It was 1984. Four years after the eighties opened with the assassination of John Lennon, six years before it would close with the destruction of the Berlin wall. In between, O-rings would become part of the public's general vocabulary, AIDS would transform from a dirty secret to a national epidemic, and MTV would define a generation.

The great communicator was in office, and the "supply side" theory of Reaganonimcs had managed to stimulate production and control inflation through tax cuts and sharp reductions in government spending. In 1984, on the eve of the next election campaign, Reagan was looking as strong as ever.

However, the debt was still growing even as military spending spiraled out of control. The economy was shakily climbing out of the 1983 recession - which had seen the highest unemployment in years. In the mid term elections, the Republican Party lost 26 House seats and seven governorships. Charges were heard that Reagan's tax cuts resulted in the rich getting richer while the poor only got poorer.

In this climate, the Democrats nominated ex- Vice President Walter Mondale as their presidential candidate, selecting him over Jesse Jackson, and Colorado Senator Gary Hart. He would make history by nominating the first woman candidate for Vice President - then New York Congresswoman Geraldine Ferraro.

The election campaign would revolve around the issues of the deficit and tariff barriers. By the end, the traditional roles of the Democratic and Republican party would be reversed, with the Democrats attacking the Republicans for budget deficits, and calling for more tariff protection.

The campaigns would heat up over the summer and fall of 1984 - there would be two presidential debates, one vice presidential one, issues would be raised and disappear again as scandals emerged on both sides. In the end, the Democrats' intellectual campaign would be ineffective against the aptly named teflon president and his media juggernaut, and they would win only two out of the fifty states.

On paper, the reasons for this loss would be fairly straight forward - that Reagan communicated better, that he spoke more to the issues people cared about, and that in general his previous four years had improved the standard of living for the populance.

That's one story, and it's a pretty nice, neat story that is easy to document and pass on - but it is only part of what happened, and its not really my story at all, even though I was there. The other parts make up the reason why I left politics and stayed away for more then 10 years. It is a tale that for all its standard fair is also uniquely 80s. For only in that time of carelessness greed, when I was so young and naïve, could what I am about to tell you occur.

You'll recognize some of the characters - Joshua Lyman is there, but not quite yet the political operative nor the friend he will become, Leo McGarry too will make an appearance, and there are a few other lesser known political figures who you might catch a reflection of in their younger selves.

******

Sam Seaborn

1984 was the year that I was going to change the world.

1984 was the year that I was going to believe in an impossible cause and make it happen.

1984 was my year. I was taking a year off between my liberal arts undergraduate degree and starting law school. I was going to Washington D.C. to light the world on fire - to get Geraldine Ferraro the Vice-Presidency for the Democrats and make history. That's what I told my parents. I was also going to get laid. The intern scene in Washington D.C. was reputed to be just this side of Palm Beach during spring break, and I had just spent the last three years dating a girl who believed in withholding sex when she was mad at me - we spent an extraordinary amount of time being mad at each other.

I thought I'd find someone within a week. It actually took 45 minutes.

We met outside the campaign offices, she was tall, and incredibly poised -I stumbled over introductions, she just laughed at me, easing the moment. We talked, I can't even remember about what, probably I told her how thrilled about woman's rights I was, how glad I was that more whales were surviving, before adding wistfully, how the distance we had traveled only reinforced the journey yet to come.

Her hand was on my shoulder even as she was asking me if I had a place to stay. I had my aunt's Washington phone number neatly folded up in my day planner, but of course I said I didn't. She asked me to come home with her. I think I said yes, I may have just blinked.

Her apartment was nice, a little run down with the perpetual student look that comes with too many owners with far too many friends. She asked me if I liked it, I said I did. She asked me if I liked her roommate. I said yes, although I'm not sure I ever saw him, just the pause that his shoes had given me - they were the same red converses as mine. She asked me if I wanted it. And did I ever.

She smiled, kissed me on the cheek, told me I was a sport, and left. And I found myself with a new apartment, an old water bill, a missing roommate's shoes, and no "it".

I considered my options and started to clean my new place.

I didn't meet my roommate until three days later. I had seen no evidence of him beyond the shoes, and was becoming worried that I'd have to cover rent for both of us when he finally showed up.

He seemed average enough, if slightly surprised to see me. I explained what little Kelly had offered, that summer classes back at Yale had become available to TA, that she needed the money, and I was his new roommate. He didn't seem too perturbed.

"Josh - Democrat" He held out a hand. "Welcome to Washington."

"Sam - Democrat" I returned the handshake strongly as I'd been taught. "Thanks."

It was July then - Ferraro's nomination had been announced a few days ago during a massive rally in downtown New York. When she stood up to deafening cheers to speak of opening the doors of opportunity, and her roots as a teacher and assistant prosecutor in Queens, I yelled too. This was it, this was the chance to support a candidate and an agenda I believed in.

The campaign office became my home - it was the center of why I had come to Washington, which were probably for the same reasons it had attracted young interns for years... . I wanted to see how the country worked and ran, I wanted to see if I could contribute, and at some level I was curious about the people who existed behind all these closed doors. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I wanted the opportunity to draw back the curtain and see for myself what was really there.

At first it was introductions, and learning who was who both on our campaign and on the republicans' - there was Jack Slater, Ferraro's campaign manager, a veteran of the party and of campaign - then there were numerous interns just like me - seemingly interchangeable as we fetched coffee, stuffed envelopes, knocked on doors, and edited press releases. On the republican side there was Leslie Howard at the helm, who, rumor had it, had turned down the chief of staff for Reagan when it had opened up in 1982 because she wanted to be working on this campaign.

My role as an intern was enjoyable. I was never alone, there were others like me everywhere, smiling, laughing, quoting the candidates, reciting polls of our climbing numbers, and the latest snatches of gossip overheard from the more senior members of the party. Everyone was offering and accepting help.

But I wanted more. I wanted to know who the players were, how they got their power, and in the process discover what it took to make it in Washington. I wanted to meet these people, size them up to see how I compared. If I was going to consider politics as a career after law school, I was going to spend this summer making sure I had what it took to succeed. Interns couldn't answer my questions, and so it was with a fair amount of calculation that I bought a pair of running shoes, and set my alarm clock an hour earlier when I discovered that Jack Slater liked to run in Lafayette Park before work.

The first day I meet him just as he was entering the park near the campaign office. I saw him ahead and lengthened my stride, picking up the pace just enough to slowly close the distance - once I caught up, I speed up to run past him. As I predicted he matched my pace and we ran along side by side, each of us pushing the pace a bit more until we were running at a brisk pace. I bowed out a few minutes later and jogged gently home.

Later that morning he found me rolling campaign posters.
"Saw you in the park this morning"

I nodded, looking slightly embarrassed "I'm a bit out of shape" I said, as if needing an explanation.

