After the second night I was under their protection, they later told me they went back to their hotel room and sat there quiet for a moment. Travis recalled saying, “Are you going to say it or am I?” They agreed they were going to leave all their other clients and work with me full-time. I had been praying they would but was afraid they would feel obligated.
They knew I was going to New York for Michael Cohen’s April 16 hearing in a federal courthouse about the documents the FBI seized from him. Michael Avenatti wanted me to be at the hearing in case I was needed. If the conversation isn’t with you, it’s just about you, right?
“Who’s going to be with you in New York?” Travis asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“We got you,” said Brandon.
THIRTEEN
I was half dressed in the back of a speeding car in New York City, trying to zip up my skirt. My flight out of West Palm Beach—where I had had a dance booking—had been delayed, and there went all my plans to prep for Michael Cohen’s April 16 court hearing. The FBI had raided his home, office, and hotel room on April 9 seeking information on, among other things, the $130,000 he paid me. The hearing was about who got to look at the seized documents—Trump’s lawyers, who I would not trust to hold a Red Bull for me while I ran to the bathroom, or, as is more usual, a panel of prosecutors unrelated to the case. Michael and I wanted to be there because I am a firm believer that if someone is talking about me, they can say it to my face.
Now we just had to get there in time. My dragons, Brandon and Travis, hustled me right from the plane to the car. Glen wanted to come to the courthouse to stand by me, but I left him at the airport to wait for my checked bag. It was full of my dance costumes, the things I most care about after my people and horses. Thank God I had thought to roll up my court outfit in my carry-on.
I had lined up a hotel to go to before the hearing, so I could shower and steam-iron my skirt suit. It was lilac, sure to show every wrinkle. Now I didn’t even have time to touch up my makeup. I just had to wear the remnants of the makeup from the night before and run my hands through my hair, limp and tired from the humidity of Florida.
If this wasn’t enough of a shit show, there wasn’t even time for me to go to the bathroom before getting in the car. There’s no other way to say this: I was on my period and I desperately needed to change my tampon.
“Dude,” I said to Travis, “the second we get in, I need to find a bathroom.”
“Can you hold it?”
“It’s not about holding it,” I said.
This big giant of a man grimaced and whispered, “You have to do number two?”
“No,” I said. “I have to do number three.”
“What the—” he said. “Oh. Oh. I got you, girl.”
We got to the federal courthouse on Pearl Street in downtown Manhattan and I could see there was a mob of photographers and press waiting. Travis and Brandon have a routine for getting me safely out of a car when there are a lot of people, but I had never been in something like this. “Wait,” I yelled to Travis before he opened his door. I didn’t want to carry my bag, and I didn’t want to walk in like I was looking to be a feminine hygiene spokesmodel. “Here,” I said, handing him the tampon. “Hold this in your jacket for me.”
“You got it,” he said.
“You ready for this?” Brandon asked.
“Nope,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Michael Avenatti was suddenly there, just as the sea of men with cameras rushed toward us. I was unprepared for them being so close and able to jostle me. I thought because it was a legal building, there would be police and everyone would be cordoned off. They were pushing at the dragons, who were trying to keep me steady on my feet. I almost fell, and I was frightened. A man was screaming, “Stormy, are you here to rattle Michael Cohen? Stormy, are you here to rattle Michael Cohen?”
I got inside, and they just pressed up against the glass, watching me as I went through the metal detector. I didn’t realize I was shaking until Brandon put his hand on my back to steady me. I could hear a woman scream outside, like it was a rock concert, “Stormy, we love you!”
We were told the courtroom door would be closing soon, so we raced. No time for a bathroom. I have to face Cohen and all I’m thinking about is Is my tampon gonna hold? I was wearing this light skirt, and that was what would be all over the front page the next day. STORMY DANIELS, SHOT IN THE ASS. Tragic. People would think I did it on purpose for attention.
We got to the doors just in time and a guard stopped us. “You can’t go in,” he said. “It’s full.”
