And The World Stood Still

by:SheilaVR

Character(s): Jed & Co.
Category(s): General
Rating: TEEN
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is actually intended, but no threat of same will stop me from fantasizing about "The West Wing" anyway...
Summary: The President demonstrates that alcohol and motorcades do not mix.
Author's Note:I wrote this shortly before we heard any details about the first season finale episode. So, for all intents and purposes, humor me and pretend that "What Kind of Day Has It Been" never took place.

Wednesday, 8:00 A.M.

Any person can hire bodyguards if he or she so desires. However, few indeed ever get to boast of receiving protection from the United States Secret Service, that elite force recognized worldwide for its high standards. The President, certainly. The President's immediate relatives. The President's Chief of Staff. The *Vice*-President, and his closest family. *Former* Presidents. And, theoretically, anyone else in the company of these individuals as well.

Add to that exclusive list one Stanley Bernardo.

And right now *his* enemies outnumbered everyone else's combined.

This procession through the White House provided bald evidence to that claim. An escort by these faceless, unsmiling men in black suits never failed to draw attention. However, their protectee today was no public face, but just a common citizen, a virtual unknown.

And yet, his identity was never in doubt.

He walked along, flanked fore and aft, much like any other visiting dignitary. He wore both a suit and a tie as befits a guest to this famous address. But his shoulders were painfully hunched, his countenance bespoke of fear rather than pride, and his stride totally lacked the assurance common to most people granted such an honor guard. His gaze turned constantly to either side, clearly uneased by the historic corridors all around.

Every employee in sight stopped working to stare at him.

A single red half-healed slice ran across his forehead, like the brand of Cain.

No one said a thing, either the passers-by or the spectators. The journey continued in quivering silence. Yet it bore a fearful similarity to a Death Row inmate walking that "Last Mile".

And the faces on the sidelines wore near-identical grimaces of condemnation.

The accused would have given just about anything in the world to flee this hallowed building at a dead run. The half-dozen stony Secret Service agents were not about to grant that option, for professional and *not*-so-professional reasons. So far they had permitted him the sole dignity of walking under his own power; if need be, they would drag him by the elbows. So he marched helplessly onward, head bowed by guilt, features flushed with shame, flayed by waves of hatred at every step.

One last door swung open - and he stopped short at the sight of the Oval Office's full length spread out before him.

This unique chamber vibrated with potent history and sheer political power. Its sacred precincts should not be trod by the cursed footfalls of a traitor.

Sunlight streamed through the ceiling-high windows that faced onto the back lawn, dazzling white. Its purity distorted the shapes of five men and two women who stood together at the room's far end. Indistinct at this distance, gray silhouettes outlined by silver fire. Like ghosts. Or angels - angels of death.

Waiting for him.

More terrified than if this was the gas chamber itself, the prisoner couldn't bring himself to move. One of his escorts put a big hand on his shoulder and guided him firmly from behind, with admirable restraint. Forcing him to step forward and face his sentencing.

Not until he had been pushed right up to the presidential seal did that hand allow him to stop. His guards fell back a bit, leaving him in the room's very center. Alone and unprotected, the focus of those seven people - and, indeed, the entire country.

In silence, he stood there, and shook.

"Welcome, Mr. Bernardo," Vice-President Hoynes said at last, breaking the awful quiet. He'd been in the papers and on TV often enough over several years (and especially of late) to be identified by most Americans. Besides, only one other man would dare stand behind that desk. He looked exactly like a Supreme Court Justice on the Bench, ready to pronounce judgment. He spoke civilly, but his expression was stern.

The other six could not be so easily named, usually glimpsed following well behind the President or lingering discretely to one side. Still, they had to be important people or else they wouldn't be here in the first place. They looked exactly like a scaled-down jury, lined up to the right. None spoke aloud, but their expressions were damning.

The prisoner didn't even attempt to respond to that greeting. No one had to remind him that he wasn't here for polite conversation.

