"Huh?" he asked, jerking his head up off his desk. Ginger was standing in front of him, holding a stack of folders and papers in her arms. He blinked wearily and swiped at the sleep remnants in his eyes.

"You sleep here again?" she asked sympathetically.

"Well, I did tell the President the other night I slept here in January," he said with a small chuckle. "What time is it?"

"Almost 6:30."

"Toby in yet?" he asked, sitting up straighter and stretching the knots out in his back.

"Not yet, though I'm sure he will be soon."

"Alright, I'm gonna change my shirt and get to work."

"Okay," she said turning for the door and then stopping. Turning back around she said, "I almost forgot. Here's your mail and folders for today's meetings. Your schedule for the day is on top."

"Thanks, Ginger," Sam said as he stood up. He headed for his supply of fresh shirts and pulled a light blue one off the hanger.

"Sure thing, Sam. You want some coffee or anything?"

Sam grimaced as the mention of coffee and remembered he needed to take his pills for the day. Turning around with a grateful smile he said, "Not right now, thanks though. Are there any bagels or anything out there?"

"I'll get you one from the mess, you change your shirt."

"Thanks, Ginger."

Giving a slight nod, she headed out of his office and closed the door behind her. Sam quickly changed his shirt and sat down at his desk as he finished tying his tie. He glanced at his schedule for the day and then started in on the papers underneath.

Picking up a large envelope addressed to him, he glanced at the return address before slitting it open. He reached in and felt a folded up piece of cloth. Puzzled, he pulled it out and recognized it as his scarf that he lost several days ago. Tipping the envelope upside down and shaking it, he managed to dislodge a piece of paper inside. Dropping the scarf and the envelope he picked up the paper and then groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

A soft tap at his door brought his head up. Ginger opened the door and brought a bagel and a bottle of juice over to him.

"You sure you don't want some coffee?" she asked.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Thanks for the juice."

"Alright. Toby's in, wants to see you in five."

"Thanks, Ginger. Tell him I'll be right over."

She told him she would and left. Once she was gone, Sam hurriedly opened his bottom drawer and got out the pill bottles. He swallowed the necessary pills and then absentmindedly took a bite of the bagel as he picked up the note. He couldn't believe this was going to come back to haunt him now.

Everyone was still giving him odd glances because of their perceptions about his reaction to the book. Maybe everyone felt like C.J., that he was obsessing over the knucklehead things because he couldn't fix the big thing. Maybe he was just obsessing over the knucklehead stuff because that's all he was being given lately. Or was he only being given the small stuff because he was obsessing over it? Sam shook his head bitterly. This wasn't time for a `Catch 22' debate over his past assignments.

Maybe he couldn't think rationally about what C.J. said because he still couldn't get over her laughable claim that she and Toby were out of the loop as much as he was. Yes, there were times when not everyone was in the loop, but there was no way she was out of the loop as often as he seemed to be. He was the last to find out about the President's MS, thank you very much Toby, and just last week he'd learned he was kept out of the discussion on Mad Cow. So Sam just couldn't help himself if her claim didn't carry much weight at the moment.

He was standing up for what he thought was right and important, not what just gave the biggest political payoff or was most convenient. It was like he told the President, `I don't think it's a good idea to be casual about the truth.' He was doing his part to ensure that they didn't have any unnecessary encumbrances around their neck during the campaign. Because the book was just the sort of thing Leno and Letterman would pick up and run with, making them look like idiots. With censure and the President having MS, this campaign was already starting out in a hole.

He swept the scarf and note into a drawer and then grabbed the folders containing the data he knew Toby would want to go over. After all the grief Josh and Toby had given him, he just couldn't tell them about this. They would merely see it as justification for their concern. C.J. always said she was their first call, but he wasn't running to her because he could handle this. Plus, he was still bothered by her insisting he do the profile with Vanity Fair.

"Toby, you wanted to see me?" he asked, stepping through the doorway.

"Yeah, how are you doing with the economy stuff?"

***********************************

Sam walked into the lobby of the building and headed toward the directory. Finding the company name and the floor it was on, he headed toward the elevator bank and pressed the up button. On the ninth floor, he paused and looked around for the right suite. Then he turned left and headed through the double doors of the suite.

The receptionist looked up at him as he walked in and asked, "May I help you?"

"Yes, is Kathleen Donavon in?"

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"No, I was hoping I could catch her, just talk to her for a minute."

"Okay, let me call her office and see if she has a moment. Whom should I say is here?"

"Sam."

The receptionist was getting a little annoyed at his reluctance and asked "Just Sam? She's supposed to know who you are?"

"Yeah. Just Sam, and she'll know."

He stood by her desk as she picked up the phone and dialed the number. "Hey, Nick, does Kathleen have a minute? There's some guy by the name of Sam who was hoping he could talk to her...Yeah, just Sam. Said she would know who he was...Okay, thanks."