“Excuse me, what?” I said.
Michael asserted himself. He doesn’t like to be told no or be embarrassed. The guy went away for a minute, then came back. “I have to bring someone to bring some chairs in,” he said. “You can’t walk in and stand. You’re going to be in folding chairs in the back of the gallery. Give me five minutes.”
Five minutes. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I said.
I started walking, and Travis opened his suit jacket and handed me the tampon in a high-five gesture. It was the perfect handoff. Tampon, check. I did my female thing and came back with seconds to spare.
The doors opened, and I stayed stoic as I took my seat. Cohen was already there, sitting at what would be the defendant’s table if this were a trial. Every single head but his turned to register my appearance. He didn’t look at me once.
The Honorable Kimba Wood entered the courtroom. At seventy-four, she’d been a judge for nearly thirty years, having been appointed to the bench by Ronald Reagan. I had done some googling on her and liked her. When she was young she went to the London School of Economics, and she took a job at Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Casino. She quit after six days of training as a croupier. Hey, if you don’t want to be a Playboy bunny, be a federal judge. American women deserve to have choices.
I had heard she was annoyed at Friday’s hearing, three days before, because Cohen hadn’t shown up. He was too busy smoking cigars with cronies—and paparazzi—in Midtown, the buffoon playing the part of the Mafia-movie tough guy. Judge Wood had said Friday that she needed to know who Cohen’s clients were by Monday morning. His lawyers said he had just three.
Now, we already knew two of them: President Trump, obviously, and a Republican fund-raiser and lobbyist named Elliott Broidy. After the election, Trump named Broidy deputy national finance chairman for the Republican National Committee—a title that Cohen shared. I knew that Cohen dealt with Playboy model Shera Bechard’s signing of an NDA about an affair with a man who got her pregnant, a man whose alias in the hush agreement will ring a bell: David Dennison. The same name Cohen chose for Trump in my NDA. Hunh. Shera even got my alias, Peggy Peterson. That Friday, The Wall Street Journal reported that Cohen helped Broidy negotiate a payoff of $1.6 million to Bechard through Cohen’s shell company Essential Consultants LLC to, guess who, my ex-lawyer Keith Davidson. When reached for comment by The New York Times, Broidy sure copped to Trump being the guy fast. In the Times, Shera’s new lawyer, Peter K. Stris, also accused Cohen and Davidson of working against his client’s interests, or, as he put it, “profoundly disturbing and repeated collusion.” I get that.
But who was bachelor number three? One of Cohen’s lawyers told Judge Wood that he had consulted the third client over the weekend and the person didn’t want his name out there.
“At this point, no one would want to be associated with the case in that way,” said the lawyer, and I had to stop myself from yelling, “No shit!” But Wood wasn’t having it and demanded that the lawyer reveal the name.
“Your honor, the client’s name that is involved is Sean Hannity,” he said.
There was this eruption of gasps and do-you-believe-this chuckles in the courtroom, like a big reveal in a comic film. The Fox News know-it-all and Trump BFF was tied up with Cohen. (Right away, Hannity took to Twitter to deny Cohen ever represented him. That night on his show he had this hysterical take on the
legal system: “Never paid him any fees,” he said. “I might have handed him ten bucks. ‘I definitely want attorney-client privilege on this.’ Something like that.”)
After that big Legally Blonde moment in the courtroom, it was kind of boring, to be honest. It just went on and on for three hours, with the lawyers saying the same thing over and over. I was very aware that my stomach was growling loud enough for people to hear, but at least I wasn’t bleeding all over the place.
The best part was that the world was finally seeing what I knew. They thought Michael Cohen was this mastermind, a consigliere who fixed everything. No, he’s a complete fucking moron. The world would not know anything about me without him constantly getting in his own way.
The sea of photographers was still raging when we walked out of the courthouse, but now there was a little island of sidewalk to stand on and make my statement. I went up to what looked like a tangled bouquet of fifteen microphones and leaned in. “Hi, everyone,” I said. The crowd noise was so loud that I couldn’t hear myself. But I had to get past my nerves. I was finally getting to speak without a filter.
