Tramp.  Slut.  Hussy.  Trollop.  Wanton.  Strumpet.  Whore.

Just a few of the names I've been called in the last week.

I have tried to keep things in perspective, I really have.  I know I'm none of those names.  I know that none of the stories in the media come close to explaining who I really am.  None of this nonsense bears the least resemblance to my life or to Josh's.  And yet, after a while, it gets to you.  This constant assault -- no matter how upbeat you try to be, it gets to you.

I'd like to take a day off.  Just one day.  That sounds like heaven -- sleeping late, no listening to the news, not deal with the reporters who try to get some reaction out of Josh and me every time we walk out the door.

I would kill for one day off.

But that's just not feasible.  To fight this thing, Josh and I have to appear as normal as possible.  Missing even one day of work would cause too much speculation.  Within an hour, CNN would be reporting that I've been fired.  Within two hours, they'd be saying that Josh is on his way out.

I am losing my sense of humor.  I think that worries Josh more than anything else that's happened to me in the last week.  But I lack the energy to even make an effort to try to laugh.  At home, I find myself fighting the urge to cling to Josh.  I hate clingy, dependent women; I don't want to turn into one.

It would be so easy to cling -- to just let Josh fight all my battles for me.  In my weakest moments, I think, "Why not?  This thing has turned into a political battle.  Josh lives for this kind of fight.  Why not just let him handle it?"

I can't give in to that impulse, however.  It took me years to learn to be an independent woman; lord knows I didn't learn that from my parents.  I'm not going to let Josh fight my battles for me now.

But I just wish I could find a way to fight and laugh at the same time.

***

Donna is worrying me.

Well, that's not entirely accurate.  I'm worried about Donna.  She's losing that sparkle, that joy that makes her... well, her.  I have never seen her this way, not even during the trial and my attendant nervous breakdown.  Even then, she was able to use her wit to pull me out of myself.  I would have ended up dead somewhere -- probably by my own hand -- if it wasn't for her.

But this time, it's not me being attacked.  It's not me drowning in despair.  It's Donnatella.  And I have no idea how to help her.

I'm used to being the emotional basketcase, the target of anti-Semitic attacks and anti-Democratic barbs.  That I can handle.

We have a pattern, Donna and me.  I freak my shit over the latest round of welfare deform slithering its way through Congress, or the fact that I have to drive past the Newseum and don't want to start with the flashbacks again, or that the hate mail is particularly virulent this month.  I freak out, and Donna gets her comic relief face on and charms me out of my funk.

Or, on special occasions when we're alone, she gets her seductive face on and charms me out of my clothes.  And, consequently, my funk.  I can't be anything other than ecstatic when I'm in Donna's arms.  Maudlin, I know, but it's true.

Up until now, I would have said the same for her -- I believed that my embrace provided her some measure of solace.  I hoped it did, at any rate.  But I'm beginning to doubt that.  She hasn't touched me in a week.  And she hasn't responded to my touch.  She hasn't wanted me to touch her, and I am starting to worry that these things -- these terrible, offensive, untrue, and hurtful things -- that are being said about her are starting to wear her down.

I couldn't bear for that to happen.  I couldn't bear to see her starting to believe that she is anything less than amazing.  I couldn't stand for her to believe that our relationship is anything other than life-saving, good, and pure.

The problem is I can't go on the offensive with this.  I can't call up the networks and demand time to refute the statements made by the so-called "religious right" about my wife and myself.  I can't take Earl Fucking Goldfinch out to a deserted parking lot and beat the tar out of him.

I am a street fighter at heart.  And there's no dirtier fight than a political scandal.  This is what I do best.  But in this case, my hands are tied.  The fight I most want to take on is the one I'm not allowed to touch.

All I can do is promise myself that this time, I will be the strong one.  I will keep her from despair.  I will give her my unwavering support and my unconditional love and admiration.  I'm not good at this kind of thing, but this is one time that I refuse to fail.

I would do anything for this woman.

***

As if we didn't have enough to contend with, most of Josh's day will be taken up in discussion of trucking industry standards.

In other words, Josh is going to be bored.  This is never a good thing.  A bored Josh is a Josh who says what he's thinking without considering the consequences.

Under normal circumstances, Comedy Relief Girl would be doing her all to keep him entertained and, you know, awake.  I would dig up some bizarre yet tangentially related factoid for the purpose of banter.  Nothing like a little wordplay to keep Josh on his toes.

These are not normal circumstances, and I'm not up to finding some bizarre factoid, much less bantering.  I have confined my comments this morning to remind Josh that he has a 9 a.m. meeting with Congressman Griffith before his 11 a.m. meeting with Sam, the trucking industry people and Congressman Griffith.

"An entire morning of Max Griffith?" he asks.  "I should have listened to my mother and become a doctor."

"Too late now."

He looks at me like he wants to say something personal -- tell me to snap out of this funk I'm in or cheer up or something equally useless.  We don't say anything, however, and I go back to putting together the stuff on the health care bill for next week.

Until Congressman Griffith shows up.

I don't recall ever meeting Max Griffith before, and I'm fairly sure I'd remember.  He's tall, in his sixties, and rather grotesquely fat.  Not an attractive combination.  Especially not when he's decided to stand just close enough to be inside my personal space.

Did I mention he has bad breath?

He doesn't say anything improper, just introduces himself and asks to be shown to Josh's office.  But, as I said, he's standing just close enough to make me uncomfortable; and he's giving me this look.  There's probably not a woman in the world who hasn't gotten that look at some point in her life -- the one that makes your skin crawl, the one where some idiot you don't know and wouldn't look at twice takes a mental tour of your body as though it's public property and he has every right to inspect it.

My first reaction is to glance quickly over toward Josh's door and breath a sigh of relief when I discover it's closed.  Josh has kept an amazingly tight rein on his temper, but I think this would drive him over the edge.  Griffith's a Republican, and we don't need that kind of publicity right now.

My second reaction surprises me.  Under ordinary circumstances, I'd be pretty furious myself.  I'd be out to make this guy regret his actions.  Today, all I can manage is to feel depressed that it's come to this -- that men like Griffith think they're free to look at me this way inside the White House and three feet away from my husband the deputy chief of staff.

I have never felt so powerless in my life.  And there's nothing I can do about it without causing more trouble for Josh, for the administration and for myself.  So I don't say a word except to tell Griffith to follow me.  I lead him to Josh's office, and I get out of there as quickly as I can.

Luckily, I'm able to make myself scarce when Griffith reappears a few hours later.  But that look stays with me the rest of the day.

***

Donna has made herself scarce.  I've barely seen her all day.

I wanted her to revive me after an excruciatingly long and mind-numbingly boring meeting with Max Griffith.  Who, by the way, barely fit in the guest chair and stank up my office with his horrendous breath.  I had to hide behind my empty mug and breathe in the fumes of stale coffee just to block out his stench.

I figured I could use that for at least a few minutes of humorous banter with Donna, but I would have to, you know, locate her first.

So I wander into CJ's office.

"Josh," CJ says, waving me in.  "I was just coming to talk to you."

"You were?"

"Yes."

"You couldn't have come earlier?" I ask.  "I had Max Griffith and his horrendous breath in my office for three and a half hours."

CJ makes a face.  "That's the guy?" she asks, pantomiming a large body with her hands.

"Right."

"Fun," she says.  "So here's the thing:  We're pulling your appearance on Larry King tomorrow."

"The trucking thing?" I ask, frowning. "I just spent the morning prepping for it, CJ."

"We're pulling you."

"Why?"

