Part 8

May 17, 2000
The White House
Washington, D.C.
9:50 a.m.

It was going to be a quiet morning.

Thank goodness, Trixie thought.  She needed a cup of coffee and some Tylenol.  Maybe she could find a quiet corner in the basement somewhere where she could put her head down and take a nap.

She had a schedule for the evening’s Town Hall Meeting in her hand that she had to deliver to C.J. Cregg.  But first, coffee.

She stopped in the northwest lobby of the West Wing and did a quick mental reconnaissance for the nearest coffee machine.  Remembering one just outside of Deputy Chief of Staff Josh Lyman’s office, she turned to her left and made a beeline for Mr. Coffee.

She had her head down, intent on forcing one foot in front of the other, and didn’t see Josh’s assistant, Donna Moss, coming toward her on the other side of the double doors that separated the offices from the lobby.

Apparently, Donna didn’t see her through the windows, either, because the next thing Trixie knew, she was bringing her arm up sharply to avoid being hit in the face with the swinging door.

“Agent Mangan!” Donna exclaimed, her wide blue eyes growing still wider.  “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t see you.”

“It’s all right,” Trixie assured her with a small smile as she attempted to straighten out the crumpled schedule.  “I wasn’t paying attention myself.”

She glanced down.  Donna was pushing a chair through the double doors.  “What’re you doing?”

“It’s Josh’s chair.  It has a wobbly wheel.”

Trixie’s brow crinkled.  “And?”

“And I’m … taking it ... to the … shop.”

“There’s a shop to fix a wobbly wheel?  Can’t you just find a screwdri—”

“No, it’s not that simple.”  When Trixie arched her eyebrows questioningly, Donna’s shoulders slumped.  “Okay, I have to work on that before Josh gets here.”

“Work on what?”

Donna was blond and often acted like it, but she was far smarter than she sometimes appeared.  She had to be to keep up with a mind as sharp and frenzied as Josh Lyman’s.

“There is no shop.  It’s my friend Curtis.”

“Okay.”  Trixie wasn’t sure how this concerned her, but Donna seemed intent on explaining.

“I’m trying to throw him some work.”

“A wobbly chair wheel?”

“I’ll explain it to Josh.”

“Okay,” Trixie said again.  “I was just going to get some coffee.”

“Oh.  Sorry.”  Donna stepped aside and let Trixie go past her into the office area.  “I’ll just take this chair to … you know … the shop.”

Trixie waved her compliance as she walked away, her focus on the orange-handled pot of life-giving caffeine.  Dr. Lambeth said one or two cups a day would be fine while she was pregnant and she wasn’t ready to switch to decaf just yet.  Down the hall to her left, she saw President Bartlet making his way to the Press Room.  Charlie broke off from the small group when he spotted her and joined her at the coffee maker.

“Trixie, is Zoey here?”

“No, she’s got a couple of classes this morning, then Kelly’s dropping her off her around noon.  I’ve got her the rest of the day.”

“Listen, the President’s prepping for the Town Hall Meeting right now.  If you see Zoey before I do, please tell her to butt out.”

“Butt out of the rehearsal?”  That didn’t make sense.  Trixie took a gulp of her coffee to try to jump start her brain.

“No.  Just tell her to butt out,” he repeated calmly.  “She’ll know what it means.”

“Well, that’s good, because I don’t know what it means.”  She took another sip of coffee before remembering the schedule in her hand.  “Hey, Charlie, could you…”

But Charlie was already gone.  She’d have to put off her morning nap for a few more minutes.  She moved down the hallway, peeking into C.J.’s office as she passed, even though she was guessing the Press Secretary was already in the Press Room with the President.  Gail the goldfish waved her dorsal fin cheerfully from her bowl on C.J.’s desk, but neither C.J. nor her assistant Carol were around.

