To start the briefing I went back to July 2016, when we began investigating the possibility of collusion between members of the Trump campaign and the Russian government. We opened cases on four individuals. The question determining those actions was simple: Which individuals associated with the campaign had had significant or historical ties to Russia?
One was Carter Page, a foreign policy adviser to the campaign; he was known to have met with with Russian foreign-intelligence officers in New York, and he had recently been to Russia. Another foreign policy adviser, George Papadopoulos, had told a foreign diplomat that the Russians had offered to help Trump’s campaign by providing information on Hillary Clinton. Michael Flynn, the campaign’s senior foreign policy adviser and, later, for a brief period, the president’s national security adviser, was known to have had multiple, high-level contacts with the Russian government and he had been seated next to Vladimir Putin at a Moscow gala dinner in late 2015. Paul Manafort was known to have had business dealings of many kinds, all of them on the shady side, with Ukrainians and Russians.
After reminding the committee of how this investigation began, I told them of additional steps we had taken. No one interrupted. No one pushed back. The mood in the room was sober. Schumer had been nodding his head and looking at me very directly throughout the brief. On McConnell’s side of the table, I sensed a great deal of resignation.
At this point Rod took over the briefing and announced that he had appointed a special counsel to pursue the Russia investigation, and that the special counsel was Robert Mueller. The Gang of Eight had a lot of questions for him. What was the scope of the inquiry? Who oversees the special counsel? How could the special counsel get fired? No one was gunning to fire the special counsel, they just wanted to understand the Justice Department rules around the appointment. Rod answered every question, and then we were done. In and out in half an hour.
Nunes had stayed and listened throughout the entire meeting. Within the next few days, aides to Representative Mike Conaway, the acting chair of the House Intelligence Committee after Nunes stepped aside, contacted the Justice Department to ask if we would give the brief again, to Conaway alone. As it was explained to me, the aide said, after the Gang of Eight briefing, Nunes realized he probably should not have been there. Conaway would handle all committee business pertaining to this matter. So Conaway came to the command center at Justice, and Rod and I ran through the whole thing for him again. He took the news the same way the rest had seemed to take it. As a reality to accept.
When I came out of the Capitol in the early evening of May 17, it felt like crossing a finish line. It felt as if I’d been sprinting since the night of May 9. Now, finally, I could stop sprinting. If I got nothing else done as acting director, I had done, now, the one thing I needed to do. The Russia investigation was on solid ground. Everybody who needed to know about it knew about it. If the investigation ever got wiped away, that would involve forces beyond my control. It could not be struck from the record. All the steps we took were fully documented. If anyone tried to close it down, it could not be done in secret.
I came home and stood by the island in the kitchen, drinking a beer. The family wound down from all the things we had done that day. My own future, I knew, was probably set now. I was correct about that. In late July, the president would begin using Twitter to continue the barrage of false and scathing statements about me and my wife.
Later, when things got tough, on the days when I went down the rabbit hole, Jill would remind me of that night with the family in the kitchen. Center me and bring me back: Remember what you did and why you did it, she would say. You played your role, you did your job, your kids know it. That’s what matters.
8
Real Americans
Interview
The day I briefed the Gang of Eight about the Russia investigation—Wednesday, May 17—I also had another appointment. Just before that meeting on the Hill, I had gone back to the White House for my job interview for the position of FBI director.
Inside the West Wing I made my way to the small reception area outside the Oval Office. The door was open. To the left of the door was a desk where Hope Hicks, who was then the White House communications director, was sitting. Covering the whole of the front of the desk was a poster-sized display—a map of the 2016 electoral college results. In the space where all outside visitors would wait to see the president, the main decorative element was this proof of the president’s victory.
As I stood there in front of her, I could see into the Oval Office. The president was at his desk, having a loud conversation with a crowd of staffers including Reince Priebus and press secretary Sean Spicer. It almost sounded like a shouting match. A television was turned on, and the news headlines were about Comey and the FBI. The scene recalled the one I’d encountered in Pence’s office. People in the room emitted bleats of exasperation: Who leaked this? How did that story get out?
It didn’t seem right to be standing there, overhearing this. I looked at Hope Hicks and asked, Do you want me to go somewhere else? She answered, Oh, he’s very busy. She seemed to think that I was impatient about getting in to see the president. To clarify, I said, I understand that he’s busy, and I’m happy to wait until he’s ready. But would you like for me to wait someplace else? I gestured to the open door with my eyes, so she would understand. She said, No, no, no, you’re fine right there.
The phone rang, and she answered it. I heard her talking. She stuck her head into the Oval Office and spoke to the president: Sir, It’s Senator Grassley on the phone for you. Charles Grassley, a senator from Iowa and the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, had become one of the president’s primary attack dogs against the FBI and the Justice Department. For months he had been writing critical letters to the Department of Justice, fanning the flames of false rumors about me. In one letter he called for my exclusion from any aspect of the investigation into Russian engagement with the Trump campaign, citing my “partisan Democratic ties”—a line that I could only laugh at, having been a registered Republican for the whole of my adult life. Now Grassley was calling the president just before my interview. A few moments earlier, I might have had a one-in-ten-million chance at this job. The odds now slimmed. The whole fact of being here felt ridiculous.
