Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography (32 page)

The West Wing
won fans in all stations of life, but none more so than our real-life counterparts. The cast was invited to the White House numerous times. On our first visit, I’m standing near Wolf Blitzer of CNN as we clear security at the northeast gate of the White House.

“Hey, Sam Seaborn!” says Wolf, and even the Secret Service guys laugh.

After confirming that I have no felonies or arrest warrants and pose no threat to the government—and making me apologize for crimes against humanity perpetrated by some of my less-than-stellar performances—I am cleared to enter.

Along with a small delegation from the show, we have taken a break from shooting to receive a special West Wing tour. We enter through the door at the top of the driveway, just past “Pebble Beach,” where the TV reporters do their live shots. It looks no different from the door I enter at Warner Bros. We pass through hallways that are much smaller and much less crowded than those on our show. And not one person in the building is walking and talking as fast as we do. (I’m told that when staffers catch themselves doing this today in the Obama administration, they high-five and say, “We just ‘West Winged.’”)

So I find myself standing with Aaron in an extraordinarily well-appointed office, as Sorkin is pitched potential new story lines.

“You know what you should do, lemme tell you what you should do, you oughtta write a story about how these young kids come up here to serve and then just get shit-boxed by the press when they don’t expect it,” says the forty-second president of the United States, leaning against the “Resolute” desk. “I mean some of ’em just have
no clue
about how tough it can get.”

It is by now a terrific cliché to say that President Clinton is the most charismatic man you will ever meet, but it doesn’t make it any less true. He is warm, funny, down-to-earth, interested in people of all stripes, and can speak chapter and verse on the minutiae of policy as well as any character Aaron Sorkin ever dreamed of. He could probably have been a television staff writer as well, had things played out differently.

I am awestruck to be in this sanctum and to be greeted as if my being there is the most natural thing in the world. Aaron and I try to focus on this surreal meeting in the Oval Office, but I’m having such an out-of-body experience that the president’s voice is sounding like that of the teacher in the
Peanuts
cartoons.

I’m jolted back to reality when one of the marines in full dress motions for me.

“The national security advisor would like to see you in his office,” he whispers, with import.

Before I know it, I’m hustled out of the Oval.

“Why don’t you come by and watch my State of the Union here in the East Room,” offers the president.

“Thank you, sir. That would be amazing,” I answer as I’m shown the door.

Sandy Berger, the national security advisor, is standing in his giant corner office, waiting for me. And he doesn’t look happy.

“Why is there no national security advisor on
The West Wing
?” growls Berger.

“Um. Well, sir, I don’t really know. I’m sure at some point there will be one,” I manage, hoping this guy can’t have me audited.

“I’m just kiddin’ ya,” he says, breaking into a wide smile. “I
love
the show. We all watch it around here. Everyone says, ‘I’m Leo, I’m C.J., I’m Sam,’ and it pisses me off ’cause I’m nobody!” We talk for a while as if we are killing time on the golf course instead of eating up clock on a business day in the world’s most important office complex.

Everyone I meet in the real-life West Wing is smart, warm, and there to make a difference, and this will prove to be true through the George W. Bush era and into the current administration. Republican or Democrat, it is my experience that with a few exceptions, the men and women who serve us in Washington work almost unbearably hard and have the best intentions. It’s easy to knock the shit out of politicians from the sidelines. I do it myself sometimes, but overall, barring the crazy partisan commandos, when
The West Wing
made public service look cool, fun, and something to be held in esteem, we got it right.

Some of my most treasured memories of this era are of my boys chasing Socks, the White House cat, through the basement of the White House, dragging the briefcase with nuclear coordinates, or “football,” as it’s called, across the South Lawn as the naval guard watched, laughing (this was pre 9-11), or having President Clinton advising me father to father.

“It makes me sad that one day my kids will stop wanting to cuddle, one day those great hugs will be gone,” I tell the president during one visit.

“If you raise ’em right, it’ll never stop,” he says, proudly showing me a photo on his desk. It’s a recent photo of him and Chelsea snuggling on a couch. Again
The West Wing
got it right. Presidents are fathers, just like the rest of us.

