brass

 

------------ [excerpt from Disloyal, by Michael Cohen -- Skyhorse Publishing, copyright 2020] -----------------------

        "It's Donald Trump, Jr. on line one," she said.

        I was half expecting the call.  I knew the younger Trump from my recent purchase of three units in the new Trump Park Avenue, a project then under construction to be converted into my family home; two one-bedroom units and a two-bedroom apartment on the 10th floor of what had been the high-society Delmonico Hotel were being consolidated into a single residence with sweeping views of the iconic avenue from the living room running half the length of the building.  

Don Jr. was handling the construction job on behalf of the Trump Organization, so we talked often.

        I picked up the call -- news about the Trump Park Avenue, or TPA as insiders knew it, was a welcome distraction from my routine legal work....

        "Hey, D, what's up?  How are things going at TPA?" I said.

        "I'm not calling about TPA," Trump Jr. said.  "Can you meet with me and my dad at his office?  It's about something else and very important.  My dad thinks you could be very helpful."

        Everything with the Trumps was always "very," I would learn, but I didn't hesitate.  A meeting with Donald Trump?  Hell, yeah.  I'd met Trump once before a few years earlier...but that had only been in passing.

        Within minutes, I was walking excitedly up Fifth Avenue towards Trump Tower.  To me, the elder Trump wasn't just a celebrity and billionaire real estate developer.  As an undergraduate at American University, in Washington, DC, I'd read The Art of the Deal when it was published in the 1980s not once but twice, and I considered the book a masterpiece....

...the self-portrait of Trump contained in those pages, however fictional and far from the truth, had enthralled me.  

        Secretly, in my heart of hearts, I thought I possessed some of Trump's best qualities.  I saw myself as deal-driven, relentless, a hard worker, never afraid....I already had wealth but I wanted it all:  power, the good life, public acclaim, fame, big deals, fast cars, private planes, the excess and glamour and zest for life that Trump appeared to personify so effortlessly.

...Entering the revolving doors of Trump Tower, with an appointment with the proprietor, I was in awe at the majesty of the famous atrium:  the grand escalator, the pink marble walls, the brass of the place, literally and metaphorically.  The sheer scale and class of the building were incredible, at least to my way of thinking.  The building had been designed to create such an impression, of course, but it worked on me.

        Presenting myself at the security desk, I was told that Mr. Trump was expecting me.  This acknowledgement of my existence by the great man provided a jolt of excitement.  Escorted to the 26th floor, headquarters of the Trump operation, I was greeted by a beautiful young blonde woman who also said that Mr. Trump was expecting me -- giving me another moment of pleasure.  I was immediately ushered through glass doors into a large office with a sweeping view of Fifth Avenue and Central Park.

        Sitting behind a large, cluttered desk was the elder Trump, talking loudly on a call on speakerphone.  To me, the hulking Trump was even larger in life than he appeared on television.  

His presence filled the room, as I surveyed the office, an homage to Trump, with a vanity wall boasting scores of magazine covers with Trump's image, along with shelves packed with glass awards and deal mementoes and sports memorabilia, including a garish and glittering version of Mike Tyson's heavyweight world champion belt.  

        Three red-velvet executive Egg chairs were arranged in front of Trump's desk, with Don Jr. seated in one and the Chief Financial Officer of the Trump Organization, Allen Weisselberg, in the other.  I was directed to sit in the middle seat, where I waited as Trump conducted what seemed to be a private conversation with us all listening in.

        The call over, Trump yelled out for a Diet Coke, stood, and offered his hand to me....

        "Don tells me great things about you," Trump said, as half a dozen employees of the company filed into the office and arranged themselves behind me, standing at attention.  "You do know I gave you a great deal on your new apartment," Trump continued.

I blinked.  

I didn't know what to say in reply.  

This was Trump's first tell, if I'd had the ability to see what was unfolding, but events were moving so fast and in such a tantalizing way that I didn't have the presence of mind to consider what had just occurred.  

I had paid the asking price on the Park Avenue apartment; there had been no discount or special consideration -- it had never even come up.  

        But there it was:  within the first few seconds of our meeting, Donald Trump had lied to me, directly, demonstrably and without doubt.  

What was I supposed to do, if I had possessed the wherewithal to gather my wits and take on the implications?  Call Trump on it?  The lie seemed silly, harmless, and childish, the kind of fib that was pointless to contest; it occurred to me that Trump might actually believe it, too.  

In a matter of a couple of sentences, with no conscious thought or understanding of what was actually happening, I had given my unspoken consent to start to play along in a charade that I would come to learn was all-devouring and deadly serious.

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