Ben spread his hands wide. “So where is the evidence that he is incapable of performing as president? Nowhere. It doesn’t exist. All day today, he has been performing his duties and managing this crisis. Sure, he hasn’t made the same decisions that Secretary Ruiz would. He hasn’t pleased the vice president, which, let’s face it, might well be impossible. But he has made decisions, and he has always been able to explain why he has taken them. Is he the first leader to refuse to back down in the face of terrorist attacks? Of course not. So why is it so controversial now? I understand that crises produce heated feelings, but this is a sober deliberative body, so we have to put those feelings aside and think clearly. The only question before us is this: has the prosecution presented any evidence that the president’s disease, his personal life, his politics, or his odd behavior has prevented him from performing his duties as president? Has Mr. Swinburne been able to produce one example of a duty unfulfilled or fulfilled incompetently? He has not. And since there is no such evidence, the constitutional standard has not been met.”

Ben took one final look into the eyes of those before him. “Being goofy is not the same as being incapable. And since there is no evidence of incapacity, the Twenty-fifth Amendment cannot be put into play. I urge you to respect the letter of the Constitution and to let the president remain in the office to which he was duly elected by the citizens of the United States.”

Ben broke eye contact and took his seat. His throat felt dry, achy. It was probably the shortest closing argument of his life-and also the hardest. He had no idea whether they would listen to him, whether they could put aside what they had seen and think logically, as he had urged, to stick to the letter of the amendment.

And at the moment, he was too tired to think about it anymore.

Worry was pointless. In a few minutes, they would all know.

“Mr. Swinburne,” Cartwright said, “you have about one minute for a rebuttal.”

“I’ll take less than that,” Swinburne said, buttoning his coat. “I just have two sentences.” He addressed the jury, gazing into the webcam. “At another time and place, we might have the luxury of doing as counsel asks, of giving the man some more rope and seeing if he hangs himself. But today, when ballistic missiles could be launched at any moment, we can’t take the risk.”

And with that, Swinburne sat down.

That rebuttal was all-time short-and probably a thousand times more effective for its brevity. Swinburne had put the jurors exactly where he wanted them: totally focused on the impending missile crisis and the potential danger of an unbalanced president calling the shots.

“All right, then,” Cartwright said. “I thank counsel for their service. And now, members of the deliberative panel, it is time to vote.”

Seamus was strapped down to a cot, his arms tied above his head, his legs tied down as well. After he was secure, they hoisted the cot sideways and mounted it against the wall. He didn’t know how it was done. He couldn’t see behind himself. Were there hooks on the wall? That would just figure. Scarface had done nothing for the décor, but he had made sure he had an efficient place to torture people.

Most of the security detail disappeared after he was hung on the wall. Apparently they thought he posed little threat at that point. His old sparring buddy, Guard One, stayed on, though, just in case.

“Hey,” Seamus said, winking. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Guard One didn’t even blink. From the looks of him, Seamus thought, he might as well have been guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

“You’re an American citizen, aren’t you? You let me go and I’ll make sure you aren’t prosecuted for treason.”

“Go to hell,” Guard One spat.

“That may happen in time,” Seamus said, “but I’d like to delay it as long as possible.”

“You’ll be there within the hour.”

“All the more reason for us to make a deal first. Tell you what, I’ll not only give you total immunity from prosecution, I’ll give you an IRS waiver, too.”

“A what?”

“An IRS waiver. Haven’t you heard of it? You can file anything you want, and the IRS will never audit you. Guaranteed. It’s like a tax-department get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“Pass. I haven’t filed a tax return for years.”

Well, that must simplify his April 15. Seamus tried again. “You know, these guys are probably promising you virgins in heaven, but I can get you the best booty in the tristate area. Who wants a virgin, anyway? Wouldn’t you rather have someone who knows what she’s doing?”

Guard One’s expression dripped with contempt. “I’m not Muslim.”

“Then what are you in this for?”

“Money. Lots of it.”

“Oh.” No wonder he was hard to bribe. Uncle Sam probably didn’t have a slush fund to match Colonel Zuko’s. “Interested in real estate? I’ve got a great place for duck hunting on the coast of-”

“Would you just shut up?” the guard said.

“Well, if you’re going to be unfriendly…”

The door opened.

Scarface stepped into the small room. He closed the door behind him.

He was carrying a tool belt. Like something Bob the Builder might carry, except with sharper edges.

“I am glad you are amusing yourself and having great fun,” he said. He walked up to Seamus until they were practically nose to nose. “Now it is time for me to have some fun.”

Arlo checked his watch again. Seamus had been gone a long time. It was possible he hadn’t been able to get inside. But if so, why hadn’t he returned to the car? It didn’t make any sense. He knew Seamus wouldn’t quit without making every effort. If he couldn’t get in right away, he’d have come back for a tire iron or something.

So he must’ve gotten inside. Why hadn’t he returned?

Could he still be looking around, taking notes? Stretching his legs?

Arlo could think of a far more likely explanation.

He couldn’t forget what Seamus had told him. The man had drilled it into his head. He said it three times: do not leave the car.

Apparently he meant it.

Arlo had the keys. He could drive away from here.

And abandon Seamus? The man who had saved his life? No. Even if he weren’t indebted to him, he wouldn’t leave him hanging out like that.

But he had promised…

So many difficult decisions. He didn’t know what to do. But he wasn’t content just to sit here doing nothing. He needed a plan of action. If this were a World of Warcraft scenario, what would his avatar do?

One thing was certain: real life was a lot harder.

Seamus didn’t know what he hated most: the fact that Scarface was invading his personal space or the fact that his breath was truly rancid.

“Why are you here?” his captor demanded.

“Well, jeez Louise,” Seamus said, “isn’t that obvious?”

Scarface slugged him hard, deep in the pit of his stomach. It hurt much more than it should have. That was because his ribs were still aching on the right side. But explaining it didn’t make it feel any better.

“Why are you here?” Scarface shouted, even louder.

“Are you kidding? You’ve hijacked a nuclear bomb and the U.S. missile system. Did you think no one would come looking for you? Every federal agent on the East Coast is looking for you.”

“How did you find us?”

Seamus didn’t see any point in lying about that, either. “I got the address from that clown you sent to the mall to pick up Harold Bemis.” That was true, more or less. “By the way, neither one of them will be showing.”

Scarface was enraged. “We need him!”

“Oh, yeah? Got a glitch in the system?”

“Your fascist government is trying to interfere.”

“You mean we’re trying to boot you out of our computers. Imagine that.”