The Day of the Donald Read online

  Anyway, that’s how Jimmie came to be shivved and left to bleed out in the shower.

  Chapter Three

  Hello, Nurse

  Jimmie woke in a hospital bed. An IV drip was feeding into his right arm. Based on the fuzzy feeling in his head, he was being drugged. No casts on his arms or legs, though, so he hadn’t been broken too bad in the prison attack. If this were a movie, Jimmie would rip the needle out and stagger off into the night. Unfortunately, the handcuffs on both his wrists put a damper on any escape plans.

  A television mounted on the far wall was tuned to an English-language station—MSNBC, according to the scroller. They cut from a commercial for Trump Cola straight to video of a Trump rally.

  A banner across the stage read, “AMERICA IS GREAT AGAIN.” So did most of the red hats in the crowd, Jimmie assumed. The crowd was hanging on Trump’s every word, even though he was probably twenty minutes into his third massive digression of the afternoon. They’d paid two large for these tickets, and by gosh, they were going to enjoy them.

  “Prince Charles? That guy’s a boob. Total. Boob. Let me tell you something, folks, all of England’s princes and princesses together don’t add up to one of our princesses at Disney. Not even close. You want to see some real princesses? How about the USA Freedom Girls for America?”

  Trump exited to thundering applause as the dance team took the stage to perform their new single. Not their strongest. Jimmie thought about changing the channel, but nobody’d left him the remote.

  Trump returned for an encore and launched straight into his List of Enemies (always a crowd pleaser). The audience shouted along with the president: “Hillary! Hollywood! Pelosi! Rowling!”

  Trump raised his hand for quiet. As had become the custom, the crowd all raised their hands back at him, also calling for quiet.

  “You’ve been great today, West Virginia! This is my favorite of the Virginias. Let me tell you, America is close to being the greatest it’s ever been. It really, truly is, folks. You know this. We have the greatest people, the greatest cities. We have all the greatest freedoms . . .”

  “EXCEPT FREEDOM OF RELIGION!” a lone voice shouted, loud enough to be picked up by MSNBC’s microphones.

  Heads swiveled to stare at a woman who had ripped off her Trump shirt to reveal her true colors: Underneath, she was wearing a Bernie shirt—the one with the golden house finch, which was somehow appearing on more and more bootleg merchandise even after being banned on Etsy.

  A shocked murmur rumbled through the crowd. A protester? Here?! The protests at Trump’s rallies had dwindled to almost zero once he’d started handing out free bike chains. Now this woman’s sudden appearance created the same reactions a cockroach would. Most people were getting as far away as possible, while a few rushed toward her, eagerly awaiting their chance to stomp on something.

  “Equal treatment for Kardashians! Let them in! Let them in! Let them—”

  The woman’s chanting was abruptly cut off when a man who looked like a middle school social studies teacher backhanded her across the mouth. Then the man balled his hand into a fist and punched her square in the face, garnering applause from the crowd and knocking the woman to the pavement.

  “Okay, okay, that’s enough,” said Trump from the podium. “No more of that. What have I told you? Two punches is plenty for a broad. Let her up.”

  The crowd obediently pulled the protestor to her feet, even though it had technically been one punch and one slap.

  “Okay, look, lady. I don’t know what it is that sent you on the warpath—though we can guess, it’s probably cramps,” said Trump, drawing a huge roar of laughter. The danger had passed; they were having fun again.

  “But you need to understand, I love the freedom of religion. It’s one of the five top freedoms. Those Kardashians can be any religion they want. But if it’s a religion that wants to blow us up, they don’t get to come here. Anybody is welcome in America—they just have to change to a religion that doesn’t want to blow us up. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”

  As the crowd cheered, several security personnel appeared, each holding an oversized American flag. With swift, practiced movements, they wrapped the flags around the protestor before pinning her arms and legs, then covering her completely. They lifted her on their shoulders like a roll of American-flag carpet and carried her out of the arena.

