As I explained the Doral deal to Ivanka, I could see her eyes widening, much like her father’s had. There was a way of conducting business inside the Trump Organization, with nothing written down but an understanding that whoever brought a deal to the company got to work the deal; all deals were ultimately for the benefit and glorification of Donald J. Trump, of course, but finding attractive transactions was a way of keeping score and getting ahead, and this Doral acquisition promised to be a huge win for the company.
For the most part, Ivanka worked her own brands, including her lines of clothing and handbags, but she and the other Trump children also wanted to do deals for the main company. After a few days, wondering when I was going to get word from the Boss to proceed on Doral, my friend called to say that Ivanka had come down to Miami and started talks to buy the golf course, without so much as a word or a nod in my direction. As the deal proceeded, I was kept in the dark, with no explanation or justification or apology. That was how the Trumps worked, I was seeing, with guard rails around anything that might serve their interests. In this selfish and self-serving way, Ivanka was very much her father’s daughter; my lawyer buddy commiserated, but business was business.
The final price for the Doral Hotel and Spa was $150 million, financed by a loan of $125 million from Deutsche Bank, and a complete renovation was quickly undertaken at the cost of $250 million. The plan was a “return to grandeur” for the run-down resort. The multiple golf courses were to be redone, along with the hotel and pool area, with nearly 700 guest rooms reimagined in tasteful minimalist neutral colors, but with the Trumpian touch of gilded gold accents.
“When completed, Doral will be the finest resort and golf club in the country,” Trump told the press.
As the renovation continued, I discovered that despite the rhetoric, Trump was cutting corners, having “cheap attacks,” and screwing the many contractors and subcontractors who were working on the project. This wasn’t unusual, and a significant part of my job description involved dealing with vendors the Boss had decided to rip off. This behavior was part of what constituted “loyalty” to Donald Trump: whatever he wanted done, I would do, no matter how dishonest, or dishonorable. Trump saved the crappiest jobs for me, a fact that I took pride in; I was given the dirty work because I was willing to get dirt on my hands—and blood if necessary.
If that seems bizarre to you, think about it like being under the spell of a cult leader. I don’t mean that as a cliché or an accusation: I mean literally. How did Jim Jones get his followers in Guyana to drink the poisoned Kool-Aid (actually, it was a cheap knockoff called Flavor Aid) and commit mass suicide? The answer was that Jones took control of the minds of those drawn to him, not all at once but gradually, over time, by luring them into his mind.
“Stop drinking the Kool-Aid,” we would say to each other at the Trump Organization all the time.
The joke wasn’t really a joke, even as we joshed around. Trump would say so many things that were illogical or just plain bullshit, as we consciously would know, but we would stay on his message, even though we knew it was nonsense. We would repeat what he said, as if it were true, and then we’d repeat the message to one another so often that we would actually begin to believe the distortions ourselves.
This mind meld is what I see every day as I sit in prison watching the nightly news from the White House. Trump’s staff and advisors aren’t all so stupid that they don’t understand, for example, that extorting the President of Ukraine to investigate Democratic candidate Joe Biden is a terrible, terrible idea and precedent, or that downplaying a global pandemic might work for one news cycle but will only harm innocent people over time. But witness the politicians and media folks like Sean Hannity and Rush Limbaugh making excuses for Trump, or saying he did nothing wrong. Or the pathetic spectacle of Rudy Giuliani committing harakiri for Trump, just like I used to do, somehow imagining that the fate that befell me and Roy Cohn won’t happen to him—as if the rules of gravity have been suspended magically. Think of all the responsible and conservative and moral, even devoutly religious, Trump supporters not just rationalizing or explaining away his transparent dishonesty, but actually turning it upside down and saying it’s perfectly normal.
Franz Mesmer was a German doctor in the eighteenth century who believed in a phenomenon he called “animal magnetism.” He would mesmerize people using actual magnets, but Trump doesn’t need any physical props to succeed in getting his followers to do what I did—virtually anything he wanted. Part of it was a function of loyalty, which led to willful blindness. There was also a fever-pitched desire to please that made me sycophantic, it’s true to say. But there was another element that rarely gets discussed: Trump is a master at getting otherwise seemingly sensible people to enter into his fantasyland because of the fear that failure to do so means banishment. This explains the behavior of many members of Congress and the Cabinet, as displayed daily in the news, terrified of facing a primary or a tweet or a tantrum. It was a huge part of a process that I fell victim to and know intimately. Once the small lies and delusions pass, then it became easier and easier to swallow bigger and bigger lies and delusions.
I know this insanity up close and personal.
Take the paint job during the renovation of the Doral. One afternoon in 2014, I was summoned to Trump’s office. As I walked in, Trump was on a call with David Fader, the general manager of the Trump Doral, talking on the speakerphone. The pair were discussing the paint used in the renovation of the buildings and guest rooms at the Doral. When the house staff wiped down the walls of the rooms, as part of a routine cleaning, it appeared that the fresh paint was coming off. The walls were becoming spotty and discolored and faded, only weeks after the new paint had been applied.