She stares at me for a long moment.  "The agenda appears to have changed."

I shrug.  "Okay, so what is it now?  Mandatory minimums?  Tax relief?  The health care thing?"

"Not exactly."

"CJ, is this going to turn into twenty questions, because--"

"They're not changing the topic," she interrupts.

I give her an exasperated look.  "You just said--"

"I said it appears to have changed," she answers.  "The topic is still technically the trucking thing, but they've added someone to the guest list."

And I finally get it.  The Republicans are putting someone on who will steer the conversation to my personal life.  On live TV.  To get a reaction from me that will not be edited.  "Who is it?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," I answer.  "Who is it?"

"Mary Marsh," CJ sighs.

"Mary Marsh?" I repeat, astounded.  "They really don't consider it to be completely transparent to put someone from In Defense of Tradition on to talk about the trucking thing?"

"Supposedly, she's on there to talk about the effect the trucking thing will have on welfare mothers."

"What?" I sputter.  "Trucking?  And welfare mothers?  Is she on some sort of mind-altering medication?"

"I know," CJ says.  "But who better to get you to say something stupid than Mary Marsh?  They want the discussion."

"Well, they're not going to get it," I answer.  "Call Larry King and tell him to pull her or I'm gone."

CJ stares at me for a moment.

"You already did," I guess.  "And he went with Mary Marsh?"

"I didn't give him much of a choice," CJ admits.  "I told him if you did appear, the topics of discussion would be limited beforehand."

"And so he chose her?" I ask, still incredulous.

"Yes," she nods.

I stare at her another moment, and I think I may be grinding my teeth.  "Fine," I answer finally.  "I've got a thing."

There's still no sign of Donna, and so I retreat to my office to brood.  I am becoming extremely good at brooding.

***

Even on a relatively good day, there's something about having reporters camped out on your doorstep that makes it difficult to unwind.  A certain amount of privacy is lost.  Even though there's a thick wall separating you from them, knowing they're so close by can have a negative impact on your interest in, well, stamp collecting.

And that look I got from Max Griffith isn't helping.  I feel as though everything pure and good and fun about my life with Josh has been perverted by this.

And the part of me that says I should tell him how I feel is being drowned out by the part that's too worried about the political consequences of anything he'd do if he found out.  So I keep quiet, and Josh kisses me but I can't quite bring myself to kiss him back.

Which, of course, is not the best course of action if I want to convince Josh that everything's fine.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

We're alone, in the privacy of our bedroom, in a union that the world now knows has been legally sanctioned by the state of Maine.  And the outside world, personified today in the form of Rep. Max Griffith, R-OK, has succeeded in making me feel like a whore.

"Nothing's wrong, Josh.  I'm just tired."

"You've been tired a lot lately," Josh says in his worried voice.

"I know."  I want to tell him, but I'm afraid to discuss this.  And a little bit ashamed, which makes me furious at myself, since I know that none of this is my fault.  "I just want to sleep, Josh, okay?"

"Okay."  He starts to pull me closer.  This is our pattern; I sleep better when I'm in Josh's arms.  Not tonight.  Tonight I pull away and move to the other side of the bed.

Everything's quiet for a few minutes, and then Josh speaks.  In this very soft voice -- a whisper really -- he says, "I love you, Donnatella."

I'm not going to cry.  If I start crying, Josh will demand to know what brought this on.  And then the state of Oklahoma will have one very bruised and battered representative, and Josh and I will have another scandal on our hands.

Two hours later, Josh has fallen asleep and I'm finally free to cry.  I am a complete wreck, sobbing over all of it -- every name I've been called, every look I've gotten, every moment when I've realized that I'll never talk to Frances or my parents again.  Every damn thing I've lost.  I turn over and look at Josh and remind myself that none of that matters.  All that matters is this amazing connection we have.

Which I am damaging by keeping things from him.

Josh isn't the only one in this family who can be stupid sometimes.

"Joshua."

For once in his life, he's awake in an instant.

"What's wrong?"

I do not want to talk about this.  I don't even know how to talk about this.

"You have to promise just to listen to me and not say anything.  And you specifically have to promise not to go off and do anything stupid and macho."

I think he's so relieved I'm talking that he agrees without the usual argument he'd give me.  It takes me a minute to start, and I can't bear to look at him.  But then the words just come spilling out of me and I'm telling him everything about how this has made me feel.  I tell him about how every hurtful word has gotten to me, about the way Griffith looked at me and how degrading it was, about how scared I am that all this will ruin everything we have.

"It won't," Josh says.

"How do you know that?  How can you possibly know that?"

"I won't let it."

I finally look at him then.  He has his determined face on, and I realize that I'm smiling.  For the first time in what feels like months, I am smiling.  Because, after all, there's something tremendously reassuring about having a determined Josh on your side.

Our side.

And then it's Josh's turn to talk, and he's saying the most incredible things to me.  Things that make me believe he may not have been lying all these years about the famous 760 verbal.  By the time he's finished, I am convinced that no woman was ever loved and cherished as much as I am.

I am also more than a bit worried about what will happen the next time Rep. Max Griffith, R-OK, has the misfortune to encounter my husband, but that's a separate issue.

One that I will worry about the day after tomorrow.

Because tomorrow, Josh says, I am taking the day off.

"I shouldn't," I answer.  "It won't look good."

"We'll worry about what it looks like some other time," Josh says.  "You need the rest."

"I honestly don't want to sit around here by myself all day."

"Who said you'd be alone?"

"Josh, you can't take tomorrow off.  You've got that 10 a.m. meeting--"

"It can be postponed.  Everything can be postponed for one day.  I think we've earned one day to ourselves."

"Right.  Because look what happened the last time we took a vacation."

"This is just one day.  Besides, I figured out where we went wrong last time."

"And where was that?"  I am suddenly feeling incredibly amused.

"We went out.  This time we're staying right here."

"Right here?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Won't we have to, you know, get out of bed at some point?"

"Not if you play your cards right," he says.

He does his best seductive leer, and suddenly I am doing something I haven't done in far too long.  I am laughing.  Real, honest, uncontrollable laughter.

When I finally get over my attack of the giggles, the look on Josh's face has changed again.  The seductive leer is gone, replaced by an expression of relief and gratitude that takes my breath away.

I smile and curl back up in his arms where I belong and finally fall asleep.  We take the next day off.  We don't even check CNN to see if the rumors are flying about our absence.  We're too busy attending to our sadly neglected stamp collection.

***

When I wake up, Donna is still asleep beside me.  Half on top of me, actually . I am loathe to move, but it's already 7:30 and someone needs to tell Leo we're not coming in.

And so I slide out from underneath her, stand, and tuck the blanket up under her chin.  She is so beautiful in repose; I wish I were a painter so I could capture her delicate strength.

Pushing my fanciful thoughts aside, I take the cordless phone into the kitchen and call Leo.  He is already at his desk and Margaret puts me through immediately.

"Josh?" he answers.  "Where are you?"

"At home.  Listen--"

"Don't you have Stegner this morning."

"At ten, yeah, but--"

"I need to see you before that about the NMD."

"Leo, I'm not the guy for the NMD stuff."

"I'm not asking you to join the DoD, Josh," Leo answers sarcastically.  "I'm saying I want you to have a working knowledge of the program."

"I do have a working knowledge of the program," I say.  "I thought it was stupid when Reagan was calling it Star Wars; I see no reason to change my opinion now that it's called Nuclear Missile Defense."

There's a brief silence during which I realize I may have made a slight tactical error.  Pissing Leo off is never a good idea, especially when I'm calling in a favor.

