Posse Comitatus

Previously on The West Wing: C.J. had a near-miss with the luscious mug of Agent Sunshine, which ended when he decided that making out with her might compromise him in a way other than the one they both had in mind. Charlie was asked to help find a lead secretary to replace Mrs. Landingham at long last, because if she hasn't been reanimated in the last year, it's probably not going to happen. POTUS excoriated Josh for a scheduling screwup crossing up the vote on an administration welfare bill and the Wars of the Roses benefit in New York, while Leo talked ominously about "options" on the subject of the Qumari defense minister, suspected of terrorism and on his way to town. Amy and Josh squared off over the marriage incentives contained in the welfare bill, and she unconvincingly painted herself as the sole traveler on the high road. Now, it's a Sorkin season finale, so I think it's frankly quite fair to ask: who will be eliminated tonight?

Fade up on the press room, where C.J. is on a giddy, crush-induced roll as she briefs the regulars about the evening's Shakespeare outing. The departure time, she explains, has been pushed back an hour, but other than that, everything is copacetic. She breezily apologizes to the citizens of New York for the motorcade that is now going to crush their skulls right in the middle of rush hour, but calls the delay "inevitable" -- and then scratches that and goes with "unavoidable." C.J.'s a bundle of twitchy energy as she continues to babble about the travel arrangements. She's got the press corps rolling in the aisle with hysterical laughter, although with all due respect to C.J., it's not at all clear why. They move on to the topic of the welfare bill. Asked for an update, C.J. confirms movement, but can't provide an up-to-date vote count. "It's close," she allows. How close? "Look at the color of Josh Lyman's hair," she suggests. Ah, yes. Josh Lyman. The guy who actually has to get the damn bills passed while everybody else goes to the prom. C.J. banters about the importance of the welfare bill, banters about whether Bartlet will meet with Ritchie in New York, and starts to exit the podium, still smiling in a carefree sort of way that's perfectly lovely, but doesn't really seem like her. Just as she's about to go, she's asked to explain the hour-long delay in POTUS's departure. She whips open her schedule, runs a well-manicured but short fingernail down the page until she finds what she needs, and tells the room that the President has a meeting with Qumari Defense Minister Abdul Shareef.

Credits. It would be a lot easier to see all the nice pictures in the credit sequence if they would move that big flag that keeps getting in front of the camera.

Commercials. There's something about Billy Campbell menacing Jennifer Lopez that is so deeply wrong it makes my eyelid twitch.

In the situation room, Leo is having a chat with Fitz and friends about the meeting with Shareef. Having POTUS meet an apparent terrorist in the Oval Office strikes Leo as rather a bad idea, and he seems to have assumed the meeting would be cancelled. Fitz says they can't cancel the meeting, because it would be much too obvious, and Shareef will "have somebody tasting his food for a month." Leo really needs to get sneakier if he's going to get serious about killing people. Leo tells the assembled national security types that his concern is that, if the President actually meets Shareef, he'll be reminded that he's dealing with an actual human being, and this will deter Jed from participating in the political assassination Leo is trying to convince him to undertake. To illustrate, Leo tells the story of how his daughter names the lobsters in the tank at a seafood restaurant, hoping this will keep Leo from eating them. As cute of a parallel as that is, it strikes me that if you're going to do something as grave as kill a person, you probably owe it to yourself to face all of the moral issues that are involved, and some of them inevitably revolve around the fact that you are, in fact, killing a person.

Anyway, Jed strolls into the meeting at this point, bringing everyone to their feet. When they're all seated again, he's told that they need to tell him about the rules. "There are rules?" he asks with mild surprise. It turns out that there are. The President, in this case, has to know everything before they act: "This isn't a situation where you need to know as little as possible. The law requires that you know everything." "Doesn't the law also require that I not assassinate someone?" Jed asks, reasonably enough, in his most professorial tone. It is pointed out to Jed that this is true -- political assassinations are banned under two executive orders. Jed points out that he actually issued one of them. (Gerald Ford issued the best-known one in 1976, following a string of embarrassing disclosures about American involvement in various political assassinations or assassination attempts. There's talk these days of rescinding it.) Leo counters that an executive order comes from the President, and that the President can ignore it if he chooses to. Well, maybe technically, but you'd think there might be a bit of hypocrisy in it. It would be one thing for him to ignore an executive order in doing something everyone could see and judge for themselves, but it seems like it's entirely another to publicly condemn (and take credit for publicly condemning) that which you then choose to pursue in secret.

Jed's issue, though, is pragmatic. If he goes along with this, what will they do? Will Fitz walk up and shoot Shareef? Fitz explains that "it can't be military," because of the Posse Comitatus Act, which says that the military isn't allowed to participate in civilian law enforcement. Incidentally, unlike most federal statutes, this one can actually be read without a magnifying glass, a translator, and a bottle of No-Doz. It says: "Whosoever, except in cases and under circumstances expressly authorized by the Constitution or Act of Congress, willfully uses any part of the Army or Air Force as a posse comitatus or otherwise to execute the laws shall be fined under this title or imprisoned not more than two years, or both." That's 18 U.S.C. 1385, for those of you who don't have your copies of the U.S. Code handy.

