But I didn’t, of course. I knew that he’d see that I was fully repaid. A simple phone call was all it took.
“Thanks, Boss,” I sighed. “I appreciate it.”
I took my family to St. Barts for the Christmas and New Year break, a needed respite from the election and its aftermath. But, of course, it wasn’t a real holiday, with Trump calling me anytime something related to my duties crossed his mind. On several occasions, Trump suggested that I take a job as Assistant White House General Counsel, to work closely with Don McGahn. As often as he asked, this was not a job I had any interest in.
Every time Trump called, my wife and kids would moan and complain, saying that all he ever did was hand his problems over for me to fix, ruining our vacation and imposing on our family time, and it was true. I was also constantly dealing with Felix Sater on the Trump Tower Moscow Deal at the time.
“You need to recharge,” my wife Laura said, finally. “This is your time. Come on, let’s go for a walk on the beach.”
The truth was that I didn’t like beaches much, a view that my time behind bars has given me the time to reflect on. Work was never a burden for me. I loved the action and taking calls from the president-elect was hardly an imposition, at least not for me, no matter how intrusive and annoying to my family. I was a workaholic, like Trump, constantly in motion and always working my two cell phones, looking for deals and ways to make money or exert power. But I took the walk with Laura, quietly tucking a cell phone into the back pocket of my shorts, even though I don’t like the feel of sand on my feet.
The morning I returned to work back in New York, an early bird as always, Allen Weisselberg appeared at my door the moment I flicked on the lights. “Come to my office, please,” Allen said, as he was very eager to talk, and so was I. When we sat down, he started to explain how Trump was going to make me “whole” on the Daniels payment. First, the $130,000 would be doubled, grossed up as he described it, to make up for the taxes I would have to pay on that money, meaning the starting sum would be $260,000.
“And, how much was the RedFinch deal?” he asked.
“Fifty thousand,” I lied. I’d only paid $13,000 for the digital work done by my friend on behalf of Trump, but I figured I was going to get screwed by Trump on my bonus, just as I’d screwed so many others on his behalf, so I was going to do some counter screwing myself.
“Okay,” Allen said. “That’s $100,000.”
He punched in the numbers on his calculator, looking up.
“You know the Boss really appreciates what you did,” he said, referring to the Daniels payment without saying so—in the tradition of criminal enterprises since time immemorial.
“Not with that bonus,” I said.
“I know,” Allen replied. “The Boss wants to settle up on everything so he can talk to you about other things. Like the position you’ve been talking to him about.”
There it was: what I really wanted. I wanted to be Personal Attorney to the President of the United States. I was beyond elated. It felt like the day he’d first asked me to come to work for him, like I’d been selected to join a tiny, elite, and special cadre. In the weeks since the election, the gossip and rumor mongering had been out of control, with everyone Trump had ever met seeming to want a job of some sort—ambassador, secretary of a federal department, a judgeship, the head of a regulatory agency. Trump was suddenly in charge of the largest favor factory in the history of the world and I was the person charged with keeping track of exactly who was owed what and why.
I knew that people were saying I was begging Trump for a job as his Chief of Staff, even though I had never discussed the matter with him. Of course I’d take that job—I’d kill for it—but I knew it wasn’t a great idea, given all that I’d said and done on behalf of Trump.
But first, it was back to business and Trump squeezing every lousy penny he could without risking alienating me. I’d been thrown a big bone, in my position as the personal lawyer for Trump, and now I was going to have to eat crow.
“So that’s two-sixty, plus the hundred, and the Boss wants to do another sixty, to make the total four-twenty,” Allen said.
“You know that bonus is a fraction of what I got last year,” I said.
“I know,” Allen said. “He reduced everyone’s bonus this year.”
I said nothing. I’d been one step ahead of Trump, thinking through what he’d do, so I’d loaded up on the RedFinch payment, sneakily upping my bonus. Classic Trump move, I thought. Score one for me, and I’m getting the position I most wanted. I knew the opportunities would be immense, as I’ll explain momentarily. I figured I was going to be the new Bob Bauer, Obama’s horse-whisperer attorney, the innermost of the President’s innermost advisors. I wasn’t knighted by Harvard, but it was exactly as I’d anticipated in law school. Graduate and pass the bar exam and my title would be like every other attorney—Counselor—only with the lucrative and undeniably astoundingly powerful addition of “to the President of the United States.”
Huuuggeee, I was thinking: I’m going to be huuugggeeeee. Effing huuuuggggeeee.
An hour later Allen and I were summoned to Trump’s office, now bristling with even more Secret Service agents. The Boss motioned for us to sit as he basked in yet another supporter praising him to the heavens on the speakerphone so I’d have the honor of sharing the offer of fealty to Trump. There was no amount of this that was too much for him, never a time when he recognized he was being stroked and flattered for transparently self-serving reasons; he never rolled his eyes, or yawned, no matter how preposterous or sycophantic the supplicant.
“So, you and Allen worked out the numbers?” Trump asked me, hanging up.