"Leo," I start.  "I was calling because--"

"It's not stupid, Josh.  Building a defense against nuclear warfare is not stupid."

"You're right," I agree.  The sentiment I agree with; the proposed program, not so much.  But that is an argument for another time.  "Leo, listen:  Donna and I are taking the day off."

"Are you crazy?" Leo explodes.  "You can't just take a day off willy-nilly in the middle of all of this--"

"'Willy-nilly'?" I repeat, smirking.

"Josh," Leo warns.

"'All of this' is precisely why we need a day off, Leo," I shoot back angrily.  "Have you heard what they've been saying?  There are reporters on our doorstep twenty-four/seven.  Donna can't even turn on the news without hearing someone call her a whore.  Is one day really too much to ask?"

Leo hesitates for a moment, then says, "So let her take a day.  I need you here."

I close my eyes and say something that could cost me my job.  "Donna needs me here, Leo.  She's my wife.  I'm taking a day, too."

There's a long silence, during which I mentally review my options for post-White House employment.  These options seem to have shrunk since my sudden, unscheduled detour into Sex Scandal Central.

"Josh," Leo says finally.  "You think I don't know what it's like?  You think I didn't have full-scale tabloid harassment after my alcoholism got international coverage?  You think I didn't get obscene and insulting things shouted at me every day for a month?"

"I can only imagine, Leo," I answer truthfully.  "I know Sam got it after that picture, too.  I'm not claiming that my family is the only one to experience this.  I'm just saying we need a day off.  We need a day where we don't have to fight our way through that throng of parasites to go to work where we're subjected to whispers and curious looks.  We need a day where we don't work until eight or nine o'clock and then fight our way back through that same crowd of pests to lock ourselves in our condo, too tired to eat and too upset to sleep."

Leo is silent again, but I can tell he's wavering.  After a moment, he says, "One day.  I want you here tomorrow.  CJ's going to call it a scheduled day off; we'll farm out your appointments to junior staff and cover that angle, too.  One day, Josh."

"Thank you, Leo," I answer, opening my eyes to find Donna standing in front of me, barefoot, mussed up, and wrapped in my robe which is entirely too large for her willowy frame.  She looks amazing.

I disconnect and toss the phone onto the counter.  "Didn't I tell you we were staying in bed today?"

Donna gives me her affectionate face.  "Leo was okay with this?"

I shrug carelessly.  "Eventually."

She nods.  "Okay, but we have to watch Oprah."

If Donna's sudden mirth is any indication, I must look horrified.  "Why would you possibly want to watch Oprah?"

She sobers quickly.  "My parents are on."

I close the distance between us quickly and wrap her in my arms.  "We can tape it, but today is ours.  No news, no TV, no self-righteous comments from outsiders.  Just you and me, kid."

Donna grins up at me, one eyebrow raised.  "Kid?"

"Woman?" I offer.

"Better," she nods.  "I'm hungry."

"Me, too," I answer with a playful leer.

"Food, Joshua.  I need sustenance."

I lean down and give her a quick kiss.  "Eggs and bacon?" I offer, steering her back towards the bedroom.

"And toast," she says.  "What are you doing?"

"I'm putting you back to bed.  I'll make breakfast."

She gives me an alarmed look.  "Do you not remember the Christmas cookies?"

"I do," I nod.  "Which is why I'm removing temptation," I pause here to nibble on that sensitive spot just below her jaw, then finish, "from the cooking area."

"Josh," she laughs, "you can't cook."

"How hard is bacon?" I counter with a grin . "Frying pan, bacon, tongs.  No assembly required."

"Eggs?" Donna smiles.

"Scrambled okay?"

Donna kisses me then, passionately, and all thoughts of breakfast are gone.  Although I've got to point out that I make a damn fine grilled cheese sandwich when I next leave the bedroom.

***

We come now to the life story of Donnatella Moss- Lyman, as told through the media.

We will start, appropriately enough, with my childhood, as related by my parents and my sister Frances on Oprah.  (I didn't know Francesca had a a spirit, much less that she made a habit of remembering it.)  My parents assure a concerned Oprah that I was a happy child.  (This is known as The Part Josh Believes.)  I laughed, I hugged my mother, I took art and dance lessons and was quite good at both.  (This is the part where I said, "Shut up, Josh.")  My proficiency in dance class has been confirmed by my teacher, who appeared on Extra.  (This is what CJ refers to as a "slow news day.")

The trouble, Mom tells a tearful Oprah, started in junior high.  (This is known as The Part Where I Covered My Head in Shame.  There were photos.  I had bad hair and braces.)  Yes, seventh grade civics class -- that's what started me down the road to ruin.  According to Mom, I had a crush on my teacher.  Oprah probes for evidence of inappropriate touching.  There was none.  ("My God, Josh, the man was ancient!  He was forty if he was a day!"  "Hey, I'm thirty-seven!"  "I was twelve."  "Fair point.")  However, the pattern was established: I started thinking for myself.  ("Yeah, that's always a bad thing," Josh comments.)  I developed an interest in older men ("I am not!"  "Shut up, Josh.") -- men with power and political savvy.  ("Well, okay, I'm that part."  "Josh, again I ask you--"  "Shutting up.")

I was a rebellious teenager.  ("Rebellious teenager," Josh muses.  "That's redundant.")  More politics.  I gave up flute for student council.  ("Vice president?  My wife the vice president?"  "Josh!"  "I'm just saying.")  My parents suspect promiscuity.  ("Oh, look, Josh, they've confused me with Frances again.")  Also drugs.  ("One joint, I swear!  And I threw up.  Oh, wipe that smirk off your face, Mr. Delicate System.")

Then there was college.  (This is known as The Part Where Donna Hid Her Head Under the Pillow.)  I was, my parents say as Frances nods her head sadly, directionless.  And I started out so impressively too.

And this is the point where Josh paused the tape and jumped out of bed.  He stared horror stricken at the graphic on the screen -- my SAT scores.

"This can't be true!" he screams.  "This has been doctored!"

"No, it looks about right."

"You never told me this.  How could you never tell me this?"

"Frankly, Josh, I forgot."

"You forgot this?"

"I'm a grown-up.  Grown-ups don't necessarily have their SAT scores committed to memory."

"But-- but-- this--"

"Having trouble finding words?  I can help with that."

"Not funny, Donnatella."  He stares at the screen some more.

"It's not going to change, you know.  No matter how long you look at it, it's going to say the same thing.  I had a 770 verbal."

"This is humiliating."

My parents worried about me from the moment I decided to go to Madison instead of attending the local community college.  ("Why?  Is Madison, Wisconsin, some sort of hotbed of radical activity?"  "Radical.  Why, Josh, you used a three-syllable word!  I'm so proud of you!"  "You're not letting this SAT thing go, are you?"  "Oh, you can expect to be living with this one for the rest of your life.")  Once away from parental supervision, I went crazy.  I changed majors the way other women change shoes.  ("Shut up, Josh!"  "I'm not saying a word."  "You were thinking it."  "Fair point.")

But then things looked up: I met a Nice Guy.  ("Yes, you did.  But that was three years later in New Hampshire, and I don't think they--"  "Ssh!  I have to hear this part!")