Anyway, the big assassination also can't happen on American soil. "The things we choose to care about," Jed mutters. This is also the moment where, for whatever reason, POTUS starts smirking. I have no idea whose decision it was that he should smirk through this scene, but it's distracting and inappropriate in the extreme. Another guy tells him that if he decides to go forward, they have to tell the so-called "Gang of Eight" -- the majority and minority leaders in both houses of Congress, and the chair and ranking member on each body's intelligence committee. Jed asks with some exasperation why anyone cares that Shareef is in town if we can't kill him here anyway. Fitz explains that Shareef is flying back home tonight, and the pilot will be "one of our people." The plan is that the plane will have prearranged mechanical problems, and it will then land at a British airstrip in Bermuda. And then, as we all know, in Bermuda, anything goes. Just consider their shorts. Fitz has already gotten the approval from the Brits. Jed, still smirking, says that "this is the most absurd meeting [he] has ever sat in, and friends, that is saying something." He stands up to leave. As he does, he's asked whether he will be exchanging gifts with Shareef when they meet. Jed says he probably will, and they give him a pen with a recording device in it. They'd like him to pass it along. Jed throws it down on the table and tells them to put it in a box. This is going to be so poignant. Shareef is going to be all, "I gave him my diplomatic immunity, and he gave me a pen."

Josh and Amy are having breakfast in a glass-walled caf. She orders an egg-white omelet and burnt toast. Josh asks whether the burnt toast gives you cancer, and she says she's not sure, which is why she went with the egg-white omelet. She really, really needs to stop talking through her nose. Not to mention wearing that one lonely facial expression. That flat, sarcastic glare has just about worn out its welcome, I think it's safe to say. Maybe it's too much Botox. Josh returns to the matter at hand, which is apparently round twelve of the Great Welfare Bill Debate. He tries to explain that swing voters take welfare policy very seriously -- a notion she meets with (surprise, surprise) a flat, sarcastic glare. Josh tells Amy that they're going to pass the bill with or without her help, but she's not so sure. She thinks he's about to lose three more votes. In frustration, Josh points out that they're going to have to pass something, because welfare has to be reauthorized every six years. Amy starts to make a speech about what it means that it has to be reauthorized, but Josh cuts her off by reminding her that it includes a billion dollars in new money for child care. She, however, continues to harp on the marriage incentives, which she thinks are "terrible." Josh says that the marriage incentives aren't exactly the White House's favorite part of the bill either, but he starts in again on the need to address the concerns of independent voters. "Please say 'white men' instead of 'independent voters,'" she snots. What an absurd remark that is. As much as it may pain Amy to know it, there are actually plenty of people who might be inclined to support marriage incentives and increased work requirements who aren't white men, and it's not entirely believable to me that a knowledgeable lobbyist would even make such an ignorant comment in private. Maybe in public, as rhetoric, but when she's talking to Josh over breakfast? I don't think so. That is a flat-out bonehead pile of moldy cheese, and it's exactly the kind of thing that gives people an opening to argue that you're a mindless reactionary rather than a serious advocate, and therefore makes them stop taking you seriously -- which is why, if you're serious about things as important as the things Amy is supposed to be defending, you don't stoop to it. Ahem.

Anyway, Josh asks Amy to pull back the offensive, and promises that he'll smooth over the relationship between her folks and the White House. "Why?" she asks. "'Cause we're gonna win," he says.

Ding-dong. The doorbell rings at a house somewhere outside D.C. From inside, we see Charlie tentatively peek in the window. The door opens a little. Charlie tells "Mrs. DeLaGuardia" that he's been trying to call her, but her phone seems to be on the fritz. Hey, it's...Lily Tomlin. Mm, okay. I'll go with it for now. She tells him it's not the phone -- she's been hanging up on him. Apparently, Charlie's been calling about the president's secretary job, and she isn't interested. He wants to know why, and she slams the door. He knocks again, and she warily opens the door again, wanting to know how he found her and whether he's been digging around in her personal life. He does the opposite of putting her mind at ease by first sneering that the White House "knows where you live" and then, as she reluctantly lets him into the house, sneering about the fact that he's allowed to park wherever he wants to. You know, I normally like Charlie, but this is her house, and he's asking her for something, and he has absolutely no business giving her lip. I realize that the White House staff has a way of considering themselves entitled to special treatment in any and all circumstances, but this is a private citizen in her private home, and he needs to back the hell off. Inside, she corrects him that it's not "Mrs. DeLaGuardia" anymore, it's "Debbie Fiderer." "Fiderer"? Is that how far we've fallen? Funny names that people have trouble pronouncing? My goodness. This really was a good show once. Charlie rattles off her rsum of past executive-assistant-type jobs, and tells Debbie that he wants her to come talk to the President about replacing Mrs. Landingham. He can barely restrain his smile, so sure is he that she's suddenly going to jump up, grab her pompons, and throw herself into his car out of unrestrained eagerness to work for the often-unpleasant (and increasingly abusive to staff) Jed Bartlet. Debbie reiterates that she isn't interested, and explains that, after a brief flirtation with gambling, she's settled into a happy life as a self-employed alpaca farmer. No, really. She doesn't have time to work at the White House; she's keeping the world safe for very soft sweaters, thank you very much. Charlie is openly contemptuous of this, of course, despite the fact that he is standing in her house at the moment. He announces that he's sending a car for Debbie in ninety minutes. Because obviously, she doesn't know what she's doing in saying no. Obviously, no one would turn down this opportunity. Obviously, he knows better. Charlie has certainly learned fast during his stint in Washington. Debbie points out as Charlie's leaving that she was fired from the White House, and he tells her he knows she was.