Trixie went up the half-flight of stairs to the staff area that overlooked the Press Room.  In the front of the room, past several rows of seats for reporters, the White House seal hung in front of a bank of bright blue curtains.  The podium had been moved in favor of two barstools, one of which held a pitcher of water and a glass.  President Bartlet stood on the stage and listened to C.J.’s directions with a somewhat patronizing expression on his face.

“For the purposes of this rehearsal, Carol will be the moderator.  She'll be seated at your right, which is camera left.  You'll have a pitcher and a drinking glass.”

“And when I speak, I should stand facing the audience, right?”

“Sir…”  C.J. gave him as wrathful a look as she could get away with in dealing with the most powerful man in the world.

“Do you know how I know this, C.J.?  Because I've done it 2,000 to 300,000 times before.”

Without warning, President Bartlet left the stage and moved up the aisle to get closer to his speechwriter.  “Hey, Sam, why didn’t the Columbia land last night?”

“I'm sorry, sir?”  Sam was just about to take a seat in the third row and looked startled by the abrupt change of topic.

“The Space Shuttle was supposed to land last night.  Someone told me that it didn’t.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Sam answered.

“Why don’t you go ask Toby?”

“Why would Toby know?”

“His brother's on that flight.”

“Really?”  Sam looked genuinely and thoroughly surprised.

“He's a payload specialist.”

“I didn't know that.”

C.J. sat down on the arm of a chair next to them, her expression slightly frazzled as she waited to get the President back to the prep session.

President Bartlet continued, “He's up there with four red-bellied Japanese newts. He wants to see how a newt's inner ears, which are remarkably similar to humans', are influenced by the absence of gravity.”  Turning his head slightly, he asked, “Do you know what he calls them, C.J.?”

“Astro-newts?”

Trixie grinned.  Mart would love the pun.

“100% right,” President Bartlet proclaimed.  He turned back to Sam and ordered, “Go ask him why it didn't land.”

He returned to the stage.  Trixie came down the few steps into the Press Room, smiling at Sam as he passed her on his way to Toby’s office.

Speaking low enough not to be overheard, he murmured, “Good morning, Scrappy.”

Trixie flicked him on the arm and handed C.J. the Secret Service schedule for the evening.

“Thank you,” she said with a weary sigh.

“How’s it going?” Trixie asked.

“He’s quite full of himself today.  He thinks he’s John Barrymore and he doesn’t need stage direction.”

From the stage, President Bartlet called out, “C.J., you say I have a pitcher of water and a drinking glass.  Now the water gets into the glass … how?”

Keeping her back to him, C.J. gave Trixie a “God help me!” look.  Trixie offered her a sympathetic grin as she left.

 

11:45 a.m.

Trixie’s nap, her face pressed against a report on the recent movements of a West Virginia hate group, ended up being only about twenty minutes long.  It left her feeling more lethargic than when she had first laid her head on the table.

She jerked awake when her pager went off and read the brief message, cryptic to most but not to a Secret Service Agent on the White House detail.  “BB 2 WH”.  Zoey was on her way to the White House.

She shuffled the pages of the report into something resembling order and shoved them back into the folder.  Maybe she’d have a chance to read it while she ate, if Zoey went to the residence to have lunch with her mother.  Or maybe she’d have a chance on the ride to Virginia tonight.  Zoey was still feigning resistance to going to hear her father speak but Trixie knew that in the end she’d go.  Butterfield had agreed and put it on the schedule.

Trixie got to her feet and paused as a slight head rush made her weave in place.  She shook her head gently from side to side to rebalance herself and touched her hand to her stomach.  “Not now, okay?  We’re going home in a couple of weeks to rest up and tell your daddy.  Promise.”

She would be just into her second trimester by then and she was still suffering extreme guilt for not having told Dan, not to mention the countless anxieties related to being pregnant while on the job, on this job.  Maybe she should just call Dan tonight and tell him over the phone, after all.

