Chapter Text
This story begins with a blurry photograph in People magazine.
I have looked at that photo a dozen times now. I see nothing particularly remarkable about it. Truthfully, I'm not even sure where it was taken. If there were any background details to give the location away, they have been cropped out. What remains is just an image of two people talking together, unaware they're being watched. Being judged.
A man and a woman standing close together: I think you can tell from their body language that this is not an uncommon occurrence. There is something about the way he leans in toward her, something about the way she smiles at him, that indicates how comfortable they are in each other's company. They spend a lot of time talking like this; you might get the impression that they relish those moments together.
What precisely are they to one another? How do they define their relationship? They aren't lovers; at least (I can tell this much from the dress she's wearing) they weren't when this picture was taken. Read the caption beneath the photo and you'll learn that she works for him. However, if you thought their relationship is more complex than that -- more intense, you'd be right. If you thought there is some sort of bond or attraction between them, you'd be right about that too.
You might think something else; I know I did the first time I saw this photo. I thought that nothing could come between these two people. Certainly not the filthy ramblings of some petty, hate-filled men.
I was wrong.
This is the story of how I lost Josh.
***
I never really received hate mail until I got to the White House.
Well, that's not entirely true. I did get some when I worked for Hoynes, but he preferred to keep as much of the spotlight as possible on himself. Consequently, my name wasn't in the press all that often.
Still, the occasional sick and twisted skinhead (is that redundant?) decided I merited some anti-Semitic hate mail.
I still remember how upsetting that first letter was. When you realize that there are people out there -- a significant number of people -- who hate the very idea of your existence. They don't even hate you, because you're not a real person to them. They just loathe you on a hypothetical basis.
It is absolutely terrifying.
Then you begin to understand how your attempts to be a decent person, to do good, are completely irrelevant when you are judged merely on your pedigree.
Luckily, hate mail was an uncommon occurrence back then. Upsetting, but rare.
Then there was the Bartlet campaign.
Josiah Bartlet, a liberal brainiac from New Hampshire who managed to upend the Democratic Party by beating the prohibitive favorite and then went on to somehow win the presidency. This was the story for a long, long time.
And because Jed Bartlet's political skills are notoriously... well, let's just say the press decided that the people behind the campaign were responsible for such a surprising turn of events.
We got a lot of phone calls, Leo and Sam and CJ and Toby and me. Lots of morning shows, lots of news shows, lots of magazine articles. We were nearly as recognizable to the fanatic fringe as that new Commie in the White House.
As a result, Toby and I received a barrage of hate mail from "white pride" organizations. Most of it concerned our proximity to the very WASPy Jed Bartlet, and, of course, his Aryan Princess wife and daughters. Oh, and our Jewish inclinations to ruthlessly seek money and power in order to ruin The American Way Of Life for the Chosen Race, so that we could infect their women with our wicked ways.
Or some combination of the two.
Over the past three years, I have received some disturbing mail: letters calling for my resignation, calling for my relegation to a segregated ghetto (sounds familiar, doesn't it?), and -- by far the most disturbing -- calling for my summary execution.
I really thought I'd seen the depths of human depravity.
I was wrong.
*
The first letter arrives when I am still very weak.
It takes a lot of effort -- and causes me a lot of pain -- to get out of bed and walk the length of my apartment. Bending down to retrieve the mail from the floor is damn near excruciating.
But it's contact with the outside world. Which I crave.
Contact with persons other than Donna of course. I crave contact with Donna, too, every time she walks out the door. Of course, her frequent presence here is one aspect of my invalid state that is rewarding: lots and lots of time with Ms. Donnatella Moss-Lyman all to myself. Yes, that is a bonus.
I'm digressing. Could it be I don't want to deal with the letter?
See, that therapy has paid off; now I can recognize my avoidance behavior. Doesn't mean I don't still engage in it, but at least I know when I'm doing it.
I'm definitely doing it now.
So I haul my weak, sore self out of bed, shuffle to the door, and groan my way down to the floor to snag my mail.
Bill. Bill. Solicitation letter from Henry Hyde -- I throw that in the trash immediately.
And then there is the letter.
I got lots of letters while I was in the hospital. As I've said before, I won the news cycle the week of the shooting and apparently became some sort of hero. Now I wouldn't normally balk at the word "hero" being applied to me; but since my actions during the shooting were mindless and did nothing but place me in the path of a bullet, I feel a tad undeserving of the sobriquet. But the few letters I did have the strength to read -- or that Donna read to me -- were amazing in their outpouring of sympathy.
More avoidance behavior.
Stanley would be so disappointed with me.