A line of people filed out of the Oval Office. Sean Spicer looked me up and down as he passed by, silent and yet somehow sarcastic. Gave no greeting. If there had been a cartoon thought bubble above his head, it would have said, What are you doing here?
I went in. The furniture was arranged the same way it always seemed to be: little schoolboy chairs in a semicircle in front of the desk. The president behind the desk. The sit-down wave of his hand. Reince Priebus. Don McGahn. Rod Rosenstein was supposed to be there but wasn’t. Attorney General Sessions was there, impassive. The president said, I was talking to Senator Grassley, and boy, he’s no fan of yours. Trying to make a joke, I said, Yes, I was aware of that. After Grassley’s fourteenth letter criticizing me, I drew the conclusion that he and I were not going to be friends.
For some reason, the president immediately began to talk about his electoral college results in the state of North Carolina. Percentages. Numbers. His commentary on this went on for a while. Not sure how to respond, I did not respond. Just held eye contact, nodded to signal comprehension, waited for the topic to exhaust itself. Eventually he began to repeat his claim that most people in the FBI had voted for him, because people in the FBI loved him. I noticed that the percentage of love was creeping up—now it was 90 percent. I took the topic as an opening.
I said, Mr. President, when we talked last time, you asked me a question, and I did not give you a straight answer. So if it’s okay, I’d like to go back to that and tell you what I’ve been thinking. A little puzzled, his expression said, Sure, why not?
I said, Last time we met, you asked me who I voted for, and I didn’t really answer the question. So I wanted to explain to you that I did not vote in the 201
6 election. I have considered myself a Republican my whole life, and I have always voted for the Republican candidate for president, except in 2016. Owing to the nature of investigations that I was involved in during the campaign season, I thought it would be inappropriate for me to cast a vote. Although it’s the first time I’ve ever missed voting in a presidential election, at the time I felt it was the right thing for me to stay out of this one.
No one in the room said a word. The president squinted. I couldn’t tell if he was angry. The look certainly didn’t convey approval or comprehension. For a second, he held my gaze. Then he moved on.
He said, So we’re looking for a new director now, and here you are. You’re interviewing. Isn’t this great? Isn’t this terrific for you? You’re interviewing for the director’s job. How do you feel about that?
I said, I’m an FBI agent, and I would like to think that any FBI agent would be honored by the opportunity to interview for the position of director. I never imagined doing this, but I’m very happy to be considered. I love the organization, and becoming director would be the ultimate way to serve. We’ve only had one former agent as director, Louis Freeh.
Yeah, he said. Well, it’s great, and I don’t know if you’re going to get it, but if you do, that’s great, and if you don’t, you’ll just go back to being a happy FBI guy, right?
I said, Yes, of course, I’m a career professional.
Repetitions of redundancy: He told me I was doing a terrific job, he talked again about people he was interviewing—Joseph Lieberman, other FBI agents. To wrap up, he said, This has been great. This is great for you, all this attention has been great. And who knows? You might get it.
There was a lot of that—a lot of dangling. Look, it could happen.… As if he were going to select the new director by spinning a wheel. This was my job interview in its totality. He had barely asked a question.
“A Great Day for Democracy”
When the first tweet came—July 25, 2017—I was already hanging by a thread. I’d been acting director for six weeks. I was trying to figure out this job day by day, trying to do the right thing, keep everybody’s spirits up, stay focused, keep the organization focused, do everything I possibly could to be consistent in my messaging and stay on target and keep people working.
And then this missile fired—“Problem is that the acting head of the FBI & the person in charge of the Hillary investigation, Andrew McCabe, got $700,000 from H for wife!”
I think I heard it on the news. I didn’t have Twitter on my phone. Following Twitter was not a part of my life. The tweet hit me on a lot of different levels, not the least of which was it’s just embarrassing to be called out by the president of the United States. To be referred to by clear implication as corrupt. To have my wife be referred to by clear implication as corrupt. It was shocking. Donald Trump had done it before, during the campaign, and now was at it again, as president.
I went into work, committed to staying upbeat and pushing forward, whether one-on-one with people at headquarters or in speeches to field offices, at a moment when the firing of the director had rocked the whole organization. Now I had this feeling that everyone I talked to probably had that tweet in the back of their minds.
Soon there would be more tweets. The next morning, as I was getting ready to leave the house, Jim Baker reached me by phone. He said, I was just calling to see if you’re okay. I was confused. Said I was fine, and why was he asking? He said, Oh, I just saw the president’s tweets this morning.
I looked them up—“Why didn’t A.G. Sessions replace Acting FBI Director Andrew McCabe, a Comey friend who was in charge of Clinton investigation…” / “… big dollars ($700,000) for his wife’s political run from Hillary Clinton and her representatives. Drain the Swamp!” Again, I was baffled about how to react. The president’s statement contained no facts. It was not an argument—it was innuendo. What should I do? How could I acknowledge this in a way that wouldn’t give it more significance or lend it some further credence? In the office that day we had an executive-leadership team meeting. I started the meeting by saying, I haven’t seen the news today—haven’t had a chance to check the paper. Anything happening? There was some awkward laughter, and then we moved on.