“You’ve given me enough grief already,” she mumbled to her unborn child.  “The least you can do is cut me a break today, okay?”

She picked up the folder and put it on Butterfield’s desk before heading upstairs to meet Zoey and Agent Sams.

“Trixie, where’s my father?” Zoey asked as soon as she and Kelly came in.

Trixie opened her mouth to answer, realized she wasn’t sure, and closed it again abruptly.

Zoey crossed her arms and puckered her brow peevishly.  “Charlie already said something, didn’t he?”

Trixie remained silent.  Hadn’t Charlie said the butting out didn’t have to do with the rehearsal?  She couldn’t remember.  She put a hand to her forehead to try and coax the memory out, barely registering the fact that she felt somewhat warm.

“I don’t know where your father is, Zoey.  He was prepping for the Town Hall Meeting in the Press Room but that was a while ago.  I’m not sure where he is now.  I’ve been working downstairs.”

“You got her, Trixie?” Kelly asked as Zoey strode off purposefully toward the Press Room.

Trixie nodded, her hand still on her forehead as her fingers squeezed her temples, trying to force the headache out.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  See you tomorrow morning.”  She waved as she hurried off after Zoey and dug into her jacket pocket for the Tylenol bottle she had stashed there.  Without breaking stride, she popped open the bottle, shook out two pills, and swallowed them without water.  She was about to turn right toward the Press Room when, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Zoey’s tan suede jacket outside the Roosevelt Room.  She pivoted left instead and came to a stop a few feet away from where President Bartlet was applying paternal pressure on his daughter.

“Come to Virginia tonight.”

“I can watch on TV,” Zoey protested weakly.

“It's not like being there in person.”

“You're going to talk about me, and the camera's going to go on me, and my face is going to turn red, and it's just going to be awful for me.”

“Bonus!  Then it's settled.”

Zoey made a face but Trixie could tell she was going to give in and go to Rosslyn with them.  “Listen. Charlie wanted to say something during prep.”

“Okay.”

Trixie admired their unspoken communication.  Nothing further needed to be said and the President would find out what Charlie wanted to talk about without Zoey’s help.

“I'm going to go see Mom.”

“And you're coming tonight.”  It wasn’t a question. 

Zoey smiled and conceded.  “Yeah.”

“Thanks.”  President Bartlet kissed her cheek and opened the door to the Roosevelt Room.  “Beatrix,” he greeted, giving her arm a quick squeeze as he went back inside.

Zoey turned to Trixie.  “So, I’m having lunch with my mother … if you want to take a nap or something.”

Trixie tried to smile, though it almost felt like it was too much effort.  “I actually dozed off a bit this morning before you came.  I’m fine.”

“Okay, but you don’t look fine.”

“I am fine,” Trixie assured her firmly.  “What do you want Charlie to talk to your father about?  He told me to tell you to butt out.”

Zoey shook her head and rolled her eyes.  She turned and made her way up the hallway with Trixie beside her.

“It’s this report he read from a group called the Center for Policy Alternatives.  It had some really smart things to say about youth participation in politics and since this Town Hall thing will be made up mostly of college students, Charlie thought it was very timely.  I told him he should show it to my father but he’s been wimping out all week about it.  So now I said something, and you won’t get in trouble with Charlie because I told my father before you had a chance to tell me to butt out.”  She stopped short and turned to face Trixie.  “Do you think what I’m wearing is okay for tonight?  Because, I kid you not, the camera’s going to find me.”

Trixie tried to catch her breath as she took a moment to assess Zoey’s outfit.  She wore a turquoise button-down shirt underneath her jacket and a lighter blue camisole underneath that.  Her jeans were very dark blue and she had on a pair of stylish ankle boots that Trixie mused Diana would love but would more than likely be very uncomfortable if she were on her feet all day.

“You look fine,” she answered with a shrug.  She was a bodyguard, not a fashion consultant.