Yes, we come now to The Saga of Alan.  A med student.  Very good-lookiing.  ("Well, he was that."  "He was not."  "You never saw him."  "I say he was homely, and that's that.  Probably cross-eyed too.")  Alan took me in hand; I had focus with Alan -- I also had a checking account in his name, but Mom and Dad fail to mention that.  Oh, sure, I dropped out, which disappointed Alan and my parents.  ("The hell it did!")  They begged me to stay in school, but I didn't listen.  ("Liars!  My own parents are liars!"  "Donna, calm down."  "I had doubts.  I had serious misgivings.  And do you know what my mother said?  She said it was my duty to help Alan out.  She practically ordered me to drop out."  "I know."  "This is -- I am just so angry."  "I know.")

Life would have been good; but after three years, I abandoned poor Alan.  ("If only I'd been that smart.")  One day I left for New Hampshire and the glamorous life of a political groupie.  ("Damn, but I love the glamour of those twenty-hour work days."  "And the perks."  "What perks, Josh?"  "Hey, you got to see the country."  "From a campaign bus.  And, you know, I never saw Hawaii, even though it's part of the country.")

It was in New Hampshire that I met Swengali.  ("You met who?"  "Swengali.  That's a fictional character who exhibited a hypnotic--"  "I know who Swengali is, Ms. 770 Verbal.")  From the first time I called my poor, worried parents from New Hampshire, all I could talk about was Joshua Lyman.  ("That is not true, so wipe that smirk off your face, mister!")  Josh was brilliant ("My exact words were 'not completely stupid.'"), handsome ("In a quirky sort of way -- I qualified that with 'in a quirky sort of way.'"), kind and generous.  ("Okay, now they're just confusing what I said about you with what I said about CJ.")

And I worked for Josh without receiving a salary.

A gasp goes up from the studio audience.  The camera closes in on Oprah, who purses her lips in a way that suggests she is not going to say what she wants to say.  ("Okay, now, this is the part I'm thinking CJ meant when she said we could have a problem."  "Gee, Josh, ya think?")

Despite the fact that I was on salary within a month, my parents have just given the American public the impression that I followed Josh around like a puppy dog -- a promiscuous, unpaid puppy dog -- through election day.  And, although my parents were suspicious that their daughter the college dropout was suddenly personal assistant to the third most powerful man in the country ("And Time magazine's Man of the Year."  "This is so not the time to be bringing that up, Josh."), they were too happy for me to question my strange success.

My mother hangs her head in shame and asks Oprah where she went wrong.  Oprah takes Mom's hand and tells her she didn't go wrong.  ("She voted for Reagan twice.  That's wrong in any universe."  "Josh!"  "Well, she asked.")  "You did the best you knew how to do," Oprah assures her.  Then comes the emotional ending:  "There's a good chance Donna's watching this program right now," Oprah tells Mom.  "If she is, what would you say to her?"

The camera pulls in really, really close on my mother.  I grab Josh's hand.  "Donna," Mom says, "we love you.  We don't blame you for these mistakes you've made, or the way this man has used you.  We just want you to come home."

The crowd is in tears.

I, on the other hand, am throwing everything I can get my hands on.

***

I have always hated Mary Marsh.  And not just because she called Toby and me New York Jews.

Yes, I realize that "hate" is pretty strong, but I don't mince words when it comes to hypocrites.  To Mary March, the upsurge in juvenile delinquency is clearly due to the fact that women can't be bothered to stay at home with their children.  Never mind the fact that a good number of men abandoned their wives and kids, leaving the mothers with no choice but to work to put food on the table or rely on the government's welfare.  Which is also, according to Mary Marsh and her ilk, a sign of the Downfall of God's Republic.  (They don't really care about that whole separation of church and state thing.)

Marsh's PAC (called In Defense of Tradition, IDT, or, as I prefer to call them, Idiots) can't make up its mind whether poor women with children should pull themselves up by their bootstraps (i.e. work to provide their children with a better life) or be good mothers (i.e. go on the dole and stay home with their kids).  Apparently, women are incapable of working and being good parents.

And the kicker is that Mary Marsh -- who, by the way, is divorced and childless -- rakes in $100,000 a year to lobby Congress and the White House about the needs (or more accurately, her interpretation of the needs) of poor women.  All in the name of God, of course.

So I think it's safe to say I have a good foundation for hating Mary Marsh and her Idiots.  And there's always the 'New York Jews' thing to fall back on.

At any rate, to say I dislike watching her television appearances under normal circumstances is something of an understatement.  But now I am furious.

Mary Marsh, hypocrite and idiot, had the gall to go on Larry King Live and make disparaging remarks about my wife and me.  Luckily, Mary Marsh's irrational hatred of me has kept most of her remarks thus far focused on me and not Donna.  Who is sitting beside me, also furious.

"I can't believe her," Donna says as the show goes to commercial.  (Mary Marsh has just insinuated that I am incapable of feeling Christian love and kindness.  Of course, I'm Jewish, so I'm not sure I'm really supposed to feel Christian love and kindness.)

"I'm not at all surprised," I answer darkly.  "That woman hates me.  This is her day of jubilee."

Donna gives me a sharp look that I don't fully understand.  "No, it's not.  She's a two-bit bibliolater, and I'm quite sure--"

"Bibliolater?" I repeat.  "Are you just making up words now?"

"No," she answers haughtily.  "Bibliolater is a noun that means 'one having excessive reverence for the Bible as literally interpreted.'"

I suspect the look on my face is somewhat skeptical.  "Okay."

"I'm serious, Josh."

"Sure."

"Do I need to get out the dictionary?"

I grin at her.  "Only if you're having doubts."

She narrows her eyes.  "I'm not.  It's a word.  And Mary Marsh is one."

"A word?"

"A bibliolater.  Don't be difficult."

"Actually," I say, my tone quite casual, "I think she prefers eisegesis."

Donna crosses her arms . "Speaking of making up words--"

"Get the dictionary," I answer, leaning back in bed with my arms behind my head.

Donna shakes her head stubbornly and stares at a commercial for yet another insipid sitcom, dying to ask me what it means.  It only takes her about thirty seconds to cave.  "Definition, please?"

"Eisegesis is a definition of Scripture that expresses the interpreter's own biases, instead of the meaning of the text."

Donna chews on that for a moment, then says, "I think she's both."

"How can she be both literal and interpretive?" I scoff.

"She keeps what works," Donna shrugs, "and plays fast and loose with the rest.  Like the homosexuality stuff.  She believes that part literally, but not the rest of Leviticus.  That shirt, for example, is quite obviously a cotton-poly blend, so I'm guessing the clothes of two different materials part doesn't bother her.  Which would qualify her interpretation as eisegesis," she concludes with a triumphant grin.

"In other words, she's a hypocrite."

"Was there ever any doubt?"

"Not really," I answer.  I am about to go on discussing Mary Marsh's hypocrisy at what Donna would call tedious length, but something on Larry King catches my attention.  A voice.  An awfully familiar voice.

I sit bolt upright and stare at the TV, mouth open in horror.

"Yes, Larry, I'm calling about the insinuations being made on your program about my son and my daughter-in-law."

Donna's eyes are wide as she glances back and forth from the TV to me.

"Who is this?" Larry King asks.

"Adira Lyman," says the caller.  "White House Deputy Chief of Staff Joshua Lyman's mother."

Holy shit.  My mother is on Larry King Live.  CJ is going to kick my ass.

"Welcome to the show, Adira."

"Thank you, Larry.  What I was calling to say is this:  My son was nearly killed this summer because of ignorance and a senseless stranglehold on so- called traditional values, a mindset that Ms. Marsh seems to share with a trio of racist gunmen.  I am appalled that people who so self-righteously call themselves politicians have been reduced to prying into my son's love life under the guise of discussing the morality of the nation.  If you're so fond of the Bible, what happened to 'He who is without sin shall cast the first stone,' Ms. Marsh?  'Judge not, lest you be judged'?"