Back at the offices, Simon is walking in with a good-looking kid, telling said kid to do something nice for his mom every day. Good advice, that. The kid asks him whether he'll be careful when he finally gets hold of the stalker. After all, as he points out, Simon is skilled, but "slow-witted." Heh. "You're not very bright, and the criminals can sense this about you," he continues. Wow, more prophetic words were never spoken, huh? I mean, can you handle the coincidence? Ohhh, I get it. That's not a coincidence. I guess they need to hit me on the head with a heavier bowling ball time -- the sixteen-pounder just isn't getting it done.

C.J. appears, and Simon snaps to attention, for some reason. He introduces her to his friend Anthony, and they send Anthony off to collect a very special White House keychain to give to his mom so that C.J. and Agent Sunshine can get a little flirting time in before the first commercial. When C.J. explains to Anthony just how special a White House keychain is, he quite reasonably asks whether, if the cops stop him, they'll think he stole it. "If the cops stop you, they're going to think you're an important person," C.J. says. Anthony is swept off to get his Very Important Tchotchke. Simon and C.J. walk into her office, and he explains that he's Anthony's Big Brother. Wow, that Simon is a pretty awesome guy. I hope nothing happens to him, now that he's got this nice shiny halo and all these angels singing "On Angels' Wings" behind him. I'd hate to have to contemplate his eulogy. C.J. changes the subject abruptly, telling him that there's no need for him to accompany her to New York, because she's going to be completely surrounded by Presidential security the entire time. Sensing that this is all a dodge related to an entirely different issue, he changes the subject just as abruptly, telling her that he can't date a "protectee." Is that a word? How very sexy. Yep. The two I can't resist are "doll" and "protectee." "Who's trying to date you?" C.J. asks, as if he is very, very deluded. "I'm not allowed to kiss a protectee," he perseveres, annoyed by her utter determination to miss the point. "Who's trying to kiss you?" she continues to fib. He says she did, she says she didn't, potato, po-tah-to, tomato, to-mah-to, let's call the whole arc off. He's coming to New York.

Cut to a bunch of roses, as Jed tells Dr. Adam Arkin that he's going to New York for a benefit performance of...well, The Wars of the Roses. GET IT? Dr. Adam Arkin hopes it's the Reader's Digest version, lest Jed be there for "weeks." Jed, smiling uncomfortably, agrees. He goes on to tell Dr. Adam Arkin that he's especially looking forward to a big musical number involving a stirring song he likes. He talks about his affection for the chorus, which says, "And victorious in war shall be glorious in peace." I am beginning to suspect that there's some sort of parallel between Jed's trip to the theater and all these Shakespearean kings and the moral quandary in which Jed finds himself. Stay tuned! Let's find out! At any rate, after a little chat about the executive insomnia, Jed launches into this week's Tortured Hypothetical, asking Dr. Adam Arkin whether there are any criminal acts that he would commit if they weren't crimes. Dr. Adam Arkin -- impatient with the fact that, once again, Jed is being ponderous but not particularly straightforward -- mentions parking tickets. Jed, on the other hand, wants to talk about Connecticut's famous anti-contraception law (dinked by the Supreme Court in Griswold v. Connecticut, for those of you keeping track of your penumbras and emanations at home), and about whether it would have been all right to violate that law, given that it was morally wrong. Wait, wait, wait -- this confuses me utterly, because I don't think that's his problem at all. Didn't Leo tell him it was an executive order, and he could ignore it? Is he thinking the ban on political assassinations is, as a general matter, unjust? Isn't the problem far more fundamental -- whether it's always wrong to kill? The parallel he's drawing seems to be all wrong. Dr. Adam Arkin would like to cut to the chase here (wouldn't we all?), and asks Jed what's up. "I can't tell you," Jed says. Dr. Adam Arkin tries to assure Jed that he can, but this time, Jed says he can't, and he leaves.

Commercials. I think I hate Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood already.

Back at the White House, Sam and Toby are meeting with a Florida congressman who's carrying water for Ritchie. Apparently, he co-sponsored the welfare bill, but now he's claiming to be a little troubled by it. In particular, he expresses concern about the increases in the work hour requirements, and what governors who are responsible for implementation of most federal welfare legislation are supposed to do if there are increases in work hour requirements and there aren't jobs available. Sam says, "I don't even understand that." Well, Sam, if you know dick about welfare policy and the current economy, you should damn well understand it. Don't even get me started on federal knuckleheads of all political persuasions passing merry-sounding policy initiatives that utterly defy actual implementation at the state level. Seriously, they could have written Sam a better line. I could have written Sam a better line. Remember the lobsters that Leo couldn't stand to eat after his daughter gave them names? They could have written Sam a better line. Toby clarifies for Sam that the policy isn't the issue, because the congressman is there as a favor to Ritchie. Right on cue, Congressman Angling-For-A-Cabinet-Position (R-FL) suggests that POTUS meet with Ritchie in New York when they're both there for the benefit. They could even walk in together. And if they meet, Congressman Suck-Up can offer the White House five votes for the welfare bill. Toby points out that the President is far too cool to walk into a room with Ritchie. He also manages to say "Governor of Florida" like it's really a rather meaningless designation. You know, if I had to choose one personal beef with this show's entire view of the political system, it would be the utter contempt with which it treats state government, like it's the junior varsity, populated with people who aren't sophisticated enough to be in the federal government. Which it isn't. I'm just saying.

