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secretary of state, and CIA director were scheduled for their daily briefing with him at 8:00 a.m., and he’d get a detailed overview from each of them then.
    President Wallace laid his reading glasses to the side, stretched his legs, and refilled his coffee cup. With fresh coffee he began to work through the economic reports: consumer spending, durable goods orders, unemployment data. All seemed to indicate that the economic policy his administration had implemented was performing splendidly.
    President Wallace closed the last of the manila folders and placed them in the stack for the morning file clerk to retrieve. He heard some stirring in the outer office and glanced at his watch.
    “Already six forty-five,” he mumbled to himself.
    His daily meeting with his chief of staff was scheduled for 7:00 a.m. He sipped his coffee thoughtfully. Foreign and domestic policies were certainly important, but President Wallace had something else on his mind this morning.
    There was a light knock on the door.
    “Come in,” President Wallace called, knowing his brief peace and quiet was gone for the day. He rose from his desk chair to greet Porter McIntosh as he entered the room.
    Porter emerged with his right hand thrust at President Wallace in preparation for a handshake. With his starched white shirt, red-and-blue-striped tie, and leather briefcase, Porter looked as though he were going into a courtroom rather than the Oval Office.
    “Good morning, Mr. President,” Porter said as he entered.
    “Good morning, Porter,” President Wallace replied. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
    “No, thanks. I’ve had my limit.”
    “How are the wife and kids?” President Wallace said, resuming his seat behind his desk.
    Porter sat in a wingback chair across the desk from the president and set his briefcase at his feet. “They’re doing fine, sir. Thanks for asking. I don’t get to see them often enough, but they are doing fine. And Lauren?”
    “Same here. Her schedule is almost as hectic as mine. Running the country sure is time-consuming, isn’t it, Porter?”
    “Yes, sir, it is.”
    Both chuckled softly at the understatement, but the humor didn’t last long. A difficult and stressful decision lay ahead of them, President Wallace knew. History itself would measure their actions— his actions—and the weight of that thought dissipated their smiles.
    “Sleep much last night, Porter?”
    “Not much. Probably about three hours. Yourself?”
    “Not much more.”
    President Wallace noted the creased forehead and exhaustion on Porter’s face. The presidency was beginning to take its toll on Porter, too; he had aged from the stress and strain of working in the White House. President Wallace relied on Porter. Perhaps too much , he thought, realizing this. Porter had no streaks of gray in his sandy blond hair. No additional weight was noticeable through his tailored suit. But he simply looked tired. Haggard, really. Eighteen-hour workdays and crisis after crisis were catching up with him.
    “You miss South Carolina, don’t you, Porter?”
    “I do sometimes, sir. Beaufort is a lovely place. I hope to one day return there with my family and live in one of her antebellum homes.”
    “We’ve got a lot of important things to accomplish before you can enjoy that Low Country lifestyle again.”
    “I know, sir,” Porter replied.
    “Let’s go over the two possible candidates again,” President Wallace said.
    Aware of Justice Robinson’s terminal illness, President Wallace had asked Porter to covertly begin the nomination process some three months earlier. With Justice Robinson’s memorial service being last Friday, President Wallace wanted to nominate someone to replace her within the next few days. Porter and the White House counsel’s office had begun with a list of ten jurists from around the country and had pared it down to two finalists for the president’s consideration: Fredrick Lefler, the chief judge of the U.S.