Capitol Betrayal

by William Bernhardt

  “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.”

  Swinburne seemed to be having trouble believing the president was a closet diabetic, but then, so did everyone else in the bunker. “Is he receiving any treatment?”

  “Yes. He’s controlling the condition with a combination of diet, exercise, medications, and insulin injections.”

  “So the president is dependent upon these insulin injections to sustain his life?”

  “At the present, yes.”

  “Doesn’t that leave him… vulnerable?”

  “No more so than any of the other twenty-four million diabetics in the United States. As long as he receives his treatment, he’s fine.”

  “Is there a cure?”

  “The only real cure at this time is a pancreas transplant.”

  “Has the president considered that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will he have it done?”

  “Not while he’s in office.”

  “Why not?”

  Ben knew he could object here-Swinburne was asking one witness to explain another person’s reasoning. But the doctor apparently knew the answer, and given the time restrictions they were functioning under, Ben suspected Admiral Cartwright would not appreciate any unnecessary objections.

  “If the president were to have surgery of this nature, he would have to be rendered unconscious by anesthesia. That would mean that, for a few hours, anyway, he couldn’t govern. Therefore, under the Twenty-fifth Amendment, he would have to transfer power temporarily to the next in line.”

  “Yes? And?”

  Albertson averted his eyes. “And he said he’d turn into a pillar of salt and die before he’d turn the presidency over to you.”

  20

  10:22 A.M.

  Ben saw Admiral Cartwright cover his mouth and turn away. The judge couldn’t be seen laughing at the prosecutor, right? But it was good to know that, behind his stern exterior, Cartwright had a sense of humor.

  Swinburne threw back his shoulders. He looked mad, not that he had exactly appeared delighted before. “So the president has been hiding not one but two serious medical conditions?”

  “I wouldn’t use the word hiding. He’s chosen not to make these matters public. That’s his right.”

  “The public has a right to know the condition of the president’s health.”

  “Do they really? Why do they need to know?”

  “Well-”

  “And of course if they know, then so does everyone else. Does Colonel Zuko need to know the intimate details of the president’s health? What about the leaders of North Korea? Pakistan? Do they need to know when the president is not feeling at his best?”

  “If he’s not fit for the job,” Swinburne countered, “he should step down.”

  “Let me tell you something, mister. No one has perfect health. And even if they did, one month in this job would wreck it. Nonetheless, the president’s health is not something that should be detailed to anyone who does not have an immediate need to know. If nothing else, it’s a national security issue.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  Albertson smiled. “Well, son, that’s what you asked for.”

  “Dr. Albertson, I assume that if the president’s diabetes were not treated, or were not treated properly, he might exhibit some… odd behavior.”

  “Mental symptoms are possible,” the doctor replied. “But what you’d more likely see is a man in pain, perhaps a man in shock or even a coma.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes. And anyway, what’s the point? His diabetes has been treated. There has been no time since his diagnosis when he suffered for want of treatment.”

  “But he has been exhibiting aberrant behavior.”

  Ben felt his eyes twitch. This was where things were bound to get sticky.

  The doctor pushed himself up in his seat. “Was that a question?”

  “You witnessed the sorry spectacle of the president of the United States, just a short while ago, reacting to a crisis with the behavior of a three-year-old. Singing, laughing…”

  Albertson shrugged. “He’s the president. He can sing if he wants to sing.”

  “The theme from The Brady Bunch?”

  “If he wants.”

  “So a foreign dictator has flung one of our own missiles at a domestic target-and you think the appropriate response is to sing sitcom songs?”

  “I think different people release stress in different ways. Who cares? Whatever works.”

  “Objectively speaking, if you didn’t know the president personally and you heard that a man in his mid-fifties was behaving in this manner, what would you think?”

  Albertson tried to appear casual-not entirely convincingly. “I try not to be judgmental. I’m not a psychiatrist. Different strokes for different folks.”

  “Well, then, since the members of the cabinet who are watching on the webcam did not see this themselves, let me describe it. And then you can tell them whether I described it accurately.” Swinburne took a deep breath. “Abruptly, in the middle of a discussion regarding our response to the colonel’s threat to launch one of our missiles, the president began singing the Brady Bunch theme song. If I recall correctly, he also played the air guitar.”

  Ben observed the faces of the ten men and two women in the cabinet on the closed-circuit screen. When Swinburne mentioned singing, their expressions became somewhat quizzical. When he mentioned playing air guitar, their expressions became concerned.