  “Husbands, this is what happens when you don’t give your wives enough attention,” Trump said. “Be good to them. Even if they’re as ugly as that one.”

  The station cut to the in-studio host, Lena Dunham. She rolled her eyes so hard that Jimmie worried she might have been having a seizure. “That was the president, speaking at a rally promoting his new program retraining out-of-work coal miners as golf caddies—”

  The TV went black. Jimmie glanced around the room. He spied a dark-haired woman in a sharp, navy-blue blazer pointing a remote at the television. Her matching skirt only made it to midthigh, giving him a not-unpleasing view of her long legs.

  She spun around in one fluid motion, like she’d reached the end of a catwalk. “Look who’s done napping,” she said with a polished British accent. “Think you can stay awake this time?”

  “Do we know each other?” Jimmie asked. He doubted they’d met—he would have remembered those legs.

  “You’ve been in and out of consciousness for over seventy-two hours. This is the third time we’ve had this conversation.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “That’s the third time you’ve apologized as well,” she said. “You’re nothing if not consistent.”

  “First time I’ve ever heard that.”

  The woman said, “Third time.” She paused. “Anyway, since I don’t have all day, here’s the pitch: My name is Emma Blythe. I’m with the White House.”

  “You’re a Brit in the White House? Not a Prince Charles sympathizer, then?”

  She smiled a patient, thin-lipped smile and continued. “I’m here to extend you an offer of employment as a ghostwriter.”

  He’d never tried his hand at ghostwriting before. Hadn’t even attempted a book-length manuscript, outside of an abandoned novel or two. Or five. Okay, nine, but who was counting? Point was, she’d mistaken him for someone else.

  “Too bad you came all this way,” he said. “Doesn’t sound like my sort of thing. And even if I was into ghostwriting, I couldn’t care less about politics. But I’ve already told you this.”

  She nodded. “You’re not interested in politics, but you are interested in writing about the American migrant experience for Cigar Aficionado magazine. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Apparently their readers enjoy chomping on stogies while reading about poor, unemployed people crawling around in the dirt,” Jimmie said. “It’s just a paycheck.”

  “What are they paying you?”

  He told her the number, which wasn’t much.

  “Here’s what we can offer you,” she said, quoting a number four times as large. Maybe five times—his math wasn’t super.

  “For the entire project? Do I get, like, half now, half later?”

  “That would be your salary. Per week. And to answer your next question, you would be ghostwriting the president’s memoir.”

  “The president of . . .”

  “The United States.”

  “You want me to help write the autobiography . . . of Donald Trump?”

  Chapter Four

  An Offer You Can’t Refuse

  “There are dozens of Trump biographies on the shelves,” Emma said. “Even before he was elected president, the American people were fascinated with him. Half of the books about him are full of shit.”

  “And the rest?” Jimmie asked.

  “Are only half full of shit. Those are the ones he wrote himself.”

  Jimmie laughed and immediately regretted it. Not just because he felt a sharp pain in his abs, but also because this woman clearly wasn’t joking.

  “He doesn’t w
ant another cookie-cutter biography,” Emma said. “He wants to write a memoir of his time in office. The working title is America’s Greatest Decade.”

  “Decade?”

  “He’ll have to remove term limits, but he considers that a formality.”

  “Still, sounds a little optimistic.”

  “He could wait to write the book until after his term, but he doesn’t know when that will be. He’s afraid he’s going to miss the yacht,” she said. “Besides, he wants it on shelves during his reelection campaign. He wants to tout all he’s done for the country. Discharging our debt to China, the buyout of Cuba, the program to put chandeliers in every classroom in the country.”

  Jimmie felt his cheeks flush. “And my name was the first that came to mind.”

  “Let’s just say you weren’t too far down the list. He’s a big fan of your work. You’ll be given total access. You can follow him into the bathroom if you want to.” She paused. “He actually specifically asked me to mention that to you. That he has nothing to hide in that department.”