He just smiled "Nah, you did fine"

He left but the next day I was back at the park, and I saw him there again - this time he waved and I waved back. One week later we were running together. And it was two days after that the Chief of Staff for Mondale's campaign joined us, and I learned how important it is to be in the right place at the right time.

Jerry Fields was a professional politician, and not a bad runner. He and Jack were deep in discussion when I jogged up to them that morning, and they never stopped debating policy and comparing opinions. I absorbed every word. The only time they agreed during the entire conversation was when it turned to Reagan and the Democratic inability to turn the press against him. Neither of them could understand how on earth Reagan was getting away with so much - I agreed.

We had pulled up photos of Reagan napping in the US-Soviet talks, we had quotes of his that were completely nonsensical, witnesses saying that he appeared "confused" and "not clear on the facts". That Reagan wasn't a intellectual powerhouse was no secret, but these examples seemed to point to a potentially greater problem - a problem that we would love to exploit. Except that every time we tried to bring these issues forward, nothing happened - the press just didn't seem interested. Meanwhile, headlines about Ferraro's finances, and Mondale's mistakes as Vice -President seem to come up again and again.

It was Jack who, at the end of the run, while we were warming down, wondered "what the hell the Reagan staff had on the Elizabeth Ascott to run the press like this". Jerry disagreed, saying that the days of the government having any control over the press had died at Watergate.

It was strange, but once the idea of a conspiracy was put into my head, I couldn't get it out. In retrospect, I think I was so convinced of our inherent superiority that there could be no other explanation for why we weren't winning. There had to be an external reason. From there, it was a short step to thinking I saw a golden opportunity to show how valuable I was - I could swing the election, effect incredible change.

Driven by this belief, I started with what little free time I had to study Elizabeth Ascott, the press baroness of the Washington Post. I was trying to discover what, if anything, she had to do with Reagan's campaign staff. Millions of possibilities were flying though my head - each more Machiavellian then the last, and in the end, I'd be wrong about all of them.

I would be right about one thing at least - there was a secret - dangling like a lose thread on an expensive garment. To my everlasting regret, I, with no better reason then wondering what would happened, would be the one to unravel it.

While my hopes for my political career were climbing with each day that passed, my social life was non-existent. The place I had inherited from Kelly was fine, but I didn't get home until around ten, and was up at six heading out to meet Jack on our run. My roommate kept different hours. The only real evidence that Josh existed was the growing pile of dirty dishes in the sink, and that occasionally the tv was left set to CNBC Sports, rather then C-Span.

We talked occasionally and the few conversations we had did have, overlapping on Friday nights, and Sunday mornings, weren't particularly interesting to me. Josh was convinced that the democratic campaign was being run by a bunch of imbeciles and had the most annoying habit of commenting on the latest election mishaps until you wanted to shove the newspaper down his throat and challenge him to do better. I generally avoided him, and patiently waited for the day that he actually said thank you for doing his dishes for him, and maybe picked up a broom. Beyond his political views, and some information about his job, I knew almost nothing about him - well other then his tendency to put his foot in his mouth.

One Thursday I got home to find a strange man quietly sitting in front of our apartment, methodically reading the Times, with the Yale Law Journal lying beside him. He was old, and for a moment I thought he might be some professor waiting to speak to Josh, but when he stood up to greet me, shaking my hand with a warm grasp, I realized that this must be Josh's father.

"Noah Lyman" He confirmed, "You must be Josh's new roommate." His voice was deep, with a slow purposefully rhythm to it. I studied him for an instant. He had the same tall build, if slightly stooped, the same sharp brown eyes, but the resemblance didn't go much deeper than that.

"Please come in, I don't know when Josh will be back."

He picked up the papers he was reading and followed me in, frowning slightly at the sight of the place. I hastily shut the door to Josh's bedroom which housed a true disaster area, and tried to straighten what I could.

He talked to me, and I learned that he ran a small law practice in a town in eastern Connecticut, he had driven up after work today because he had wanted to "talk to Josh."

I think I stared at him a bit too long after he said that because he changed the topic of conversation, and we started talking about the 1983 recession and the likely affect on standard voting patterns. He was fantastically well informed and said many things that I knew I'd be quoting tomorrow at work. I asked if he followed politics professionally on any level, and he said it was only a hobby now, mostly he kept up through old friends from the "days". Strangely enough, we didn't talk about Josh.

By midnight I was making excuses, and offered him Josh's room for the night. He just smiled and shook his head, saying that he would wait up, but that I should go on to bed. Yawning mightily, I left him sitting on the coach, reading the Times, with the Yale Law Journal still sitting innocuously beside him.

I woke up a few hours later to voices. It must have been somewhere between one or two in the morning, and through the thin walls I could hear Noah Lyman's deep, quietly careful tones. Josh's voice, much louder, was also much clearer.

"Dad - Dad" He kept on insisting. There was a rustling of paper. "Yeah, I know. I know" There was a dismissive note in Josh's voice and in reaction I heard the volume in his father's voice go up, and suddenly I was eavesdropping on what felt like an incredible personal conversation. "I wrote it because it's what I think."

"Captain Ahab, Josh? Captain Ahab?" I heard the paper again - `the democratic campaign is currently turning into the most disastrously managed project since Captain Ahab set out after his whale?' Are you telling me there was any point to that other then to insult them?"

"It wasn't a mistake to write it. It wasn't."

"It got you fired."

"Actually technically, I got fired because I yelled at my boss after he yelled at me for the article."

"You got fired because you were betraying a confidence" His voice took a note that made me cringe from my bedroom "My son, betraying a confidence."

"I didn't! Everything I used was public knowledge - everything!"

"Loyalty Josh, that's what Congressman Jackson had every right to expect from you, and it's what this appalling article is a direct affront to."

"Dad ...come on, it was a service to the public and the democratic party - they need to know what mistakes are being made!"

"It was hubris Josh."

Josh's voice was tight and angry now. "Ok fine. It doesn't really matter what I say, does it. You've already made up your mind, you're suppose to be my father, you're suppose to be on my side, but you've already made up your mind. Doesn't matter that I was right." The tone was bitter and insulting, and I waited for the response, but there was only silence, and I could almost hear the sigh.

"I'm here for another reason."

"What?" It was demanding, rude, but it didn't manage to cover up the note of apprehension.

"Leo McGarry called me ..."

"So?" the bravado was all but gone from his voice...

There was another silence that seemed to stretch forever and I could feel the muscles in my back tightening as I waited with Josh.

"Did you call Congressman Garnett a Nazi sympathizer?" Noah's voice had dropped so low that I could only barely make out the last word.

In contrast, the silence that followed that statement was so loud that I could hear the couch creaking as uncomfortable bodies shifted.

"Dad ..."

"Answer the question Joshua!"

"He was ... he said ...you won't understand -"

"Goddamn it, are you going to lie to me? Answer the question!"

"Yes." It wasn't defiant. It was just there.

Now even the couch was still.

