Part 4

April 9, 2000

“You never went to parties when you were in college?” Zoey asked.  She looked dumbfounded, as if Trixie had gone to an all women’s Amish college.

“Yes, I went to parties.  I just didn’t go to frat parties.”

“Why not?”

A scream a few doors down diverted their attention.  Every light in the fraternity house was on, as was the stereo, which they had heard when they first got out of the car more than a block away.  Two men who vaguely resembled a pair of army tanks lumbered onto the front lawn of the fraternity house.  Each tank had a scantily-clad woman on his shoulders shooting water pistols at each other as they emitted the high-pitched shrieks that were probably setting off dogs as far away as Baltimore.  From the smell of things, the water pistols were filled with beer.

“That’s why,” Trixie remarked dryly, raising her brow at her protectee.  “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I won’t stay long, I promise.  I just need to find somebody.”

“Zoey!” came yet another high-pitched scream and a glassy-eyed brunette with hair that may or may not have been curly before it had been drenched in beer came bounding across the lawn to hug her friend.

“Hi, Laci.  Is David here?”

“Who?”

“David.  Stacy said he was going to be here tonight.”

“David who?”

“Arbor.”

“Arbor who?”

Trixie was feeling jittery and really wanted Zoey to do what she came for and get out of there.  She wasn’t overly worried about actual danger but even a frat party could turn out to be dangerous when you had the press following you day in and day out.  Coolly, she said, “It’s not a knock-knock joke, Laci.  She’s looking for a friend of hers.”

Laci stopped to study Trixie for a moment, weaving in her spot as she tried to focus on the stern agent. 

“Who’s the stiff, Zo?  Maybe she needs a dink.”

“Drink,” Trixie corrected.  “Maybe I could fill a glass by squeezing your hair.”

Zoey giggled.  “Trixie, this is Laci.  She’s not usually like this.”

“Trixie?  Trixie?  Did somebody hire a stripper?”

Trixie shot a “Gee, thanks” scowl in Zoey’s direction.  Gently grasping Laci’s arm, she leaned close to her ear, crinkled her nose at the stench of beer and marijuana, and said slowly and evenly, “We’re looking for a friend of Zoey’s.  DA-VID AR-BOR.  Have you seen him?”

Laci pulled away and frowned.  “I’m not deaf.”

No, just stupid drunk ... or stoned, Trixie thought.

“Is he here?” Zoey quickly interjected before Trixie could lose her patience.

“Yeah.  Kitchen, I think.”

“Oh, God,” Trixie murmured as Laci stumbled off.  “We have to go in the house?”

“Seriously, Trixie?  You’re young enough to be cool about this kind of thing.  Are you really that uptight?”

Trixie wanted to smile.  If only Jim could’ve heard that question.  He would’ve fallen over in shock.

“I wasn’t until I started working for your father,” she quipped.  She turned her half-grin into a grimace, certain, however, that Zoey had seen through it.  “Zoey, my job isn’t to have a good time with you at parties.  My job is to—”

“Yeah, I know,” Zoey sighed.  “I’m sorry.”

Trixie knew that Zoey enjoyed having her for a bodyguard.  She felt more relaxed and comfortable than she did when the hulking male guards stood around snarling at anybody who even looked crookedly at her.  But sometimes she got a little too relaxed.

Trixie smiled understandingly at her.  “Sorry that I’m not your drinking buddy?  Or sorry that I’m the stiff who has to tag along with you?”

Zoey merely rolled her eyes as she tried to conceal her amusement. 

“We can go around back and avoid most of the chaos,” she suggested, pointing to the stone walk that wrapped around the side of the house.

It was dark, which wasn’t a good sign, but the chances of evil lurking in the bushes outside a keg party were slim.  This wasn’t a horror movie, after all.  If the Secret Service had really been worried about Zoey attending this party, they would’ve sent more than just Trixie along.  Two agents waited down the block in the car to provide backup if needed, but the dangers of a frat party for Zoey were little more than being groped by a drunken teenage boy.

Trixie slipped her hand over her weapon anyway and nodded her approval to Zoey’s plan, leading her through the side yard that was littered with beer cans and half-filled garbage bags.

“Why are we doing this again?” she asked over her shoulder as she led Zoey around the house, alertly checking every dark shadow they approached.