Josh is meeting with the three swing votes that Amy was warning him he'd lose. They're not happy that the President is going to be out doing the theater thing while the vote is going on. Josh allows that it wasn't a brilliant piece of scheduling, not that he really needs to be reminded. The swingers are unhappy about the marriage incentives and the work requirements, and particularly about the fact that Amy is going to shave their bellies with a rusty razor in their primary contests if they vote for this bill. Josh argues the merits of the bill, but they're not hearing it. "I can't run without women," one of them says flatly. Ah, yes. I know I personally never vote without going to the Great Estrogen Retreat and consulting the sisterhood, so thank you for catering to us, in all our monolithic glory, Congressman Patronizing. Josh catches on that he's not going to get these votes back, so he takes his leave, promising them a call from the President.

In the Oval Office, Shareef -- accompanied by his bodyguards -- is presenting Jed with a gift, with the help of a translator because Jed doesn't so much speak Arabic. Friendship, blah blah blah, frankness, blah blah. Pleasantries, congratulations, give my best to your wife and the sultan, et cetera. At the close of the pleasantries, Shareef extends his hand to the President. Jed stares straight ahead. "Not in the Oval Office," he intones. He claims a rash, and gives his apologies to Shareef, who did not just recently fall off the diplomatic turnip truck and is not so much fooled by this maneuver. Long moments of awkward silence follow. Shareef takes his leave. Ooh, intense. Jed tosses the gift to Leo, at which point...

...a nice edit takes us to Sam, who hears Toby's famous bouncing ball smack the wall. Sam goes door to Toby's office, where the Bearded One is contemplating a call from the AP, which is running a quote from Log Kabin Kevin (hee). Apparently, LKK has informed the press that the President is going to meet with Ritchie in New York. Sam says the only way to respond is to come back head-on, and tell the press that Ritchie's full of it -- the President can't meet with Ritchie because he has to work on the welfare bill, because the Florida delegation is holding it up. They call in Josh, who gives the all-clear to the plan. The risk, of course, is that now they're making it a smackdown between Ritchie and Bartlet, so they need to win the vote even more than before. Josh "Job" Lyman sucks it up.

Charlie enters Jed's outer offices, meeting up with Daffy Deborah Fiderer, who reports that she calmed her nerves by taking some unspecified medication. Oh, good. Charlie leads Debbie into the Oval Office, where he introduces her to the President and goes to wait outside. She proceeds to get her own name wrong. How very confidence-inspiring. Jed asks Debbie what she's up to these days, and she tells him that heartwarming alpaca-farmer story. She also shares her history of gambling. She makes some highly uncalled-for "screwed with your pants on" comments about her exit from the White House, drops her purse, and basically behaves like a babbling, stoned idiot. Reasonably enough, the interview is over. Jed calls for Charlie and sends Debbie outside to wait. When she's gone, Jed asks Charlie the very reasonable question of what in the hell he's thinking, bringing this woman in to interview with the President. Charlie has nothing particularly helpful to say in response, and Jed tells Charlie to forget it -- he'll get Personnel to work on it, lest Charlie bring him the person he encounters who's out of work, like Richard Dreyfuss.

Charlie finds Debbie outside, and tells her that he's going to reschedule the meeting. He tells her that, time, she might try it without the pills. She doesn't seem to know that it didn't go all that well. He offers to call her a cab, and she asks about what happened to the Swingle Singers. How disturbing.

Overhead shot of the Gang of Eight, seated around a round table. This looks a lot like a Busby Berkeley movie. They should all put their hands into the middle of the table, and then look up at the camera and smile. That would be entertainment. Leo enters and greets them, and he's brought Fitz as well. He explains that the President is hereby informing them of his intention to Do A Thing, based on Some Information regarding Bad, Scary Topics. They ask about the executive order, and Leo says that POTUS is rescinding it. Well, that's good, at least. Jed should also rescind Ford's, but...no matter. (They do outlast the presidency of whoever signed them; George W. Bush rescinded a bunch of them that Clinton issued in the last few days that he was President.) One of the Gang of Eight wants to know why the FBI doesn't just take care of this while Shareef is in town. Leo points out that the FBI is investigatory, and doesn't do police actions. Why not military? "Posse Comitatus," says the always-warm Senator Lobell. "You're killing Shareef," he deduces. "I don't know," Leo answers darkly. He explains to the assembled Gang that the President will not give the order until "the last possible minute." He ends the meeting and leaves with Fitz: "I have theater tickets."

Commercials. And really, who better to tell you all about your hormones than Patti LaBelle?