I finally needed to move to relieve my muscles, and I shifted in my bed, causing the old metal frame creaking hideously. Suddenly I felt ashamed and dirty, like by being a silent participant in the conversation, I somehow was guilty too. I stopped moving and silence settled again.

Someone was walking in the other room, slow, solid steps - Josh's father. Finally he spoke.

"I don't care what he said to you, I don't care if he called you any number of anti-Semitic names. I. Don't. Care. Whatever you think your reasons were, I don't care. Your grandfather, your grandfather ... do you know what Nazi sympathizers did? They found little children, little children hiding in their little friends' closets, and turned them over to the SS; they stole everything from the German Jews and were the vocal minority that backed Hitler so he would rise to power. To call a man who disagrees with you, no matter how unpleasant, or rude he is, a Nazi sympathizer is to trivialize the horror that the real ones created. You think he's a Nazi sympathizer because he called you names? You don't even know what that is!"

The pacing abruptly ended.

"Josh, why?"

It didn't seem to me like a question that could be answered, and Josh said nothing.

The footsteps started again.

"I've set it up - I called Garnett's office and he needs an aide, you will start tomorrow."

"Dad!" There was a suddenly cacophony of noises, the couch creaking, the scrape of it against the floor as Josh suddenly stood up, his feet rapidly hitting the wooden boards. "Forget it - you can't do this to me, I'm not ... I'm not that kid anymore."

"Despite all signs to the contrary, right Josh? It doesn't matter, it's already done. And I promise you I will end your political career right here and now if you fight me on this one. It's happening."

"This would end it already!" Josh was shouting now "The guy is a dead weight, he's 84 years old, he's retiring, he's republican that even republicans hate! You wouldn't agree with a single thought in his head! I'm sorry Dad, I really am, I wasn't thinking, I shouldn't have said it, and I'll apologize - but you, you can't do this to me. He's just not important."

"Compared to you, you mean."

"Yes! ...yeah. No. That's not what I meant."

"You are doing this or you might as well pack up your bags now. Your decision."

Again there was a free fall descent into silence. Both seemed determined to outwait the other. It was Josh who spoke first, but so quietly I couldn't hear it.

"Pardon?" His father had missed it too.

"ok."

There was a rustling of papers, but no words, and a muddling of footsteps made it hard to follow what was going on. I heard the front door a few moments later, creaking and then pausing as someone stopped in the doorway.

"And call your mother sometime, ok? She worries about you"

And then there was nothing but the fading steps down the stairs, and the closing of the door.

I heard Josh's footfalls, slow and heavy, sounding much like his father, returning to the couch. I heard his breath catch in his throat, heard the sound of him struggling to breathe quietly, heard the choking sniffling. But I barely knew him, was hardly a friend, and so I left him alone.

*****

We never mentioned this incident. He never asked me about what, if anything, I had overheard, or what I had talked to his father about in the hours before he had come home. For my part, I ignored the fact that he was suddenly working for an uber-right wing republican.

I didn't know much about Josh's new job. I knew he hated it, and that he wasn't alone in hating Garnett. That Joshua Lyman, an established not to mention vocal left winger up-and-comer, acknowledged as bright if not occasionally brilliant, was suddenly aide to the most loathsome Republican congressman in the house, was information that went through the intern gossip mill exceeding quickly. No one could figure it out.

I didn't care to illuminate anyone. I was much too deep in my own personal quest to uncover the next "Watergate", to be the person who would forever be remembered for discrediting the republicans and turning the 1984 election around, to deal with people's nosiness or Josh's bruised ego - let Josh explain it himself anyway he liked. I didn't care, I had much more pressing matter of national importance to attend to.

My investigation was as pathetic as it sounded. So far I hadn't made it passed the libraries, and everything I found there was already well known fact.

Elizabeth Ascott was born in 1929 with a perpetual silver spoon in her mouth. She led a completely uninspiring life as a young girl, and eventually married a wealthy paper baron at age twenty - he was 40. By all accounts they had a happy and successfully family life, and when he passed away at 50, he left a young son, and a moderately profitable newspaper business behind him. It was at this point that the demure Elizabeth bucked tradition for the first time in her life, and steadyfast refused to turn her husband's businesses over to the realtors and the lawyers. Instead, the day after the funeral, she marched in, still in her black mourning black dress, her son tagging behind her, heading straight for her husband's desk. Her first memo was to the board of directors declaring that she was planning on running up her husband's business as was her right according to his will.

They humored her to begin with, thinking that the young, wealthy wife would soon go back to her society life after a few weeks. Instead she would dig in her heels and show the world what she was made of. In two years, the Washington Post went from a modestly growing paper to the number one authority on political happenings in the D.C. area. The Board of Directors gave her more power and let her run the course she had chosen and was so obviously suited for - in five more years, she owned papers in just about every major city, and overall had the greatest reach in terms of circulation. It was said that if you considered all the papers she controlled, you could send a message to 99.99% of the voters in this country. The other 0.001%? They were in the space shuttle and would have to wait until they got back for their paper.

Her ruthlessness in tackling the greatest stories was only equaled by her modesty and her judgment - remaining firmly non-partisan, she was considered above reproach on her ethics and reporting. Had any other newspaper other then the Washington Post broken the Watergate story, it is very likely that Nixon would never have been investigated. Legend has it that newspaper editors all called her when deciding their front page layout for June 9th 1972. That day, Americans awoke to their breakfast with the unavoidable horror of a war half a world away staring them in the face. A napalmed little girl, her clothes burned off, her skin on fire, running barefoot down a jungle road was on the cover of every single major newspaper.

That was what she did. She impeached presidents, she stopped wars. She controlled the press. If the Washington Post wasn't willing to run the story, it wasn't a story to be run. I read all this and what it meant to me was if there was a cover up going on, she was involved.

In short, other then convincing myself that I was investigating something important, my research was getting me no where. If I was to progress any farther on this, I would need a break. Strangely enough, that I eventually got one was inadvertently because of Joshua Lyman and his hated Republican.

It was pretty clear from all from the stories circulating over the past few weeks from Congress, that while Josh may have agreed to the letter of his father's decree, he hadn't agreed to the spirit. He was working for Garnett, but in angry opposition in all the values that he felt he had compromised. Ferocious arguments were reported, the two of them arguing immigration policy on the front steps on the capital building, screaming contests in the hallways. Josh continuously undermined him in meetings and in front of colleagues, and in retaliation, Garnett would call the apartment at all hours, making Josh do nonsensical research tasks all night. Half of Washington didn't understand why Josh didn't quit, the other half, Josh included, couldn't understand why Garnett wouldn't just fire him.

I personally thought Garnett did it because he enjoyed it; he had Josh's fingers held to the grindstone and he knew it.

Then the strangest thing happened. Garnett went favourable on the child welfare bill.

It was out of the blue, incredibly unexpected. I knew Josh hadn't known about it, that he had spent the last three nights gruelingly going through factoid after factoid at Garnett's request showing exactly how ineffective child welfare was, about how it all ended up drug money, about how it was subsidizing crime. Josh hated every moment of assembling an argument to ruin a cause he believed in. But at the vote, at the moment when it mattered and came to Garnett, he stood up and said Yey. Everyone was so shocked that the speaker asked him twice.

