This is the third book I have written about Donald Trump in as many years. It’s a chronicle that has put me in close touch with almost every phase of the Trump White House and with nearly every member of the revolving cast of characters around him. A great many of them, in the West Wing, the campaign, and in the greater Republican Party, have contributed to this account, including Donald Trump himself.

The former president’s office has been supplied a detailed summary of much of the material set forth in this book. His staff has either confirmed events, conversations, and various details of Trumpworld life as I have portrayed them or offered corrections. In the event that factual matters have been disputed, they have been included only if confirmed by multiple sources.

Many who have discussed these events with me have asked to remain anonymous for reasons that will be evident from this tale.

PROLOGUE

THE TRIAL

Typos drove him wild. He might lash out for days when he found one, or when someone else, more likely, pointed out a mess-up in a letter or document prepared under his name—the infuriated concern of someone thinking somebody else’s laziness might reveal his own weaknesses.

He was spitting furious now because the legal brief was filled with botches, the second time in a week this had happened—the Unites States! In the first line! A violent overthrown! And plenty more. The press was already on him—complete ridicule, somehow a higher indignity and reason for fury than the second impeachment trial he was being subjected to.

He wanted someone fired—whoever had proofed it, fired. He wanted them gone immediately! He placed call after call to his remaining aides. “What is fucking wrong with these people? They can’t hit spell-check?”—spell-check, in the mind of a man who did not use a computer, was the solution.

The miscreant here, however, could not, practically speaking, easily be fired because it was the president’s lead impeachment lawyer, Bruce Castor. On the job for only days in the most important professional engagement of his life, Castor had rushed through reading the brief at 3:40 a.m. that morning, February 8, 2021, and had filed it straightaway. Nobody had proofed it.

Castor was trying to explain this to the former president, who kept interrupting, his voice sharp, curt, sneering, unabating, dismissing Castor’s excuses. “Spell-check, Mr. President, doesn’t pick up italicized words,” said Castor, another man who did not perhaps use a computer much.

“What? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Fix it! Get it back! Fix it! NOW!” the incredulous president yelled, not unusually losing his shit.