Two days later, on July 28, the inspector general’s office contacted me. The assistant IG said I had to come and talk to him that day, that it was urgent that I speak with them immediately. The IG was investigating Midyear, and I assumed there would be questions about my involvement in the case. I made it clear that without my lawyer present, I did not want to speak about an investigation in which I was a subject. The assistant IG said the meeting would not be an interview. He and his colleagues had something they needed to bring to my attention. In their office, I was shown the now infamous text messages between Peter Strzok and Lisa Page. IG staff and attorneys began to ask me questions about the meaning of those messages, which I had never before seen—I had not even been aware that they existed, much less that Strzok and Page had been romantically involved. They hammered me with questions about the texts that Strzok and Page exchanged, questions I could not have answered unless I’d been a mind reader—What did I think this one meant? What did I think the two of them were thinking when they wrote some of these things? Then the IG staff started asking about specific references in Page’s texts, and whether she was referring to other cases. I objected. I told them they were wandering into the territory that, as they knew, we were not going to discuss at this meeting. They pressed, asking if I knew whether Page had been authorized to talk to reporters. Two of them began speaking together, asking overlapping questions, pointing to numerous references in different texts. I was disconnecting from the questioning, trying to shut this conversation down. I said I was not aware of any authorization, but in fact I wasn’t following their questions. My mind was elsewhere: The information I’d just been given about those text messages represented an emergency, and I needed to deal with the consequences immediately.
I had a general sense, that day, of things coming unglued. President Trump gave a speech in New York, in which he called gang members “animals” and encouraged law-enforcement officers to use force freely when handling suspects. Chuck Rosenberg, Director Comey’s former chief of staff, who now served as acting head of the Drug Enforcement Agency, called me. He was taken aback by the president’s statement, and we discussed how to respond. Rosenberg issued a public statement strongly affirming core law-enforcement values of integrity, respect, compassion, and the rule of law. I spent the afternoon and evening with my senior staff trying to assess and control the damage that might be done by the texts between Strzok and Page, and trying to figure out where to reassign Strzok, who had been working for Mueller’s special-counsel investigation, but who for obvious reasons we had to remove from that team. I was angry about the poor judgment that Strzok and Page had shown, and I was saddened to consider the disparagement they would now be subjected to. Strzok was a gifted investigator. Page was a gifted lawyer. I respected and trusted them both.
After that weekend, Christopher Wray became the new FBI director and I returned to the job of deputy director. The same day, I contacted the IG’s office to add some clarity to the things I said in the chaotic interview of the prior week. I provided additional information about Page and her role in responding to the Wall Street Journal inquiries, and I suggested that they speak to Michael Kortan, who was also involved. I wasn’t trying to hide anything—there was nothing to hide. As deputy director, I could authorize colleagues to speak to the press and push back on inaccurate stories that were harmful to the FBI. I corrected the record—I wanted the IG to have an accurate understanding of the facts. These sorts of corrections are common in any type of interview, especially when it covers topics the witness was not told about in advance. Witnesses recall things after the interview is over, when the heat of the moment has passed, and they have had time to reflect on the questions they have been asked. I made similar corrections in discussions with the F
BI’s inspection division later in the month when I realized they had apparently heard and written down something other than I knew to be the case. I thought that settled the matter. But some time after, the inspector general began investigating the statements I made in the July 28 interview. Having corrected the record without delay, I trusted that the process would confirm that I had done my best to answer the questions accurately—and when I realized I needed to clarify and correct what I had said, I did so voluntarily, without being prompted.
Through the fall, the president’s anger seemed difficult to contain. He threatened North Korea with “fire and fury,” then followed up with a threat to “totally destroy” the country. When neo-Nazis and white supremacists held a rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, and one of them killed a protester and injured a score of others, he made a brutally offensive statement condemning violence “on many sides … on many sides”—as if there was moral equivalence between those who were fomenting racial hatred and violence and those who were opposing it. He retweeted anti-Muslim propaganda that had been posted by a convicted criminal leader of a British far-right organization. Then as now, the president’s heedless bullying and intolerance of variance—intolerance of any perception not his own—has been nurturing a strain of insanity in public dialogue that has been long in development, a pathology that became only more virulent when it migrated to the internet.
A person such as the president can on impulse and with minimal effort inject any sort of falsehood into public conversation through digital media and call his own lie a correction of “fake news.” There are so many news outlets now, and the competition for clicks is so intense, that any sufficiently outrageous statement made online by anyone with even the faintest patina of authority, and sometimes even without it, will be talked about, shared, and reported on, regardless of whether it has a basis in fact. How do you progress as a culture if you set out to destroy any common agreement as to what constitutes a fact? You can’t have conversations. You can’t have debates. You can’t come to conclusions. At the same time, calling out the transgressor has a way of giving more oxygen to the lie. Now it’s a news story, and the lie is being mentioned not just in some website that publishes unattributable gossip but in every reputable newspaper in the country.
The Threat Page 26