Here my mother makes a tactical error -- she pauses for breath.

Mary Marsh jumps in, "You say it like Miss Moss -- excuse me, Mrs. Lyman -- ended up in the middle of a political scandal through no fault of her own.  But clearly Josh Lyman wouldn't have hired someone with her educational background -- or should I say lack of education -- for such a sensitive position.  Which begs the question:  Why did he hire her?  Their current relationship would seem to shed some light on that issue--"

Donna's hand is clenching mine.  I can feel the bones grinding together.

"I'll thank you," my mother interrupts fiercely, "to stop calling my daughter-in-law a whore, Ms. Marsh.  I'm tempted to say something about glass houses at this point, but I was married to a litigator for 37 years and I am quite familiar with slander laws.  In fact, I've been brushing up since this news about my son's marriage hit the papers.  Perhaps you should review New York Times v. Sullivan, Ms. Marsh."

Mary looks like she's about to explode.  "I beg your pardon--"

"I should hope so," my mother interrupts again.  "And furthermore, the idea that Josh hired Donna for reasons other than her organizational abilities, her professionalism, and her intelligence is plain stupid.  Would the White House Chief of Staff really allow Joshua to hire someone who couldn't do the job?"

"But--" Mary Marsh starts.

"I didn't think so," my mother bulldozes right over her opposition.  "And I'd like to say one more thing:  Josh and Donna have been happily married since June 7th; Has the White House come crashing down around their ears yet?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Lyman," Larry King says.  "We'll be right back."

The program goes to commercial, and I turn to Donna, dazed.

Donna is grinning.  "I love your mother, Josh."

***

Tonight on Dateline ("A singularly appropriate name," Josh muses.), an interview with nearly every man I've ever gone out with.

And a few I've never seen before in my life.

Each and every one of them swears he has slept with me, so let me set the facts straight: I have, in my life, slept with four men.  Their names were (in chronological order) Alan, Keith, Ed and Josh.  Alan, Keith and Ed were mistakes, although until tonight I've remembered Keith and Ed fondly.  Alan, of course, was the individual Josh dubbed "Dr. Free Ride."  I truly believe that I may have decided to fall in love with Josh the moment he created that sobriquet, but that's another story.  Sex with Alan was disappointing.  Truly.  Although I had nothing to compare it to, I was very much aware that I was getting nothing from the experience.  Hence the need for Keith and Ed, both of whom I had brief relationships with during my first year or so in DC.  Nice guys (or so I thought until tonight), good sex. ("But not great sex; that's what you're saying?"  "They were occasionally in the neighborhood of great."  "I repeat: not great, right?"  "I was thinking about you the whole time, Joshua."  "Well, that's all right then."  "God, you actually bought that?")  If I recall correctly, Keith and I lasted two months; with Ed, it was over in six weeks.  What can I say?  At the risk of inflating my husband's already overwhelming ego, I must admit that there was this nagging question in the back of my mind with Keith and Ed:  Why do I have more fun talking to Josh than sleeping with Keith?  Or Ed?

What I'm saying here is that, while I certainly enjoyed my time with Keith and with Ed and I wasn't exactly a vestal virgin on my wedding night, I've slept around far less than many other women my age.  Although, if I hadn't wasted those three years on Alan...

According to Dateline, however, I was swinging from the chandeliers with every single man in Washington.  And probably a few of the married ones.

A profile of Donnatella Moss-Lyman emerges from the interviews with Keith, Ed and a host of others I don't recognize.  ("Wait!  He's familiar!  He's that awful blind date Bonnie set me up with!"  "The one where you paged me when I was in the middle of the tax reform thing, so you could tell him there was an emergency and you had to go back to work?"  "Yeah, him."  "No wonder you called.")  It turns out she's fun-loving ("Why does that sound like a bad thing when Stone Phillips says it?"), high-spirited ("And what does that mean anyway?"  "Don't ask me. I only have 760 verbal, after all."), not particularly ambitious or devoted to her job.  ("That is such a lie!"  "I know."  "Why do people keep lying about me?"  "I don't know.")  They all agree that I constantly talked about my boss.  ("Also a lie."  "Sadly, I have no trouble believing you."  "Well, okay, I might have mentioned you occasionally.  But I never said anything nice.")

All the men interviewed claim to have fond memories of me.  Three also claim to have nude photos.  This is known as The Part Where Josh Called Sam.

Dateline will be issuing an apology on Friday.  ("I knew I should have married Sam."  "Donna, I swear, I really did go to law school.")

***

"Donnatella!" I bellow out my open office door.

When she doesn't appear, you know, promptly, I try again.  "Donna, get me Molly Ivins!"

That certainly gets her attention.  "Why?" she asks, her voice carefully modulated to carry only as far as it needs to.

"So I can tell her we're naming our firstborn after her," I yell back.

"Joshua!" Donna yelps.  It's amazing to me that she can move that fast in heels.  She slams my door shut behind her.  "I can't believe you just shouted that. I have told you numerous times not to shout!"

"And have I ever listened to you before on that particular subject?"

"No," she admits, arms crossed.

"So what makes you think--"

"I would think, Joshua, that you wouldn't reference our personal relationship--"

"Marriage," I correct.

She glares at me.  "Marriage in the bullpen."

"It's an expression," I say with a careless shrug.

"An expression?"

"Yeah.  An expression of gratitude."

Donna gives me a pained look.  "In other, less politically-explosive situations, I would have no problem with -- well, I would have considerably less of a problem with you shouting about our unborn children in the middle of the bullpen."

"Technically, I was in the middle of my office, not the bullpen," I note.

"As things stand," she continues, her voice a little louder and more commanding, "you are to refrain from such references.  Got it?"

I nod solemnly.  "No talking about Molly or Josiah."

Donna rolls her eyes at me.  "You are a dolt, Joshua."

"A dolt?" I repeat, grinning.

"Blunderhead," she offers.  "Clodhopper.  Foozler--"

"Okay, okay," I throw my hands up in defeat.  "If you've finished your impression of a walking thesaurus, I'd like you to get Molly Ivins on the phone for me."

Donna gives me an incredibly suspicious look.  "Why?"

"So I can tell her--"

"Josh," she sighs.  "You are not going to tell a nationally syndicated columnist that we're planning on naming our firstborn after her."

"Can I at least thank her?" I ask, still grinning.

"For what?"

"Today's column."

Donna's eyes light up.  "What'd she write?"

I fish the piece of paper from the mess on my desk and say, "Well, there's a bunch of stuff about the idiot governor they've got down there in Texas -- Did you know he takes a couple hours off each afternoon to play video games?"

"Josh," Donna warns.  "Focus, please."

"I thought you might appreciate another useless fact to add to your compendium of the banal and trivial."

"I thought you might appreciate sex tonight, but apparently I was mistaken."

"Oh, and that's not inappropriate?" I sputter.  Once I can formulate a sentence.

Donna gives me a sly grin.  "All of your office doors are closed.  I didn't yell that in the bullpen."

"Fair point," I grudgingly admit.

"Molly Ivins?" Donna prompts.

"Right," I say, turning my attention once again to the printout.  "'As for Senator Henry Shallick's vicious accusations about the moral character of White House assistant Donna Moss, I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall of his place when press secretary CJ Cregg coolly explained that Moss is married to her boss, deputy chief of staff Josh Lyman.  Leaving out the question of whether or not it's a good idea to have husbands and wives working together in the White House, the least Shallick could have done was get his facts straight before mouthing off on national television.  Of course, this isn't the first time good ol' Henry stuck his foot in it.  In fact, we've got an expression down here in Texas for guys like him: If dumb were dirt, he'd be an acre.'"