“David’s got drug problems.  My friends and I are trying to help him.  Anyway, he was at party last week and was totally wasted, like, unconscious wasted.  We took his car keys away.  I’m just trying to find him so I can give them back.  Stacy told me he was going to be here tonight.”

“Isn’t his father a friend of your father’s?”

“Yeah, sort of.  I mean he’s a big fundraiser for the Democratic party, so they know each other but they’re not drinking buddies or anything.”  Trixie turned and grinned and Zoey grinned back.  “David and I have been friends since high school.  He’s been a good friend and I really hate what he’s done to himself.  I had to get involved.”

Trixie mused that Zoey would’ve made a good Bob-White.

The backyard was noticeably quieter than the front yard but this was probably due to the fact that most of the occupants were busy making out.  There were even a couple of ratty couches on the lawn for just that purpose, though nobody seemed averse to using the lawn itself.

Trixie raised her eyebrows.  Zoey chuckled and grabbed her arm to urge her along.  “Come on, Sister Mary Beatrix.”

She had actually been thinking that she and Dan had never done it outside except for their wedding night, but that was in a tent.  The idea of rolling around naked on the grass was kind of intriguing.  She didn’t let on to Zoey, however, instead just scowling and following her up the back stairs to the kitchen door.

The kitchen was crowded.  Standing room only crowded and just barely that.  Trixie had no idea how Zoey even spotted David Arbor but she pointed and turned to Trixie with a questioning look.  She might have said something but the eardrum shattering volume of the music made it impossible for anyone to be heard.  Trixie took a quick scan around the room, decided it was safe—relatively speaking—and nodded her assent to Zoey, who immediately disappeared into the sea of bodies.  Trixie kept her eyes focused on the bobbing head of auburn hair until it stopped near the refrigerator and a young man who reminded her a lot of Brian.

The man she presumed to be David Arbor was clean cut, with dark hair and serious dark eyes.  He had a bottle of beer in one hand and smiled when he saw Zoey, squeezing her shoulder in what appeared to be a gesture of gratitude and not a little humiliation.  He certainly didn’t look like he was drunk or high, so maybe Zoey and her friends had gotten through to him.

Her watchful gaze was suddenly obliterated when what appeared to be a large, movable boulder stepped in front of her.  “Hey, sweetness, wanna go upstairs?” he bellowed above the music.

Trixie looked upward, taking in the Georgetown University t-shirt, on which the school’s bulldog mascot had been augmented in magic marker with a rather generous endowment.  Her eyes drifted up further to where a neck should have been but only a rounded head with blue hair—she did a double take, yes blue—sat.

“Excuse me?” she asked, acting as if she hadn’t heard and hoping he’d simply move on.

“Upstairs.  You know?  Make out?”

“I’m sorry,” she replied as politely as she could.  “I’m married.”

“Du-ude.”  He sounded as if she just told him she had a terminal disease and would die within the week.  “You knocked up?”

“What?  No.  Why?”  She tried to get around him, get Zoey back in her sights, but he simply took a step to his left to keep her trapped up against the kitchen counter.

“How come you’re married if you’re not knocked up?”

She was pretty sure she could take him.  If he was drunk enough.  But getting enough elbow room to leverage him over her shoulder to the floor might be tricky.

“Sorry, Brucer.”  Zoey suddenly reappeared, darting nimbly around his tremendous girth to stand by Trixie’s side.  “You’ll have to forgive my cousin.”

Cousin?

“She’s a Quaker,” she said solemnly, nodding her head slowly to pass along the severity of the charge.

“Dude,” Brucer said again, this time with reverence.  “Nice job on the oats.”

“What?”

Zoey grabbed Trixie’s arm and dragged her toward the back door.  “Gotta run, Brucer.  Enjoy the party!”

“Did I hear him right?”  Trixie asked when they had reached the relative peace of the backyard.

Zoey giggled.  “Bruce is here on a football scholarship, Trixie, not pre-med.”

“And seriously trashed, no doubt.  Did you give your friend his keys?”

“Yeah.  We can go.”  Her face clouded over with worry.

“Everything okay?”

“I shouldn’t have given him his keys.”

“Why not?  He looked sober to me.”

“For now.  I have a feeling he was waiting on something.  He told me I shouldn’t stick around.”