“We just painted the entire goddamn place,” Trump said to Fader. “I hear the rooms look like shit. Get the fucking painters back and make them redo the entire job. Tell them, I’m not paying for their time or paint.”
Trump turned to me.
“Michael just walked in. He will call you and the two of you better figure this out.”
Trump hung up. Following orders, I went to my office and dialed up Fader to discuss a course of action to get the painters to correct the obviously poor job they had performed for the Trump Organization. I was already mustering my outrage, girding for battle, when David told me the truth.
“I told him to not use that paint,” Fader said.
“What are you talking about?” I said. “What’s going on here?”
“Look, Michael,” Fader said. “There are levels of quality involved in the Benjamin Moore paint the Boss chose. We needed at least a level-three quality. But the Boss decided to go with the absolute cheapest level-one paint, which is pure garbage. It requires more paint to cover the wall, but it also doesn’t last. So that’s the explanation. It wasn’t meant for this kind of commercial job.”
I burst out laughing, at least initially. The situation was absurd. Trump had had a “cheap attack” and made a poor decision on the type of paint the contractor should use, which didn’t surprise me in the slightest. Trump was constantly making errors, large and small, like pretty much any human being. The difference was that Trump would never acknowledge his errors. Hell, he wouldn’t just deny his own mistakes, he’d blame others, circular logic that best resembled a Mexican standoff that left everyone pointing their guns at each other—but never Trump.
Does that sound familiar to you?
For all the ridiculousness of the situation, I knew Trump was pissed and that I had to come up with a plan for my sake, and for David’s sake, a fact that we both understood intuitively. Going to Trump and telling him that he’d ordered the worst-quality Benjamin Moore paint available would only result in our instant dismissal or a screaming fit with blame hurled in all directions, except himself, with the net result that we would be back where we started: with a delusional proposition that had to be supported as
fact, despite the blatantly obvious truth that it was a lie.
Ring a bell?
I sat at my desk and weighed the options. David emailed the contract and sure enough the Benjamin Moore paint specified in the invoice was exactly as described. Super Hide paint was well known in the industry as low-quality, and not meant to last. The Super Hide level was used to paint new houses that were going to be flipped, or by fly-by-night painters playing their customers for fools—or by clients foolish enough to cut corners.
How on earth could I blame the contractor for using the paint specified by the customer? In normal circumstances, a complaint like this would be treated for what it was: idiotic. But not in the Trump Organization, I knew. I resolved to bluff my way through the problem, like a gambler with a bad poker hand going all in.
I called the painting contractor, introducing myself as Trump’s Special Counsel and Executive Vice President, credentials that usually had the effect of grabbing people’s attention. When I described the situation, the contractor was amazed but also pissed that I was bringing up the quality of the paint. He explained that he had told the folks from the Trump Organization that Super Hide was inferior and not suited to a project like Doral, with high use and the inevitable wear and tear of a hotel and golf club. The contractor then raised his own issue. He said that Trump hadn’t paid for the work he’d completed and he couldn’t make payroll; he was barely making his costs on the job and he needed to be paid in a timely fashion. I explained that payment wasn’t my issue, but I could tell that I wasn’t going to get anything from this small timer struggling to keep his business alive.
I decided to up the stakes. I was going to go after Benjamin Moore directly, I decided. When I called the company and identified myself, stressing, as always, my high-level positions, I was put through to the secretary of the CEO. The executive wasn’t available, the secretary said, but I explained why I was calling in detail and told her that the Trump Organization had been sold faulty paint and demanded a refund. Assured I would receive a return call, I reported back to Trump, who immediately went into a rant about the shitty paint and how I needed to rectify the problem.
“Michael, go do your thing,” Trump said, “Don’t disappoint me.”
The words hung in the air, and then swirled around in my mind as I returned to my office. This was now on me? I didn’t order the paint, Trump did, but that was how the flow chart worked in the Trump Organization. The buck didn’t stop at Donald Trump’s desk: it never got there. What “don’t disappoint me” actually meant, I knew, was an implicit threat that I would be fired if I didn’t somehow resolve a situation he had created to his satisfaction. All of the staff at the Trump Organization routinely joked about how any given day could be your last, pressure that you might think would drive us away but in fact made us all the more determined to defend Trump and do what he wanted, no matter how morally or legally dubious.
The return call from Benjamin Moore didn’t come from the CEO. The Florida director of regional sales was on the line, politely offering his assistance.
“Nice to speak with you, Mr. Cohen,” the director said.
“Likewise,” I replied. “We seem to have a problem with the paint Mr. Trump purchased for Doral.”
I read out the invoice and the detailed identification of the paint and pointed out that the paint had proved to have been of extremely low quality; the paint came off the wall when washed and failed to adhere properly.