New York, where plenty of emergency vehicles are on hand for the impending event. "The Wars of the Roses," reads an attractive marquee. Security personnel are briefed in a van, and then Butterfield calls Agent Sunshine aside to tell him that they have a lead on C.J.'s stalker. Take note of that, because you're about to see this show reinvent the word "cursory" as applied to plot resolutions, so you'd better suck up everything you can get. C.J., in a long black raincoat, is chatting with the press outside the theater until Simon pulls her aside. He takes her around the corner and scolds her for not waiting where he told her to. This reminds me so much of old episodes of Scarecrow and Mrs. King, I can't even tell you. He was always ordering her to wait for him somewhere, and she just never did. That crazy, incorrigible Kate Jackson was always determined to get her cardigan-clad self into some serious hot water, and it appears that C.J. is, too.

Anyway, Simon and C.J. argue about whether she should have taken the agent with her when she stepped outside. She doesn't get how he can still be nervous when she's in the middle of the President's security detail. He says he's spent all his adult life protecting people, and...well, she's making him nuts, is the point. C.J. smirks, "I'm sorry you feel that way. I think I've been a treat." Banter, argue, and so forth. "I've got to say, there are times when it seems like you like me," Simon finally says. "I do like you," she agrees. "Then you just walk off and stick it to me, and -- forget the personalities, it's just stupid." "I said I do like you," she smiles. "I meant the other way," he says, still irritated. "So did I," she clarifies gently. "I tried to kiss you." He's a trifle confused, of course, because she previously said she didn't. "I was lying, you idiot," C.J. says, suddenly suffused with romantic confidence for some unknown reason. "I was embarrassed, I fumbled it," she continues. He insists that she didn't, but reiterates that he's "not allowed," because it makes him a less effective protector if he's...well, you know. He points out that he got distracted while she was trying on dresses and missed the stalker. She likes the part about his being distracted while she tried on dresses (and honestly, who wouldn't?). He tells her she's like the girl in Driver's Ed who won't watch the gross anti-drunk-driving movie because it's gross. Eh?

Just then, Simon's cell phone rings, and he answers it -- turning his back on C.J. and walking away, incidentally, without an eye on her at all. Nice work, there, Captain Protecto. If I were a stalker and I were waiting for a shot at C.J.? I'd get it right now. C.J. follows and babbles at Simon while he's on the phone, insisting that she does take her protection seriously, until he finally turns around and asks her to take note that he's on the phone, and can she please shut up? She finally stops talking. The upshot of the phone call is that the stalker has been caught. Boom. No info, no resolution, no nothing. Stalker caught. Storyline over. Who is it? Does he know C.J.? Where did he come from? Why now? That's apparently for Sorkin to know and us not to find out. C.J. thanks Simon. She gives him the cheek smooch, which affords her proximity, and then she goes for the liplock she really wants. (Ah, an oldie but a goodie.) When they're done mashing, Simon tells C.J. she's now free to do whatever she wants, which it turns out is to meet him later for a drink. He'll see her later, after the play. Right at this spot. Later. Really. Because honestly, hasn't C.J. suffered enough? Doesn't she deserve a nice boyfriend? They part, and she walks away, smiling. A black cat crosses her path, she walks under a ladder, she breaks a mirror, she steps on a crack in the sidewalk, she spills salt, she opens her umbrella inside, and she still can't see it coming.

POTUS de-cabs in front of the theater, and waves to the crowd. The camera pans up to the marquee, and then we're inside. A frou-frou Shakespeare production is underway, complete with a big round rising chandelier that sort of reminds me of the big magic tire at the end of Cats. Up in the balcony, Sam fetches Toby for a chat outside. When they make it to the stairs, Sam tells Toby that Ritchie went to watch the Yankees instead of coming to the play. Ritchie has apparently argued that baseball is how "ordinary Americans" amuse themselves. Toby counters that there's nothing ordinary about the people at Yankee Stadium. You know, I don't know whether Toby is being purposely obtuse, but there's something awfully off-putting about a guy in a tux scoffing at the notion that baseball might offer a slightly more representative sample of the population than does a benefit that probably cost a thousand bucks a ticket. They can argue that Ritchie isn't sincere, but his point is pretty well beyond dispute. Ritchie is apparently planning on showing up at intermission, and Toby doesn't like it. "That's not how we play bridge. That's not how we say cricket," he says. "Now you're starting to freak me out a little bit," Sam says quietly. Heh. If there's one person on this show other than C.J. who I can still stand, it's probably Sam. Sam brings up a story he knows about an incumbent President who sent a motorcade to tie up traffic and prevent hostile voters from making it to the polls, and Toby sees where he's going immediately. He smacks Sam on the face. "I am so proud of you," he says. "You're really very much freaking me out," Sam replies, and walks off. Nice.

Toby gets on the phone and tells Josh they're going to send the motorcade; Josh would like to know why. Toby agrees they should think of something. He also stops to ask about the progress of the vote, and Josh says it's all fine. They're bringing Brenda (Amy's boss) on board as chair of the platform committee, so things are suddenly going just fine. Toby expresses some sympathy for the position Josh was placed in, and for the way POTUS kicked him around last week, but Josh doesn't want to talk about it. Toby reassures Josh that Amy will get another job. When Josh hangs up, Donna is standing in the doorway. She assures him that he did nothing wrong by buying off Brenda, and asks whether he really thinks Amy's job is in jeopardy. "No," he says unhappily. "She'll lose it for sure." He's going home. Donna's surprised that he's not hanging around for the vote, and he tells her they won. By eight.