Trixie gritted her teeth as she and Zoey made their way up the street to the car.  The hardest part of this job was reining in her tendency to butt in.  She had to continuously remind herself that she had one job—protecting Zoey.  It wasn’t her job to police the college campus for illegal drugs.  It wasn’t her job to assist Zoey in helping her wayward friends.  It wasn’t her job to deck Brucer for hitting on a Secret Service agent.

Getting involved with people is what life is all about.  Trixie missed being an active part of that Bob-White philosophy.

 

April 10, 2000

Agent Mike Berringer approached Trixie as she stood just a few feet away from where Zoey and a few of her classmates were conjugating French verbs at a table near the wall of the university cafeteria.  It was moderately busy but required only a standard level of observation and vigilance as it was closed off to the general public and the nearest windows were on the other side of the room.

“There are some reporters at the Southwest entrance,” Berringer reported.

“How many?”

“About a dozen.”

“Have someone bring the car around back.”

Mike nodded and returned the way he had come.  Trixie crossed over to Zoey’s table and the redhead looked up as she approached. 

“What time is it?”

“Ten thirty,” Trixie responded.

“I have to go,” Zoey told her friends and rose, gathering her books and backpack.  Her friend, Stacy Prescott, rose to go as well.

“Are we doing French in Callie’s room tonight?” asked one of the girls still sitting at the table.

“Yeah.  About ten,” Zoey replied.

As she turned toward the main entrance of the cafeteria, Trixie held up her hand and gently herded her and Stacy in the opposite direction.

“Zoey, this way.  We’re going out back.”

“What’s out front?”

“There are some reporters out there.”

“They’re not supposed to come on campus,” Stacy noted.

Trixie nodded.  “Campus security’s on the way.”

Zoey turned to her friend and at once changed the subject to put her at ease.  “Can I ask you a question?  What is up with Marjorie’s hair?”

“Yeah, I know!  I didn’t want to say anything back at the table.”

The girls giggled and Trixie smiled as she led them toward the kitchen.  Zoey was so good at helping her friends feel relaxed around the unusual circumstances they faced by being friends with the President’s daughter.  She was as tactful and kindhearted as Honey.

“Trixie, listen to this.  We’ve been falling asleep listening to our French tapes.”

“I remember them well,” Trixie teased.  She was in the room across the hall from Zoey’s several nights a week and had often awakened in the middle of the night to the steady drone of French from Zoey’s tape player.

“Are you ready?” Zoey asked.  She and Stacy began reciting their lessons.

Just as they came into the kitchen, a man rushed in from the side toward Zoey and her friend.  Without hesitation, Trixie launched her small body at him like a terrier at a rat and slammed him up against the stainless steel door of the industrial-sized refrigerator.  It didn’t even faze the man.

“Zoey!” he yelled, trying to get her attention.

Trixie gave him another shove, willing to push him right into the refrigerator if necessary.

“Hey!” he protested, clearly feeling his right to harass a teenage girl was being violated.

“I’m Special Agent Mangan of the U.S. Secret Service.  What’s your name?”

He took a look into the determined blue eyes and unrelenting expression and apparently decided answering would be a good idea.  “Edgar Drumm of the Charleston Citizen.  I have a question for Miss Bartlet.”

“She doesn’t answer questions here.”

Somehow he managed to screw up his courage and ignore the cold steel at Trixie’s hip that she thrust against his side in a not-so-subtle reminder that she was armed and would be happy to pull the weapon if necessary. 

“Zoey?”

Agent Berringer came hurrying in from the back door.  Without looking his way, merely sensing he was there, Trixie ordered, “Mike, take her to the car.”

Drumm was persistent though.  He raised his voice as Zoey and Stacy walked away, not wanting to miss his chance at a quote.  “Zoey, what do you think it says about the country that the President's daughter is partying with drug dealers?”

Zoey had obediently been following Mike out the door but now turned back with an expression of cold disdain on her face.  “What the hell?”

“What do you think it says about the country?” Drumm repeated.

Stacy blurted, “David Arbor isn’t a drug dealer!”

“Stacy!” Trixie snapped, wishing Zoey’s friend would keep her mouth shut.  Anything she or Zoey said would only make it worse.

“Why’d you go to the party, Zoey?” Drumm continued.

Trixie wondered if she’d be violating his rights if she squeezed his throat to prevent him from asking any more questions.

“I was invited,” Zoey answered plainly.  “I didn’t even know David Arbor was going to be there.”