She hung up the phone and turned to Sam. "Her assistant is going to see if she's available. Why don't you have a seat?"

Sam looked over at the chairs she indicated to and walked over to them, but he was too agitated to sit down. He slowly paced back and forth and ignored the looks the receptionist sent his way. He only halfway listened as she would answer the phone and put the caller through to whomever they asked for. It was enough for him to be convinced that it was a legitimate place, but it did nothing to ease Sam's worry.

He sat down, but then stood right back up and resumed his pacing. He looked over at the receptionist, ready to ask her to call Kathleen's office again, but she was on the phone. Slowly he sank into one of the padded chairs and leaned his head back.

"Sam?"

He opened his eyes and saw her standing there.

"Kathleen?"

"Yeah, sorry you had to wait, I had to finish up a call to Boston. Do you want to come back?"

Silently, Sam followed behind her as she wove her way through the corridors. When they reached her office she asked Nick to hold her calls and then directed him inside. Closing the door, she walked towards her desk and then leaned against the front.

"I see you got my package," she said, gesturing to his scarf. "Sorry it took me several days to get it back to you. It had fallen partly under my couch. I didn't find it `til I was cleaning up and taking down my decorations."

Sam just stood there, arms folded across his chest, listening to her casually talk. How could she? She was acting like it was no big deal, like she'd done nothing wrong.

"You knew who I was."

A bit of a sheepish smile crept across her lips. "Yeah, I did. You didn't seem to want others to know, so I played along. I'm sorry."

"You lied to me," he said flatly, but with steel in his voice.

"No more than you did to me," she replied, somewhat taken aback.

"When did I lie to you?" he asked in surprise.

She pushed off the desk and slowly walked around it, stopping near her chair. Turning to face him, she mirrored his stance by crossing her arms across her body. Sam knew the tactic. Gain time and power by delaying and then speaking from behind a desk to covey power. Casually sitting down coveys annoyance and indifference toward the other party, but he noted that she remained standing.

"You told me you `advised.' I think we both know you do more than that," Kathleen answered. "You write speeches for the President of the United States and advise `him.' You understated your importance and I went along with it. I apologize for not exposing you right there in the bar."

"You said you were just a lawyer."

"I am just a lawyer. Look around you. This isn't a lobby group or a think tank. I practice law. But you're a fool if you think I don't know who the top people are in an administration. I watch the news, the Sunday talk shows and Capitol Beat. Nobody can work or live in this town without knowing who the people in power are."

"So this about connecting yourself to power?" he scoffed.

"What? No, I don't care about that, `cause frankly I'm known in my own right."

"I don't know who you are," he said with a half sneer.

"Well, that's because you're not in corporate law anymore and haven't been for over four years. I didn't work in New York, but did you know every lawyer in New York when you worked there?"

"No."

"Well, there you go," she said with a wave of her hand.

Sam walked forward and sat down in one of the chairs in front of her desk. "So, what is this about?"

"A guy and a girl who met in a bar. You left your scarf, and I returned it. There's no deep, ulterior motive. I'm not running off to the tabloids screaming, `I picked up Sam Seaborn in a bar and took him home.' You looked lost and like you needed somebody. You seemed a little out of sorts and angry with your friends."

She sat down in her chair and looked across her desk at him. Sam stared back at Kathleen, searching her face for clues to what he might have said that night. Not just what he might have said, but how much he might have said.

"Kathleen, what...what did I say that night?" he asked, losing a measure of the hostility. A flash of vulnerability skittered across his face and Kathleen understood his fear that he went too far that night.

"You didn't say anything damaging. You kept it inside at the bar, trying to drown whatever was bothering you. As I was driving you home you said they didn't tell you, that you weren't kept in the loop."

She paused and leaned forward, resting her arms on her desk. "That's it. I swear. I have no idea what you were talking about. So if you were worried about me talking to a reporter, what would I tell them? I deal with facts, not hearsay or speculation."

"A lawyer with scruples?" Sam scoffed.

"Yeah," she answered with a hollow laugh, "the bar's threatening to take away my license. Look, Sam, I don't know where this hostility is coming from. I found your scarf, I sent it back to you-"

"With a note."

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, with a note. Know why? I enjoyed dinner with you. I wouldn't mind doing it again, minus the alcohol. Stop treating me like whoever burned you in the past."

"I gotta get back to work," he said abruptly.

"Do whatever you gotta do," she told him, finality ringing in her voice.

He stood up and headed for the door. His hand was on the handle when Kathleen spoke.

"You're welcome, Sam," she said, sarcasm heavy in her words. "It was no problem driving you home or sending your scarf back. No need, whatsoever, to thank me."

Then she grabbed a file and a pen and started making notes on her legal pad.

"Yeah," Sam said and walked out of the office not bothering to close the door behind him.