Commercials. The opposite half of my brain from the half that already hates Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood would like you to know that it already hates Minority Report.

Fade up on Toby and Sam, talking to the press outside the theater during intermission. Surprise of surprises, Ritchie is stuck in traffic coming from the Yankees game, and won't make it until midway through the act. Toby suggests that he should have taken a different route. Sam launches into the big schmooze, talking about all the money that's been raised and the fact that the welfare bill is passing as they speak. They snot a bit about Ritchie's no-show, and retire inside, their work done. "I love the theater," Toby says. Heh. Honestly, though, Sam's comment, which is that "if 90% of success is showing up, we're just happy there's somebody standing up for the other ten," is a wonderful line, but delivered with such a smug expression that I honestly think it would be very ill-advised, politically. It's easy to make yourself look like a real brat, and unfortunately, I think that's how that would come off on the evening news.

Inside, Charlie falls in step beside the President. He informs Jed that he'll be arranging a second interview for Daffy Debbie Fiderer. Jed wants to know whether it's some sort of fraternity prank, because he cannot believe that Charlie is serious. "What is it with you and this woman?" he asks. "She hired me," Charlie says. "That's why she was fired." Oh, Lord. Look, Charlie, being the president's secretary is a serious job. It puts you in contact with a lot of extremely sensitive information. It requires you to handle the most delicate and tricky of delicate and tricky situations. It undoubtedly requires more impeccable and obsessive attention to detail than possibly any occupation other than professional closet reorganizer. It requires judgment and poise and the ability to keep your head. A person who doesn't know enough not to take pills before a job interview is unqualified. A person who cannot keep her wits about her enough to pronounce her own name is unqualified. A person who has so little sense of what's appropriate that she would say "screwed with your pants on" to the President is unqualified. She blew it, it's over, and it's preposterous for him to suggest that she have another interview. Moreover, if this is some kind of favor from him because he has old feelings of guilt over her firing, it's really not appropriate for him to try to pay her back in this particular way. The President asked him to find the best candidate, not use the position to pay his old debts.

Simon walks into a convenience store and picks up a Milky Way. ["And given what happens , I'm sure M&M/Mars is super-psyched about the product placement." -- Wing Chun] Simon takes it up to the counter and, just for added effect, takes some flowers. The nervous proprietor tells Simon that he should just leave. Simon looks over and sees that the cash register is open and has been cleaned out. He slowly pulls out his gun and whips around to face the guy standing a little too nonchalantly in the aisle. "Don't move at all, I'm a federal officer," Simon tells the guy. The guy thinks about reaching for his gun, but Simon tells him not to. "I'm Secret Service, you know you'll never get there." He instructs the guy to lie down face-first, which he does. You know, it's a good thing that only one guy ever robs a store at a time in the place where they trained Simon. Simon ties the guy up with his bow tie, giving him a drippingly ironic lecture about how unlucky it was that a Secret Service agent walked in on his armed robbery. Simon calls in on his wrist-phone and tells the home base that he's walked into this robbery, blah blah blah, and if you can't tell from the camera work that something very, very bad is about to happen, you have never watched television in your life. He's at 98th and Broadway, he tells them, and he needs the police. Note that Simon has not done a damn thing to even peek at the rest of the store. Simon comes up to the counter and starts to ask for his Milky Way bar again, and then he takes several bullets right to the chest from a guy who's been lurking around the corner down one of the aisles. Yeah.

You know, there's implausible, and then there's this. You're telling me that Simon -- a Secret Service agent -- knows so little about securing a location like this that after he ties up the first guy with a bow tie, he doesn't even ask the shopkeeper whether he's all right? He doesn't look around the store? He doesn't ask whether anybody was hurt? He doesn't notice that the shopkeeper doesn't speak or thank him or anything when he's got the guy tied up? He doesn't notice that the guy on the ground didn't say anything? This is not just "he was stressed out and he got sloppy" stuff. This is flatly, blatantly absurd. Ridiculous on its face. There is absolutely no way in hell, and in a situation like this, when the storytelling is this preposterous, the drama is horribly undercut. How can it really feel like a tragic death and hit the viewer in any significant way when you know full well that no one would ever, ever actually die this way? They might as well have gone with an alien abduction, which would have been about as likely. And the issue isn't that the death itself is senseless -- that's entirely different. Had Simon walked into the store and been immediately shot by a jumpy robber, that would have been senseless, but not implausible. Having him act in a way completely contrary to everything we know about his character, on the other hand, is just plain bad writing.

The shooter runs. The grocer runs over to Simon, knocking over two buckets of flowers on top of him so that he can lie dead in their midst.

Cut to the theater, where POTUS is taking in the play. He slips out, and we pan through the crowd until we reach C.J., transfixed in her seat. Butterfield appears and pulls her out, as the play continues. Now he and C.J. are in the lobby of the theater, facing each other, as Jeff Buckley's cover of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" starts to play in the background. Abruptly, C.J. takes a step back. Suddenly, we have sound. "Somebody's made a mistake. He was just on his way to the field office," she says, not even convinced of this herself. Her hand goes to her forehead, and her last attempts to speak trail off at "paperwork...." She looks out toward the street and all its flashing lights for a minute, and then excuses herself to walk out. Butterfield is left to stare at the spot on the floor where C.J. was standing.