"I adore that woman," Donna says when I finish.  "I'll thank her myself."

***

BARTLET STAFFERS' SECRET LOVE NEST REVEALED

Exclusive to the Star -- Donna Moss' Roommate Tells All!

When Candi Genessee answered a newspaper ad for a roommate three years ago, she had no idea she was walking into a political sex scandal.

"It all seemed innocent enough," the 26-year-old receptionist, told the Star in this exclusive interview.  "Donna Moss seemed like a nice girl, even though she was a trifle flighty.  It was only when I moved in and met her boss that I realized what was going on."

Genessee's former roommate, Donna Moss, recently announced her hasty marriage to her boss, White House Deputy Chief of Staff Josh Lyman, following allegations that the couple had a long-standing affair.

"I know for a fact they did," Genessee confirms.  "Absolutely.  From the moment I met Josh, it was clear that he and Donna were lovers."

Lyman "practically lived" in Moss' apartment, Genesee maintains.  "Day or night, wherever I looked, there was Josh."

Lyman's constant presence, as well as what Genessee terms his frequent bouts of drunkenness, caused friction between the roommates.  "He'd show up in the middle of the night, smelling of booze and barely able to walk.  Donna wouldn't even listen to criticism of him.  She'd say it wasn't his fault --  that he didn't have a drinking problem, just a delicate system."

Genessee, however, claims she found Lyman's behavior bizarre and downright frightening.  "He even threatened my cats.  He'd yell at the poor things.  He told me once that he thought they were possessed, and he threatened to kill them."

Moss was completely under Lyman's spell, Genesee says.  "She'd go on and on about how much she loved Josh and how fabulous the sex was.  She absolutely adored him.  I tried to warn her against getting involved with a man like that, but she wouldn't listen."

Lyman took Moss on a series of expensive vacations, Genessee says.  "They traveled all over the country.  They were able to claim it was business-related and travel on the taxpayers' dime," Genessee says.

Genessee feared retribution if she came forward sooner.  "You have to understand," she says.  "Josh is a very powerful, very scary guy.  I was afraid of what would happen to me if I said anything about his affair with Donna."

Two months before the assassination attempt in which Lyman was critical wounded, Genessee moved out of the apartment she shared with Moss.  "I could tell I wasn't welcome there," she says.  "Josh wanted to be alone with Donna constantly; he's extraordinarily possessive."

Genessee speculates that Lyman paid Moss' rent once the roommates parted company.  "It was a huge apartment, simply spectacular. And in a good section of town.  You can't afford that on a secretary's salary," she says.

Finally, Genessee tells the Star that she feels nothing but sympathy for her former roommate.  "There are so many men like Josh Lyman in this town; they're all in love with power.  They're not interested in forming lasting relationships," she says.  "When he gets tired of her, Donna will be destroyed.  He's her whole world.  He's really all she has."

-30-

"Sam says we can't sue over this one either."

"Why not?  It's filled with lies -- hasty marriage, long-standing affair, all that traveling when you still haven't taken me to Hawaii."

"All that attribution.  The paper's safe because they're just reporting what Candi -- who, you will remember, I told you not to room with--"

"Hard to believe I didn't listen to a powerful, scary guy like you."

"The paper is just reporting what she said, so they're off the hook.  And besides the fact that it would look very bad for us to sue her, Candi can argue that she simply misinterpreted what she saw and heard."

"She says I told her we were having fabulous sex.  That is completely the opposite of what I told her!"

"You told her we were having bad sex?"

"No, I told her we weren't having any kind of sex."

"Why did you tell her that?"

"She seemed to be under the impression that we were.  Because of your coming over during your frequent bouts of drunkenness."

"I have a delicate system."

"I'm just saying."

"CJ's worried about the travel part."

"Like you ever took me anywhere."

"The problem is that I did.  I took you lots of places.  They were all legitimate business trips, but USA Today doesn't seem to be interested in that part."

"USA Today?"

"CJ's getting calls."

"About the traveling?"

"Also my frequent bouts of drunkenness."

"You do have a delicate system."

"And apparently the stuff about the cats isn't playing well."

"Yeah, well, you're on your own there."

"Did I really say they were possessed?"

"Not precisely.  Your exact words were 'spawn of Satan.'  Also, you accused them of voting Republican."

"Okay.  You have to promise me not to tell CJ any of that."

"Too late.  I gave her that piece of information for her last birthday."

"You gave CJ information that she could use against me at some unspecified later date as a birthday present?"

"It was all I could afford to give her.  I need a raise."

***

"So," CJ says, breezing into my office with Donna on her heels.  "This is not blowing over."

"Yeah, no kidding," I retort.  "Considering we've been filmed, photographed, and harassed entering and leaving our condo all week, I'm guessing it's not going to blow over quite yet."

"Do you know why it's not blowing over?" CJ asks.

Donna nods.  "Because Earl Fucking Goldfinch is making the rounds."

"I still say we should sue Earl Fucking Goldfinch," I mutter.

"Josh," Donna turns to me, "I don't have any particular need to be accused of being a barrator in addition to, you know, a hussy."

"Barrator?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," she smirks.  "Do you need me to define that for you?"

"No."

"Josh, you have no idea what that word means, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then what does--"

"I don't need to prove my vocabulary to you!"

"Children," CJ interrupts.  "I hate to interrupt when you're -- well, doing whatever the hell it is you're doing, but I kind of have a thing."

"Sorry," Donna says, with an expectant look at me.

I figure one apology is more than enough, so I skip that part.  "Offense?" I guess.

CJ nods.  "Obviously the White House can't get involved, and you two are still under a gag order.  As much as I loved your mother's call to Larry King, she can't single-handedly deflect the growing media frenzy.  We need to get some of this attention away from you.  The quickest and easiest way to do so is to cast doubts on your accusers."

"Earl Fucking Goldfinch," Donna mutters.

"Shallick, too," I add.  "And Ann Stark, if we can get her, which I doubt."

"Yeah, she's too good," CJ shrugs.  "But we can get her boss."

"Baker?" Donna asks with her skeptical face on.  "You think we can get the untouchable Gregory W. Baker?"

I am warming quickly to the idea.  "We can sure as hell try. Got anything, CJ?"

She purses her lips.  "Nothing concrete yet.  I remember he got some flack about his coal mining company during his campaign.  We'll just see if we can find anything worth pursuing."

"And by pursuing," I ask, "you mean...?"

"Leaking it to a national news organization," CJ answers with a stealthy grin.  "I'm guessing the coal companies bought him his seat."

"Of course they did," Donna says.  "He's a wholly owned subsidy of the coal companies."

CJ and I turn confused gazes on her.

"What?" Donna asks.  "I'm an environmentalist.  He made the ten worst Congresspeople list on environmental issues.  They did a little blurb."

"Get into it?" I ask.

Donna nods and heads for the door.

CJ watches her departure, then gives me a smile.  "She's amazing, Josh."

"Yeah," I agree.  I think I'm doing that grinning like an idiot thing again.  "She really is."

***

Four hours and ninety-three index cards later, I am an expert on Gregory W. Baker and his relationship with Pettus Creek Coal.

CJ, at least, is suitably impressed.  Josh simply looks at the index cards and groans.  "You might want to cancel your plans for the evening," he tells CJ.  "We're going to be here for a while."