“Guys!” Trixie barked.  It was time to stop being the watchful friend and start being the no-nonsense agent in charge.  “I want you in the car now.”

Zoey and Stacy let Mike herd them toward the door but Stacy couldn’t resist one last jab. 

“You’re a real jackass, you know that?”

Drumm chuckled under his breath.  He’d certainly been called worse and Zoey and Stacy had given him all he needed for a story.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Trixie threatened.  She was satisfied to see a twinge of fear in the ferret-like face.  He wasn’t much taller than Trixie, actually, but he could’ve been six feet tall and he would’ve been intimidated by the lethal professionalism of the woman in front of him.  Still, he gave an air of bravado its best shot.

“I have to say if this is how the Secret Service behaves in the Bartlet administration, it's a sad state of affairs.”

If that was supposed to be a threat toward her job, Trixie wasn’t buying it.  It was almost laughable.  Her sole duty was to protect Zoey from any perceived threats.  Manners weren’t a part of the bargain. 

Still, she smiled pleasantly as she replied, “We're all going to have to learn to live with your disappointment, I guess.”

Without another thought for the reporter, she turned and walked briskly off.

The Secret Service conference room was much different from the conference rooms Trixie had seen at Wheeler International.  Instead of a long table polished to a high gloss, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city, and a silver tray of pastries for guests, the Secret Service conference room in the basement of the West Wing had metal chairs with fold-up desktops like you’d see at a university.  Everywhere you turned you could see computers, televisions, security cameras, monitors, and bulletin boards. 

And you can’t buy raspberry croissants in the vending machine, Trixie thought with chagrin as she popped a handful of Cheetos in her mouth and licked the cheese dust off her fingers.

It was the afternoon briefing, when the day shift and the night shift of agents for the First Family discussed the day’s events and the day to come.  Zoey was visiting her mother in the private residence and planned to have dinner with her parents later that evening, so although Trixie was still officially on duty, her protective responsibilities were more or less done for the day.

Agent Butterfield was giving a quick rundown of the current threats.

“...and Mr. Kleeg is being detained for questioning by field agents in Albuquerque.”  He glanced at his notes.  “Mr. Derrick Horgiboum threatened to blow up the Smithsonian unless Zoey Bartlet agreed to meet with him for a drink.  Mr. Horgiboum is in custody and the Smithsonian remains open for business.  Kelly?  You had something?”

“The newest sorority pledge stunt is get your picture taken with Zoey,” said Agent Kelly Sams, who looked a bit like a sorority pledge herself.

“Here's hoping our biggest threat is from the girls of Kappa Kappa Gamma,” Agent Mike Berringer joked.

A few agents laughed.  Any opportunity to break up these usually tense discussions was enjoyable, if only for a moment or two.

“It's not,” Butterfield assured them grimly.  “We're adding some hate groups to the list.  The Aryan White Resistance, The Christian Defense League, The World Church of the Creator, and Central New York White Pride.”

“Sir?”

“Mike?”

“The Office of Protective Research says the most recent letters have been signed off with the slogan, '14 words'.”

“Who can tell me what ‘14 words’ stands for?”

Trixie raised her hand and immediately felt slightly foolish as she did so. Butterfield smiled and nodded for her to speak.

“We must secure the existence of white people and the future for white children.”

“That's right. What else do you have, Beatrix?”

“Two death threats were received earlier in the week.  One against Zoey, one against Charlie.  They were made with letters cut from a magazine.  And the OPR has identified the paper and the typeset as Resistance Magazine.”

“This magazine is geared towards recruiting younger people.”

“That's right, sir.” Trixie replied, bristling inside.  As if white supremacists weren’t bad enough, the idea that teenagers’ minds could be warped like that made her angry and made her yearn for her innocent youth and the Bob-Whites of the Glen.  “And the letters have repeatedly used the phrase, ‘Following the voice of blood’”.

“What is it?”

“It's the title of the first record by a band called Graveland.  They're very popular amongst skinheads.”  She hesitated, then put forth her theory, one she had been pondering for several days now.  “Sir, I'm fairly convinced we're looking for two 15-year-old boys.”

“I think you're right.  Everybody hit the pictures and see who looks familiar from the rope lines.  Remember it could be anyone.  Thank you.”

Trixie’s moment of pride in Butterfield’s agreement with her assessment was short lived. 

