People who know me well would recognize the way I so very gently replace the phone in its cradle, and they would worry.  They would worry and fret and hope like hell it wasn't a phone call about them.  Because this isn't CJ about to scream and throw things.  This isn't CJ the Enforcer.  This is much, much scarier.

This is Claudia Jean Out to Even the Score.  CJ the Avenger.

Because I warned him; I yelled and screamed last week, and then I made the consequences should he defy me very, very clear.  I feel quite justified in my revenge-plotting as I tap a pencil lightly against my desktop.  This is Josh, after all; he doesn't pay attention when people explain things reasonably and with, you know, visual aids and colorful language.  No, no -- that would make life far too easy for... well, for me, anyway.

Also Donna.

And the President and Leo and Toby.

But because Josh is one of the most pigheaded, stubborn, egotistical jackasses I've ever met, he has to run full tilt into the Wall of Consequences before he realizes, 'Hey, maybe I shouldn't get up in front of the White House Press Corps' or 'I guess it's possible that Sam shouldn't hang out with a prostitute in his spare time.'  After the jarring crash, then and only then will Josh learn whatever lesson he needs to learn.

Today, I am going to be Josh Lyman's Wall of Consequences.

And you know what?  I'm going to teach him two lessons at once.  That's just how good I am.  This is why I strike fear into the hearts of men.

And possibly why I haven't had a date in several months.  Which is hardly the point.

Wall of Consequences, that's me.  Except I need some assistance.  Some specialized information from an inside source.

I stand up, skirt the edge of my desk and poke my head out into the bullpen.  "Donna?"

Her blonde head pops up.  "Yeah?"

"Do you have a sec?"

I swear, she can tell from the tone of my voice that I'm in plotting mode, because she practically sprints down the center of the bullpen.  Donna and I have been partners in crime before; I think my personal favorite was that poker game during the Bartlet for America campaign; we left the Idiot Boys in various stages of undress and financed a night on the town in Vegas to boot.

Good times.

If the grin on Donna's face is any indication, she's expecting something in the same vein.  "You're plotting," she says, her voice low.

"I am," I tell her.  "Come inside."

Donna pushes the door closed and drops into the guest chair, and I swear she's rubbing her hands together in anticipation.  "Is this about the poem?"

"What?"

"Toby's poem."

I can feel my eyebrows shooting up.  "Toby wrote a poem?"

Donna leans closer and drops her voice, even though we're alone in my office.  "Bonnie was collecting his notes from the energy speech -- You know, because she keeps them in a file in case--"

"Yeah," I interrupt, making an impatient "come on" gesture with my hand.  I couldn't care less about Bonnie's filing system.

"Apparently, in between notes on different ways to spank the coal companies and the projected mile-per-gallon numbers on the upcoming hybrids, there were some notes in the margin."  She pauses for effect, leaning closer.  "Rhyming notes."

"Rhyming notes?" I repeated, dumbfounded.  Because -- Toby Ziegler, frustrated poet?

"Not an actual poem," Donna admits.  "More like a precursor to a poem."

"Huh," I say, filing that information away.  Bonnie is quite a fan of the egg drop soup at Fast Fong's; perhaps I'll buy lunch for the assistants this week.  It's never bad to have blackmail material on Toby Ziegler; that man is crafty.

"So what'd he do now?" Donna asks.

"What?" I ask, still distracted by the mental image of Toby trying to find a word that rhymes with misocainea.

"If it's not the poem," she explains, her lips curving in an eager, expectant grin, "it must be Josh."

"Your boss is an idiot."

"Tell me something I don't know.  What'd he do now?"

I run my finger over the touchpad on my laptop and wait for the damn thing to wake up.  "He's no longer posting at that crazy website, right?"

"Right," Donna answers, a slight furrow in her brow.  "He hasn't since that last thing about the GAO."

"Okay," I answer absently, my fingers clattering over the keyboard as I find the damn site.  The alarmingly yellow background is almost bright enough to make you squint, and the shot they've chosen of Josh -- it's one of him in a tuxedo with that damn smirk on his face -- is just so... very Josh.  I think the coup de grace, though, is the bulleted list of subpages, each of which has an animated, dancing lemon beside it.  Some people have too damn much time on their hands.