The Vice-President went on in the same tone: outwardly polite, yet hinting at darker things just under the surface. "I'll bet this isn't the occasion you'd have chosen to pay your first visit to the White House, let alone the Oval Office."

The prisoner was still too petrified to answer. He tried desperately not to meet the eyes of the other six; they reminded him of nothing so much as half a dozen savage guard dogs straining against their leashes. Straining for him.

He could *feel* the heat of their united vision. Perspiration beaded his crawling skin.

"Well, you needn't fear that this is going to be your execution chamber," the Vice-President went on with deceptive calm. "We have other rooms set aside for that."

Where? *In* the White House itself?

"But all of us here work closely with the President." Which explained the rage they openly wore, more intense even than what had bombarded the prisoner in the halls outside. "And we all wanted to meet you, since we have a *personal* interest in your future."

That almost sounded as if they planned to play a direct role in his death sentence!

And from the charged atmosphere, they'd like nothing better.

"Of course," the Vice-President continued, "what's done is done, and not all the influence of the United States Government can undo it. Any sort of justice, whatever form it takes, will be a poor recompense for the injury you've caused."

This presidential stand-in was at his most impressive; he had risen to the occasion of national leadership very well indeed. Now he strode around the desk and closed the gap, as though his very proximity would crush the prisoner in place.

"All I can say right now is, it's a damn good thing you won't be driving again, *ever*. And an even better thing that on your last ride you weren't driving any faster!"

Did he really mean that? After all, if not for the accident John Hoynes would not have the fantastic opportunity to rule that he was now enjoying.

He sure *sounded* sincere. The prisoner shrank all the more.

The Vice-President drew breath to further drive his point home, when the sound of a door opening at the back of this oblong office distracted everyone. The prisoner dared not move; he just watched, in fresh trepidation, as Hoynes looked past him at who dared interrupt - and suddenly stiffened. A covert glance to the right showed that the other six had adopted the same stance: surprise, tinged with concern... and perhaps even pleasure.

What could possibly be happening NOW?

Quiet descended and held for several seconds, until the Vice-President turned back to their "guest". With a new air, of something like anticipation. And, with a sharp movement of head and eyes, indicated that he was to turn as well.

Fearing the worst conceivable fate, he slowly obeyed.

It *was* the worst thing he could imagine. The new arrival was President Bartlet himself.

Oh, how he wanted to just die right here, right now. To sink through the floor, to incinerate in fiery holocaust this very instant. *Anything* rather than face the man he'd almost killed.

Never mind that it was the President of the United States...

"Morning, all," that famous voice greeted everyone at large. "We're certainly up and at it early today."

Their Chief Executive had not entered under his own power; his injuries would keep him in that wheelchair for some time to come. He wore a tailored shirt, collar open, under a V-neck sweater that hung noticeably loose on his convalescing frame, and casual slacks with the right pant-leg slit up to the knee. The cast on that lower leg was glaringly evident, likewise the splint on his left hand and arm, and the gauze bandage encircling his crown. A dull red scrape marred one cheekbone, almost scabbed over; a bruise half-ringed one eye, just starting to fade. Clothes and combed hair did a lot to reduce the image of a disheveled invalid; still, his features were paler than normal, and his posture hinted at a persistent discomfort.

He might be getting around now, but he wouldn't be *up* for awhile yet.

A young black man walked behind the chair, providing propulsion. The First Lady - utterly unmistakable - and a teenage girl who could only be one of the First Daughters flanked both sides. More Secret Service agents followed them into the room and closed the door behind.

The silence endured and the tension mounted as the wheelchair advanced to less than four feet away. Effectively surrounding the prisoner with all of his accusers.

He backed up two steps, seized by an overwhelming compulsion of flight. But there was nowhere to run.

Now all other eyes in this great chamber weren't focused just on the condemned. Instead, they alternated between him and the man who faced him across that carpet seal. But he himself was magnetized by one pair only.

Clear and blue, they studied him levelly and formed their own conclusions. There was frost in their depths, and probably pain - but also the merest inkling of... amusement?