That night Josh was in the strangest mood - burnt out, edgy, and unusually quiet. We were all out at a bar somewhere - my campaign friends loud and obnoxious - trading the latest Reagan joke, ordering beers, taking bets on the world series, yelling at the television. Josh just stared at his charred meal, pushing the ketchup around his plate with cold fries. It didn't take long before the conversation turned to politics - and given the company, it went straight to the democratic campaign. The third question was directed at Josh.

"So are you ever going to apologize for that article?"

"No."

Josh went back to playing with his food, but my friends weren't done yet.

"You ridiculed the democratic party."

"I ridiculed the leaders of the democratic campaign" he corrected "there's a difference"

"Not to some people"

"Not my problem."

There was a silence, but Josh did not go back to eating, rather he waited.

"So" it was Joan, a well put together blonde-haired woman who, I believed, had slept with every male at the table except for Josh and I. "Why exactly are you working for Garnett? Sam wouldn't tell us."

"Sam doesn't know" I interjected, not looking at Josh. We had never mentioned that night.

"I'm working for Garnett" Josh said very slowly and then paused, before continuing with the utmost seriousness "Because, as you know, I believe that the democrats are going to lose this election, and I want to be on the winning side."

In the background some baseball team just finished their inning, but no one was looking at television. Josh just smiled at us.

"You see" he explained slowly to us "I like to win, I think it's a good thing." And with that he stood up. "Night all."

He left, even as Joan leaned over, whispering in my ear "was that a joke?"

I pushed her away in exasperation and followed Josh out.

"Josh!"

I caught up with him only a few steps out the door. He obligingly waited for me. "Nice friends Sam."

"Well, you didn't really give them a chance."

"My loss I'm sure"

"Yeah."

We walked, but I couldn't let this rest.

"So really Josh, what was that about?"

"Your friends being nosey."

"Oh come on, like that's the first time someone's asked you that."

"How do you know that's not what I always say?"

"Is it?"

"What other possible reason could there be?"

"I don't know"

"Why don't you ask me and find out?"

I looked away this time.

"Right, cause you know. You know that my father basically threatened me like I was a little boy until I agreed."

But I had met Noah Lyman, and I had witnessed the entire conversation. Whether Josh wanted to hear it or not, he wasn't being fair.

"Your father drove four hours to talk to you, some fathers can't even pick up the phone."

"My father had my career to ruin; maybe those fathers just aren't as motivated."

"You do seem to bring out the worse in people" I agreed, but Josh didn't smile.

"I hate this" was all he said. I wasn't sure what he was referring to, but I let it drop, just in case it was this conversation. So instead, I said the only thing I could think of.

"Where are we going?"

"To another bar."

"Right, cause that will fix it."

"I'm willing to try if you are." There was a bit of a challenge in Josh's voice, but it didn't matter, I wouldn't have refused anyway.

"Sure."

So we went to another bar - Josh picked it out, and in some sort of perverse logic he picked the most conservative one he could find. The bartender gave us an odd look as we entered, and I guessed that we were under that average age for their customer base by approximately 20 years. If he was concerned that we would cause any problems, he needn't have worried, Josh ordered three beers and went straight to a corner both to start drinking. Going slower, I ordered a rum and coke and took a minute to soak up the atmosphere of the club. Black and white photos plastered the walls, and I walked the long way around the bar to get a better look at the older ones. It was then that I saw them, sitting in a booth off to the side, almost hidden by the high wooden benches. I had been studying Leslie Howard and Elizabeth Ascott for the past three weeks, and it was all I could do to not stop dead in my tracks and stare.

Focusing on staying casual, I glanced back across the bar to where Josh had apparently forgotten me and was half way onto his second beer and already looking for the bartender. Leaving him be for the moment, I casually walked past, and then ducked into the booth next to them - the separator was high enough that they couldn't see me.

Still, if the two women were trying to speak privately, they had chosen a good place for it. As close as I was, I wouldn't have heard anything accept that Elizabeth was upset about something, and her voice occasionally carried over to me. As it was I only caught a few words, but they were telling enough. `Retire', `compromise', angry vehement disagreement. They never mentioned what exactly what they were talking about, but only "it". "It wasn't going to just go away", "It would have to be faced", even as "It had to be kept hidden". Whatever "it" was, it was incredible important to these two woman.

I didn't hear much else, and they left shortly after the most heated part of their conversation. They also left me without a doubt that Jack Slater had been right those two weeks ago in the park - the republicans and the press were certainly involved in something, and it was skewing the coverage of the elections against us.

I told Jack about it first thing that next morning on our run, if I was a little tired and so a little slower then usual, he was more then happy to match my pace, listening to every word I said. He absolutely agreed with me that it sounded like the republicans were up to something. He wanted me to keep digging, see if I could find something that might explain what the republicans had on Elizabeth Ascott. He repeated numerous times that I had done a great job and the democrats might still end up owing the election to me. I believed it because I wanted to - I told myself it was why I had come to Washington in the first place. Jack had seen a million interns like me and he knew exactly what to say. That morning after my run, I was more determined then ever to uncover the republicans' plot.

That I might be a scapegoat, that the democrats might have their own uses for this knowledge, were thoughts that never entered my head.

*****

For no reason that I could ever put my finger on, my friendship with Josh changed that night as well. Without ever talking, without even sharing anything beyond what we had, we somehow became friends. Maybe it was that I had walked out of the first bar with him instead of staying with my campaign friends and gained some level of trust with him. Maybe it was me - that I finally saw him relaxed, and realized he wasn't half as obnoxious as he pretended to be. I don't know - but our Friday night and Sunday evening conversations started lengthening, and we began meeting up after work for a beer, or, if I happened to be near the hill, we'd grab lunch at his office. These would be my first experiences with the workings of congress, not to mention Archibald William Garnett, Josh's new boss.

As far as I knew, Josh had yet to forgive his father, but he had seem to have accepted the inevitable - that he couldn't quit unless he wanted to quit Washington, and that Archibald Garnett was not going to fire him. The unlikely working balance that they struck was disruptive and unnerving to just about everyone around them, but seemed to be acceptable to both of them.

They fought. About everything. Tirelessly. When one of them gave in, the other won. On every single issue, Josh would take the left angle, Garnett would take the right. Josh would have to do all the research, and then they would argue. Then fight, then argue more. Josh may have had youth on his side, but Garnett was as stubborn and as wiley as they come - the master of mis-direction. He was able to verbally spin Josh around so fast that Josh would just end up swearing in frustration trying to remember what they really arguing about. Garnett trounced him again and again, until eventually Josh learned. Eventually he learned how to keep the right issue on the table at the right time, how to argue not just passionately, but intelligently.