Not that I've seen him since the shooting. He sent flowers to my hospital room -- or so I'm told; they don't allow flowers in ICU. I'm pretty sure CJ redirected the copious amounts of flowers I received to the children's ward. The card Stanley sent was very nice, though. Short, but he signed off by reminding me that I could call him any time I needed to and that he'd even make a house call. Hospital call, I guess, would be the more appropriate term.
But I really didn't have many problems in the hospital. Psychologically speaking, anyway. I'm pretty sure I have the drugs -- and my delicate system -- to thank for that.
Nope, the nightmares didn't start in earnest until I got back to my apartment.
I really dislike the nightmares.
Not a big fan of panic attacks, either. I've only had a couple of those, although I haven't relayed the details to anyone who could, you know, actually confirm that they are panic attacks. I'm just guessing that instances of sudden, overwhelming panic with attendant physical manifestation in the form of cold sweat, the shakes, and a compulsive urge to go fetal could be safely labeled panic attacks.
Thankfully, there's been no one here to witness the couple I've had. I would really hate for Donna to have to deal with my psychological breakdown along with the burdens of doing my job for me. You know, when Toby said Donna would make an excellent deputy chief of staff, he was right. She's almost better at my job than I am.
I'm doing it again.
You want to hear about the letter. The first letter anyway. Well, to be accurate, the first letter after the shooting. (Although I have suspicions that the Secret Service sifted the tons of mail I received while in the hospital for hate mail. Not that I have any sort of problem with that procedure; I'm even willing to overlook the fact that those actions are prohibited by federal law.)
See how good I am at this? I am a master of avoidance behavior.
The letter begins "Dear Dirty Jew." It devolves from there. I can't...
I really can't repeat the words. Suffice it to say that the writer expresses his deep-seated fear of anything that doesn't fit into his limited version of Life, the Universe and Everything by using every tired anti-Semitic slur I've heard, plus a few new ones. He also rejoices in my near-fatal injuries and upbraids me for surviving the attempted murder. "So far."
These people -- people who have never met me, who know nothing about me other than that my beliefs differ from theirs -- these people are upset that I survived an armed assault. I can't understand this. They are in mourning because I didn't die. That level of ignorant hate is absolutely a mystery to me.
I know that Donna has tried to shield me from letters like these.
For the last three years, she's been sifting the mail for ignorance, trying to protect me from this hate.
Now the ignorance has spread, and this letter in particular has taken on a new, threatening tone. And the final paragraph... I really can't repeat that. I don't even know if I can talk about it yet. (More avoidance behavior?)
I really... It's a difficult subject.
In essence, he threatens Donna. This ignorant coward didn't even catch the subtext of that People article; he threatens Donna merely because she works for a Jew. (No, that's not the word he used to describe me; I refuse to repeat that word.)
The thought of a Jew degrading a blonde, blue-eyed woman is intolerable to this cretin.
I am terrified that this hatred has fed off of itself until it is big enough to include both of us.
I can handle hate letters targeting me. Not very well, but I can handle them. Letters threatening Donna...
There's no reason she needs to see these letters. So now it's my turn to shield her.
I very calmly call the Secret Service, explain the situation, wait for the agent to arrive, answer her questions, nod when she tells me the D.C. police will be contacting me within the next 24 hours, and see her out.
Then I promptly freak my shit.
When I uncurl myself from the corner of the couch, I realize the agent took the letter without leaving me a copy. Not that I really want it for my scrapbook, but it's good to be able to name your enemies.
No matter, I seem to have selective photographic memory, because the words of hate and violence are burned into my mind.
And I have another item on the List of Things I Can't Tell Donna.
***
I have become used to hate mail. It's unpleasant, but it happens. Even the nicest people in public life get hate mail. And while I love him dearly, I will be the first to admit that Josh Lyman is not the nicest person in public life. So, as you can probably guess, my Joshua gets more than his share.
The thing about hate mail, I learned quickly during my first few weeks as Josh's assistant, is not to dwell on it. You see what it is, you call the Secret Service, they haul it away for investigation, hand it off to the D.C. police, and that is that. But this is different. This is the first piece of hate mail I've personally intercepted since the shooting.
And this one is addressed to me.
A blurry photograph of yourself in People magazine might give your parents a thrill, but it also apparently sets you up as a target for the sort of individuals who (as this piece of filth writes) regret that the shooters may have missed Charlie but are happy that "at least they hit the Jew."
Okay, they don't refer to Charlie by name. You can imagine what they call him.
And, no, "Jew" is not the word they use to describe Josh either.
From there, if possible, it gets worse. There is a great deal of anti-Semitic venom directed at Josh. As for what it says about me, well, apparently Josh was correct when he said that people would read between the lines of that article and assume we are romantically involved. The writer of this letter makes a number of such assumptions -- all in very graphic terms.