"You must be Stanley Bernardo."

The prisoner couldn't have uttered a sound to save his life. Many citizens cherished a golden dream to merit the attention of the President. But this was the blackest of nightmares: to earn that attention by being convicted of high treason.

Often enough Jed Bartlet had been known to merrily introduce himself on first acquaintance, as if *anyone* could not know who he was. This morning, however, he seemed to be content with a few seconds of quiet contemplation rather than an ice-breaking wisecrack. Suspense filled every cubic foot of air around them all in ever-increasing pressure as the President calmly sized up the individual who had - temporarily at least - removed him from office.

The thunder that shadowed every other face present remained curiously absent from their Commander-in-Chief, who had the greatest reason to feel it.

"I'm glad we've finally met. As you can imagine, I've heard quite a bit about you. Still, hearsay can't take the place of one's own impressions."

He chose not to elaborate on those impressions. The prisoner didn't know if he should be grateful or not. He was trembling too hard under that cool inspection to think.

"You appear to have come through this ordeal fairly well. That's good." The President made no direct comparison to himself, but the contrast between one superficial wound and immobilizing damage shrieked almost audibly.

"I gotta tell you, I sure wish these limousines came with airbags. I'm told that yours worked just fine that night. Somebody make a note: we should send a bill to Congress. After all, limos are rather popular in this town. Might have something to do with it being the seat of government where all the political heavyweights meet; I don't know."

No one moved, even to smile at this light humor during such a strained moment. Certainly the prisoner had no idea how to react.

The President glanced around. "Hey, let me handle the introductions. After all, everyone here feels like they've known you for awhile now."

He started with the women standing on either side, and his devotion to them both shone forth. "This is my wife Abbey, and our youngest daughter Zoey."

Both were silent and grim, each resting a protective hand on one presidential shoulder. No need to explain how *they* had felt during this crisis. Abbey's taut stance suggested she was ready to throw the Hippocratic Oath out the window and do some harm herself, and Zoey's image of child-like hurt could have raised a throat-lump in a marble statue.

"You have any family who are worried about you, Stan?"

Caught even further off-balance by the relaxed question, the prisoner jerkily shook his head. "Uh - n-no. At least, none really close - sir."

"Oh, that's too bad. Your family is the greatest source of comfort and strength you'll ever know." The President paused for emphasis. "But they're not the *only* support I've been blessed with lately, I can tell you."

He tried, and failed, to crane his head around enough to see the young man directly behind him. "Charlie here is my personal aide. We like to refer to him as my body man - which is particularly appropriate right now, since he has to push me around everywhere."

Charlie held himself still. His dark skin made a scowl even more ominous, and the whites of his eyes gleamed.

"I'm sure you've seen Vice-President Hoynes before this, if only on the news." The Vice-President likewise did not move, actually appearing more dangerous than the one man who outranked him. "The Twenty-fifth Amendment has tossed him rather abruptly into the shark-infested deep end of federal politics. But with his help, at least the government isn't going to suffer from our little mix-up Friday."

Was that true? Conflict between the man in power and the runner-up to that power could happen anywhere. Even here. Still, the President seemed to mean every word.

"Leo McGarry, my Chief of Staff and my oldest friend. And after all these years he still can't trust me not to get into trouble of *some* kind."

Leo didn't smile, regardless of his boss's efforts in that regard. He looked the most senior person here by a year or two, and was doing a great impression of a wrathful patriarch.

"The rest of my staff has been no less upset with me, I can tell you. They take their jobs pretty seriously. Oh, I advise them not to let their loyalties run wild, but sometimes they just won't listen to me."

The five senior staff members remained silent and cold. The President looked at each warmly, the prisoner in growing panic. Josh Lyman's brows and mouth each formed a straight, angry line. Toby Ziegler glared down his nose, head tilted back like a disapproving taskmaster. CJ Cregg glowered under her auburn bangs, head tilted forward like a charging rhino. Sam Seaborn's dark eyes were narrow laser beams of pure intensity. Mandy Hampton wore a faint smirk, as though envisioning the punishment to come.