“You don’t,” Zoey countered.  “Really, Trixie, if you need to get someone to cover for you—”

“I don’t,” Trixie insisted.

She had just had somebody covering for her a couple of weeks ago.  Tomorrow was her day off.  She’d have all day to lie in bed and consume fluids and if she still felt bad on Friday, she’d call in sick.

Don’t be a hero, Mangan or you won’t be able to be a hero when it counts.

“Shut up, Dr. Lambeth,” she grumbled under her breath as she turned to follow Zoey down the hall.

2:20 p.m.

After a long lunch with her mother, Zoey met Trixie outside the Oval Office, an annoyed look on her face.

A nap was a stupid idea, Trixie groaned to herself as she hurried in a few minutes late.  She had been in the bathroom, the morning sickness apparently confused by her odd sleep pattern.  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she apologized. 

“You’re not.  I’m not mad at you.  I just got done talking to my father.”

Trixie glanced warily at Mrs. Landingham, who peered over her glasses at Trixie but offered nothing, not even a cookie.

“Problems?” Trixie asked Zoey.

“Nothing except that Charlie didn’t tell him about the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The Center for Policy Alternatives report!  I told my dad, he asked Charlie about it, and Charlie chickened out.”  Taking a deep breath, she said, “Forget it.  Can we go back to the dorm before we have to leave for Rosslyn?”

“Sure,” Trixie said.  She relayed their movements to Butterfield and she and Zoey headed for the northwest lobby, where a car would meet them to take them back to the Georgetown campus.

There was a group of senior citizens in the lobby, listening to a tour guide talk about the history of the White House.  To maintain Zoey’s privacy, Trixie directed her through the double doors towards Josh’s office until their car could arrive. 

Charlie came striding briskly toward them, his face hard to read but his tone tinged with annoyance.  “Zoey, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Yeah,” Zoey replied, tilting her chin out stubbornly in readiness for his argument.

Taking her gently by the elbow, Charlie directed her toward Josh’s office, out of the line of traffic.  “I can't believe you did that.”

“You needed prompting.  I can't believe you chickened out.”

“I didn't chicken out.  And I didn't need prompting.  It just wasn't appropriate.”

They stood just inside the door of Josh’s vacant office.  Trixie stayed outside, telling herself she was giving them privacy but feeling vaguely like a lookout.  Donna was hard at work at her desk but Josh was nowhere in sight.

“I don't have the same relationship with your father that you have,” Charlie continued.  “I don't have the same relationship that the staff has.”

“I don't think it's out of line for you to put your two cents in.”

Trixie was so intent on listening to their conversation that, somehow, Josh Lyman managed to sneak up on her.  His nose was buried in a folder but he was still more aware of his surroundings than she was.

“Hey, Mangan,” he mumbled as he passed her.

He turned into his office and gently pushed between Charlie and Zoey.  “Hi.”

“I'm sorry, we were just using your office for a minute,” Charlie apologized.

“You can keep fighting in a second.  I just need to find something.”  His focus was solidly on the folder in his hands as he went behind his desk.

Zoey went on as if Josh was invisible.  “I also don't think it was out of line for me to stick up for you, since you were clearly chicken.”

Trixie wasn’t sure she’d call Charlie “chicken”, but she knew he felt a little self-conscious about not having a college degree.  Trixie could empathize with him but there was no doubt, in her opinion, that Charlie had a brilliant mind and would go far someday.  He was smarter than any number of Georgetown students she and Zoey crossed paths with every day and he could probably match up with several of the West Wing staff.

“Zoey, I work in a building with the smartest people in the world—”

A loud crash brought Trixie’s head whipping around the doorway to check on Zoey and her boyfriend.

Behind the desk sat Josh.  Only—as Trixie suddenly remembered from her morning’s encounter with Donna—there was no chair for Josh to sit in. 

His receding hairline and surprised eyes were all that could be seen over the top of his desk.

“Donna!” he bellowed.