And there are photographs in case I don't get the not-so-veiled threat.
The photos were apparently torn out of a book on Nazi Germany. The one that makes the most vivid impression features a naked, terrified woman -- her hair every bit as blonde as mine -- who is being tarred and feathered for the "crime" of being in love with a Jewish man.
I have looked at that photo for less than five seconds. I know I will be haunted forever by that woman and what must have happened to her after the photo was taken.
As for what must have happened to the man she loved, I can't even begin to wrap my mind around that.
Josh and me, in another time and place...
I must look pretty shook up because the next thing I know Bonnie and Ginger are standing by my desk, asking what is wrong. I hand the letter to Ginger, who passes it on to Bonnie, who dials the Secret Service for me. I collect myself enough to tell Bonnie that, no, I do not want to call Josh out of the senior staff meeting.
The agent the Secret Service sends up is very matter-of-fact about the whole thing. She reassures me that this sort of thing is to be expected, given the upcoming trial of the skinhead who gave the shooters their signal. It is unfortunate that I had to see it, but the Service will investigate it thoroughly. The odds that whoever sent it will try to do anything to Josh or to me are infinitesimal.
After what we went through in May, even "infinitesimal" odds sound too great where Josh is concerned. I say something to that effect, but the agent keeps telling me not to worry. Nothing, after all, has come from the other hate mail Mr. Lyman has received since the shooting.
"This is it," I say. I'll admit I'm confused. "Josh hasn't received any other hate mail since May."
"We've managed to intercept most of it before it reached your office," she explains. "The rest Mr. Lyman has brought to us personally."
"Josh did what?"
"He's brought us about a half dozen letters."
"But I open Josh's mail," I say. "I don't understand how I didn't know."
"Ms. Moss--"
"Okay, here's the thing." Josh suddenly opens the office door, all smiling and happy. I dread having to tell him about this. "That area out there is yours; this office is mine. You really have to--" He notices the Secret Service agent sitting across from me and (I assume) the look on my face, and he comes to a sudden halt. "Donna, what's happened?"
I don't even know where to begin, not in front of someone else. In private, I'm pretty sure I'd begin by screaming at him for keeping things from me.
"Mr. Lyman," the agent begins, "Ms. Moss called us earlier to report a death threat she discovered in the morning mail."
"Oh." He looks at the agent, not at me -- a pretty good sign he's feeling guilty. "What did this one say?"
"This letter was addressed to Ms. Moss."
You know, I've seen Josh get angry lots of times. He's turned hostility into an art form. This, however, is the first time I've seen him totally lose control.
"Donna? Someone threatened Donna?"
"Yes, sir."
"Let me see it." I'm used to Josh raising his voice. This is the first time he's ever been so loud he's made me flinch.
"Sir, as I was about to explain to Ms. Moss--"
"If someone is sending death threats to my--"
"Josh!" I barely catch the slip he's about to make in time.
"To my assistant, I have a right to see it."
The agent hesitates for a second and then hands Josh the letter. He studies it. I could barely stand to look at the thing, but Josh stands there and I swear he commits every ugly word to memory. "So what are you going to do about it?" he finally asks the agent.
"As I was about to tell Ms. Moss," she says, "all we can do is contact the DC police."
"What?"
"This is a threat against a private citizen, not against the president or a member of his family. It's not Secret Service business."
"Look at the postmark. It's from Blacksburg, Virginia. Isn't that where the Newseum shooting was plotted?"
"Yes, but--"
"Then it's the Secret Service's business, isn't it? A member of the president's staff is being threatened. Shouldn't that be the Secret Service's business?"
"Josh," I say, "let it go."
"No," he says.
"Josh."
"People are threatening you, Donna. They're threatening you because of me."
"Which is not your fault," I point out.
"Still, I can keep the Secret Service from turning it over to the Keystone Kops."
"That's hardly an accurate description of the local police, Mr. Lyman," the agent says.
Josh doesn't say another word. He just turns around and heads out the door.
"Josh, where are you going?" I ask.
"Leo's office," he calls out over his shoulder.
I mutter a quick apology to the Secret Service agent and take off after Josh.
***
"Josh," Donna says. "Hold on."
"I'm going to talk to Leo," I say.
Donna looks horrified. She reaches out, but I'm already walking away.
"Josh," she calls after me. "Wait a second."
"Why?" I am going to lose it really soon, and I don't want Donna to be there. I speed up.
Donna, of course, catches up to me anyway. "Josh, stop this."
I don't break my stride.
"Stop what, Donna?" I am trying not to yell. "This... this hate-monger is threatening your life, and you don't think this is important?"