Apparently The Man didn't intend to bear a grudge personally... but if this were left up to his closest employees there would be blood to pay yet.

"And there's one more that couldn't make it here today: Kevin Duane, the Secret Service agent who was riding with me. He's still in the hospital, and he won't be out anytime soon." The President hesitated, and there was no levity in his voice now. "I still can't get over it - he threw himself right in front of me when he saw you coming. I really wish he hadn't done that; the poor guy was smashed up to a terrible degree."

The prisoner cringed.

"People keep saying that's what he was paid to do, but I just can't make myself feel that way about it. In any event, he's earned the highest honor I can give, although that's not much compensation for a broken back."

Several people nodded their whole-hearted agreement. Even if the President made a complete recovery, they'd still have reason to demand full justice.

"Hey, Stan, maybe you can drop in on him later, huh? When he's up to receiving visitors. I plan to see him myself. I think it'd be good for both of us."

That was a request, not a command - but how could anyone think of refusing? "I-I will." Stammering badly, the prisoner struggled for some self-control, for words to accurately convey his utter remorse. "Sir, you'll never know how sorry I am..."

"Well, you'll know not to try that kind of stunt again, right?"

This time he gave a somewhat clumsy bow, as though offering his neck to the executioner's ax right here. "Never again, sir. You've got my word: I'll never touch another drop."

Unnoticed by almost everyone, the Chief of Staff looked down. Very grateful that he himself hadn't learned to quit *this* way.

The President glanced in that direction; he *had* noticed.

His smile proclaimed that the issue had been settled to his satisfaction. "Well, after a pledge of allegiance like that, what more need be said?"

No one challenged his statement verbally, although the other attitudes present did not yet include forgiveness.

Abbey shifted her supportive hand from her husband's shoulder to his arm, a motion so natural that it registered on no one else.

"Now if we could only get that point across to more - " And the President abruptly started to cough.

Every other spine went rigid. The sound was not quite as harsh as yesterday's, and seemed to cost slightly less in physical effort, but listening helplessly to it still pierced the heart. His wife and daughter steadied him as much as possible; however, little could be done except wait until he was through. Which they all did, with winces of concern.

The anguish of the prisoner himself could not have been faked. He flinched at each cough as though they represented the blows from a whip.

The President rallied quickly enough, to giant collective relief. Pressed a hand to his chest, as if that would restrain the next spell from breaking forth. Managed a few deep, uninterrupted breaths, and finally straightened with a sigh.

"*Don't* say it," he ordered defiantly. "I'm fine, and getting better."

To wholesale surprise, it was the prisoner who disobeyed.

"My stupid carelessness has caused *all* of this."

Every head yanked back; almost every face switched from empathy to fury.

The President raised a hand. "Don't dwell on it, Stan. That won't do either of us any good." He smiled anew in total unconcern. "Besides, I'm determined to prove that my doctors are just too pessimistic. And I can't wait to get back in the saddle. These folks will tell you that I don't *take* orders that well sometimes."

A few brief grins endorsed this.

Then seriousness re-established itself, and the President leaned forward a bit. "You realize that I can't protect you from the legal ramifications of all this."

The prisoner hung his head. He deserved no quarter in the slightest.

"Still, I'll help as much as I can." Now that was a generous offer indeed, coming from the resident of the Oval Office *and* the victim in this particular court case. "It'll send a stronger public message against drunk driving than if I let my people here seek summary retribution themselves."

That might have been intended as a joke, but the expressions of those six staffers were still concentrated and menacing.

The President settled back in his seat. "So what exactly happened out there, anyway? Call it morbid curiosity if you like, but your perspective would've been better than mine."

The prisoner gazed down at him. And, slowly, allowed the dreadful images to return to the surface of his tormented memory.

"I - really don't know, sir. Most of it's just a blur. I was feeling fine. Not drunk at all. Driving along... everything seemed perfectly normal..."