Though I will admit to a sick curiosity about the bullet that says "Joshfic," I keep on task and click onto the message boards.  I scroll down until I find it.  There.  "Donna," I say, looking up at her.  "Do you happen to remember the story about Josh and Chris Wick and that time in college that they registered--"

"A fish for classes," Donna finishes in a tone that makes it clear just how often she's been subjected to Josh's self-aggrandizing anecdotes.  "Yes."

"And do you happen to remember the name of the fish?"

She pauses, whirling through her mental rolodex.  "It was Zippy, wasn't it?  Because it zipped around the fishbowl?"

"Yes.  Yes, it was.  Donna, do you think you would recognize Josh's writing?"

Frowning, she asks, "His handwriting, you mean?"

"No." I turn the laptop to face her . "His style."

Donna's eyes get very, very wide.  "You're kidding me."

"Oh, would that it were so, Donna."

She groans.  "He's posting as Zippy?"

"Yes, apparently he didn't think we'd be able to crack that pseudonym," I remark, my tone acerbic.  "This Zippy person showed up about three days ago and has made a full-throated defense of Josh Lyman, the Bartlet Administration, and Democratic politics."

"Oh, God," Donna moans.

"Look at it and tell me if you think this is him."  I push the laptop towards her.  I've already drawn my conclusions, but if anyone can recognize Josh's writing, it's the person who's been forced to take dictation from him for the last three years.

"'To say that Josh misuses his power,'" Donna reads, her voice flat, "'is to seriously misunderstand the nature of modern politics.  As Deputy Chief of Staff, Josh not only oversees 1100 employees, but also plays the role that esteemed news organizations like the late great George magazine have called President Bartlet's attack dog' -- Oh, it's him."  She scans the rest of it quickly.  "My boss is an idiot."

"Pretty much."

She leans back in her chair, notepad at the ready.  "What do you need?"

"That picture of Josh with the--"

"Oh!"  Her eyes light up.  "The one with the sombrero?"

I snicker just thinking about it.  "Yes.  That.  I also need an untraceable pseudonym, a free website, and, you know, someone to write the page."

Donna frowns.  "You mean a caption for the picture?"

"No, I mean like whatever -- DOS, URL -- whatever the hell language they write webpages in."

"Ah," Donna answers wisely.  "I'll get Zach."

"Excellent."

***

Zach, as it turns out, is a godsend.  He and Donna went to lunch -- leaving Josh behind despite the whining -- at an internet café over near Dupont Circle.  Seven dollars and ninety-five cents later, Zach designed a no-frills webpage featuring a slideshow of embarrassing pictures of Josh.  He sent me the URL -- which is not, as it turns out, a language, but is what internet people call the addresses of websites -- and I had to shut myself in my office to look at it.

Because it is brilliant.

It is a slideshow of Josh's greatest hits.  From the embarrassing pictures of Josh as a child (he was in talent shows, one of which required him to dress up -- for reasons that escape me -- as a Mexican stereotype, right down to the handlebar mustache and the giant sombrero), to his awkward teenage years (three words: high school band), to some particularly unflattering official White House photos (helpful hint: always be nice to the photographers; you'd be amazed what a fish-eye lens can do to a normally good looking man.  I think even Sam would look -- well, Sam would probably still be pretty, damn the man).  This website is beautiful.

I love this website.

I have sent the link to everyone I've ever met, except Josh.

But the masterstroke didn't come until later.  Not until very, very late last night.  Because I, unlike certain colleagues of mine who shall remain nameless, would never, ever post to a website from my office computer.  Like I want a Congressional investigation into misuse of government property on top of the President's little gaffe and, you know, Healthgate.

Whatever.  I had to wait hours and hours to put my plan into motion.  It was hell, but I did get way too much enjoyment out of giving Josh little knowing looks every time we crossed paths.  He must be feeling guilty -- or at least jumpy -- because every time I walked past and, say, raised an eyebrow silently at him, his eyes got really, really wide, and his voice got really, really high.

I could have lived off of the amusement for days.  On the other hand, he has yet to see the website; I savor the anticipation.

Donna and I had to spend the majority of yesterday avoiding each other's eyes so we didn't lose it.  If we'd burst out laughing in the middle of the bullpen, Mr. I Must Know Everything would have pestered us until we spilled.

Or until I killed him.  It's really a toss-up as to which would happen first.