The song plays us back to the store, where Simon's body is being photographed among the flowers, and the grocer is being interviewed. The camera flash fires, and we go back to Times Square, where C.J. is walking along the street with a stole wrapped around her. She's almost not crying, and then she whacks, shoulder-first, into a guy coming the opposite direction, and that's what finally gets her going. Very nice touch. Back to the crime-scene photographer, and when he steps aside, we see that C.J. is behind him, having made her way to the store. (From Times Square? To 98th and Broadway? In those shoes? They showed her walking, but I seriously hope she took a cab.) She sits down on a bench, puts her hand to her eyes, and cries. She keeps trying to stop, and she keeps starting up again. Head up. Head down. Allison Janney is just so wonderful -- so true, and so appealing, and so right in every move she makes -- that she can almost save this miserable, badly-written debacle, in which it now appears that the stalker plot was hatched just so that she could be protected by Simon, just so that she could fall for him, just so that he could die. At some point, it all begins to feel more than a little bit pitifully manipulative.

And I suppose it's as good a time as any to mention that I am officially and thoroughly tired of the dramatic practice of placing strong and intelligent women at risk of violence -- or exposing them to actual violence -- as a road to hooking them up with a boyfriend. Stalked, raped, and beaten within an inch of their lives, television's population of bad-ass chicks has honestly suffered enough at this point. There has to be a better way, and if you can't find it, get the hell out of the way and go write episodes of Saved By The Bell: The PhD Years, because if I have to watch one more affair between a menaced woman and a cop, bodyguard, district attorney, federal agent, or vigilante boyfriend in which she learns the true meaning of love by winding up in a body cast or having to fear she will, I'm going to start a non-profit organization whose only purpose is to make life as uncomfortable as possible for every writer, director, studio, and addlepated, creatively bankrupt pinhead who can't break the habit. Enough.

Back at the store, the focus pulls from the roses on the floor to Simon's lifeless hand as Butterfield comes to look down at him. As he kneels down, we are taken...

...back to Amy's apartment, where she and Josh are bickering about the welfare bill shenanigans. "What did you think I was gonna do?" he asks. "I thought you were gonna do this," she responds. "And?" Josh asks. "And I didn't think it was gonna work," Amy replies. Josh asks if Amy's fired, and she says she's resigning. Her credibility is shot for the moment, what with her boss undercutting her like that, so it's not all that surprising that she would go into a different line of work for a while. It's not like she won't find something to do. Even though she knows this is what Josh had to do, it doesn't stop her from whining about it: "Were you given the chance to get the votes you needed by setting up a meeting with Ritchie?" He tells her he's not a dating service. I would add that that still would have made her look pretty weak -- not as bad as the way it turned out, but not too effective. They fight some more about serious Democrats and uniting behind the President and punishing poor women and facile nonsense of all political stripes. Amy's phone rings, and she goes to answer it. He continues to yell at her while she listens to the voice on the other end. She puts the receiver to her shoulder and says, "Honey, Simon Donovan was shot and killed." Josh walks over and takes the phone.

Leo walks along the balcony of the theater. He approaches a pensive POTUS, staring over the railing. "Civilians get trials," Jed opens. Leo says that Shareef isn't a civilian. Jed tries the "it will never work" argument, claiming that it's going to be totally obvious that the guy was assassinated, and they'll wind up at war while Jed's running for re-election. Leo presses Jed on exactly what it is he's saying. "I want him tried," Jed breathes. Leo says they can't do that; Jed says he knows. Leo -- quite unadvisedly if you ask me -- hauls out his lobster-naming argument, and asks whether Jed wants to see the names of Shareef's victims. You know, Leo, you can probably assume that failing to grasp the enormity of the guy's misdeeds is not really the issue. When this doesn't quite do the job, Leo brings up "the monk who wrote, 'I don't always know the right thing to do, Lord, but I think the fact that I want to please you pleases you.'" Leo adds that Jed has two minutes to make up his mind. "This isn't a matter of religion," Jed says darkly. He explains that he understands that there's evil, and Leo wants him to explain what, then, his objection is to killing Shareef. Honestly, Leo, do you actually not know? POTUS points out that by doing this, the United States will "join the league of ordinary nations." The arrogance of the remark, of course, cannot be overstated, given that in a number of ways, we would be lucky to qualify as "ordinary" one day. On the other hand, we know that Jed is one of those guys who is so attached to his vision of his country as a "city on a hill" that he feels obliged to resist anything that might make it...for lack of a better word, common. It's arrogant, but not surprising. Leo, on the other hand, thinks assassination is a fine and patriotic act -- "I'm not going to have any trouble saying the Pledge of Allegiance tomorrow," Leo says. Uch. Finally, Jed gets to the heart of his actual objection, and it's a doozy: "It's just wrong," he finally says. "It's absolutely wrong." "I know," Leo says. "But you have to do it anyway." Jed meets his eyes. "Why?" "Because you won," Leo says.

