“Did anybody see you come here?” the query comes.

“That’s the fourth time I’ve been asked,” answers the impeccably dressed woman at the gate.

“We picked up that line from ‘The West Wing,’” says a presidential aide
who has fallen into line beside the anonymous visitor. “Follow me.”

“This place is more cramped than ‘The West Wing,’” she says.

“The spacious lobby you saw on their set was taken over as office space long ago,” says the aide. “Did you bring your dossier?”

“I memorized it,” says the woman, a noted professor. “Term limits, U.S. Senate. How many of us will be discussing it?”

“Just two,” says the aide, as he takes an unexpected right turn and arrives at the Oval Office. “Even I won’t be in there.”

“The professor hadn’t a clue why the White House would want to discuss
term-limits for U.S. Senators. Republicans had proposed it during their
1994 ‘Contract for America,’ but why would the president want a
briefing now?

“Come in, counselor,” greets President Bush. “Did anybody see you come here?”

Suddenly, the professor-lawyer gets it. Good cover story.

“I don’t know how to put this,” the president says. “I’ve been thinking
about a third term. You’re a leading constitutional scholar. Can I get
you some tea?”

Scotch, maybe, thinks the one-time professor. “You’re serious, Mr.
President? I’d heard rumors. Comes around every time a president
reaches his eighth year. Happened with Reagan and Clinton.”

“I need a little history lesson,” says the chief executive.

“Mr. President, term limits go way back, before the United States.
Thomas Jefferson urged Congressional term limits be included in the
Constitution. George Washington began the tradition for presidents when
he begged off a third term. He and Jefferson — and lots of colonials —
thought it would be dangerous. Teddy Roosevelt tried a comeback in 1912
after he left office. Franklin Roosevelt won a third term in 1940, in
time of war, then a fourth in 1944. He died in office in 1945. The 22nd
Amendment came in 1951.”

“Could I quit and then come back later?”

“Not the way it’s written,” she says. “No president may be elected more
than twice. A president could serve up to 10 years if he started by
finishing out an unexpired term. Lyndon Johnson could have served
nine-plus had he run and won in 1968.”

“There’s got to be a way,” the president presses. “The Constitution is
open to interpretation. The Supreme Court did it with handguns. We have
experts around here who’ve written foundings — sorry, findings —
strengthening wiretaps.”

“I’m not sure this is something you do by executive order,” the
professor gently suggests “There is a way, but you’d have to make a
deal, Mr. President. It’s a sort of constitutional secret. The
president is term limited, but the vice president is not.”

“I leave, Cheney stays?” Mr. Bush blurts.

“Not that I’m suggesting this,” the professor treads carefully. “You
cut a deal with McCain. The new vice president leaves early to pursue a
prominent private offer. You offer your experience. If Mr. McCain were
to resign, get impeached, or succumb, you could serve out the rest of
his term.”

“Might be easier to re-work the Constitution,” Bush says. “What about a hiatus with some later re-entry?”

“You’d need Supreme Court permission,” she notes. “There’s plenty of
precedent for such limits — say, no more than four years in any seven
year period.”

“They could toss the whole thing,” suggests the president.

“Declare a constitutional amendment unconstitutional?” she whispers.

“In time of war,” notes Mr. Bush. “My duty as commander-in-chief is to
protect all Americans. My work is not done. My legacy is not complete,
here or in Iraq. We couldn’t just take a time out on that amendment?”

“You mean suspend it, Mr. President?”

“I didn’t use that word,” he says.

“It’s never been tried, though your legal staff has done some work on
re-writing prisoner rules of engagement in time of war,” she replies as
she scours the room for a taping device. “Did you ever promise anyone
you’d leave after two terms?”

“Why?” the president asks.

“It’s a little like contract law,” she notes. “When Abe Lincoln got
elected to Congress in 1846, he pledged to leave after one term. And he
did. He said all he had to go on was his honor.”

“Didn’t turn out bad for him,” Mr. Bush laughs.

“My advice at this point might be for you to discuss this with your
family, Mr. President,” she says. “Then, you call in your brightest
political advisors. The ones that — how do I put this?? Are still
standing.”

“You think I have a chance?” the president asks.

“I don’t make odds, Mr. President,” she notes. “I’ve read that your
rock-bottom political support is around 30 percent. They’ll follow you
wherever you go. From there, it’s a math game.”

“You’re talking a comeback,” the president says. “Like Richard Nixon.”

“Maybe Obama wins and gets unlucky,” she muses.

“Like me,” the president grunts, rising. “A victim of bad luck.”

As the professor is escorted out, she recalls thinking what a Godsend
the 22nd Amendment was. It would forever save the nation from the
turmoil of a presidential triple play.

Until now.

The writer is a founder of the Aspen Daily News and appears here
each Sunday. Counsel, console or berate him at ddanforth@aol.com [1]. This
sketch is entirely fictitious, with any relation to real persons
entirely a coincidence.