Vice President Swinburne seemed more subdued as he stood and smoothed the line of his suit coat. It was amazing, Ben thought, how the merest suggestion of a courtroom, even when the participants hadn’t altered their location, altered people’s behavior. Civilized them, in a way. At least until the accusations and objections started flying. “The prosecution calls the president’s doctor, Dr. Henry Albertson.” Dr. Albertson stood, his hands extended. “What do I do?” Ben pointed to a vacant chair next to Sarie. “Let’s make that the witness stand.”

Albertson took the chair as directed.

“Since we don’t have a bailiff,” Admiral Cartwright said, “I hope no one will object if I administer the oath.” No one objected. “Let me just point out that even though I don’t have a Bible, this oath is still binding, and anyone who lies under oath will be subject to the penalty for perjury, which is a federal crime.”

“I don’t tell lies,” Albertson said. “And I don’t reckon I’ll start now.”

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do.”

“Please take your chair. Mr. Prosecutor, you may proceed.”

To save time, Cartwright announced that all witnesses could describe their backgrounds in brief narrative form, rather then through the usual question-and-answer process. Ben learned much that he had not known about Dr. Albertson: Dr. Albertson and President Kyler had known each other since they were college roommates at Yale, he had been named the national doctor of the year twelve years before, he was a widower, and he kept a cocker spaniel named Pierre.

“Have you had a chance to observe the president recently?” Swinburne asked.

“Of course. I see him almost every day.”

“Does he have any health problems or conditions of which you are aware?”

The doctor hesitated before answering. Ben saw him glance at the president.

“The witness will answer the question,” Cartwright said.

“It’s all right, Henry,” the president said softly. “You’re under oath.”

“Yes,” Swinburne echoed, “you are under oath, so tell the truth. The complete truth.”

“I understand my oath,” Albertson said, “and I don’t need lessons on telling the truth from you. But I’m this man’s doctor, understand? He’s my patient. My only patient at present. That means we have a privileged relationship, and I’m honor-bound to keep his confidences and medical condition private.”

“He’s right,” Cartwright explained. “He can claim privilege. In fact, I think he has to.” Cartwright paused. “But the patient always has the option to waive privilege.”

“I waive it,” the president said without hesitation.

“That doesn’t mean I have to say anything,” Albertson said.

“No,” Cartwright agreed, “it doesn’t. But may I remind you of the magnitude of the stakes here? Literally the leadership of a nation. And may I also remind you that we are very pressed for time?”

Dr. Albertson tightened his lips, glanced at the president again, and finally nodded. “Just as you say, then. I’ll answer the question.” He looked at the vice president. “Yes, I am aware of a few health issues. Nothing that should impact the performance of his duties.”

“Could you please tell us what those conditions are?”

“For the past few weeks, the president has experienced what I would call a mild form of asthma. Just a little trouble breathing.”

“Has he ever experienced this before?”

“Not to this degree. He’s always been a bit of a wheezer. Lots of allergies. But nothing like this.”

“What, in your medical opinion, could bring on asthma attacks at this stage in his life?” Swinburne asked.

“Well, the obvious answer would be stress. There are lots of stressful jobs out there, but nothing like being president of the United States. He’s the leader of the free world, for Pete’s sake. Everyone is watching him. Everyone is either counting on him or waiting for him to make a mistake. You try making policy in a pressure cooker and see if you don’t wheeze a bit.”

“We’re all familiar with the strain of public office.”

“With respect, sir, no one is familiar with the strain of being the president unless they’ve experienced it firsthand. Not even the vice president.”

Swinburne made a grumbling noise but added nothing.

“He’s only been in office a few months,” Dr. Albertson continued, “but he’s had to move, to meet hundreds of people, to totally alter his way of life. He’s had to change his traditional habits-had to break some bad habits. He’s been separated from his family for extended periods of time. Eventually the strain will show. His hair is already dramatically grayer than it was before he took office. There are new lines on his face, especially around the eyes. So it’s easy to see where his respiratory ailments might be exacerbated.”

“Have you prescribed any treatment?”

“All I’ve done is given him an inhaler. ProAir HFA. It’s a minor-league bronchial stimulant, but it seems to be sufficient to take care of the problem for now.”

Vice President Swinburne pondered a moment. “Haven’t I seen you passing him that inhaler?”

Albertson nodded. “I am the president’s doctor. Always at the ready with whatever he needs.”

“Couldn’t he carry his own inhaler?”

“We tried that, but it always seemed to end up in the same place as the man’s car keys. Lost.”

“Doctor, tell us the truth. Could this respiratory condition affect the president’s ability to reason?”

“No,” Albertson said flatly.

“Could the medication you’ve prescribed affect his ability to reason?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But if he’s unable to breathe, surely that could render him unable to function. Disabled.”

Ben winced as Swinburne used the magic word from the amendment. If the doctor agreed that the president was disabled, the trial would be over.

“No, not at any time,” Albertson insisted. “His condition would have to be significantly worse than it is at this time before I would agree that he was disabled, even for a brief period of time.”

“I see.” The vice president batted a finger against his lips. He was thinking. Ben could almost see the wheels whirring in his head. “I noticed you used the plural earlier, Doctor. You said the president had medical conditions. What are the other ones?”

Albertson’s lips thinned again. It was evident he did not want to proceed.

The president gave him a nod.

“The president,” Albertson said with a sigh, “is diabetic.”

Ben could feel the shock waves filtering through the room. Everyone stared at the doctor, surprised and incredulous. Even Agent Zimmer looked stunned, and he rarely even changed his expression.

“How can that be?” Swinburne said finally. “There was no mention of this during the campaign.”

“No. There wasn’t.”

“His medical records were revealed.”

Albertson nodded. “As with the asthma, this condition did not become evident until after he took office. He has chosen not to disclose it to the general public.”

“How did you discover this condition?”

“The president was complaining of headaches, excessive urination, constant thirst. When I heard that, I didn’t really even need an examination. That’s a textbook case of the symptoms that accompany the onset of diabetes.”

“Is this also induced by stress?”

“Well, I don’t have any science to back me up, but I sure wouldn’t be surprised. When you put a body under that kind of strain, it starts to weaken, pure and simple. Things fall apart, to quote Yeats. The body is no exception.”

“Thank you for your opinion,” Swinburne said, with a tone that did not suggest much gratitude, “but what would be the cause according to medical science?”

“It occurs when either the body does not produce enough insulin or the cells in the body ignore the insulin. It’s the product of a disordered metabolism. The result is abnormally high blood glucose levels.”