He still lost the vast majority of the time, and on those days he often came home angry - Garnett wouldn't support the homeless bill, social security was being cut again. On those days I'd leave him alone and he would nurse a beer while staring at CNBC sports and we'd only talk about the Yankees latest chances.

Occasionally, just enough to keep Josh believing that there was always a chance, Garnett would unexpectedly change his position on an issue. He rarely let Josh know when this would happen, preferring to surprise everyone during the actual vote. On those rare days Josh would come home almost manic, and we would talk politics until the early hours of the morning.

In retrospect, it's easy to say that our talks were cheesy, that they were over simplified, but they represented where we were in our lives at that time. I was in the midst of believing the election was about to turn around for us, Josh had long since given up on the democrats and just about everyone else. He was bitter and angry that he spent his days digging up research proving that the ozone layer was a scientific hoax, that taxing the rich was unconstitutional, he said that if another talking head republican quoted Ayn Rand to him one more time he was going to start burning the Fountainhead in front of them.

After one such rant I asked him point blank why he didn't just quit. Go into law, or business. He looked at me, the way he did when he was confused - head slightly tilted, lip bit in sudden consternation that he didn't have the answer.
"Because" He said finally "Because even now, I think I'm making a difference". This moment of seriousness lasted for only a second before he quickly shook off the sober mood yelling irrelevantly "Who is John Gault?" Before laughing hysterically at his own joke. I joined in, even though I wasn't sure what was suppose to be funny about it.

For me, I talked about how great, smart, and caring the people I was working with were. I told him about the young interns working 18 hours a day, but still smiling, I told him about how smart Jack Slater was, about our victories. I even told him about our suspicions about Elizabeth Ascott, but he wasn't interested. He agreed with Jerry Fields- that what I was suggesting simply wasn't possible.
"People have been trying to intimidate her from the moment she stepped up to lead that paper, I guarantee you that Ronald Reagan isn't going to be the first."

Josh and the others could say what they liked, but it wasn't going to change my mind. What had begun as an interest had escalated to a full scale obsession ever since I had overheard that conversation in the bar. Jack gave me his full support and spent my free time tracking Elizabeth Ascott and Republican campaign manager Leslie Howard.

By October, the larger battle for Presidency was getting into high gear. The campaigns were picking up momentum, and everyone's focus was on the fast approaching presidential debates.

In what was tantamount to a high noon call out in the Old West, Mondale had challenged President Reagan to meet him on live television. Politically, Reagan had nothing to gain and everything to lose from such a confrontation. His platform, at its simplest, was to keep on doing what he had been doing for the past four years. The results stood on their own, and words would not convince anyone who felt he had failed them that it would work a second time. On the other hand, he very much ran the risk of appearing out-classed, out-
witted, and in general out of touch compared to the noticeable younger Democratic candidate. And that of course, was our hope.

We all watched, I held Annie's hand, a young political science undergrad who I hoped had a small crush on me, but had yet to progress beyond meaningful looks over the brand new xerox machine. While none of us had any input on Mondale's speech, we were already spending hours each day researching various points for Ferraro's upcoming debate against the standing Vice President, George W. Bush, and we would take a lot of our cues from how this went.

From the beginning, Mondale had the advantage, the president, his hair a newly dyed shade of orange, looked strange and slightly uncomfortable - odd for Reagan, who was usually at his most natural in front of the cameras. The president was on the defensive and it showed, his answers were more negative then expansive, and as Mondale started warming up it became obvious that he had the better grasp on the issues.

The turning point came when, with a grin, Mondale interrupted one of Reagan's rhetorical `four more years' statements that had worked so well for him in the 1980 campaign. Instead, he challenged Reagan to explain how he would reduce the record budget deficits that had run up under his Administration and then accused him of a failure of leadership in the bombings of American installations in Lebanon.

I wasn't the only one who yelled encouragement at the television. It was an incredible feeling to watch, knowing that millions of Americans were doing the exact same thing in their homes, seeing our candidate, and making up their minds for whom to vote.

I had the polling numbers memorized, and I chanted them under my breath into Annie's ear. Yes, Reagan had the 30 point advantage, but almost half his total votes were considered moveable. Undecided. Gifts waiting to be picked up by whoever won their approval in these debates.

Then it was Annie who was going "mention the healthcare, mention the healthcare,... Healthcare!" She gave a squeal that I found too cute for words as Mondale questioned Reagan on the plans to cut the benefits to the elderly. `You don't go after those people', I remembered her telling me - `they actually remember the great depression.' I hoped they were all watching.

"20 moveable points" Someone else had picked up my chant.

"Maybe more!"

The excitement was infectious, and by the time the debate was over, there was no one in the room who doubted that we could win this thing. Jack Slater took as all out to celebrate - at one point during the evening he pulled me aside, thanked me personally for all the work I had done, and asked me to slow down on the investigation. Afterall, it looked like our numbers were going to go up again - and it wasn't a time where we wanted to be causing any new crisis's.

In all large decision paths in life, there is a watershed - an instant when it is equally likely to go one way or another. The future path depends on a variable too small to be measured that exists for an infinitely short period of time. On so many levels, for so many people - that watershed moment for the 1984 election was that first presidential debate. Of course, the point is that no one ever realizes it while it is happening, it is only afterwards that one can look back and identify it.

Our numbers did experience a temporary upwards bounce after the debate, but it didn't stick. The second debate a week later didn't go as well - when Reagan made his now famous crack about the age of his opponent, there were as many Democrats laughing as Republicans.* The earlier excitement was beginning to turn into desperation, and making the entire thing hundred times worse was that Geraldine Ferraro, from the start a choice embraced by the media, was suddenly coming under investigation for her and her husband's finances. If Regan's campaign was marked by his ability to control the media, ours was marked by their control over us. Mondale was being torn apart for his statements on abortion that we couldn't seem to spin, and there were rumors that Ferraro was being investigated for ties to the New York mafia. In general, the Democratic election was in a tailspin - it was a sign of our desperation that around the end of October, that Jack asked me to continue looking into any improper republican relationship to the press.

In all honesty, I had never stopped. I had _hoped_ that he would ask me. I knew this was my only opportunity to differentiate myself from being just another intern. So when he called me into his office, I didn't hesitate to share my theory.

Elizabeth Ascott loved two things, her newspapers and her family, I was sure that the republicans had something that was potentially harming to both, and that lynch pin was her dead husband. Could there be something shaddy hidden there in the past? Some unsavory business deal that enabled the late Paul Sr. to gain his first newspaper - originally, his family had been no where near as scrupulous as hers. If Elizabeth would fight for something, I believed it would be for her family's reputation and her newspaper.

I did some more digging, found some old reports of arrests, and investigations for fraud, but nothing conclusive. It was, however, enough to confront someone with. I talked this over with Jack and he recommended asking Paul, Elizabeth's son. Paul, now almost 40, was married with two kids and had never really embraced the family business. After his father died, he had become a shy, dutiful son, and had ended up in the respectable if unexciting world of fund management. As Jack pointed out, he would be much easier to approach and talk to than Elizabeth herself. I agreed.