“So, for years Mr. Cohen has acted like he is above the law,” I began. “He has considered himself and openly referred to himself as Mr. Trump’s fixer. He has played by a different set of rules, or should I say, no rules at all. He has never thought that the little man or especially woman—and even more, women like me—mattered. That ends now. My attorney and I are committed to making sure that everyone finds out the truth and the facts of what happened. And I give my word that we will not rest until that happens. Thank you.”
I looked at Michael, who was standing to my left. I gave him a look of Was that good? He suppressed a smile. I had said what I came to say, and I was just getting started.
*
The next morning, Brandon and Travis whisked me into the ABC Television Center for the April 17 live taping of The View. After 60 Minutes, I was determined to do my own makeup and told the producers so. When I met the ladies, everyone was very nice. But when I went to shake the hand of Meghan McCain, I could tell by the way she did it that she did not want to have to touch me. She clearly despised me. Meghan is the resident conservative, and right before the show I could tell people were super worried that she was going to say something that offended me.
I thought that if she had something to say that wasn’t a vicious attack, then she should say it. And I’m not lying, so I have no problem answering anything. I hoped she would.
I sat backstage watching the beginning of the show, with the announcer talking up my appearance and calling me “the woman everyone in America is talking about.” Right away, Whoopi Goldberg turned the focus to Meghan, asking for an update on the condition of her father, Senator John McCain. The senator had to have emergency surgery for complications in his treatment for brain cancer. “I had a really rough morning,” Meghan said, announcing that she would soon be going to be with him in Arizona. She added that her father would be watching the show. Now I really wanted to her to ask me whatever question was weighing on her heart.
After the first commercial break, they sat me in the middle of the table, with Michael sitting to my left. Joy Behar asked me why I came there knowing I was under the threat of President Trump suing me for twenty million dollars if I talked. “I’m tired of being threatened,” I said. “I’m done being bullied. I’m done.”
“Will you have to pay the twenty million?” she asked.
“I’d have to get twenty million first,” I answered. The crowd roared. I smiled. Meghan didn’t.
They asked why I attended Michael Cohen’s court hearing. I said I wasn’t sure if they were going to be discussing my case, and I wanted to be prepared.
Meghan paused for a second before going in. “It seems like a publicity stunt on some level,” she started. Good girl, I thought. Say what you want. She finished with “I hadn’t heard your name until all this happened and now you are literally live on The View giving an entire interview to us.”
I was grateful she gave me the opportunity to talk about this. “This isn’t what I want to be known for,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I hid for quite a while, and it’s overwhelming and intimidating and downright scary sometimes.” I mentioned the cost to my family, but also the literal cost of bodyguards. “You don’t want to know their food bill, because I have to feed them three times a day and they are big.” My dragons hated that and made me feel guilty about it for weeks!
When Joy tried to deflect the question, I returned my attention to Meghan. “Meghan has a very, very good question, and if I were her or anyone else, that’s what I would be saying. A lot of people have.”
I liked that she grew some balls and asked it. Especially with her war-hero dad watching at home. I have crazy respect for her, because up until then I thought maybe she was just going to be all bark. Afterward, people brought it up to me, saying things like “She should have kept her mouth shut. You were a guest in her house.”
No. She wanted to know the answer to something that bothered her, she was told not to, and she did it anyway. I gave her my answer, and she listened. She sat there, open-minded, and she was a big enough person to accept my answer.
When it was over, she shook my hand again and this time there was a mutual respect, if not regard.
“Maybe you’ll come back,” she said.
“I would like that,” I said, meaning it. I appreciate that the other women were so kind to me, but I knew they supported me from the beginning. Either because they understood the law of the case or had a natural sympathy for anyone standing up to Trump. Meghan I had to win over. I don’t think I changed her opinion of me wholly, and I definitely don’t think I changed her opinion of porn. All I care about is that she wouldn’t allow herself to be silenced.