I knew he could see in my facial expression that I was more than fine with the arrangements. Besides, it wasn’t really a question. I wasn’t expected to answer, or better yet, I was not permitted to reply. It was a statement of fact, a confirmation that he didn’t have to bother with any outstanding issues and he could move on, and so he did.
“Are you sure you don’t want a job in DC?” he asked. “Maybe with Don McGahn as an assistant White House Counsel?”
“Boss,” I said. “If I take that position I don’t work for you. I work for the government. There is no attorney-client privilege. We went over this. There are still open matters that need to be handled. I can be in Washington as often as you like or need me to be. I’ll come down even if it’s just to keep you company. Shit, I’ll park my ass on the Oval Office couch, if that’s what you want.”
“Okay, Michael,” Trump said. “Congratulations. You have the job.”
I tried to disguise my glee, probably unsuccessfully.
“So here’s what we’ll do,” he said. “We’ll use the number Allen came up with. What’s the number again?”
“Four hundred and twenty thousand,” I said.
“Wow, that’s a lot,” he said. “We can use this as a retainer for the work you will be doing for me privately. Allen, you can pay Michael $35,000 for each month of the year. Michael, you will send Allen an invoice each month. This is okay with you, right?”
“Sure, Boss,” I said. “I’m really honored.”
One of my $35,000 checks from Trump. © 2020 Michael Cohen
“Okay, good, I’ll see you in DC for the Inauguration,” Trump said. “Man, can you believe this shit? You called it from the beginning, Michael.”
“Yes, Boss, I did,” I said. “I’m really looking forward.”
Allen and I departed, but I was no longer walking—I was floating on cloud nine. Trump’s maneuver was classic, gangster, the kind of deception that I had to say I appreciated in all its dimensions. Trump was going to pay me for my services with my own money. He’d get the tax deduction for legal fees, almost certainly a criminal offense if any mortal lied on their tax returns about a business expense of nearly half a million dollars, a reality that I
would come to understand in time. The payments would be spread out over twelve months and look like a perfectly ordinary arrangement for a sitting president devolving the management of his business interests to his two sons, but still in need of an experienced lawyer who knows his affairs—pardon the pun—and who could advise him confidentially.
As I thought about the arrangement, Trump was actually making money on the deal, by way of his tax cheat, and he had my legal services free for the year.
But Trump’s supposed genius didn’t account for who the real fool was, and who was really sailing in a ship of fools, as time and history would tell. Trump had been too clever by half, the kind of dishonest, cunning, conspiratorial and short-term thinking that constituted the worst-possible mindset for the democratically elected leader of the United States. But I didn’t care about those details. My life had taken the most amazing, exciting, even delirious turn, and even though my wife and kids would never really understand my elation—or the moral decisions I made to get to this place—I wasn’t just vindicated; I was validated.
Michael D. Cohen, Esq., Personal Attorney to President Donald J. Trump!
I’d always loved my Trump Organization business card and the cachet it brought to me by association, but this wasn’t next level—it was out of this world, as I imagined the financial implications and possibilities. I wasn’t a kid in a candy store, I was the kid with a ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
* * *
Rumors about the shady Russians having videotape of Donald Trump with hookers performing a golden shower during the Miss Universe pageant in 2013 in Moscow had circulated for years. The tape was supposedly taken in the presidential suite of a Moscow hotel where Barack Obama and his wife Michelle had stayed, as a way to ritualistically taunt them, if peeing on a bed can be said to constitute a ritual. I know those sentences sound preposterous, but knowing the Boss, anything was possible. I didn’t believe it and have said so publicly, but I also could not definitely rule out the possibility it was true, nor did I particularly care—unless someone could prove it.
During the summer of 2016, around the time of the Republican convention in mid-July, the landline in my office rang, with the caller ID blocked. I picked up to discover a man on the line claiming he had a personal matter related to Trump, which was why he’d been patched through to me; in the Trump Organization, I was known to handle all matters that were personal for the Boss and the family. The particular gentleman refused to identify himself, but he said he was in possession of a tape showing Trump with a group of prostitutes in Moscow and that the women were peeing on a bed with the Boss visibly watching them.
I calmly told the man that he would need to prove that he actually had the pee tape, as I called it. I demanded that he provide me with a clip from the tape. Not the entire thing, just three or four seconds so I could discern with my own eyes if it was real.
“I need to see the tape, so I know, and then we can discuss a price,” I said.
“I can’t do that,” the anonymous caller said.
“How can I verify that it exists?” I asked.
“It exists,” he said. “I’ve seen it.”
“Send it on a flash drive,” I said. “Send it anonymously, so that I can verify the contents.”
“I can verify that it’s real,” the man said.
“How much do you want?” I asked.
“Twenty million,” the man said.
“So what’s your name?” I asked. “What’s your bank account number? Give me the name of your lawyer and I can put the money in escrow until I have assurances that it’s the only copy of the tape. It is the only copy, right?”
Click. The man hung up.
I had no intention of putting any money in escrow, of course, but that was my way of forcing the issue. If he was serious, he was going to have to take next steps. If the caller really had the tape, and had really thought through what would happen next, then he would be prepared with concrete plans on how to actually receive the money. The chances that he was a crank, or an idiot, were extremely high, but nonetheless, the call was concerning.