  That message delivered, her tone brightened: “He wants to come across as open and honest. You won’t be asked to sugarcoat anything. No restrictions. I know this is a lot to take in,” she said. “But I’m going to need an answer before I leave.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “I need to catch my flight in an hour and thirty-seven minutes. Which means you have five minutes to decide, James.” She glanced at her phone. “Four minutes.”

  Although Jimmie had never heard from the president before, it made perfect sense that Trump was a fan of his. Jimmie had been the one whose reporting had forced Ted Cruz out of the race. It was right when Cruz was preparing his all-out “This time we’ll really stop him” surprise reactivation of his campaign a week before the Republican National Convention. The story had also cost Jimmie his career. There was the lawsuit brought by SeaWorld against the Daily Blabber. The jury trial, where Jimmie’s ethics were called into question. The $180 million verdict. The appeal. The upheld verdict.

  After that, his name was poison. No disreputable blog would have him, and he had no interest in working for the reputable ones. The assignment for Cigar Aficionado had come about through an old editor who still tossed him a freelance gig from time to time.

  So while his past was painful, his present wasn’t exactly all kittens and rainbows. And this opportunity was almost too good to be true. Forget crawling around in the dirt—he’d be working in the White House. Or, as some of the administration’s critics called it, the “Gold House.” (Trump took this as a tremendous compliment.) What interested Jimmie more than the steady work, however, was the opportunity to see his ex-girlfriend again—Cat Diaz. What would she say if she saw him palling around with the president?

  “Is Cat Diaz still working there in the press corps?” Jimmie asked.

  “She was your boss at the Daily Blabber, wasn’t she? Fired you, right? If it’s going to be a problem for you to work together, we can revoke her credentials.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said. “Do you know if she’s still seeing that reporter from the Times? Lester Dorset. Always flashing that Pulitzer of his around like he won the Super Bowl.”

  “I don’t keep up with the latest gossip,” Emma said. “Isn’t that your specialty?”

  Jimmie didn’t say anything.

  Emma looked at her phone. “Time’s up. What’ll it be? Ready to return home?”

  Jimmie grunted.

  “So is that disgusting noise a yes? I really need to be on my way.”

  “What’s the alternative, again?”

  “I think you know that.”

  “Because you’ve told me before?”

  “Because you’re not as stupid as you pretend to be. If I leave you here, you’ll be thrown back into San Miguel after you’re healed. Imagine what will happen to you after a month. After a year.” She paused. “After ten years.”

  In another decade, Jimmie would be in his forties. A decade after that, his fifties. Was there anything after that? He thought back to the old man coughing in the tunnel, the old man who was going to die in San Miguel. How many of the migrants would kill for the opportunity Jimmie was being handed?

  He would accept the job. For that old man and for every migrant who had ever dreamed of a better life and fallen short.

  He’d accept it primarily to avoid returning to jail, of course.

  Secondly, for a chance to show up his ex.

  Thirdly, for the steady paycheck.

  But fourthly, for those poor souls who hadn’t been blessed with the talent to turn prose into paychecks. He’d pour out a little liquor for them when he returned to the States—not much, because Trump Whiskey was expensive. But enough to say he’d done it, and that was all that mattered.

  Excerpt From the Trump/Dorset Sessions

  May 23, 2018, 6:58 PM

  President Trump: You’re very lucky to be talking to me. I’m very busy now, you know. I have hundreds of very important meetings every week. You can’t imagine how important these meetings are. High-pressure negotiations, which I am very good at. I’m amazing at negotiating. I’m going to bring you to some meetings so you can see. You’re going to love these meetings. I have the best meetings. Are you going to ask me any questions?

  Lester Dorset: Ah, yes . . . During your administration, the lawmaking process seems to have come to a standstill. You’ve vetoed nearly ninety percent of the bills that have crossed your desk.

  Trump: You always reject the first offer.

  Dorset: Both the House and Senate are controlled by Republicans. You would think they would be on common ground with you.