When I go back, I am most excited to see her again. Maybe she’ll change my mind about something.
President Trump must have been watching along with Senator McCain, because he broke his Twitter silence about me. We do know he loves his TV time. On the show, Michael and I presented a sketch of the man who threatened my daughter and me in the Las Vegas parking lot. “A sketch years later about a nonexistent man,” he tweeted at six in the morning on April 18, probably from the toilet. “A total con job, playing the Fake News Media for Fools (but they know it)!”
Never mind that the sketch was done by renowned forensic artist Lois Gibson, whose sketches have helped law enforcement ID 751 criminals and secure more than a thousand convictions. Lois has said she was inspired to study forensic art after she was attacked at age twenty-one by a brutal rapist. He almost killed her, repeatedly strangling her until she passed out, laughing each time. Back then, she was a model and dancer in L.A., and she was afraid to go to the police. Just the kind of person Trump and Cohen would write off. But Lois and I believe in each other, because honest people can spot honest people. And liars.
Two weeks after Trump said I was running a “con job,” Michael Avenatti filed a defamation lawsuit against him. “Mr. Trump knew that his false, disparaging statement would be read by people around the world,” Michael wrote in the lawsuit, “as well as widely reported, and that Ms. Clifford would be subjected to threats of violence, economic harm, and reputational damage as a result.” Translation from legalese: If you come for us, we’re ready.
People have been coming for poor Michael in more inventive ways. Ever since he’s been on TV, he’s had all these people sending him naked pictures—hundreds of pictures. Of all types of women. He’s anything but stupid, and we both think they’re setups to get him in a room to say he was a john or accuse him of assault. We were talking on the phone while he was in L.A., and I made him screen-shot one for me.
When I saw the picture, I immediately recognized the girl as a porn star from the UK. Despite the fact that the girl had sent him an unsolicited message saying she lives in Woodland Hills, giving him an address and trying to lure him to “come over.”
We both agreed that ev
erywhere you turn in this case, someone is trying to fuck us over.
FOURTEEN
We were getting ready to land when the flight attendant passed me the folded note. He looked at me and nodded, then left before I could open it. In blue ink, he had written the words “Stay Strong.” He had perfect timing, because I had just read the most horrible, untrue thing about myself, the latest in a series, and I needed that lifeline. For some time, I had felt like I was caught in a tornado. I was swirling in this mess, at the mercy of every news alert, think piece, hot take, and court filing. I used to click all the stories about the case, but then I would get all bent out of shape over stuff that wasn’t from a legit source. Which I think describes a lot of us.
So I stopped reading about Stormy Daniels and focused on being Stormy Daniels. Besides, I was busy. People all over the country want to pay me more to do the shows that I have always loved doing. People might criticize that, but why am I not allowed to honor that great tenet of American capitalism: supply and demand? With my schedule, most of the world finds out about developments in my case at least half a day before I do. On April 27, two days after Michael Cohen pleaded the fifth in my lawsuit saying the NDA was null and void, a judge granted him a three-month postponement in my civil case because, as His Honor put it, Cohen will “likely” be indicted in a criminal case. The media jumped on it and talked about it all day, but I didn’t know until I was sitting in my makeshift dressing room, the manager’s office of Fantasies strip club in Baltimore. I was half dressed between shows, my feet up as I finally got around to Michael’s emails of the day. I trust Michael as an advocate for me, and I am no longer on my own.
I needed breaks from engaging in the national conversation about me, so I relied on the small, personal encounters I had meeting people in clubs across the country. I have been writing all of this to you in the mornings on the road, waking up in hotels, or on my tour bus. I write before anyone in the circus wakes up: my two dragons, Brandon and Travis; and Denver, who I am grateful for dropping out of his life in New York to give me the day-to-day normalcy of always having a true friend around. And now there’s Dwayne, my old roadie from years ago. A couple of months ago, something told me to call him. “Hey, do you want to be my tour manager?”
Full Disclosure Page 22