Donna came in and calmly assessed the situation. “Hi.”

“How’re you doing?” Josh asked wryly.

“We should get something temporary so that doesn't happen.”

“Yeah.”

Yes, Charlie could definitely match up with several of the West Wing staff.  Trixie tried to withhold her laughter, though she found it rather painful to do so.

“Are you amused, Agent Mangan?” Josh asked from his seat on the floor.

“Yes, actually.  You seriously made my day a whole lot better.  Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  I’ll be sure and carry a banana peel around just to lift your spirits whenever you need it.”

Trixie grinned and while Josh Lyman’s mouth and his adorable dimples were hidden from view, the corners of his eyes crinkled in what was clearly a smile for her.

Morning, well, afternoon sickness aside, her nap had helped immensely and even though it came at Josh’s expense, her frame of mind was much brighter.  She would be able to focus on the job tonight instead of her personal problems and she was grateful for that.

May 17, 2000
The Newseum
Rosslyn, VA
9:26 p.m.

Normally, Trixie would’ve enjoyed the bird’s eye view she was getting from the catwalk above the auditorium.  Tonight, for some reason, it was making her slightly dizzy.

President Bartlet was on the stage below her, answering questions from the audience. 

“A man once said this, ‘Decisions are made by those who show up.’  So are we failing you, or are you failing us?  It's a little of both.”

Trixie stepped back from the railing of the catwalk and spoke softly into the microphone on the cuff of her jacket.  “We're moments away.  I'm going to get the door.”

“There's a guy on my staff who showed me a report from the Center for Policy Alternatives that said 61% of your age group agree with the statement ‘Politicians and political officials—‘”

Trixie smiled.  Charlie had finally spoken to the President about the report he had found so interesting.  President Bartlet had read and it and, obviously, had agreed. 

Good for you, Charlie, she thought.  He and Zoey would be in a very good mood tonight.  Maybe they’d look for that “way around” the dorm rule about no overnight guests.

She made her way down the metal stairs to the back of the auditorium, her eyes moving quickly to Zoey’s seat.

“Fifty-three percent of 18 to 25 year olds believe the soap opera General Hospital will outlast Medicare. This from a generation convinced that the generation before them has ransomed their generation's future. That's why my youngest daughter Zoey is always mad at me.”

Zoey smiled affectionately at her father even as she shook her head in exasperation. She caught Trixie’s gaze and rolled her eyes, the smile still fixed firmly to her face.

“This is the part where Zoey tries to crawl under a seat to hide. Don't worry about it, sweetie, I'll bring out the baby pictures any second now.”

A ripple of laughter swept across the auditorium as Trixie shared a brief word with the agents near the exit doors before heading outside at Agent Butterfield’s radioed request. 

The night was clear and warm, a beautiful spring evening in Virginia.  The crowd gathered outside the Newseum was large and starting to rev up.  Although there had been no specifically scheduled end of the Town Hall Meeting, they somehow sensed that things were wrapping up and that soon the President would be heading their way.

Local law enforcement helped man the rope line, keeping the crowd from getting out of hand.  Two limousines waited to take the President and his staff, as well as Zoey, back to the White House.  Three police cars, their red and blue lights flashing, stood ready to offer escort.  Additional cars and the press bus were parked farther down the street.

Trixie strode briskly to Agent Butterfield’s side.  He had to lean down in order for her to hear him above the noise of the crowd.

“Straight to the car.”

“He’s not going to work the rope line?” Trixie asked in surprise.  President Bartlet was known for being “the people’s President”.  He liked mixing with the public, shaking hands and projecting his very personable side whenever possible.

“There’s a softball game the President wants to watch.”

“They show softball on TV?”

“Well … yeah.”

“And the President watches it?”

Agent Butterfield shrugged.  His bushy moustache twitched slightly as he tried to hide his amusement.  “He likes to unwind by watching sports on TV.”

“Softball?”