"Of course I think it's important, Josh," she says. "But the Secret Service doesn't."
I stop abruptly. Donna takes one step past me, then halts and turns. "Josh--"
"What did you say?"
Donna holds my gaze for a moment, then gives a small shrug. "I'm not the president, Josh. This isn't their job. The D.C. police--"
"Are a bunch of incompetent idiots who are going to put this on ice."
"Josh," Donna lowers her voice. "That's not true. They were there at the Newseum. They know the stakes."
"They know that a couple of ignorant skinheads made them look bad. That doesn't mean they're going to protect you from this."
"Josh--"
"I'm talking to Leo."
"Do you think that's wise?"
I am flabbergasted. "Do I think it's wise to inform the White House Chief of Staff that someone's threatening one of his staff members? Well, gee, Donna, I guess that really isn't his department."
"That's not what I meant."
"Donna--"
"No, Josh, you've got to listen to me for a second." She has her earnest face on.
I consider for a moment, then give her a curt nod. "You've got thirty seconds."
She lowers her voice and steps closer to me. "Do you really think it's a good idea to call attention to the implications of this letter?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that the assumptions this..." She gestures helplessly, "..this person makes are not entirely untrue."
I can't believe she's saying this out loud not ten feet from Leo's office. I move toward her till we are almost touching. "Donna," I whisper, "I don't think we should discuss this here."
"I know, Joshua," she whispers back. "But you can't go in there to Leo while you're upset because someone is threatening your--" She stops, raises her eyebrow at me, and says, "assistant."
Point taken. I nod once more. "Fine. I'll take that under advisement."
I step back and head for Leo's office.
"Josh--"
"I got it, Donna."
I bypass Margaret and go straight into Leo's office. "Leo--"
He waves me into silence from his desk.
"Yes," he says into the phone. "Yes, we're aware of that, Patrick, but I really think--"
He rolls his eyes at me and indicates a seat with a tilt of his head. I am too agitated to sit. Leo notes this with a curious look.
"Patrick, I really can't discuss this right--" He stops again. Listens. "I've got to go, Patrick. I'll get back to you."
Leo hangs up the phone and turns his attention to me. "I've got Patrick MacDougall calling to tell me the Hollywood community is against censorship."
I ignore the MacDougall thing. "Leo, Donna's getting threats."
Leo's brow furrows. "Threats? From whom?"
"This one is from Jeffrey Grainger of Blackburg, Virginia."
"Who is Jeffrey Grainger?" Leo asks.
"A skinhead, Leo," I answer. "A Neo-Nazi. Who do you think sends threatening letters to blonde-haired white women who -- who work closely with Jews?"
"Josh--"
"I'm serious, Leo," I interrupt. "I want the Secret Service on this."
"Last time I checked, ordering the Secret Service around wasn't in my job description, Josh."
"Leo--"
"Threats to citizens of D.C. go to the D.C. police, Josh."
"They're not trained, Leo. A beat cop isn't going to hurl himself in front of a bullet to save Donna!"
"Charlie's mother was a beat cop, Josh," Leo says, rising to face me, "and I'd like to see you show a little more respect for the police."
"Leo--"
"Josh, this is not open to discussion. The Secret Service protects the First Family. Period. This is not a threat to the office of the president. There's nothing they can do."
"That's great, Leo. I feel so much better."
"Josh--"
"Forget it, Leo."
"Josh, if someone wants to kill her, they'll probably succeed."
I am halfway out the door, but his words put me into suspended animation. I don't even think I'm breathing.
"That's a lesson I learned in May, Josh." Leo is just behind me now. "We do what we can, all of us; but if there's a determined wingnut out there, he'll probably be able to do some damage."
I turn to face him, my body moving awkwardly. "If you're trying to make me feel better, Leo, I've gotta say--"
"Josh." Leo's expression is somber. "I'm not going to lie to you. The public eye is not a safe place to be sometimes. Donna's your assistant, and she made it into the papers. And now, since she's linked to you, she's a Jew-lover to these..." He is growling now, "..these ignorant little people."
"You're not telling me anything I don't know, Leo," I say. "In fact, I believe that was my point."
"They're cowards, Josh," he says. "These are people whose entire code of 'morality' is based on fear of the unknown. The vast majority of them are too scared to do more than form small groups and send the occasional threatening letter."
I hold his gaze. "But there are some who act."
"Yes," Leo nods. "There are. And they most likely won't do you the courtesy of sending you a heads-up."
"So we do nothing?"
"No," Leo says. "We watch our backs."
I look down at the carpet, consider his words, then glance back up at him. "It isn't supposed to be like this."
Leo nods slowly. "I know."
***
END PART I