"Note to self," I remark.  "No stamp collecting for Josh tonight."

"That is completely unfair," he protests.  "Also unprofessional."

"So is mocking my hard work," I point out.

"All right then, I take it back.  I unmock you."

"'Unmock'?  I'm pretty sure that's not a word, although I understand how someone with your limited vocabulary might think--"

"I do not have--"

"Kids," CJ interrupts, "can we get down to business?  Because I, for one, am curious about what's on these index cards."

"See, Josh?  CJ appreciates me."

"CJ doesn't have to live with you."

"Josh," CJ says, "I'm thinking that finding yourself in divorce court so soon after your marriage was announced would not be good publicity, so shut up and listen to your wife."

"You are so going to be Molly's godmother," I tell CJ, who looks perplexed but doesn't comment.  I launch into the story of Pettus Creek Coal.  "You really have to go back to the nineteenth century to understand how this works," I begin.

"The nineteenth century?" Josh asks.  Exclaims, really.  Okay, yells.  "You're giving us a history lesson?"

"It's important.  None of this could have happened without the historical background."

"How many of those--"  Josh points to my index cards.  "How many of those deal with this historical background?"

"Seventeen."

"Condense to two."

"Five.  And you'll be missing the really interesting stuff about Sid Hatfield and the Matewan massacre."

"Matewan?" CJ asks.  "I think I saw that movie."

"CJ saw the movie, so we don't need the background," Josh says, as though this vindicates him.  Personally, I think it proves that she's interested in the subject and wants to learn more, but I condense anyway.

"The short version of what happened is this:  All across what is now West Virginia--"

"What was it before?" Josh asks.

"Virginia, of course," I answer.  "Did they not teach American History at Harvard and Yale?  When Virginia left the Union during the Civil War, West Virginians decided to become a separate state and fight for the North.  I learned that in fourth grade, by the way."

"The point?" CJ asks.

"What happened was that these companies -- railroad companies at the time, mostly -- bought up the mineral rights to land all over West Virginia.  And the people who owned the land didn't even know it was happening."

"How is that possible?" CJ asks.

"The notice that the companies intended to do this ran in newspapers, but in most cases the land in question was rural.  The people who owned the land didn't get those newspapers.  And even if they found out what was happening, in most cases they had no way to get to Charleston--"

"They needed to get to South Carolina?"

"No, Josh.  Charleston, West Virginia.  You've been there."

"I really haven't."

"You have too.  I was with you.  During the campaign."

"She's right," CJ says.  "Remember?  The airport was on top of that mountain.  You were afraid we were going to crash."

"Oh.  That Charleston."

"So," I start again, "people simply couldn't get to the city in time to save their mineral rights.  You have families -- in some cases, you have families who have lived on the same land for more than one hundred years -- who discovered one day that these corporations owned the mineral rights to their lands."

"But the families still own the land itself?" CJ asks.

"Yes, but that doesn't do them any good," I answer.  "I mean, these companies have the right to come in and mine for coal underneath your house if they want to."

"Don't they have to compensate you for that?" Josh asks.

"There's been some legislating that suggests that the coal companies have to pay a relocation fee," I answer, "but in most cases what people are paid doesn't even begin to make up for what they're losing.  And anyway, think about living on the same piece of land for five generations and having it stolen from you."

Josh grins.  "You're cute when you're full of righteous indignation."

"This is still going on?" CJ asks.

"Yes, it is," I tell her, wisely ignoring Josh.  "And Gregory W. Baker is at the center of it.  His grandfather founded Pettus Creek Coal, of which Baker is the major stockholder."

"Okay, that's morally reprehensible, but is it illegal?" Josh asks.

"No," I admit, "but this is more than morally reprehensible.  It's also an environmental thing.  Pettus Creek Coal -- which, by the way, is a non-union mine -- doesn't do any underground mining.  It's all strip mining."

"Strip mining?" CJ asks.

"That's where you basically blast the top off the mountain and collect the coal.  It's cheaper and quicker than underground mining.  Only when it's over, the mountain is pretty much destroyed.  I have pictures."

"Of course you do," Josh groans.

CJ, at least, is interested.  The pictures are a before-and-after sort of thing.  Before -- a gorgeous mountain in autumn -- all reds and golds, just breathtaking.  After -- same mountain, now a crater.

"My God," CJ gasps, "it looks like the surface of another planet."

"And it's a safety risk," I point out.  "Have you ever heard of the Buffalo Creek disaster in the 1970s?  There was a hard rain and the side of the mountain basically collapsed onto the town of Buffalo Creek, West Virginia.  That's what strip mining does.  There are thousands of people in West Virginia who are in the same kind of danger now, thanks to Gregory W's company."

"Well, that would destroy his career, but I don't think we can wait for the side of a mountain to collapse," Josh mutters.

"Why do people in West Virginia elect this guy?" CJ asks.

"Who says they do?" Josh answers.

CJ and I look at him, puzzled.

"Hey, I may not know about strip mining--"

"Or what the capital of West Virginia is," I add.

"But I know politics.  Politics in West Virginia is notorious.  I've heard plenty of stories.  And the coal companies exert enormous influence there.  They pretty much can get whoever they want on the ballot."

"Baker's not even a real West Virginian," I add.

"He's an unreal West Virginian?" CJ asks.

"He has a house in the state, near that big resort the president went to that time," I answer.

"The Greenbrier," CJ supplies.

"He spends a week or so there each year, but he was raised in California and that's where he spends most of his time.  He certainly doesn't have to live near the mountains he's destroying.  He doesn't have to breathe the air that's been poisoned with coal dust and chemicals or drink from the water he's responsible for polluting."

"You know the real beauty of this?" Josh asks.  He's got that look on his face like he's figuring all the political odds.  He's having entirely too good a time here.

"What?" I ask.

"Gregory W's on two or three committees that deal with the environment," Josh answers.  "I'd call that a significant conflict of interest."

"We can document that he knows his company is doing all this?" CJ asks.

"I've got records on everything.  Plus there are about four citizens' groups in West Virginia that are sending me more stuff now."

Josh has this absolutely blissful expression on his face.  I think he's mentally reviewing the number of registered voters living on the sides of those mountains.

It takes so little to keep him happy.

***

"Josh?"

I glance up from my obscenely disorganized desk to find Donnatella Moss-Lyman in my doorway with her devious face on.  "Yes?"

"There's this book I read a couple years ago on the economics of professional sports--"

I hold up a hand.  "You read a book on--?"

"The economics of professional sports," she interrupts.  "Yes."

"Why did you read a book on the economics of professional sports?"

"Josh, the Texas Rangers recently signed a player for $250 million.  You don't think that's absurd?"

"I do think it's absurd.  Insensate, even."  I ignore her amused look.  "However, I can't imagine what would drive me to purchase a book about a subject like the economics of professional sports, never mind spend time reading it that could better be spent, you know, actually outside playing sports."

Donna is still grinning somewhat indulgently.  "First, you prefer sports that allow you to remain inside, because you are so not an outdoorsman.  Second, have you never heard of a library?  Third, you're missing my point by a rather impressive margin."

I am smirking at her.  "I don't recall a point being made."

"Because you got so sidetracked by the thought of me reading an economics book that you didn't let me finish.  And bite me, by the way."

"Donna!"

"Can you be quiet for thirty seconds?" she demands.

"I'm sure it's possible--"

"All evidence to the contrary," she remarks.

"Do you realize you've been in here, casting about in search of a point for, like, ten minutes now?"

