MR. PRESIDENT, IT’S an honor.” Ruskjer could see him smiling into the iPhone camera. What he couldn’t see is the one-thousand-pound weight suspended directly over the phone, held in place by an electromagnet, which, itself, was controlled by a switch held by a Secret Service agent standing just off camera.

     The president’s smile faded for a moment as he nodded to someone off camera opposite the agent. Then he looked back into the lens.

     “I’m delighted to have this opportunity to speak with you face-to-face, although it’s not what we had agreed on.”

     “Sorry about that, Mr President. What did you want to see me about?” Ruskjer eased into the conversation.

     Tidwell held up a sign off camera that read, “Tracing now.” The president acknowledged it with another quick nod.

     “I have to admit, I’m a little nervous,” the president said, “this being an election year.”

     “No worries, Mr. President. As I said before, you’re not in any danger -- at least not from me. If you don’t mind me asking, how we comin’ with those pardons?”

     “We’re working on it. At your suggestion, I’m checking out your story. NSA is interviewing the prosecutor as we speak. I can tell you it’s looking promising, but it’s still too soon for conclusions.”

     “I appreciate your candor, Mr. President. Do you have an ETA as to your decision?” Ruskjer asked.

     “Nothing definite. Maybe another week or two.

     “Tell me something: am I gonna have to wear a hoodie footie on the campaign trail?”

     “Not to protect yourself from me,” Ruskjer said. “You have my word on it. And as you know, I take my word very seriously. That’s really what this whole thing is all about.”

     Tidwell held up another sign: “He’s in D.C. We’re on our way. Keep him talking!”

     The president gave another slight nod off camera.

     “I appreciate that, although my head of security, Tidwell, might question your sincerity,” the president said, smiling.

     “How did you hear about seven- and eight-cycle sound? From the Internet?” he asked.

     “Oh, heck no, Mr. President. Back in ‘64 Popular Mechanics did a cover story on it. They said it was fourteen-cycle, not seven.

     “Then, a few months later, Scientific American did an article called ‘The Cycle of Life’ in which they said that every living cell vibrates at precisely seven cycles per second. I just put two and two together,” Ruskjer answered candidly.

     “So you’re not a terrorist?”

     “No, Mr. President. Before this trial, I was a true believer in all things American. I’m a little skeptical now, but that just makes me a realist -- not a terrorist. Like I said, I just want you to right the wrongs done to me and those who helped me get your attention.”

     “Hold on a second,” the president said.

     Ruskjer could hear whispering in the background.

     “Mr. President?” Ruskjer said. “I believe that would be Tidwell, telling you they found the iPhone I’m Face-timing with you on.

     “It’s in a subway car that should have stopped in Crystal City Station” -- Ruskjer looked at his watch -- “about three minutes ago.

     “They’ve probably shut the station down, but they don’t want to touch anything because they now know that I’m not there. But they don’t want me to know that they are.

     “I taped two iPhones together about four inches apart. You’re not really seeing me. You’re seeing a picture of me from the other iPhone. Isn’t that clever?” Ruskjer asked.

     “You’re right on the money,” the president replied flatly.

     “With that level of resolution,” Ruskjer said, “I can have five phone-to-phone interfaces like that one and still look this good! Isn’t technology wonderful?!”

     “Wonderful,” the president replied even more flatly.

     “So why don’t we have your people stand down and we can have a real conversation. What do you say?”

     The president gave the universal cut gesture to his off-camera staff and faced the phone again.

     “OK. What then are your demands?”

     “I have no demands. I asked you to look into my case. If you think I got the shaft, fix it,” Ruskjer said.

     “What about the money?”

     “It’s always about the money, isn’t it, Mr President. The way I see it, that’s part of the fix. You guys stopped me from honoring my commitments. You essentially made my language site worthless. I took what I thought would right those wrongs,” Ruskjer explained. “You want money? Print more.”

     “So you admit you were behind the robberies?”

     The picture on the president’s screen changed to a montage of snipers on six buildings in downtown D.C., then ended with an extreme close-up of the president’s double. Then it snapped back to Ruskjer.

     “I think I’m the one being upfront with you, Mr. President.

     “This will either end with a bullet in my head or a presidential pardon -- or maybe both. Building a new case to send me back to prison is a waste of time for both of us.

     “The question is: if you’re convinced I didn’t lie to get people to give me money, will you grant me and my accomplices unconditional pardons?”

     “It’s not that easy,” the president said.

     “The media is all over Denver and San Francisco. We put a lid on the depot job, but it won’t last.

     “How do I know you won’t use your technology to cause more havoc after you’re pardoned?”

     “Give me a pardon and I give you my word,” Ruskjer said. “I’m not going to volunteer for a lobotomy.”

     “Let’s see what the NSA comes up with and take it from there,” the president said. “I’ll keep this phone handy so we can chat again. In the meantime, we know how to reach you.”

     “Fair enough. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

     With that, both screens went dead.