<< The streetlights flashing by, the radio playing... >>

"And then ahead of me I saw a green *and* a red traffic light. Or so I thought. And I still don't know why, but I just completely freaked out."

<< The swerve of lost control; sudden, sobering panic... >>

"I tried to recover - I tried to brake - and then - "

<< A long black shape directly ahead, no possibility of missing it, hands thrown up to block out the sight of death's approach... >>

Silence permeated, not diluting the moment.

The President spoke first, softly, with a solemn nod. "I will say this: it was an extraordinary experience. Although I sure wouldn't wish it on anyone else."

<< Boring headlights, cold realization, teeth clenched against inevitable disaster, a human form diving in front, screeching rubber, shattering glass... blackness... >>

"It's regrettable that these kinds of things have to happen at all, and that people get hurt in the process. But at least no one was killed. We should be grateful for that small mercy."

For the moment. Duane's survival was still no sure thing.

Silence resumed, respectful of all the pain, all the horror, all the worry that had been endured by everyone.

"Now I have a favor to ask you, Stan."

The prisoner's head came up. Might this be his first step towards whatever reparation he could possibly make?

"Yes, SIR. Name it!"

The President held his eyes, searching for the strength within.

"I don't know what kind of a sentence you can expect. But I do want you to deal with it the best way you possibly can." Pause. "And one thing that might help would be to tell your side of this. You're already a celebrity; you might as well go public for the right reasons. You could be quite a strong advocate of what can happen - and what can be prevented."

Several seconds ticked by while this message sank in. And then the prisoner's face cleared. Awkwardly, as though he'd forgotten how, he drew himself up with some vestige of pride.

"I will. I swear to you, sir, I will."

Now the President smiled broadly. "Sounds like a deal."

At his word of approval, nothing more needed be said. The tension did not dissipate completely, but it dropped to a much more tolerable level.

Time to loosen up a bit. "By the way, I want to compliment you on your aim. If you had to hit *something*, at least it was one of those small-scale tanks. Any other car in the motorcade - or, for that matter, in the city - wouldn't have had a chance."

And all present noted that clear concern for his staff *and* his fellow citizens.

"And you should be particularly grateful that you ran into me. It could have easily been someone important."

This time the laughter couldn't be denied. Even the prisoner, to his amazement, found himself chuckling along.

The President did *not* laugh. "I'm serious! *Every* other American life is more valuable than mine. That's the whole point to being a public servant... especially the public servant that holds court in this room."

Now that message had many layers. The Vice-President fidgeted just a bit.

The President gave no sign of noticing *that*.

"So! No hard feelings, okay?" And he extended his right hand.

The prisoner could not believe this. He didn't deserve any kind of personal forgiveness. It took him perhaps three long heartbeats to actually accept it, and reach out himself.

He could barely whisper, blinking rapidly, as moved as though he'd been handed back his entire life. "*Thank you*, sir."

Their grip bridged a much greater division than mere social status and even legal due process. It signified the end to a saga of both anxiety and vindictiveness. In a real sense, it was a pledge of unification.

Their Chief Executive nodded. "Fine. I hereby decree that all hatchets are buried for good." Which meant that everyone else was to forget about nursing resentments as well.

Several people shuffled their feet. Obeying this order would not be easy - but the boss had spoken.

"All right, enough formality for one day. Come on, gang; back to work." The President straightened himself as best he could, almost visibly resuming the mantle of his office. "We have to do a thing next door. I've kept the nation waiting long enough." And he looked directly at his guest. "Stan, I'd like you to be there as well, if you're up to it."

Like he'd turn down his Commander-in-Chief on *anything* now. Even standing before the hard public eye would not be too much to ask.

Side by side, one walking and one riding, trailed by seven employees, two family members, one official substitute and half a dozen bodyguards, the President and the prisoner exited the Oval Office... and entered a barrage of camera flashes, cheers and applause shared by the White House Staff, the White House Press Corps, the American people, and the world.

*****

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16

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