Donna stares at me for a long moment, then says, "I was just going to tell you about a name I ran across in that book I mentioned."

"Unless it's something I can use against Baker, Shallick, Stark, or one of their henchman--"  And, gloriously, the light dawns.  "Wait, you found something on -- which one?"

Donna gives an exaggerated shrug.  "I don't want to bore you with the details of my little economics book," she says, edging towards the door.  "I'll just go see if CJ's interested in hearing about Shallick and his sports team."

And with that, Donna slips out the door and disappears.

I fidget in my seat for a moment -- I mean, really, how dignified is it to go running after her like, like, you know, somebody that runs after someone else.  Damn, her SAT scores have really thrown me off my game.

Anyway, my insatiable curiosity gets the best of me, of course, and I go tearing into CJ's office to hear the dirt on Shallick.

*

"Josh," Leo says as he marches into my office.  "Shallick just said the words 'special prosecutor' on national TV.  This is getting a bit--"

"I know," I interrupt.  "We're working on it."

"On what, exactly?"

"Shallick," Donna offers as she appears in the doorway.  "He used to own the St. Louis Rams."

Leo's eyebrows head for the ceiling.  "He did?"

"Yes, indeed," Donna nods.  "His daddy's friends contributed money to buy the team.  Shallick started out with 2 percent ownership as a managing partner."

"He invested his own money?" Leo asks.

"Yeah," I answer.  "Two hundred thousand that he made working for his father's company."

"Dad pays well," Leo remarks sardonically.  "Is there anything to this?"

"Depends," Donna answers.  "Technically, he didn't do anything illegal."

"Technically?"

"Technically," I say, "he made a wise investment.  But in reality, he screwed over the good taxpayers of St. Louis."

"How?"

"Convinced them to raise their sales tax to fund a new stadium--"

"Threatened, really," Donna interrupts.  "He said the team would have to relocate to an other city if they didn't build a new stadium."

"Right," I say.  "The new stadium increased the book value of the team from $89 million to $131 million.  There were some legal issues over the land they wanted--"

"Eminent domain?" Leo guesses.

"Yeah," Donna nods.  "How is that legal?"

"What, giving a sports team the right to seize land?" Leo shrugs.  "You form a quasi-governmental authority--"

"The St. Louis Sports Authority," I supply.

"And then the Authority acts for the team.  Technically legal, but..."

Donna nods.  "Morally despicable?"

"Exactly," Leo nods.  "So what happened?"

Donna glances at her notebook.  "The owners of the land the team wanted sued for fair value after the team threatened to condemn the land--"

"Prime land, Leo," I interject.  "We're talking half- million dollar houses."

"Right," Donna nods.  "So when the courts returned a verdict for the plaintiffs--"

"Ruling the sports authority owed $4.2 million to the landowners," I clarify.

Donna shoots me a look and continues, "The Rams' managing partner -- our very own Henry Shallick -- issued a statement saying that the judgment was rendered against the sports authority, not the team itself."

Leo shakes his head.  "So the Rams refused to pay, the taxpayers ended up with the burden of buying the land in addition to building the stadium, while the team's book value went through the roof."

"Precisely," Donna nods.  "And Shallick -- who got a bump up to eleven percent ownership once the investors recouped their original investment -- sold his eleven percent--"

"To the tune of $6 million," I interrupt.

Donna glares at me again.  "He sold it when he ran for Congress.  To stave off even the appearance of impropriety."

"A little late for that," Leo comments.  "Does CJ have this?"

"Yes," Donna nods.  "She's fact-checking."

"But it's for real?" he presses.

"Donna has a book," I say.  "An economics textbook written by N. Richard Mula--"

"Mula," Leo nods.  "The president thinks he's on his way to a Nobel Prize."

"Even better," Donna grins, "if a Nobel-Prize winning economist should be the one to write an entire chapter on the Shallick's shady dealings with the Rams."

Leo's eyes light up.  "We've got a book?"

"We've got a book," I confirm.

"Excellent," he says.  "It's not technically illegal, but it ought to draw some fire away from this administration."

Donna and I exchange a look.  "That's the plan."

*

It's late afternoon, we've got considerable dirt on both Henry Shallick and Gregory W. Baker, and I'm feeling smug.  Sure, we've still got to decide how to get this information to the public, but things are starting to fall into place.

Donna, CJ, and I are on our way to fill Toby and Sam in on our fact-finding mission, and to take their temperature on just how to leak the stories to the press when I spot Leo charging towards us, waving his arms frantically.

"Get out of here," Leo bellows in our general direction.

I stop dead in the middle of the hall, CJ and Donna beside me.  And then I see the process server a step behind Leo and headed straight for me.

Oh, shit.

I glance over at Donna, whose eyes are wide.  She shrugs at me.

CJ grabs my arm and tries to push me into the closest office, which happens to be Toby's.  The door is shut, however, and I slam into it rather painfully.  CJ is a lot stronger than she looks.

Sam appears in the doorway to his office and gives me a strange look.  "What's going on, Josh?" he asks.

CJ glares at him.  "Sam!"

"What?" he asks, bewildered.

But it's too late.  The process server is two steps away, and I've been unwittingly identified by Sam.  I always said he was the weak link.  Leo reaches us and gives Sam an irate look, just as Toby opens his door and yells, "What the hell is going on out here?"

I turn my best withering glare on the hapless process server, who is giving me a smug smile. "Joshua Lyman, Esquire?"

Donna rolls her eyes beside me and mutters, "So he claims."

"Yes," I sigh.  "What is it this time?"

I scrawl my name on his damn clipboard and accept the summons.

"Have a super day," the process server says, apparently unaware of his proximity to a slow, gruesome death.

"Get out," Leo growls.

The poor sod scurries away as I unfold the papers and squint at them.  I'm confused.  "Who the hell is Phyllis Tsolakis?"

I glance around, but the rest of them seem as baffled as I am.

"What does it say, Josh?" Donna asks impatiently.

I scowl at the legalese for a minute before Sam snatches it from me.

"Let me see," he says, scanning the documents quickly.  When he looks up, he's pale.

"Oh, God," Donna whispers.  "What is it?"

"Sam," Leo prompts.  "Today would be nice.  Does this have to do with--?"

"Phyllis Tsolakis is suing Josh for discriminatory hiring practices," Sam announces finally.

I can't seem to find my voice, but I feel Donna's hand slip into mine.

"Who the hell is Phyllis Tsolakis," Toby asks from behind me, voicing the question that's running through all of our minds.

"Apparently," Sam answers, still skimming the document, "she's someone that Josh interviewed when Bartlet took office."

I look over at Donna, who's got her determined face on.  "For my job," she guesses.

"Yeah," Sam answers.

"Shit," I say finally.  Feeble, yes, but all I can manage right now.

"This," Toby announces grimly, "has Ann Stark's fingerprints all over it."

Leo nods his agreement.  "You're right.  The question is, what do we do now?"

Five pairs of eyes settle on me.  Josh Lyman, political operative and self-styled street fighter, is utterly without a plan.

I give a helpless shrug.  "I have no idea."

CJ and Donna exchange a look, then CJ turns to Leo.  "Donna and I have been discussing something," she says.  "It's still..." she shrugs.

"Embryonic," Donna suggests, with a hint of a grin in my direction. I squeeze her hand.

"Right," CJ nods.  "Give us some time to work on it."

Leo glances over at me, but I merely shrug.  I have no idea what they're talking about.

"Two hours," Leo agrees finally.  "Then I want to know what we're going to do."

THE END

01.25.01