  Trump: Listen, I may have campaigned as a Republican, but I’m no more a Republican than that crazy-haired garden gnome Bernie was a Democrat. That stuff’s just letters after your name on the ballot; it doesn’t mean anything. The GOP totally disrespected me.

  Dorset: And now you’re disrespecting them?

  Trump: I don’t forget. I don’t forget, okay? So, yeah, there’s a little bit of that. Bottom line, though, is that they’re grandstanding. They’re playing politics. I’m issuing executive orders.

  Dorset: One of your signature projects, the Even Greater Wall, is only halfway complete because Congress refuses to fund your executive orders. Your critics have characterized it as the “Wall to Nowhere.”

  Trump: It has nothing to do with Congress. As you know, Mexico agreed to pay for the damned thing—just like I said they would. Unfortunately, their check bounced. Not a great way to convince the world your country’s not full of rapists. Just saying. So construction has been halted for the time being. There’s that saying, “Trump Tower wasn’t built in a day.” Nobody’s ever undertaken a project of this magnitude before. Except for maybe the Chinese, who had a much smaller border to defend.

  Dorset: The Great Wall of China is four thousand miles long; the US-Mexico border is just about half that.

  Trump: US-Mexico is just the first phase. Phase two is the Canadian border. Five thousand more miles, baby. And let’s not forget our borders with the oceans. Once Congress opens the purse for me, China can suck it.

  Dorset: I wasn’t aware there were any troubles with Canadians entering our country illegally. Or . . . fish.

  Trump: Securing our borders is about more than immigration. What if some Kardashian sneaks across with a dirty bomb? Somebody had to do something about the Kardashian problem. Nobody wanted to talk about it but me. So that’s why you’ve seen me take other steps, like revoking Kim and Kanye’s passports.

  Dorset: This supposed connection between Kardashians and terrorism has been refuted many times over. The facts—

  Trump: The fact is, there are terrorists everywhere over there—Iran, Kazakhstan, and Kardashia. You can’t refute that.

  Monday, August 27, 2018

  Chapter Five

  Hammer Time

  Jimmie searched for glimpses of the new golden exterior of the White
House through the buildings as his car drove up Connecticut Avenue. “Traffic on Sixteenth is restricted due to the glare issue,” his driver said.

  They inched through traffic, and—there it was. The gleaming columns, the burnished eaves. The word “TRUMP” spanning the facade.

  It was all too beautiful to be real. People actually lived here?

  Not people, he thought. The Trumps.

  The first family, like others before them, had moved into the White House’s Executive Residence, which was sandwiched between the East and West Wings. From what Jimmie had read, there had been some chatter about building an entirely new residence on the grounds. A Trump Wing, financed entirely by Trump himself. However, Trump had ultimately decided against a new structure. The return on his investment would be nil—he couldn’t take it with him when he left office. Donating it to the federal government was a ridiculous proposition even for the most altruistic philanthropist. Instead, the real estate mogul had overhauled the existing residence. Trump had even gone so far as to move the bedrooms to the third floor so that he could turn the second floor into one giant State Dining Room.

  “We’ll do a lap before we pull in,” his driver said. The car circled the grounds, giving Jimmie a firsthand look at the new features he’d only seen on TV.

  Turning down Constitution Avenue gave Jimmie a great view of the fountain. The Haupt Fountains may have been nice, but they were nothing compared to the Bellagio Fountains that Trump had shipped in from Vegas.

  Through the cascades of water, Jimmie could see the new White House golf course on the South Lawn. Eisenhower had a putting green; Trump had an entire eighteen-hole course designed by Jack Nicklaus. From what he could see, the ninth green had almost recovered from its trampling during the 2018 Easter Egg Roll. President Trump had asked all the children to wear golf spikes, but it turned out most kids didn’t have them. A week later, Trump launched his public-private initiative to provide golf shoes to underprivileged youth. It would have gone over better had he not slashed funding for science education a month earlier.