“Mangan?” an agent called out.

“Yeah?”

“C.J. Cregg's outside.  She wanted to step in.”

“Sure.”

It was fairly unusual for the Press Secretary to come downstairs to talk to the Secret Service.  Normally, she only asked for schedules and occasionally for updates on threats.  But Trixie had a pretty good idea what brought her to the basement this morning.

“Hi, C.J,” Trixie greeted pleasantly.

The Press Secretary was tall.  Very tall.  In her heels, Trixie suspected she was taller than either Dan or Brian, who were both just over six feet.  Trixie worried about getting a crick in her neck talking to the lanky redhead.

“They told me you were having a briefing.  I don’t want to intrude.”

“We’re done,” Trixie reassured her.

“I just need a minute.”

“You want some coffee?”

Trixie desperately needed some.  She had been on duty since the previous night.  Overnight shifts were the norm but gallivanting to frat parties wasn’t.  Trixie was exhausted.  She would be off duty in about an hour but Dan was off tonight, too, and she wanted to stay awake long enough to spend time with him on the phone.  It seemed rare that they both had the same night off, so they took advantage of it whenever they could.

“I'm fine.  I just needed to talk to you about the party last night.”

Trixie poured herself a cup of coffee, her brow wrinkled as she reminded herself that confidentiality was a priority in her job.  She forced her voice to sound casual as she replied, “Okay.”

“Could you describe what, if any, contact Zoey might have had with David Arbor last night?”

“No.  I'm sorry,” she said as plainly as she could.

“I don't understand.”

“I'm not permitted to discuss the behavior of my protectee.”

“Zoey's not in trouble,” C.J. reassured her.

“I understand.”

“I'm trying to straighten out a discrepancy in something she told me.”

“I understand.”  And she did.

Zoey telling the reporter that she didn’t know David Arbor was going to be at the frat party seemed like a minor thing but nothing was minor where the press was concerned, especially since Zoey had known that David Arbor would be there.

The story of a major party fundraiser’s son being slapped with charges of felony possession and intent to distribute was a minor blip on the news radar.  The fact that he was buddying around with the First Daughter at that party had the potential to turn the blip into a major incoming ballistic missile.

“Trixie, I'm the press secretary. There's a story that Zoey's involved with and I need you to tell me what you know about last night.”

“I'm sorry, C.J.  I can't protect her if she feels like she's got to do things behind my back.  I'm not permitted to discuss the behavior of my protectee.”

To Trixie’s relief, C.J. seemed to understand that.  Trixie wasn’t good at keeping secrets, especially if telling might help somebody.  But she knew her job.  Zoey had to trust her implicitly.  Despite the guilt Trixie was sure was written all over her rapidly warming face, C.J. accepted that the discussion was closed. 

“Okay, thanks.”  She turned to go.

“C.J.,” Trixie blurted.  “The thing with the reporter this morning ... it was fast, it was physical.  She's 19 years old and she thought her father was in trouble.”

“Okay.  Thanks.  I appreciate it.  Sorry about the...”

Trixie smiled brightly.  “No problem.” 

“I'll see you later.”

Trixie sat down at a desk and asked, “Are you sure you don't want to sit and have some coffee?  I'm going to look through an FBI photo album of teenage Nazis.”

“Why?”

Trixie shrugged.  “I’m on a break.”

C.J. chuckled and turned to go, once again halting before she reached the doorway.  “Are you really on a break?” she queried.

“Yeah, they do let me have breaks now and then,” Trixie replied with a grin.

“How long?”

“I’m basically off.  Zoey’s in the residence and I’m officially off duty in...”  She checked her watch.  “...22 minutes.  Why?”

“I have to tell the President about this.  I thought maybe you could come along and offer support.”

Trixie laughed under her breath and dropped her gaze to the FBI photo archives.  “I don’t think so.”

“Trixie!”  C.J. tried to look deeply offended.  “I thought it was your job to protect the First Family.”

“It is.  It’s not my job to protect you from the First Family.”  She gazed upward at the Amazon.  “You’re like a foot taller than me.  You’ll be okay.”

“I’m wearing heels.”

Trixie tilted her head and raised her sandy brows dubiously.

C.J. tried again.  “I’m not armed.”

“I’m not pulling my weapon on the President of the United States!”

