Woodrow Wilson, 30th President of the United States.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," the erudite university professor turned-Vice President said. Peering over his spectacles, Wilson watched as one of his negro aides cautiously maneuvered through the doorway.
"Mister Vice President, I was told to inform you that President Johnson is dead. He never woke up from the anesthesia, Sir."
Wilson sat for a moment, an uncomfortable silence brewing, removing his glasses and rubbing his sore eyes. After the moment had passed, Wilson stood up, gathering his coat and hat.
"William, we should get moving, Fuller will be wanting to see me." _________________________________________________________________________________________________
The cool September breeze whipped at Wilson's jacket. One hand held high and the other set on the Chief Justice's bible, Woodrow repeated Fuller's every word. Several aides and other officials looked onwards.
So help me God, those four words rung in the newly inaugurated President's head, as he walked down the Supreme Court's steps, entourage in tow. I'll need it, he thought.