Wait a minute. No. No, no, no. If it's wrong, then you don't do it. What Jed's conscience is doing here is telling him that killing a guy in order to stop terrorism is immoral. He's not just sensing that ordinary killing is wrong -- he knows that. He's sensing that this killing is wrong. I would also point out that I'm not a big fan of this sort of thing as a strategy, whether it's wrong or not. Creation of martyrs, abundance of successors...I'm not sure they've made the case that this is going to help. And meanwhile, you're executing a guy without trial. There's a pretty damn good argument that it's a road that only leads one way -- one of these leads to another, and pretty soon you've lost your bearings completely and you are, in every sense, an ordinary nation.

"Take him," Jed says, and walks away.

Jed winds up downstairs by the exit, lighting up a cigarette. Just as he does, an employee from the bar spots him. "Caught me," he says, making a small attempt at joviality. This gets the attention of Ritchie, who has just arrived and is heading up the stairs behind him. "Mr. President," he says, turning. Hey, it's James Brolin. Wow, he's gotten sort of George-Hamilton-ish since he married Barbra. "Governor," Jed replies. They exchange pleasantries about the play, and Ritchie mentions his traffic problems. Jed snots that "all politics aside," Ritchie has probably insulted the church, and ought to smooth it over before he leaves. God, what an arrogant prick Jed can be. Ritchie insists that he wasn't trying to insult anyone; he was just going to a baseball game. Jed walks away from him, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence. This is the governor of a state, you'll recall. Jed rethinks his position, and now that he's cut off Ritchie, he decides to make his own little speech. "The center-fielder for the New York Yankees is an accomplished classical guitarist," he lectures -- and damned if he isn't. I mean, "accomplished" may be stretching it, but he certainly plays. "People who like baseball can't like books?" he asks. ["Jed, meet Sars." -- Wing Chun] Well, yes, they can like books. Can they attend thousand-dollar theater benefits? No. What is POTUS having trouble understanding about this? There's nothing wrong with a rich-person's event, but don't kid yourself about it. Ritchie asks Bartlet whether he's taking the whole thing a little personally, which Jed denies. They adjourn to a couple of chairs.

Apropos of nothing, Jed pours out the tale of poor Agent Sunshine's demise. What exactly it is that he expects Ritchie to say isn't clear, but what Ritchie comes up with is a look of dismay, followed by a rather bewildered, "Crime. Boy, I don't know." Yes, yes, we get it. He's inarticulate and from Florida. Difficult to piece together those incredibly crafty clues to Sorkin's point here, isn't it? Jed looks ill, then leans back in his chair and puffs. "We should have a great debate," he says. He goes on to talk about how much preparation he did for debates when he was running for President and "didn't know anything." Somehow I doubt that Jed has ever behaved as if he didn't know anything, but he insists that he sat through endless briefings and discussions and tutoring and such. "You could do that," he finishes. You know, when you're in a room with a person who has no choice but to show you a modicum of respect, you can handle it two ways. You can be graceful about it, or you can throw it in the person's face. Jed went for the face, in case you missed it. He's shoving this guy around because he can, and that's genuinely beneath him -- or any President, for that matter. "How many different ways do you think you're gonna find to call me dumb?" Ritchie laughs. "I wasn't," Jed says, feigning slight disappointment that Ritchie would think such a thing. "But you've turned being unengaged into a Zenlike thing, and you shouldn't enjoy it so much is all. And if it seems at times as if I don't like you, that's the only reason why." Ritchie is, surprisingly enough, not grateful for Jed's kind advice. "You're what my friends call a superior sumbitch," he twangs. "You're an academic elitist and a snob." Check, check. "You're Hollywood [not so much], you're weak [not], you're liberal [yeah, but so what?], and you can't be trusted." Uh, about half-and-half on that last one, I'd say. "And if it appears at times as if I don't like you? Well, those are just a few of the many reasons why." I hate to say it, because Ritchie is obviously an idiot, but you deserved that one, El Presidente. The music starts in the theater. "They're playing my song," Jed says, and gets up to leave. "In the future, if you're wondering, 'Crime, boy, I don't know,' is when I decided to kick your ass." Right. Because not knowing what to say when somebody throws at you a story of someone you didn't know being killed in a situation you know nothing about is grounds for greater contempt than all the policy differences in the world. It's a great line -- a great throwaway, meaningless, unmotivated line -- but it doesn't make a hell of a lot of sense. Ritchie looks amused.

Back on stage, a kid launches a very Les Miz-esque song about the wealth of nations and the triumph of prosperity -- and, of course, as we must, we see the preparations being made for the execution of Shareef. Have you noted the irony? Please don't miss it -- it's rented, and they have to get it back to the store by nine o'clock tomorrow morning. The long and the short of it is that the song is very stirring, and the guy gets shot to death as he gets off his plane in Bermuda. Gosh, hope they were right about Shareef, don't you? You'll be happy to know they recover the recorder pen, so presumably we'll find out something at some point that was taken from it. Was he innocent? Was there a plot that they narrowly averted? Fitz passes the news to Leo on his cell phone, Leo passes it to Jed, who positions himself behind a backlit curtain in order to create a more compelling silhouette.

"And victorious in war shall be made glorious in peace." Just not today.