“Not him, me!  If things start looking grim, I want you to end it.  Put me out of my misery.”

Trixie shook her head and tried not to laugh.

“Please, Trixie.  He likes you.”

“He likes you,” Trixie insisted.

“No he doesn’t.  I bring him bad news from the press corps.  I won’t let him speak his mind.  I’m too tall.  And I make fun of Notre Dame.”

Trixie’s eyes widened.  “You do?”

“Please.”

“Okay, but you owe me.”

Charlie came out of the Oval Office, leaving the door cracked open behind him and nodded to let C.J. and Trixie know that they could go in.

“What’s he doing right now?” C.J. asked.

Charlie’s glanced flickered from C.J. to Trixie and back again.  “He’s reading.”

“Reading what?”

“Something about George Washington being a tight-assed little priss.”

“Well.  That sounds promising.”

“It does?” Trixie asked.

“Sure.  If he thinks he’s better than the Father of our Country then he’s in a good mood.”

“And,” Charlie interjected helpfully.  “I told him I thought he could take Washington in a war.”

“See?” C.J. said, shooting a triumphant glance at Trixie.

“So, you don’t need me then?” Trixie tried.

C.J.’s response was to grab the sleeve of Trixie’s jacket and drag her into the Oval Office behind her.

The President was lying on one of the couches in front of the fireplace, a small, linen-bound book in his hands.  His shoes were off and his stockinged feet were propped on the arm of the couch.  It was a cozy picture and made Trixie relax, while at the same time hoping she wasn’t letting her guard down too much.

“C.J., Beatrix,” President Bartlet greeted.

“Mr. President,” C.J. returned for them both.

Not turning from his book, President Bartlet read, “‘When in company, put not your hands on any part of your body usually covered.’”

“Well, I do what it takes to keep the press corps happy, Mr. President.”

Chuckling softly, he laid the book on the coffee table and sat up.  C.J. took a seat on the other couch.

Trixie chose to stand.  Near the doorway.  And escape.

C.J. motioned to her to take a seat but Trixie shook her head and tried to look vigilant rather than terrified.

“What’s going on?” President Bartlet asked, shooting a wary glance at both C.J. and Trixie.

“Don’t blow your stack, all right?” C.J. began gently.

“What is going on?” he repeated a bit more forcefully.

“Zoey lied to a reporter.”

“What are you talking about?”

C.J. turned to Trixie with a steady gaze.  Trixie cleared her throat and answered, “She was asked should the President's daughter be partying with drug dealers and she said she didn't know David Arbor was going to be at the party.  Except she did know.”

“Why did she lie?”  The President sounded flabbergasted, as if he were the first father in history to ever discover that one of his children had told a lie.

Score one for Washington, Trixie thought wryly.

“She didn’t have to,” C.J. assured him.

“Then why did she?”

Frustrated, C.J. said smartly, “Because sometimes 19-year-old girls lie when they don’t have to.”

“She never has to,” Bartlet insisted.

“She knows that.”

“Apparently, she doesn’t.”

“Mr. President, give her a break.  This thing’s happened to her friend.  She doesn’t know how it affects her father.  Edgar Drumm is shouting at her while she comes out of class.  She choked.”

President Bartlet turned to Trixie, his eyes bright with a spark that looked more than ready to evolve into a full-blown forest fire.

“A reporter talked to her on campus?”

Trixie nodded even as C.J. tried to extinguish the flames.  “Mr. President...”

“C.J.!”

“Sir...”

The President bent over and shoved his feet into his shoes.  “Put the press in the briefing room.  Tell them I’m coming right over.”

Trixie shot a desperate look at C.J.  She knew this could be bad, could be that grim moment C.J. worried about.  And nobody had even mentioned Notre Dame.  But if she put C.J. out of her misery now, she knew she’d never be able to stop the President from taking this course of action.

But C.J. wasn’t giving up the fight yet.  “No,” she said firmly.

“C.J...” President Bartlet was yanking his shoelaces tight, his voice sending a clear warning message that he was a father about to be on the rampage.

“No, sir.”

“We have been over this and we have been over this and we have been over this!  They are not supposed to talk to my daughter on campus!”

“It was Edgar Drumm,” Trixie ventured.  “He’s not a reporter.  He’s a professional Bartlet baiter.  He works for a radical right-wing paper.”