“Whatever’s on.”

“Okay,” Trixie said with a chuckle.

She turned to survey the crowd.  Of course, the agents stationed outside had been doing that for the better part of the last two hours, but she wanted to get her bearings and familiarize herself with the scene before Zoey came out.

Her ear mike crackled, “Liberty’s on the move.”

Trixie sent a quick communication to the other members of her team, “He’s not working the rope line.  Straight to the car.  I’ve got Bookbag.”

She turned to watch President Bartlet and his entourage as they came down the ramp from the Newseum into the crescent-shaped drive where the cars were parked.  A prickling on the back of her neck—the feeling you get when somebody is watching you—made her turn back to the crowd.

She scanned the area but saw nothing out of the ordinary.  Cheering people calling the President’s name, reaching out hands, hoping that someday they’d be able to tell their grandchildren, “I once shook President Josiah Bartlet’s hand.”  Several people waved placards or miniature American flags.  People in the back jumped up and down, trying to see over the heads in front of them.

Nothing seemed amiss.

Four agents surrounded President Bartlet and Leo McGarry as they led the group down to the cars.  Zoey was right behind her father.  She was smiling at Charlie with a slightly smug expression on her face.  She was glad he had spoken up and gotten the recognition he deserved, but Trixie was sure she didn’t plan on letting him forget that it was due to her prompting.

President Bartlet turned slightly, calling to Toby Ziegler, who darted between Zoey and Charlie to join the President.  A rare smile was spread across his normally somber face.

Josh Lyman was near the rear of the pack, arms flailing about in his usual animated style of speaking as he swaggered down the ramp.  C.J. Cregg’s head was thrown back as she laughed at something he said.  Sam Seaborn’s perfect teeth shone in a perfect smile.  Spirits were high.  It had been a very good night for the Bartlet administration.

Nothing seemed amiss.

Trixie made her way back and met Zoey by the gate that led out of the Newseum area.

“Baby pictures, he’s heckling me with,” she complained, yet unable to wipe the smile off of her face.  “And Visa card bills, too.”

Trixie fell into step next to her charge and gave another quick glance at the crowd, unable to shake her uneasiness.

Nothing seemed amiss.

“And look,” Zoey continued, stopping momentarily to point to her father, who was making his way toward the crowd, hands outstretched.  “Now he’s working the rope line.  If there’s ever a chance he’s going to walk past a crowd of people.  Charlie!”

Charlie had split off from the group to follow the President but came back to join Zoey and Trixie near the second limousine.

Trixie couldn’t keep her eyes off the rope line.  There were no fewer than half a dozen agents there, keeping close tabs on the President but she still felt the need to watch ... to look ... to see.

See what?

“I saw something,” she muttered to no one in particular. 

But she didn’t see anything when she let her eyes scan the length of the crowd.  Maybe she really was sicker than she thought she was.  She was definitely taking off work Friday.

“By the way,” Zoey said to Trixie, trying to get her attention.  “Charlie apologized to me.  He made a full apology.”

Charlie said something sarcastic in response but Trixie wasn’t listening to him.

“I saw something,” she insisted.

“What?” Charlie asked, turning his attention to her.

Once more, Trixie turned back to face the crowd.  And this time, she saw him.

He was young, early 20’s.  He wore a scruffy baseball cap with no markings and a plain gray t-shirt.  A large “Bartlet for America” badge was pinned near his shoulder and he was clapping his hands.

But he wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t reaching out for a handshake with the President.

He wasn’t even looking in the President’s direction.  He was looking across the street.  He was looking up.

“Trixie?” Zoey asked, touching her on the arm.

Trixie spun around, following the direction of the young man’s line of sight.

It was dark, but when they moved, Trixie spotted them.  The shadows of two men were unmistakable in their movements as they raised pistols and pointed them out the window, down into the crowd outside the Newseum.

“GUN!” Trixie yelled at the top of her lungs.