Anyway, the day went far too slowly for my tastes, the only bright spot being when I delivered a fragrant bag of Chinese food to Bonnie, who grinned and nodded.  Later, she dropped off photocopies of certain documents to me, in one of those bright yellow folders the men in the office wouldn't be caught dead holding.

This is why the female capacity for deviousness is far superior; men put top secret documents in bright orange folders and stamp "TOP SECRET" on them, and then they wonder why their little backroom schemes always get leaked!  Believe me, hiding in plain sight works about twenty-seven times better than their clunky old methods.

At any rate, I now have some leverage on Toby -- believe me when I say he should stick to prose -- and am waiting very, very impatiently for the inevitable.  You see, Josh, my sweet, dear, idiotic man, has been in meetings this morning.  Donna has, of course, sent me a copy of his schedule in the purple folders she favors and Josh abhors.

Another bit of evidence for my theory.

Which is besides the point, because the moment of truth is fast approaching.  Josh's meeting with Congressman Skinner ran over -- as always -- but he just got back.  Donna, you see, calls Bonnie and instead of saying one of those corny lines about eagles and rockets and, I don't know, hedgehogs having arrived or nested or some other nonsensical verb, she merely asks Bonnie if I'm available for lunch.  And when I overhear Bonnie checking today's schedule to see if I have a prior appointment at lunchtime, I know that Josh has just arrived and disappeared into his office, presumably to fire up good old LemonLyman.com.

See how simple that is?  No ridiculous code, no chance that somebody will forget what "the hedgehog has left the building" is supposed to mean, and no extra people being brought into the loop.

Anyway, I emerge from my office with my leather folio (I plan to take notes on Josh's explosion so that I can remember it always) and head for the small photocopier near Josh's office.  And because I am a pro at the stealth thing, I have saved the press clippings that I need to photocopy until now; no standing around ill-concealed by a newspaper for the likes of CJ Cregg.  My back's to Donna, thank God; I can tell from the fleeting glimpse I caught of her on my way over here that she's about two seconds away from a fit of hysteria.  I'm nearly done with my pile of clippings when it finally happens.

From inside Josh's office comes a noise that defies my attempts at description -- It is high-pitched horror, and it is sweeter than Godiva.  I bite down hard on the inside of my mouth and turn wide, innocent eyes to his doorway.

Predictably, Josh emerges at high speed, mouth already open and yelling, "Donna!"

"What's wrong, Josh?" I ask from beside him.

He jumps, one hand running quickly through his hair as he turns to face me.  "Oh.  CJ.  Hi."

Must.  Not.  Laugh.  "What's the problem, Josh?"

"Nothing," he lies, his voice just a little bit squeaky.  "No problem.  Really.  I just needed..." he glances to Donna for help, "a pen," he answers lamely.

I furrow my brow, purse my lips a little, give him a strange look.  "You were yelling for a pen?"

"Yes," Josh answers.  "I only like the one kind.  The ones with -- Donna, what pens do I like?"

Rolling her eyes, Donna answers in a wicked imitation of Josh at his most peremptory, "The Bics, Donna, medium tip.  Not those fine tips again; they nearly sliced through the damn paper--"

"All right," Josh interrupts.  Then he gives me a very poor imitation of a guileless look.  "See?  I needed a pen.  Nothing else."

Without a word, Donna gets up, disappears into Josh's office, and reappears with a fistful of white Bics with black caps.  "You've got plenty of pens, Josh.  Are you sure you didn't need something else?"

And finally the nickel drops.  Josh's gaze darts back and forth between us.  Donna moves to my side, and we are like twin statues of feminine wrath -- arms crossed, glares perfectly intimidating.

"Wait a second," he says, his eyes narrowing.  "You two are behind those pictures!"

I actually bat my eyelashes at him.  I'm pretty sure I've never done that before in my entire life, but it just feels right.  I bat my eyelashes and say, "Whatever are you talking about, Josh?  What pictures?"

Donna and I exchange faux confused looks and she starts for his office.  "Has something on the internet come back to bite you in the ass?"

"No!" Josh yelps, throwing himself in front of the doorway.  "You," he accuses, jabbing a finger at Donna and me in turn.  "One of you is--"  He stops, frowning, trying to recall the pseudonym.

The corner of Donna's mouth twitches.  "Hildy?"