I went to his last known place of business, a marbled floor, gold trimmed bank. It was similar to the one my grandfather had taken me to when I was 8 years old to open my first savings account. I asked if I could make an appointment with Paul Ascott and was informed that he had stopped working there over a year ago. I learned that he hadn't moved on, that no one kept in touch with him anymore, but that they believed he was in Europe, or maybe working from home. They told me they thought health issues were involved and wouldn't meet my eyes. I explained that my recently deceased father had been a client of his, and I was looking for some information and advice - they gave me their condolences and helpfully provided me with his home address.

I still hadn't clued in.

The house was in an exclusive area, set back in its generous lot, the front lawn meticulously landscaped, old pines trees strategically placed to block off most views of the house from the road. The front door was solid oak, and I had rung the doorbell five times before I finally saw a light turn on inside. I waited patiently as a figure in a bathrobe approached the door, pausing slightly when he saw me, and then opened the door.

That's when I got it.

The person who answered the door was the person in the few photos I had studied. The hair was the right color, as were the eyes - the height seem to match, but that was were the resemblance of the somber, serious, solid Paul from the photos to this person in front of me ended.

The skin of the person standing in front of me on that fall day was a pasty white, broken only by small infections that seemed to ring around the thin, bloodless lips. The skin was hanging from his cheekbones, the eyes huge and accusing in their too big sockets. The robe couldn't hide the skeletal frame, the cavernous shoulders and chest - the gloves on the hands couldn't hide the thinness of the wrists.

And I knew. That the story here wasn't a grand epic of party conspiracy, that instead it was as intensely personal as something could possibly be. Every second I stood here I was making it worse and worse. I didn't belong here, my political problems, my ambition, my hopes, did not belong here. Nothing should be here.

I stuttered my apology, reflexively stepping back. I had the wrong address I explained. I couldn't stop staring as the plasticine face molded itself into a mirthless grin.

"What's the matter? You are looking for Paul aren't you? Well you found him. Won't you come in? People don't come and visit anymore."

He opened the door wider, gesturing with one impossible bony finger for me to enter. But I couldn't. I absolutely couldn't. I was going to be sick. Behind him I could see a family portrait - a healthy version of him 50 pounds heavier, a pretty young wife and two smiling boys. I stepped back again, my foot slipping on the steps and I stumbled. I might have run at that point. I don't remember. All I remember is stopping my car at the nearest seven eleven and calling Jack.

"It's not what I thought Jack - it's a dead end - there's nothing here. There is no plot. I was wrong ... Leslie Howard and Elizabeth were talking about her son, Paul, he ... he's sick."

Jack got it so quickly that when I thought about it later I would wonder if he had suspected all along, but I couldn't have had that thought when I was 22 ... I just couldn't have.

"He's gay?"

"I guess." My eyes were closed as I leaned against the pay phone ... who cared. The much bigger point was that he was going to be very dead.

"His wife, his kids, the family ...." Jack's voice trailed off but I could fill in the rest, no wonder Elizabeth wanted it kept a secret. The wife and kids were the ones that would be hurt the most and now he was dying. At least he could leave them the memories.

"Thank you Sam - you did it."

I was barely listening to Jack anymore "Did what?"

"This is the leverage that we need."

"No no no Jack - you aren't listening to me" I tried to take a breath to center myself. "There is no plot - the republican's, I don't think they are using this, I think Leslie was just trying to help. Maybe Elizabeth Ascott didn't publish those stories about Reagan because... because there isn't a story."

It wasn't until I said it out loud that I finally gave up on my Machiavellian plot. I had colored the republicans and past events so much that it wasn't until the words crossed my lips that I realized how true they were ... that a jet lagged president falling asleep in a five hour conference was not necessarily a sign of senility. I had just wanted it to be true so badly that I had made myself believe it.

"Who cares Sam?" Jack sounded impatient, like when he talked to interns who he thought were too thick to follow what he was saying "We can use this as leverage - make them run our story anyway - did you get a photo?"

"What?"

"A photo - some evidence that we can use to show we know..."

"No no ... Jack - you aren't listening to me - there isn't a story."

"Not yet." And he sounded happy, he sounded excited. My hand clenched the phone.

"You can't."

"Sam, Sam, Sam ... Reagan is senile, the public should know."

"We don't know that" I shouted back down the phone. "We can't just say that - we just can't, and we can't, we can't threaten these people - ruin their lives." The images of Paul's smiling children were haunting me.

"It's politics Sam - you can do anything you can dream of." And he hung up.

I spent a few minutes trying to breath through my anger before getting back into the car. I was furious at Jack, and furious at myself, because there was no way I could see this entire situation as anything but my fault. From the start it had been my ego, my wish to "save" the campaign, the democrats, my stupidity, my naivety, that had so neatly, so cleverly revealed this tragedy. I had to be so fucking smart. I had to be so sure.

And there was nothing I could do now.

It was ironic, it really was, I had come to Washington to make a difference with the best intentions, even if they were slightly flavored by ambition. Well I was going to get my wish, my own verified monkey's paw. If Elizabeth opted to save her family, my contribution might even result in us winning the election from a president labeled senile by the press. The irony was that it made me sick to my stomach.

*****

I went home and I got drunk in the empty apartment by myself. I picked up two bottles of scotch on the way home and drank that plus everything we had. I vaguely recall Josh coming home a few hours later finding me stretched out on the kitchen floor, a bottle clenched in my hand. I know he helped me, that he didn't leave me there. I may have cried. I know at one point before I started vomiting that he was going to call an ambulance. I tried to tell him that he should call the police. Everytime I stopped drinking my thoughts turned to Jack Slater, and I could hear his voice in his head congratulating me, and then he would start talking to Elizabeth, start telling her what he knew from me, urging her to just run the story, threatening her family. I drank to silence it. I told Josh everything.

I wanted that night to last forever, but the next day the Washington Post came to our door the same as it had every day since I had moved in.

Pale and shaking, I pulled it from the mail slot - barely able to look. The Reagan story was not on the front page, nor the second. I think I must have looked incapable of continuing because with gentle hands Josh pointed to the Letter from the Editor, simply entitled, `Family' by Elizabeth Ascott.

She had done it ... sometime last night, when I was lying on the kitchen floor, when Jack was calling her up, somewhere in there she had written this. Family. Hers. I tried to read it but my eyes were having trouble focusing and my hands couldn't hold the paper steady. Eventually Josh took it from me and read it out loud.

The woman who had impeached presidents, who stopped wars, was bringing an unknown horribly feared disease into the American consciousness. And she was doing it in the most personal manner possible - through sharing her own experience. The letter was honest about how AIDs was transferred, brutal in describing the effects, and devastating because she never let you forget that she was saying this as a mother watching her only son die. It was a letter declaring her support to the world, written out of love.