Saying good-bye on that particular visit, the staff wants a picture. We all pose, crowded into Betty Currie’s office, just off the Oval. It’s me, Chief of Staff John Podesta, and the gang of young kids who make the place really run.

“Wait. Wait. Whatya doin’? Let me get in there!” comes the familiar southern drawl, as the most important man in the world tries to fight his way into the photo.

On my last visit to the Clinton White House, I’m standing on the South Lawn with Sheryl and the boys talking to the president before he hops onto Marine One. My youngest son, Johnowen, is holding his stuffed frog, Gwee Gwee, which he never lets out of his sight, under any circumstances. It has been his security blanket since he was an infant. But now, he takes it out of his mouth and hands his old, tattered frog to the president.

“Well, look at this!” says the president. “Is this for me?” he asks.

Johnowen nods shyly. “For you,” he says in a small voice.

Sheryl and I look at each other in shock.

“Wow, Johnowen!” exclaims Matthew.

“Well, thank you, young man. I bet you didn’t know, but I collect frogs. Have since I was a boy like you. ’Cause my daddy used to tell me: ‘Son, a frog never knows how far it can jump until it’s kicked,’” says the president. “I’ll keep him nice and safe. You can come visit him at the Clinton Library someday.”

He turns to board the sparkling marine chopper. He holds Gwee Gwee in one hand and salutes the marine guard with the other. The door closes and the rotors go up full throttle. At liftoff, the big helicopter does a slow turn, its tail turning toward those of us standing on the lawn. Sunlight glints across the fuselage illuminating the words: United States of America.

CHAPTER
20

On the last day of August 2001, I board my usual return flight from D.C. on American Airlines Flight 77 out of Dulles International. I’ve flown with this crew before and we chat, talking about D.C. gossip and our families. After a while I take my nap, and when it’s time to land, I am awakened with a waiting coffee. Leaving the plane, I tell the gang I’ll see them next time. But I won’t.

Eleven days later, on September 11, American Airlines Flight 77 is flown into the Pentagon.

Like everyone, I grieve for the innocent victims of this hateful, cowardly mass murder. I try not to think of the horror the passengers and my friends on the crew must have endured. As I have many times in my life, I also marvel at the hand of fate. What if I had been shooting in D.C. eleven days later?

In late 2005, I receive a letter with the return address of the U.S. Attorney General’s Office in the state of Maryland. Inside is a request for me to contact them at my earliest convenience to set up a face-to-face meeting concerning Zacarias Moussaoui, who is being held as “the twentieth hijacker” in the 9-11 attacks.

I wish it were a joke, but I know it’s not. I call my longtime lawyer, Larry Stein.

“What the hell is this?” I ask.

“Let me get back to you. I’ll call them right away,” says Larry, his voice tight.

Within hours he has a horrifying update.

“You are on Moussaoui’s list to be deposed,” he informs me.

“Whaaaaat!”

“Yes,” he says, incredulous himself.

“Were you on an American Airlines flight right before September eleventh?” Larry asks.

“Yes. On August thirty-first, why?”

“Rob. They were all with you. Your flight was the dry run.”

I try to comprehend what my lawyer is telling me, but it’s too unreal, like an episode of
The Twilight Zone
.

“The hijackers flew with me? I was sitting with them?” I say, shocked and sickened.

“Yeah. The Feds have the flight manifest.”

We are both quiet for a moment, before he continues.

“Look, Moussaoui is crazy, he’s spouting off and wants to depose you, no one knows why. The Feds want you so they can see what you know before you talk to this guy’s public defender.”

“Okay. Okay,” I say, trying to make sense of this insanity. “Number one: If that fucking mass murderer wants to talk to me, he’ll have to get a court order and then I’m not saying shit. And two: Tell the boys at Justice I’ll be there for them any day, anytime.”

But in the end it would all be moot, as Moussaoui fires his lawyer and defends himself. Somewhere along the way his interest in me waned; I never heard another peep. And clearly the Feds needed no help; they put him away for life without parole.

I wouldn’t have been able to provide much new information anyhow. I remember the flight clearly. Sitting in the smaller version of a first-class cabin, three of them would have been seated within feet of me, maybe even next to me. But I will never know, because here is the horrible truth: No one that day looked like a “terrorist.” They looked like typical polo shirt–sporting, headphone-wearing, surprisingly young-looking men you might see anywhere. They looked like us.