"Yes!" Josh yells.  "Who the hell is Hildy?"

I give Donna a look.  "Told you he wouldn't get it."

"Get what?" Josh demands.  Then he waves a dismissive hand around.  "Never mind; I don't care.  You two did this?  That is so--"

"Ingenious?" I offer.

Josh glares at me.  "No.  Cruel and unusual," he counters.  "And possibly slanderous."

Donna snickers and I shake my head sadly.  "Are you sure you went to law school?"

Josh thinks for a second, then corrects himself.  "Libelous.  Whatever.  It's still actionable."

"It's really not," I tell him.  And, yes, I had Carol pull some stuff on Communications Law for me last night.  "Every single image on that website is in the public domain and credited to the photographer--"

"CJ--"

"Your class pictures from both high school and Harvard are online, that one picture of you with Sam was in some strange fundraising letter for the DNC--"

"Okay," Josh interrupts, "but a picture of me at eight years old with a sombrero is not--"

Donna takes two steps to her desk, grabs a small, light blue brochure and hands it to him.  Josh's mouth drops open as he studies the thing, which says "Greater Greenwich Talent Show!"  He flips it open, and there's that killer picture of him, crookedly-pasted-on handlebar mustache and all.  Shaking his head very slightly, Josh looks back up at us.  "But how did you get this?"

Donna smiles.  "A very sweet woman named Mary Andrews at the Greenwich Recreational Arts Center faxed me a copy, then sent this one overnight.  She was quite helpful."

Josh groans.  "All those crazy internet people saw these!  Now they're talking about how my upbringing in Greenwich with all of the WASPs -- disregarding entirely, I might add, the fact that I'm Jewish -- has clearly shaped me into the elitist, egotistical jackass I am today!"

Dammit -- why didn't I think to tape this conversation?

Donna pretends to think it over.  "Sounds pretty accurate."

"Donna!"

"Well, you are an elitist, Josh, and you obviously have trouble following orders because--"

"The orders," Josh interrupts, "were stupid, and they came from my subordinate."

I take a step towards him, using my height to full advantage.  "Excuse me?"

"Um."

"Subordinate?"

"Well, technically--"

"Technically, my ass.  I've got a masters in public relations, and you will damn well listen to me when I tell you -- as the press secretary -- what you can and cannot do!  And you cannot post on a website devoted to all things Josh!"  I pause just long enough for him to formulate a rebuttal; when he opens his mouth, I say, "No, Josh.  It's not going to happen.  Right now, all we've got are little blurbs in the gossip section of the papers; you will not end up on the front page on my watch.  Accept the fact that some people disagree with you, some of them do it online, and they do not need you to rebut every last statement that comes out of their mouths!"

"But they're wrong," Josh answers, sounding horrified that the poor, the tired, the huddled masses will remain unenlightened about The World According to Josh.

He looks to Donna for support, but she just stares back at him.  "Why don't you concentrate your efforts on members of Congress," she suggests.

He stares at us, his gaze sliding back and forth between us.  I can tell the moment he acquiesces, because he starts to pout.  Seriously, a grown man pouting.  Some days, Josh Lyman is too ridiculous for words.

I dip my chin in acknowledgment.  "Okay, so you're not going to post on that website anymore, you're not going to use Zippy or any other cute little pseudonym to post on the website anymore, and you're not going to pester someone else into posting for you."

"Fine."  He starts to retreat into his office.

"And?" I prompt.

Josh turns back, puzzled.  "And what?"

"And the next time I tell you something, you'll damn well listen, right?"

Damn that smirk.  "Sure, CJ."

"Josh--"

"I said sure," he repeats, a thoughtful expression on his face.  I find that positively terrifying; Josh Lyman is many things, but a graceful loser is not one of them.  "You're right.  Whatever you say."

I narrow my eyes and glare at him, but I don't pursue it.  I'll trust Donna to keep me apprised of the situation, should it warrant further action from CJ the Avenger.  Donna and I exchange slightly baffled looks, then she crosses to her desk and sits down.

Photocopied press clippings in hand, I'm snagging a highlighter off of Carol's desk when I hear it.

"Hey, Donna," Josh yells from inside his office, "get me somebody at Berkeley on the phone.  Someone who has access to yearbook files."

I will kill him.

"Josh!"

THE END

04.04.02