Josh's voice broke at the end, and we sat there in silence. I pondered the woman who had more integrity and honesty in her then the entire democratic senior staff, and my role in forcing her to make this personal tragedy public. That she did it with class and grace was no reflection on me.

That afternoon I called Duke and changed my specialty in law from politics to corporate. I wouldn't be coming back to Washington. In corporate law at least, everyone would be walking around expecting to be screwed.

As for the campaign, I couldn't go back to work. I had nothing to say to Jack, and I couldn't go back to being a smiling, optimistic intern. So I avoided the office and instead hung around the apartment, cleaning. Josh left me alone, which was what I wanted. I actually wanted to leave Washington altogether, but I couldn't. I didn't realize what was keeping me here until one afternoon when Josh was home early and we were hanging out watching C-Span. It had been summarizing the days' congressional agenda, and Josh suspected that Garnett might be on. Near the end of the show they switched to campaign news, and there, smiling expectantly was Jack Slater. He was saying something about the party, the polls and how he was confident the public was starting to realize the corruption and lies that existed within the Republican party.

"Him."

"Huh?" Josh looked at me.

"Him" I knew, I was suddenly certain "I can't just leave, he can't just get off like that - he has to pay - it's not fair."

Josh looked bemused for a second. "Not fair? Haven't you learned anything? It doesn't really matter."

"It matters to me."

It was a strange reversal, me pacing around the couch as Josh watched. I turned and faced him.

"Isn't there anything we can do? Doesn't anyone in the Democratic Party care what he did to her, to their family? Not to mention what he tried to do? It's illegal!"

"No one knows, Sam."

"We know" I argued, "Isn't there someone we can tell, someone who will listen to us?" even as I said it, I wondered who would listen to me, just an intern, and Josh, who had probably burned every bridge with the democrats over the past few months.
"Some one has to care." I repeated.

Josh was silent for a long moment. He buried his face in his hands even as he mumbled something.

"Huh?"

"There is someone," he was looking up at me "someone who would care if he knew." He shrugged "Maybe he'll listen."

"Well, call him."

"Yeah ok" But it was another long second before he reached for the phone and his address book. I sat back down next to him expectantly, close enough to hear the ringing as we waited for someone to answer.

"Hello" the voice was faint for me, but I could hear it "Minority Whip's office, how may I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to Mr. McGarry please" Josh sounded almost nervous and I glanced at him. "Tell him it's Mr. Lyman calling."

The tone of the secretary's voice changed "Why hello Mr. Lyman, didn't recognize you, I'll put you right through."

There were a few seconds and then I heard a warm "Hello" but Josh cut him off.
"Mr McGarry? It's Joshua Lyman calling."

"Oh ... hello" The voice was still friendly but there was a new note of caution in it.

Josh plowed on "I need to talk to you about the democratic campaign."

The voice was firm now "I'm not directly involved with the campaign, if you have an issue with the strategy - then I suggest you raise them with Jerry Fields and Jack Slater."

"Jack's the problem sir. It's his methods"

"Jack's our number one campaign expert, he's gotten us incredible results - I'll agree with you Josh that his methods are not always standard, but he is one of the corner stones of our strategy."

I looked at Josh worriedly- he was blowing us off. But Josh wasn't done yet.

"It has to do with Elizabeth Ascott's article - it was Jack."

The voice was suddenly very sharp, protective. "What are you saying? What about Elizabeth?"
I sighed in relief, Josh was right, he cared about her.

Josh explained it all, from the suspicions about the press, to investigating the connection between the republicans and Elizabeth. He left my name out of it, referring to me only as `the intern'. He explained how Jack tried to blackmail Elizabeth and how that forced her to go public with her son's situation. Leo McGarry didn't interrupt once and when Josh finally finished he had only one question.

"Are you sure about this Joshua?"

Josh glanced at me and I nodded vehemently "Yes Sir." Josh replied.

There was a sigh, sounding strange over the phone line.

"Elizabeth Ascott resigned today at the Post."

Overhearing this, I felt like someone had physically hit me. Would this never end?

"She's a great lady Josh" Mr. McGarry was still talking "There was no one like her, anywhere." There was another long silence.

"I'll take care of Jack Slater ... she ... she was one of the greats."

Even though I had never meet the man, there was something in his voice when he said he'd deal with Jack Slater that made me sure Josh had called the right person. We couldn't do it, but this man was going to. His words sent a feeling of relief coursing through me. I didn't need to know when, or how, just that it was taken care of. I was ready to leave now.

"Thank you Sir." Josh's voice sounded strange too, and I knew he was thinking the same thing as I. But Mr. McGary wasn't done with him yet.

"Call your father Josh."

Josh grimaced "Yes sir"

"Josh - call him."

It was an order clear and simple, but when Josh hung up the phone he didn't pick it up again.

***

I left Washington D.C. one week later. On my last night, Josh and I went out - more out of a sense of obligation to mark the occasion than anything else. There was, afterall, nothing to celebrate. Nothing Mr. McGarry could do to Jack Slater would fix the damage I had already caused, and as for the election, the original reason why I had come here - it was very clear that the democrats were going to lose.

It was strange, I was doing what Josh did when I first met him, I was referring to the democrats as if I wasn't one as well.

The bar was the same one we had gone to with my campaign friends - all that time ago. That night it had been packed and noisy, today it was mostly deserted, and quiet. Even now, we still talked about politics.

"You were right you know"
We had never discussed this, but last night I had dug out a copy of the infamous Yale Law Journal and read his article.
"You knew- what you said in that article - it was right - we're losing the election for all the reasons you said."

Josh was shaking his head "I wasn't anything special Sam. Everything that I wrote in there, it was common knowledge to the senior members, that's how I knew."

"They knew we were going to lose?"

"They knew there was a high, high probability."

"Then ..." suddenly I was angry, I felt cheated and duped. I was angry at myself, and I was angry for all the supporters who had upturned their lives, for the people who when I asked for donations, gave us as much as they could afford, for the damage we had caused - if only it could have never happened. "then why'd we bother?"

"Because it was right." Josh was gripping the neck of his beer bottle, staring at it "because you know, sometimes, it's when you've got the longest odds that you have to fight the hardest."

I knew he was talking about Garnett, but it was exactly that attitude that had led me to Elizabeth Ascott. "But at the expense of what?" I argued " Look what happened!"

Josh just shrugged "It happens all the time."

"It's wrong!"

"Really?" He was still staring at me "The line is so very small Sam. If someone had lied about Hitler to keep him out of power - said he was insane - would that have been a mistake?" Then so softly that I almost didn't hear it "What if Ronald Reagan really is going senile?"

"The republicans would say something."

"Would we in their position?"

"Yes." But I wasn't so sure. He controlled our nuclear weapons for Christ sakes, surely they'd say something.

"What if they don't know- what if no one knows?"

I stared at him.

"Josh" I suddenly had to know "Do you think he's senile?"

"What I'm saying is that it doesn't matter. We'll probably never know."