On September 20, 2001, President Bush addressed a stunned nation before a packed joint session of Congress.

“The course of this conflict is not known, yet its outcome is certain. Freedom and fear, justice and cruelty have always been at war and we know that God is not neutral between them,” said the president, in what is surely the most important and moving speech of his two terms.

A week later I receive a happier surprise in the mail. This time the return address says simply: The White House. Inside the large manila envelope is the embossed program given to those in attendance in the chamber that day at the Capitol. It contains the historic speech in its entirety. On the front cover, I discover it is signed to me from the president himself. And below his signature is this, from head White House speechwriter, Mike Gerson: “To Sam—could you do this?”

*   *   *

With the massive critical and commercial success of
The West Wing
, it is clear that the show is big business. And so, my fellow cast members begin meeting in secret to plot an early renegotiation strategy. They don’t include Martin because he got his monster deal before season one started, and they don’t include me. I only find out because dear John Spencer can’t face me, knowing that I’m the only actor uninvited and in the dark.

As is custom in that type of negotiation, there are threats of not showing up for work and counterthreats by the studio. The production pushes the beginning of the 2001 season back a day or two rather than take a chance the “West Wing 4,” as they are now known in the press, would be no-shows. I watch this all from the sidelines with curiosity. Within days they all get the raises they asked for.

“Good for them!” says Bernie Brillstein. “Now you’re the only one not taken care of.
Now
it’s our turn.”

This is why I love Bernie. He works on deals. I work on playing my character.

On the set, my cast mates are giddy. For most of them this is the apex of a long time working at their craft. They’re great at it and now they’ve been rewarded. When they see me coming they keep it on the down low, but when they don’t know I’m watching, I see the high fives. I congratulate them and focus on the upcoming season, which promises to be grueling.

In the middle of season two, Aaron writes my favorite episode of
The West Wing
. “Someone’s Going to Emergency, Someone’s Going to Jail” will end up being the only script in which my character has the main story line. It will earn me my only Emmy nomination for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Drama Series. I urge Aaron to write more for Sam based on the reaction to this episode. “I’m only as good as you make me. But give Sam Seaborn some meat, and I will get into the end zone for us every time,” I say. But Aaron has many other actors to write for and has even added more, like the outstanding Mary-Louise Parker and Marlee Matlin. I hope that maybe they could work for, or be love interests of Sam (who never had a gal in all my four years), but they go to the character of Josh Lyman instead. I do end up shooting one scene with Mary-Louise Parker on my very last episode, a fun look at what might have been.

*   *   *

“Hello, I’m Brian Williams,” says the handsome MSNBC anchor as he stands in the Roosevelt Room set. “I brought my wife and kids to listen to the read-through of the script today. We are obsessed with the show!”

“Great to meet you. I watch you, too!” I say, shaking his hand. (I never got tired of discovering the diverse assortment of
Wing
-nuts. You never knew who they’d be or where you’d find them.)

The Williams family takes a seat in the corner of the set while the cast gathers around the large Roosevelt Room table as we always do to read each episode aloud. Aaron sits at the head like the nickname I’ve given him: “the maestro.” I sit by my buddy Dulé Hill, whose on-set tap-dance solos during moments of boredom keep both of us from losing our minds. We begin the read-through.

Like many of our scripts, there is a main story that has the dramatic weight and a lesser story with more humor. This story concerns the beloved secretary to the president, Mrs. Landingham, played by Kathryn Joosten, getting a new car. It’s sweet and very funny. The room is laughing, and I can see that Brian Williams and his family are as well.

At the end of the script is a scene where Dulé, who plays Charlie Young, answers the phone in Mrs. Landingham’s office. She has just left in her new car. It’s Leo on the line. He says there’s been an accident on Eighteenth and Potomac. It’s Mrs. Landingham. Charlie asks if she’s okay.

John Spencer, who plays Leo, hesitates. Seeing this, I look down at his next line in the script. In shock, I turn to John, who now has tears streaming down his face. He won’t say his line. He turns to the head of the table, to Aaron.

“Is this
real
?” he asks.

