would try to shift to the rest of the country's problems, and people with much more time than us would be left wondering where we went."
Jarod sighed, realizing that this wasn't going to go anywhere useful. He needed thoughts and voices that weren't his own if he was going to find a way around the plan he had crafted all those years ago. Jarod knew the video on the sim disc had only been the bare bones of the project because he could distinctly remember working on varying scenarios and alternate steps. In fact, he had searched for hours on end for any recordings of these other sessions, but came away empty. Either the sessions had never been recorded, a possibility Jarod could hardly believe he was considering, or the discs containing them weren't in his archive file.
Either way, Jarod needed a sample of the minds closest to last attempt on the President's life. Only with a large number of different views could Jarod piece together where to go next. Toby had put up a wall, and this wasn't going to accomplish anything until Jarod was past it.
"In the past," Jarod said, taking a quiet breath to try and ease the tightening in his shoulders. "The President had always exited public buildings under overhangs and canopies. That night, the Secret Service decided not to have a canopy covering his exit. Without that canopy, I would assume it was significantly easier for those boys to do what they did."
Toby slowly brought his hand down his face, and the look he gave Jarod nearly stopped him there. But Toby resumed moving, pulling a black binder out from under a series of folders and starting to read its contents.
Jarod continued, "That wasn't a call the Service would make. Someone around here told them to take the tent down. From a public relations view, whoever made the call knew what they were doing. This was an important night in the President's term, showing his character and reaching out to the youth of America. Walking out in the open air and shaking hands with the people in the rope line was a perfect ending to the night. It was a good call. You wouldn't happen to know who it was, would you? I'd like to ask them a few things."
And every molecule in the room froze. There lights didn't buzz or fluctuate, the noise outside focused on a singular pitch, and there was no discernible movement in the office. Toby's eyes slowly rose from the binder in his grasp to the Pretender on his office couch.
The two stared at one-another for a long moment. Jarod was trying desperately not to look away in guilt, while still not coming off as accusatory, as he continued to match Toby's stare. Finally, Toby exhaled deeply and returned to whatever was in the binder as he spoke.
"Another item on a list of thousands of things I would've liked C.J. to put out in her releases. The Secret Service took enough hell for letting him walk out of there without cover. It's ridiculous that they had to carry the blame of making the decision too."
And there it was. Jarod closed his eyes and breathed deep, having finally touched the humane side of Toby. He could feel his mind shifting as the lifetime of Toby's psychological growth and moral development rushed into his consciousness. Toby Ziegler was no longer another walking, talking, oxygen-conversion machine to Jarod. To the Pretender, the speech-writer was as much a living being as himself. Using the techniques Sidney had helped him develop during those days spent in that wonderful plastic bubble, Jarod pushed back the cynicism and annoyance rising within him. He had to take control of the read off Toby, and not the other way around.
Jarod stood, silently hoping that Toby had read his behavior as simple conversation-driven thought, and nodded toward the Communications Director. "In the same shoes, I probably would have recommended the exact same thing." Toby either didn't hear this olive branch, or actively ignored it. Jarod went on. "I've already met C.J., but how hard do you think would be to get a few minutes with her?"
Toby closed the binder and looked at Jarod without distraction. "You got a few minutes with me, and I don't like anyone."
And then he laughed. It was the weak laugh of a man who lived and breathed cynicism, but somewhere in the expression, there was amusement.
Chapter End Notes:
This is the longest and, in my opinion, best chapter so far. I made some leaps in this from Jarod's POV, a little risky, but I think worth it.