The director promised to discuss the issue with the quality control department, but he reassured me that the company stood behind its products one hundred percent.
“I appreciate your help,” I said. “I suggest you call me back this afternoon, because Mr. Trump is really angry and he has asked me to make the resolution of this issue a priority.”
I knew the director was rattled. By this time I had convinced myself that the paint actually was somehow defective. I know, I know: I was sharing the Trump delusion. But that was the alchemy, and I see it traveling throughout the White House and beyond all the time. In defending the indefensible, you can’t resort to reason or facts or good business practices; you can’t appeal to conscience or justice or fairness. All that is left is what I resorted to, and what Trump displays so often: rage.
The next call followed that pattern. The director wanted to be reasonable. They had batch tested the paint, he said, and it was fine for the level of quality of Super Hide. He asked me to arrange for a gallon of the paint at Doral to be sent to their test lab to be assessed to see if it differed from the standard Super Hide paint. He offered to pick up the gallon, if that was easier. He wanted to find a mutually agreeable solution, which made perfect sense—but I knew it meant that the contention that the paint was flawed would be shown to be a lie. Super Hide was Super Hide, after all. The director promised that the company would be transparent in determining the quality of the paint. He pledged his word.
Enough, I screamed inwardly. The only arrow I had in my quiver was the one I fired: I lost it.
“Take your pledge, which is worthless at this point. The paint is pure shit. It doesn’t stick to the walls. It wipes off when the rooms are being cleaned.”
I took a breath.
“Here is what I want you to do. Go speak to whoever you need to speak to. Then take out your checkbook and overnight to me a check with a full refund of all of our costs.”
The director replied that he had talked to both the contractor and the Trump representative who placed the order and they confirmed that Super Hide was the grade specified. Mr. Trump had personally made the decision, after being informed of the quality issues such a cheap paint would inevitably have. Under the circumstances, with no proof of any issues related to the paint, it was impossible to offer any compensation.
You’re going to challenge me, I thought? You know who you’re talking to, buddy boy, I thought. Fuck you. Game on.
“Is this your final decision?” I asked, now quaking with anger. “Let me play out the scenario for you and your entire executive team. Before close of business today I will be instructed by Mr. Trump to pursue all legal rights and remedies, in law and in equity, against Benjamin Moore for the sale of your defective product. As with every lawsuit filed with a Trump trademark attached, significant media attention sadly becomes a reality and statements from people like me and our public relations department will ensue. Are you really going to explain to your customers that you manufacture a paint that doesn’t adhere to a wall? A paint that you can’t maintain? A paint you can’t stand behind? Or that Super Hide is such a low classification that it should only be used for things like school projects?”
I was indignant by then. Kind of like you see the President’s defenders on the nightly cable talk shows: red-faced, nearly shouting, filled with righteous rage.
“I don’t think so,” I said, sarcastically. “I want you to explain to the public how you differentiate between products you will and won’t stand behind with your Benjamin Moore one hundred percent guarantee promise. Please, don’t even try to respond. First, what you say I will not buy and it will not be accepted by Mr. Trump. Second, I really don’t care what you have to say. I was hoping to resolve this amicably and to be able to continue to do business with Benjamin Moore for our future needs. But now you throw this bullshit at me? No thank you. Before we hang up, tell me the name of your counsel and tell me the correct address for receipt of service of process for the company.”
“Mr. Cohen, Mr. Cohen, please wait . . . ” the director pleaded. “I never said I was finished. I just was telling you what corporate told me. Please give me a little time to speak with them again. I’ll call you back later today, or tomorrow at the latest.”
“Fine,” I said. “I will need to begin drafting the lawsuit in the meantime.”
Hanging up, I knew I was going to get a good resolution—I knew I was going to “win.” The only question was whether the offer
Benjamin Moore was now going to make, as I felt sure they would, would be enough to satisfy the Boss.
The next call began with the director defending the company’s stellar reputation. He said the company disagreed with my statements and how I had characterized its business ethics, pausing and then continuing, but in these circumstances he had been instructed to find a resolution. I knew better than to make the first offer; as a personal injury and medical malpractice attorney, I learned to always let the other side shoot first; the first offer served as the floor for future talks.
After a lot more back and forth, it was agreed that Benjamin Moore would give us 10,000 gallons of paint for free, to compensate for the poor-quality Super Hide. The wholesale price for the better-quality paint was around $30 a gallon more than Super Hide, so the amount was substantial. The snag was that we had no need for so much paint, let alone anywhere to safely store several semi-trailer loads of paint. As a gesture of my generosity and reasonableness, I suggested as a solution that the company give the Trump Organization a credit for the 10,000 gallons, to be used over time. The director was thrilled with this idea and as soon as I had an email confirming the arrangement I went to see Trump.
When I walked in, Trump was on the speakerphone, which he placed on mute when I put the printed email on his desk. I told him what had happened, with a real sense of pride.
Disloyal: A Memoir Page 14