  “He did that for maybe a minute,” Dr. Albertson said. “Then he stopped and-”

  Admiral Cartwright pounded on the table. “This is not a time for making speeches. The witness will restrict himself to answering questions.”

  Ben arched an eyebrow. Usually it took a judge more than ten minutes before he contracted “judgitis.”

  “The point is,” Swinburne said, turning his attention back to the witness, “for a period of at least five minutes, the president was not behaving as a capable leader. He was behaving like someone suffering from mental illness.”

  “Objection,” Ben said,
rising to his feet. “Sorry, your honor, I know time is of the essence. But that was not a question and the prosecutor is not qualified to render a medical opinion.”

  “Sustained,” Cartwright said. “Try again, Mr. Swinburne.”

  Swinburne pursed his lips. “Dr. Cartwright, did you not find the president’s behavior during this episode… disturbing?”

  Ben glanced over at his client. The president was keeping a good poker face, but he clearly did not like being talked about as if he were not there. Particularly when the subject of the conversation was his sanity.

  “As I said, he’s under a lot of stress.”

  “And it would appear he snapped under that stress!”

  “It would appear to be that he was letting off some steam, perhaps as a coping device.” He looked up at the camera. “But I did not at any time see anything that I took to be a sign of mental illness or incapacity. Never!”

  Ben hoped that this ringing declaration made an impact on the de facto jurors on the closed-circuit television, but he had a disturbing intuition they were still hung up on the reference to air guitar.

  Swinburne paused for a moment and took his chair. Ben had started to wonder if the examination was over when Swinburne said, “Dr. Albertson, isn’t it true that the president saved your life?”

  An audible murmur ran through the room, reassuring Ben that he was not the only one who did not know this story.

  More eye contact passed between the two men. They were sitting only about five feet apart, but for the moment, Ben felt as if a gulf had come between them that was immeasurably wider.

  “Yes,” Dr. Albertson said quietly. “Yes, that is true.”

  “When did this occur?”

  “When we were in college. We were at a party. A private organization. Something for those who were too cool-or too poorly connected-to be members of Skull and Bones. I’d had a few-well, more than a few. Way too many more than a few. I was up on the roof, messing around like an idiot. Like most damn fools that age, I thought I was invulnerable.”

  “What happened?”

  “Long story short, I lost my footing. Went tumbling down the roof. I would’ve been a big drunk blood splatter on the pavement-except Roland Kyler grabbed my foot and held on for dear life. I was dangling off the edge, watching my life play before my eyes. I must’ve weighed a ton. But he held on to me. Held on for almost twenty minutes, sweating and straining, his bones aching, but he never gave up, he never let go, until finally some help arrived.” Albertson paused reflectively. “These people have heard me say that President Kyler is the only reason I’m here today, and they think I mean because he appointed me White House physician. But they’re wrong. I mean that if it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be alive. I wouldn’t have gone to medical school, wouldn’t have been doctor of the year, wouldn’t have been anything. But for him.”

  “That’s a great story,” Ben said, rising, “but I don’t see the relevance.”

  “The relevance is this,” Swinburne said. “Dr. Albertson, you are totally loyal and devoted to the president, aren’t you?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  “That is why, even when he exhibits clearly disturbed behavior, you refuse to draw the obvious conclusion.”

  “That’s not true. I-”

  “What’s true is that this man could be standing on his head wearing a bunny suit and you still wouldn’t acknowledge that there was anything wrong with him!”

  “Objection!” Ben said.

  “Sustained,” Cartwright replied, but Ben knew it didn’t matter. Swinburne had made his point.

  “That’s all right, Judge,” Swinburne said. “I think I’ve established this witness’s obvious bias. It’s unfortunate that a personal friend-particularly one with a debt of gratitude-was given an important executive post, especially since it has significant ramifications. But I can’t change that now. What I can suggest is that the members of the cabinet take the witness’s bias into account and consequently disregard his medical assessment. If there’s going to be an unbiased determination as to the president’s sanity, it’s going to have to come from the cabinet.”

  Ben looked at the closed-circuit screen and saw several of the cabinet members nodding in agreement. That was not a good sign.

  Swinburne had established that the president was acting insane and that the president’s physician would never declare him insane, no matter what he did. Which meant it was a job for the vice president and the cabinet. And Ben had no doubt they would do it, and quickly-unless he gave them a reason not to.

  21

  10:28 A.M.