The reaction was instantaneous.

A Secret Service protective team works like a well-oiled machine.  They ceaselessly practice every possible scenario for an attack and each team member has a specific job to do.  They are trained to do that job and nothing else.  Someone is assigned to tackle the President.  Someone mans the car door.  Someone sits behind the wheel ready for a quick getaway.  And there is one person whose sole job is to stand in front of the bullet.  This person doesn’t pull his weapon.  This person doesn’t chase after an attacker.  This person goes against all normal instincts which tell him to crouch down, make himself a smaller target, get out of the line of fire.  This person stands tall and puts his—or her—body between the bullet and the protectee.

As shots were fired from above, Trixie shoved Charlie hard, out of her way and down to the ground.  She grabbed Zoey and pushed her to the ground, covering her body with her own as she yelled, “Get down!  Get down!”

Several agents raised their guns to return the fire.  Snipers from the rooftop of the Newseum burst into action.  Two agents were on President Bartlet, one to shield, one to direct, as they bodily forced him into the first limousine.

Innocent bystanders in the crowd screamed and scattered in any direction they could—down the street, over the barriers, behind trees, down to the ground with their hands covering their heads as they wept with fear.

Trixie heard shattering and saw the lights on top of one of the police cars explode into a patriotic shower of red, white and blue glass.

Everywhere, agents shouted, “Stay down!  Stay down!” keeping their protectees flat on the ground and shielded behind cars.

Trixie’s back-up threw open the door to the second limousine and Trixie lifted and pushed Zoey inside, keeping her body between Zoey and the shooters.  She slammed the door shut behind them and barked, “Go!  Go!” to the driver, pounding the back of the seat with her fist.

Both limousines pulled away with a screech of tires as Secret Service agents radioed for backup and to alert offsite command to the situation at hand.  Trixie’s radio crackled in her ear as the voices of multiple agents came ringing through the chaos of the night.

“We’ve got people down, people down!  Who’s been hit?  Who’s been hit?”

 

BACK

NEXT

HOME

Author's Notes

Part 8 (4,933 words)

Much of what happens in this installment comes directly from, or was inspired by, West Wing Episode 1.22, “What Kind of Day Has It Been”.

Dialogue straight from WW transcript includes the brief discussion in the Press Room between President Bartlet and Sam Seaborn, the scene between Zoey and her father outside the Roosevelt Room, most of the scene in Josh’s office (with the exception of the exchanges between Trixie and Josh), and the dialogue at and outside the Newseum (snippets of President Bartlet’s speech, the conversation between Trixie and Butterfield, and Zoey’s remarks just prior to the shooting).

I got to visit the site of the assassination attempt during my visit to Washington last fall.  At the time, I wasn’t 100% sure I was at the right place (the Newseum is no longer there, having outgrown its space and moved into Washington) but when I finally got around to re-watching the episode, I knew within the first five seconds that I had been at there!  It made me so excited and really made me want to go back!

John Barrymore was a great stage and film actor of the 20’s and 30’s, often called the greatest actor of his generation.  And yes, he’s related to Drew (her paternal grandfather).

Tylenol is a trademarked name and I’m not making any profit by its use here.  In fact, I wanted to just put “aspirin” but didn’t want anybody to think it was okay for a pregnant woman to take aspirin (doctors advise against it) or think I was stupid for not looking it up. (grin)

If your heart is racing like mine is and you're sitting at your computer cursing me for leaving it hanging there, just be grateful it's Trixie Belden and not The West Wing.  This was how they left the Season 1 finale.  That final line is Sorkin's and then there was the "fade to black".  West Wing fans had to wait 4 1/2 months for the conclusion of this story.  You only have to wait 7 days. (grin)

Except for my created characters, all characters either belong to Random House (Trixie Belden) or Warner Brothers (West Wing), including Gail the Goldfish (grin), and are borrowed lovingly and with full respect.