I immediately called David Pecker to tell him what had just transpired. Pecker and I traded information like this all the time, with wild rumors and wilder accusations always circulating about Trump, so that we could coordinate our actions and ensure both of us were fully informed at all times. Pecker’s journalists reported all the scurrilous rumors they heard, not to the public but to their boss, who routinely passed along these tales to me, so I could be prepared if any of them threatened to go public. This was another aspect of catch and kill, in this case, really keeping track of potential threats rather than taking action.
Pecker told me that there was a lot of chatter in the air about the possible existence of the Moscow tape, but he hadn’t heard of anyone in actual possession of the tape. Hanging up, I decided this was a rare, rare case where the truth actually did matter. If there really was a tape circulating showing the Republican presidential candidate engaged in such a crude and frankly disgusting, not to mention juvenile, act with hookers in Moscow—well, that would be mind boggling. I had to get to the bottom of this particular cesspool, I decided, as I walked to Trump’s office, knocked, entered, and sat in the middle Egg, explaining the anonymous call I’d just received.
“Boss, does this tape exist?” I asked. “I need to know if it’s true or false. Is there any truth to this?”
“Absolutely not,” Trump said.
“You’re sure?” I said. “Because there’s a lot of chatter. The guy who just called me wanted $20 million.”
“It’s bullshit,” Trump said. “It never happened. Do you know who the guy was?”
“No,” I replied. “The call came in anonymous. I asked for his lawyer to put the money in escrow and he hung up on me.”
“It’s bullshit,” Trump said.
“Excellent.”
But Trump’s word wasn’t enough, needless to say. I’d seen Trump at The Act in Las Vegas with the Agalarovs, father and son, so I knew that Russian tastes in entertainment were risqué, to put it mildly. The atmosphere at beauty pageants like Miss Universe was heavy on the testosterone for the men in attendance, especially for older men like Trump, surrounded by young, beautiful women enthralled by the American celebrity. More, the Boss was away from his wife, in a distant country and different time zone, so he had latitude to let loose. It didn’t strike me as improbable that the Agalarovs would want to impress Trump by presenting him with a sampling of their finest prostitutes, famously the most beautiful in the world, at least according to Vladimir Putin.
All I now knew was that Trump had denied that there could be the possibility of such a tape existing, but that still left open the possibility that it would emerge, and I needed to be prepared for all contingencies, for the Boss’s own good. It was entirely plausible that Trump had been involved in such a tape and he’d wished away the memory, but the more likely contingency was that Trump had been surreptitiously videotaped, so he wouldn’t know about the tape—and figured no one had seen him. I knew that during the Cold War, the KGB had conducted all kinds of secret surveillance on diplomats stationed in Moscow, as well as visiting dignitaries, in order to develop compromising information. There was a Russian word for it: Kompromat.
The first question, I realized, had to be whether the Boss had been with prostitutes in Russia at all, and the best way to get an answer to that was to ask his security guard, Keith Schiller. An ex-cop fiercely loyal to Trump, Keith was with Trump during all his waking hours when he traveled, and I knew he’d been glued to the Boss’s side during the Russia trip, with so many security risks involved.
I told Keith about the anonymous call and the demand for $20 million, as well as Trump’s denial.
“Does this tape exist?” I asked. “Because if it does, I’ll figure out a way to get it and buy it.”
“It never happened,” Schiller said. “I never saw anything like this, and I was with the Boss throughout the whole trip. I took him back to the hotel and I stood outside his room for half an hour after he went to bed. I checked and the door was locked until I went to see the Boss in the morning.”
Keith I could trust, and so the matter lay there until days before the election, when I got a call from a friend named Georgi Rtskhiladze, a Georgian-born businessman I’d met socially and whom I’d worked with on the potential Trump-branded hotels in Tbilisi and Batumi. Georgi and I bonded over tennis and real estate, and we talked from time to time about politics and Trump’s candidacy. But this call was different. I knew he’d lived in Moscow and remained connected there, so I wasn’t shocked when he told me he’d heard rumors about Trump through the grapevine. But when he specified it was the “pee tape” report that was making the rounds, my heart sank. I’d just dealt with Stormy Daniels, and before that Karen McDougal, and now Trump was threatened with a videotape of him gloating over golden showers in a Moscow hotel to taunt President Obama, and this man was going to be the 45th President?
Giorgi was offering me the use of his network of business and government contacts in Moscow, as a favor, and I appreciated the kindness. We exchanged texts, and Giorgi told me he’d “stopped flow of some tapes from Russia,” but I doubted he’d been able to actually do that—if the tapes even existed at all. When the Mueller Report came out, as I will discuss later, a small example of their maximally antagonistic approach to interpreting events was how the footnote that dealt with my conversation with Georgi left out the word “some,” trying to imply somehow that he knew about the contents of the alleged recordings, when he didn’t. Georgi told me he’d just heard stupid rumors and there were plenty of those in the final days of the 2016 campaign.
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