  Ben thought a moment about how to proceed. Normally, on cross-examination his job would be to undo whatever damage had been done to his client’s case by the witness. In this instance, however, the doctor himself hadn’t done any damage to President Kyler, at least not directly. Technically, the only person Dr. Albertson had damaged was himself-his own reputation and credibility. But Ben knew that was going to have a negative impact on President Kyler’s case. He needed to find some way to salvage Albertson’s credibility as a medical witness who believed Kyler was absolutely sane.

  “Dr. Albertson,” Ben began. This tiny room in the bunker made for an awkward ersatz courtroom. Under normal circumstances Ben had some distance from the people he was grilling, not to mention the judge. That was done for a reason. Given the raised tempers that attended most trials, it was important for the participants to have some space. Here they were practically on top of one another, breathing down one another’s necks, with no room to maneuver or escape. “Let’s start with that last bit of business first. You’ve testified that President Kyler saved your life once and you are grateful to him. The unanswered question is whether your gratitude renders you incapable of issuing a reliable medical opinion.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Well,” Ben said, playing the devil’s advocate, “that’s easy to say, but-”

  “Mr. Kincaid, I have been a doctor for almost thirty years now. I know what I’m doing.” Good. Ben had managed to raise his dander a little, which was exactly the reaction he wanted. The doctor needed to get a little feisty if he was going to salvage this mess. “I took the Hippocratic Oath. I have an obligation to the AMA. So when it comes to rendering a medical opinion, it’s just as if I were under oath-every time I do it. I give the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, no matter what. No matter who it is.”

  “So you’re saying your friendship with the president has not influenced your medical opinion.”

  “That’s exactly right. My testimony is based upon observation and constant, almost daily mini medical evaluations, plus a complete workup done not two weeks ago. There is simply no evidence of negative brain function, nor of any physical ailment, such as a stroke or brain tumor, that might affect his mental condition. The president may have unique coping mechanisms, but so what? The question here is whether he’s sane. And that question I can answer with certainty. He is.”

  Beside him, Ben could see his client sitting up a little straighter. He was glad he’d had this opportunity to rehabilitate the witness.

  “Let me ask you a few questions about the coping mechanisms you mentioned. Can you explain what you mean?”

  “Of course. We all deal with stress in different ways, some healthier than others. Some cope by drinking too much, or turning to drugs, or other alleviators. Nixon became an alcoholic in the White House. Some think Clinton became a sex addict. Those are obviously unhealthful coping mechanisms. Roland, on the other hand, likes to sing and act a little childish. So what? He isn’t hurting anyone. It’s not as if he’s on national television. And it’s a good sight better than drinking himself to death.”

  “So you see no problem with it?”

  “Why would I? He has to do something-he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s given up some of his favorite stress relievers. Why not let the man have this one harmless indulgence?”

 
“Would it be fair to say everyone has coping mechanisms?”

  “Of course. Everyone.” Albertson pointed. “Even the esteemed vice president.”

  Ben saw Swinburne sit up a little straighter in his chair. They definitely had his attention now.

  Dare he press further?

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What does the vice president do?”

  “Have you not noticed how often his hand goes into his suit coat pocket? And then his arm gets all stiff and tense. I think he’s got one of those squeeze balls, those stress relievers you buy in Hallmark stores. Either that or a big wad of Silly Putty.”

  Ben turned slightly toward the vice president, as did almost everyone in the room.

  A moment later Swinburne somewhat sheepishly reached into his pocket, then rolled a yellow squeeze ball onto the table. It looked like a tennis ball but obviously had a different, squishier consistency. The impressions of Swinburne’s fingers were still visible on it.

  “Nice work, Sherlock,” Swinburne said.

  Albertson grinned, probably for the first time since he took the witness chair. “Elementary, my dear Swinburne.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Ben said. “No more questions.” Ben felt he had done about all he could do. Most of Albertson’s testimony had been favorable. He had shored up the holes as best he could. The cabinet might still suspect that Albertson was not an impartial witness, but Ben had given them a plausible alternative explanation for the president’s behavior. He hoped that would be enough-at least for the present.

  Vice President Swinburne rose to his feet. “Judge, may I redirect?”

  Cartwright tapped a pencil against the tabletop. “May I remind you that we have a countdown ticking here?”

  “No one is more aware of that than I, Judge. The whole point of this trial is to make sure no more people die when that countdown is completed. But I do think I have something valuable to bring out.”

  “I have to object,” Ben said. “And I don’t want to protract this unnecessarily, either. But he had his direct examination and he rested. He cannot bring out new matters on redirect.”