“I don’t give a damn if it was the Bergen County Shopper’s Guide!” Bartlet bellowed.  “I want to talk to the press!”

“You can’t talk to the press!” C.J. bellowed right back.

When the President responded, his voice was much quieter but just as venomous.  “Watch me.”

C.J. stood.  She tried to block his warpath but moved too slowly.  He brushed past both C.J. and Trixie before either of them could judge how much physical force you were allowed to use on the President of the United States.

“Mr. President,” Trixie ventured cautiously but firmly, “this isn’t about your daughter.  It’s about the First Daughter.  It’s my job to protect her and I—C.J. and I—aren’t going to let you go down to the briefing room.”

C.J. gave Trixie a grateful look and added, “You, me, Trixie, Charlie and Zoey are the only five people who know she was lying and there's no reason it doesn't need to stay that way.  It's a non-story.  You go down there and it's a big story!”

President Bartlet paused with his hand on the doorknob.  Trixie watched him take a deep breath before turning around, his voice calmer but his eyes still stormy.

“So, I just sit in my office and fume?”

Trixie winced.  She definitely didn’t want to be here for that.

“Yes,” C.J. replied, lowering her voice to a more soothing tone.  “And if anybody asks you, you haven’t heard anything about it.”

“Fine.”

He didn’t sound “fine” but he moved away from the door and back towards the couch, running his fingers through his thinning hair anxiously.

“Mr. President?”

“What?”

“Did you know he jumped out at Zoey?  Trixie put him into a wall.”

“Excellent!”  He flashed a look of bloodthirsty approval at Trixie.

“Sir...” C.J. prodded patiently.  Clearly, that wasn’t the answer she had been going for.

“I haven’t heard anything about it,” he responded as meekly as a lapdog.

“Very good.”

She nodded to Trixie and the two of them, satisfied the President was calm, turned to go.

He didn’t like letting anybody else have the last word, however.

“I could take George Washington, by the way.”

“Yes, sir,” C.J. responded.

There was a momentary pause and Trixie realized they were both looking her way pointedly.  She flushed and quickly answered, “Of course, you could, Mr. President!”

“Anything else?” Bartlet asked, the dragon father safely caged in the dungeon, the composed leader back in charge.

“No, sir,” C.J. said.

“Thank you, C.J.  Thank you, Beatrix.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

C.J. quickly hustled Trixie out the door of the Oval Office.  Once in the outer office, the two of them stopped to catch their breath.

“I owe you one,” C.J. reminded Trixie.

“You owe me more than one, Cregg,” Trixie mumbled back.

 

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Author's Notes

Part 4 (5,301 words)

Much of what happens in this installment comes directly from, or was inspired by, West Wing Episode 1.18, “Six Meetings Before Lunch”.

The frat party Zoey attends, hoping to find her friend David Arbor, was mentioned in the episode but the scene itself was completely fabricated by me.  And while several West Wing viewers pointed out that Georgetown University does not have fraternities, there are several colleges in the DC area and it is presumed that Zoey and Brucer were simply attending a frat party from another university.

The scene in the university cafeteria/kitchen is almost entirely West Wing transcript, as is the briefing scene with the Secret Service detail.  Any factual errors are not mine (grin) and can be credited to literary license on Mr. Sorkin’s part.

I expanded on Trixie’s brief discussion with C.J. Cregg to include C.J.’s request that Trixie accompany her to the Oval Office.  Zoey’s agent did not attend the meeting in the Oval Office on the show, but I thought it might be fun to let Trixie be in there.  Almost all of the dialogue is from Episode 1.18.  I just broke out a few of the lines for Trixie instead of C.J., as well as letting her express C.J.’s opinion of Edgar Drumm that was mentioned earlier in the same episode.

And yes, C.J. later got into bigger trouble for making fun of Notre Dame (the President’s alma mater) and ended up being punished by wearing a Notre Dame ball cap in public and having to lead the press corps in the Notre Dame fight song while on Air Force One.

Quaker Oats and Cheetos (that was for you, Trish!) are trademarked names and I’m not making any profit by their mention here.

Except for my created characters (Laci, Brucer), all characters either belong to Random House (Trixie Belden) or Warner Brothers (West Wing) and are borrowed lovingly and with full respect.  Stacy was a friend of Zoey’s on West Wing; Mike and Kelly were both Secret Service agents.  I did give them their last names, however.