Prodigal Son-sim is the tendency for the media to privilege the opinions of Republicans who have come to their senses over the opinions of those who never lost their mind in the first place. I dislike prodigal son-ism because, among other things, every moment spent getting a lapsed Republican up to speed on reality-based thinking is a moment not spent actually addressing real problems. Another problem is that so many prodigal son-ists are merely cynical opportunists, a character flaw blatantly obvious, for example, in the mien of the Never Trumpers. They don’t have a deep understanding of how misbegotten their thinking is; they’re just trying to hold onto their status and salaries.
And that is what makes Michael Cohen’s bombshell of a foreword to his new book so interesting. This man is a Republican, a thug, a bully. He is as amoral as all those epithets imply. Cohen is also a damn fool who should have known better than to trust a godfather wannabe like Trump with his career. And yet, this mea culpa feels oddly honest and heartfelt. Why?
It is certainly the case that, if this sample is typical, Cohen is a compelling writer (or he’s got the world’s best ghostwriter). But lurking behind the rhetorical skill appears to be something close to genuine contrition. I’m hedging because it is quite possible that, like Ted Bundy (another Republican), Cohen is merely exceptionally skilled at faking normal human emotions. But this feels real:
…please permit me to reintroduce myself in these pages. The one thing I can say with absolute certainty is that whatever you may have heard or thought about me, you don’t know me or my story or the Donald Trump that I know. For more than a decade, I was Trump’s first call every morning and his last call every night. I was in and out of Trump’s office on the 26th floor of the Trump Tower as many as fifty times a day, tending to his every demand. Our cell phones had the same address books, our contacts so entwined, overlapping and intimate that part of my job was to deal with the endless queries and requests, however large or small, from Trump’s countless rich and famous acquaintances. I called any and all of the people he spoke to, most often on his behalf as his attorney and emissary, and everyone knew that when I spoke to them, it was as good as if they were talking directly to Trump.
Apart from his wife and children, I knew Trump better than anyone else did. In some ways, I knew him better than even his family did because I bore witness to the real man, in strip clubs, shady business meetings, and in the unguarded moments when he revealed who he really was: a cheat, a liar, a fraud, a bully, a racist, a predator, a con man.
There are reasons why there has never been an intimate portrait of Donald Trump, the man. In part, it’s because he has a million acquaintances, pals and hangers on, but no real friends. He has no one he trusts to keep his secrets. For ten years, he certainly had me, and I was always there for him, and look what happened to me. I urge you to really consider that fact: Trump has no true friends. He has lived his entire life avoiding and evading taking responsibility for his actions. He crushed or cheated all who stood in his way, but I know where the skeletons are buried because I was the one who buried them. I was the one who most encouraged him to run for president in 2011, and then again in 2015, carefully orchestrating the famous trip down the escalator in Trump Tower for him to announce his candidacy. When Trump wanted to reach Russian President Vladimir Putin, via a secret back channel, I was tasked with making the connection in my Keystone Kop fashion. I stiffed contractors on his behalf, ripped off his business partners, lied to his wife Melania to hide his sexual infidelities, and bullied and screamed at anyone who threatened Trump’s path to power. From golden showers in a sex club in Vegas, to tax fraud, to deals with corrupt officials from the former Soviet Union, to catch and kill conspiracies to silence Trump’s clandestine lovers, I wasn’t just a witness to the president’s rise—I was an active and eager participant.
To underscore that last crucial point, let me say now that I had agency in my relationship with Trump. I made choices along the way—terrible, heartless, stupid, cruel, dishonest, destructive choices, but they were mine and constituted my reality and life. During my years with Trump, to give one example, I fell out of touch with my sisters and younger brother, as I imagined myself becoming a big shot. I’d made my fortune out of taxi medallions, a business viewed as sketchy if not lower class. On Park Avenue, where I lived, I was definitely nouveau riche, but I had big plans that didn’t include being excluded from the elite. I had a narrative: I wanted to climb the highest mountains of Manhattan’s skyscraping ambition, to inhabit the world from the vantage point of private jets and billion-dollar deals, and I was willing to do whatever it took to get there. Then there was my own considerable ego, short temper, and willingness to deceive to get ahead, regardless of the consequences.
As you read my story, you will no doubt ask yourself if you like me, or if you would act as I did, and the answer will frequently be no to both of those questions. But permit me to make a point: If you only read stories written by people you like, you will never be able to understand Donald Trump or the current state of the American soul. More than that, it’s only by actually understanding my decisions and actions that you can get inside Trump’s mind and understand his worldview. As anyone in law enforcement will tell you, it’s only gangsters who can reveal the secrets of organized crime. If you want to know how the mob really works, you’ve got to talk to the bad guys. I was one of Trump’s bad guys.
Another reason Cohen may be, on some level, sincere, is that it doesn’t read like an attempt to self-aggrandize in order to launch a Mooch-like punditry career. Cohen appears actually to understand he’s blown his reputation, his life, and his family’s life, to smithereens. Perhaps one day he’ll have a status similar to a downscale John Dean. But there appear to be only two motives here: first and foremost, make some money in the only way left to him to pay his immense legal bills (not unreasonable). Second, to come clean possibly for no other reason than to square things with his family.
A foreword this powerfully written almost makes me want to read Cohen’s book. Hmmm…. on second thought, nah.