"I just want the truth - that's it."

"Then you'll have a hard time in Washington." Josh offered. "People lie here all the time for all sorts of reasons."

"I can't live like that Josh - it's not for me." I said firmly. And it wasn't.

"No" Josh agreed, tilting his head back to get the last of his beer "probably not."

"What about you? What are you going to do? The Alabama Albatross is going to retire this year."

"He really might not, not anymore"

This was news to me. "But you wouldn't, for another year? I mean you wouldn't -"

Josh was still staring at the table.

"Josh?"

"no ...- No. No, of course not." Josh's bottle was in his hands again. "No" He repeated. "Never."

"ok then - cause that would just be -"

"Wrong."

"Yeah."
We sat in silence for another moment or two before I remembered that Josh probably had to be up early.

"Done?"

"Yeah" Josh rose, stretching "I've got another day of abuse that I need to be alert for - he's getting quicker with cane - almost got me last time."

I wasn't sure if he was kidding, but I grinned back. "Hey Josh?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks - for - uh - well you know."

Laughing softly, Josh bent his head to study the bill, and the muted television caught my eye.

*****

"Hey Josh" I had to say it twice because the first time the words didn't come out correctly and he didn't hear me.

"Yeah?"

"Garnett's on the television"

Josh's back was to the screen, and he was trying to count out the correct change "About abortion? I thought his comment to the floor this morning might get some attention."

"No ..No..Josh - I think .. I think it's saying he's dead."

He looked up then, even as I yelled at the bartender to turn up the volume.

"Faithful servant to the United States of America for over 50 years, served proudly in both World Wars, beloved son of Alabama - perhaps best known for his radical opinions and his willingness to state them, he was the last of a vanished breed of politician. Again, a few hours ago, Congressman Garnett passed away quietly in his sleep - according to his doctor, he had a failing heart for a while now, and given that he was 84, not wholly unsurprising."

I turned to look at Josh, but he was just staring at the screen, his head tilted at an odd angle.

"Josh" I tried.

He looked at me, and then dropped the rest of the change on the table.

"Let's go."

I nodded and followed him outside onto the street. Waiting.

"He was old" Josh finally spoke. "He was an old bastard." He turned abruptly away, not even glancing to see if I was following, which of course I was. "Just an old bastard. Bigoted."

"Josh -"

"No really Sam I'm not making this up. He thought woman shouldn't vote. Wanted to know why I didn't take my Jewish ass into banking `like the rest'. He's a total bigot."

"He was" I corrected.

"yeah .. yeah ... that's what I meant ... he was. He's dead now. Good ..." but he couldn't complete the sentence. He just swallowed. "Let's just - go home."

He woke me up sometime in the morning, knocking on my door, still wearing the same clothes from last night.

"Hey Sam"

"Huh?"

"Listen - I just realized ... I'm going to have to clean out his desk - I should do it before everyone gets in"

"What time is it?" There wasn't an ounce of natural light to be seen from the windows.

"It's like four - I couldn't sleep."

"Yeah ok." I turned over and almost went back to sleep before I realized what he was saying. "You want me to come?"

He shrugged "there might be a lot of boxes and stuff"

"yeah ok." I said again. "Just give me a second"

Despite Josh's concerns there really wasn't all that much there. We found some boxes left over from a recent move elsewhere on that floor, and just started emptying the desk and cabinets.

What I noticed was that a large majority of the documents I was packing up were covered in Josh's distinctive scrawl. Memo's, annotations, on subjects covering everything from synopsis of recent news items to proposed bills. He had obviously been working even closer with Garnett then I had realized.

I did the file cabinets, Josh the desk. We didn't speak, but even them it was fairly loud work, and when Josh's side of the office went suddenly quiet, I looked up.

He was holding a shoe box, the lid was lying on the desk in front of him, and from what I could see, it was full of letters.

"What's that?"

Josh held one of them in his hand. By tilting my head I could just make out the "Congressman Holly" on the discarded envelope.

"What are they?"

Josh answered me this time, his voice oddly flat, "They're letters."

I crossed the room, and reached out my hand to grab one, Senator Hughes, I noted. I scanned a few lines, and then carefully put it back into the box with the others. I had caught words like loyalty, integrity and brillance, and knew what they were.

Congressman Garnett had written Josh recommendation letters to just about every top senator and congressional representative currently in the house - almost 30 of them in total, to both Democrats and Republicans. It must have been a massive undertaking. It was a breathtaking gesture.

"Here I'll take that" I took the letter that was still in his hand and put it back into the box.

"The dates Sam - he started writing some of them one week after I started." His voice was still off, and he wasn't looking at me. "Like he knew"

"You ready?" I thought he might have found what he had come here looking for.

He just nodded, and we left, our boxing job only half done. Truth was, I wasn't sure what should be done with it anyway. As far as I knew Garnett had no relatives, but it seemed like a waste to throw out 50 years of someone's life. Ultimately, it's what I thought would happen to it - but I didn't share this with Josh.

I had the shoebox of letters tucked under my arm, because Josh refused to look at it, much less carry it, and we headed back - by this time, the sun was beginning to make its appearance for the day.

Josh saw him first. He was just sitting there, waiting, same as he had all those months ago when I had met him the first time. Somehow, he knew.

"Dad" I heard Josh breathe beside me. Noah Lyman stood up as Josh suddenly bolted towards him; burying his head into his father's shoulder as he reached for him.

"Dad." His voiced cracked this time, and while I couldn't see his face, still pushed into his father's jacket, I could see his body shaking even as Noah wrapped his arms tightly around him.

"Why dad- why?" The anguish in his voice was audible from where I stood.

Noah held Josh close to him, whispering something to him alone.

There was no place for me in this.

*******
Epilogue

It was funny, in the end.

We would never talk about Garnett, or the odd relationship they had shared, yet years later when I was over at Josh's place during his recovery, I would find that box packed away in a closet - still full.

As for his career, in a move that surprised virtually everyone, Josh joined the campaign that he had so passionately and publicly spurned only a few months ago. It was a lost cause at this point but the gesture generated respect among the members of the Democratic Party. I talked to him a few weeks later, and when he said Democrat - he meant himself as well.

Jack Slater would disappear from politics for a few years, re-emerging to get a small town senator elected in 1992, only to disappear again. If Leo McGarry ever realized that I was that intern who had helped Jack during the campaign, we never discussed it.

Paul Ascott died that year on a cold and wet February day, roughly two months from when I had visited him. There was a short obituary that I cut out and still keep. I will be forever tied to that family by my actions.

For myself, I would go to Duke Law School, graduate at the top of my class and start climbing the ladder of corporate mergers and hostile takeovers. I would live my life in glass elevators and wood paneled offices until one day in May, when Josh, many years older and elections wiser, would re-appear in my life and tempt me with a dream that I had thought died years ago.

And, swearing it would be different this time, I would go back to Washington D.C. for the first time since 1984.