Sorkin nods.

John stares at him a moment longer. Then he looks down and, in a shaky voice, answers: “Charlie. Mrs. Landingham was killed.”

We never see the scripts until we read them aloud, so the shock in the room is utter and complete. The Williams family, seconds ago laughing and enjoying this so much, are ashen. None of us saw this coming.

Later, Kathryn Joosten tells me that she had been told this story line was a possibility (she would go on to many other roles, including in the massive hit
Desperate Housewives
).

“Ah, Rob, it happens,” she tells me. “It’s been great, but it’s always better to leave too early than stay too late.”

Bernie Brillstein is getting nowhere with my bosses on
The West Wing
. For three straight seasons, the show has been the biggest thing on the network, an acclaim magnet not seen in the history of television. It’s been almost a year since the rest of the cast received their well-earned reward for their contributions. And now Martin is renegotiating for the second time. It is reported that he may make nearly a quarter of a million dollars an episode. Bernie asks that I receive the same raise as my costars. We don’t ask for “Martin money”—he’s the president after all. I am refused.

Bernie can do no more. “John Wells says you are being paid exactly what you should be. There will be no raise for you. I’m sorry, kid,” he says.

Finally I begin to see what is, as opposed to what I would like to see. It is clear to me now that I have had an unrealistic expectation that I would participate financially in the show’s success. I know I am at a crossroads, with only two options: stay put or move forward. And if I am to move forward, it will require me to make a very difficult choice.

I’m contemplating this at the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown, where I’ve traveled to location and to shoot a
TV Guide
cover with Martin in front of the White House.

Sheryl has made the trip with me—she has been my rock and sounding board as I try to work my way to a path forward.

Kathy Kelly Brown is the head of publicity on
The West Wing
. She’s smart, funny, and good at her job. Now she’s knocking at my door. I open it, dressed for the
TV Guide
shoot. Seeing me, her face falls. She looks at her feet.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She looks at me standing in my Sam Seaborn crisp white shirt and blue tie.

“I can’t believe they didn’t tell you,” she says quietly. “Martin shot the cover an hour ago. With John Spencer instead of you.”

Back in Los Angeles I have a meeting with Aaron about my future on the show. He’s always been straight with me and I with him. I tell him: “I know that Sam Seaborn is the part of a lifetime. I love this part unlike anything I’ve ever encountered. But I think it’s bullshit that I’m the only actor on the show who hasn’t been given even a penny raise. But I want to stay if we can grow this part creatively. If there is no financial future, let’s make a creative future.”

But Aaron has many plates in the air, and he is clearly caught in the middle. (In fact, he will leave
The West Wing
in its fourth season as well.) When our meeting ends without any plan, I know it is time to move on.

I had been an alcoholic for an important portion of my life. During that time I had hidden from conflict, fearful of not being liked, worried about how I would be thought of. But I was sober now for almost fourteen years. I was not the little boy back in Ohio in the lumberyard who said what he felt and got emotionally sideswiped for his efforts. I was not the overwhelmed twenty-year-old “sensation” who found it so much less painful to just say yes than to say no, even when I knew I should. I was also not a boy, without any real advisors, making it up as best I could. I was none of those things. Not anymore.

So I came to the realization: Nothing in life is unfair. It’s just life. To the extent that I had any inner turmoil, I had only myself to blame. I also thought of my two boys and what kind of example I hoped to be. I would always want them to take charge of their own futures and not be paralyzed by the comfort and certainty of the status quo or be cowed by the judgment of those on the outside looking in.

But how could I ask that of Matthew and Johnowen if I couldn’t ask it of myself?

I left
The West Wing
after four seasons and some eighty-plus episodes. It was one of the highlights of my career and I have zero regrets. To fly down those White House hallways, hitting that brilliant rapid-fire dialogue with such unbelievably talented collaborators, was pure joy.

The passion of the show’s fans continues to amaze and humble me, even today. I recently took Johnowen’s class for a weekend tour of the real West Wing. The entire speechwriting staff came in on their day off to greet Sam Seaborn.

The level of love
The West Wing
inspires makes it a show for the ages. And I believe it will go down as maybe the best ever. I’m proud to have contributed to those record-setting first four years.