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Sheepdog

Protecting America from excessive stool loitering
Dec 1, 2015
8,912
14,237

tang

top korean roofer
Oct 21, 2015
9,398
12,402
Obama might start something but doesn’t follow through.

As a Veteran who gets care at the VA, I saw significant changes starting around mid-2017. Before that, the VA was dog shit.
Before Trump, In order for me to make an appmnt, usually have to call the advice nurse and complain, then you wait about a week before your primary care doc hits you up to make an appmnt month away. Then you see your PC then they put in a console to the deparment that you wanted to see in the first place.
About another week later, that other specialist will call you to make an appmnt another month or two later.

Now, if the VA’s next available date is too far out, they hook you up with a doc outside of the VA, I recently got hooked up with an awesome chiro, been going to em regularly, like 3 times a week.

Obama might had the idea but That’s mostly Trump that made it happen, put pressure at the right places to get the ball rolling
 

Thuglife13

✝👦🍕🍦🍩
Dec 15, 2018
20,385
27,214
LoL @ This seething cocksucker who looks like The Grinch and is always leaning to the side like he had a stroke...

 

Freeloading Rusty

Here comes Rover, sniffin’ at your ass
Jan 11, 2016
26,916
26,743
NRA spent $1.6 million lobbying against background check expansion laws in months leading up to latest mass shootings
  • The National Rifle Association spent $1.6 million during the first half of the year lobbying Congress against laws that would enact stricter background checks for people looking to buy guns, according to disclosure reports.
  • One of the dozens of bills targeted by the NRA is H.R. 8, a bipartisan proposal that passed the Democratic-controlled House in February and has yet to be taken up by the GOP-controlled Senate.
  • Calls for tougher background checks and gun control in general have increased yet again in the wake of three mass shootings in California, Texas and Ohio that have left more than 30 people dead.
  • President Donald Trump on Monday tweeted that lawmakers should pass legislation to improve background checks while implementing immigration reform.
 

Freeloading Rusty

Here comes Rover, sniffin’ at your ass
Jan 11, 2016
26,916
26,743
We hired the author of 'Black Hawk Down' and an illustrator from 'Archer' to adapt the Mueller report so you'll actually read it
Chad Hurd/Business Insider

Editor's note

It feels as if nobody read the Mueller report. That's a shame, because it's an important document, depicting possible crimes by a sitting US president.

But not reading it makes sense. As a narrative, the document is a disaster. And at 448 pages, it's too long to grind through. For long stretches, it reads less like a story and more like a terms-of-service agreement. The instinct to click "next" is strong.

And yet, buried within the Mueller report, there is a narrative that reads in parts like a thriller, like a comedy, like a tragedy — and, most important — like an indictment. The facts are compelling, all the more so because they come not from President Donald Trump's critics or "fake news" reports, but from Trump's own handpicked colleagues and associates. The story just needed to be rearranged in a better form.

So we hired Mark Bowden, a journalist and author known for his brilliant works of narrative nonfiction like "Black Hawk Down," "Killing Pablo," and "Hue 1968."

Our assignment for him was simple. Use the interviews and facts laid out in the Mueller report (plus those from reliable, fact-checked sources and published firsthand accounts) to do what he does best: Tell a story recounting Mueller's report that's so gripping it will hold your attention (and maybe your congressional representative's).

We also hired Chad Hurd, an illustrator from the art department of "Archer." We asked him to draw out scenes from the report to bring them to life.

Here's what Bowden and Hurd gave us …

BI

The Russian government interfered in the 2016 US presidential election in sweeping and systematic fashion to support Donald John Trump and undermine the campaign of Hillary Rodham Clinton. Russian agents stole thousands of confidential campaign documents from the computer systems of Clinton's campaign and published them online through WikiLeaks — actions publicly encouraged and applauded by Trump. They pushed propaganda to millions of voters on social media to disparage Clinton and promote Trump. They paid a man to walk around New York City in a Trump mask and Santa costume. They organized Trump campaign rallies.

The special counsel Robert Mueller found there was insufficient evidence to establish whether the Trump campaign conspired with the Russian government's election-interference activities.

That said, Russia and the Trump campaign made repeated and varied attempts to foster ties of mutual interest. If they largely failed, it is not owing to any lack of willingness on Trump's side.

BI

In fact, several senior leaders of the campaign, including Donald Trump Jr., campaign manager Paul Manafort, and Trump's son-in-law, Jared Kushner, met with Russian operatives in Trump Tower on June 9, 2016, hoping to receive "dirt" on Clinton from the Russian government.

Nothing useful to the campaign developed from the meeting. It ended early after it devolved into a Russian operative sharing theories about a Clinton donor's supposedly illegal activities in Russia, sanctions, and the adoption of Russian children by American families.

Even so, when reports of the meeting surfaced a year later, the Trump administration scrambled to obfuscate the purpose of the meeting.

The president was at a G20 summit meeting in Hamburg, Germany, when his staff learned that The New York Times was preparing a story.

Enclosed in the beige, air-controlled hum of Air Force One on the way back to Washington, the brain trust went to work.

Kushner reassured the president that the meeting had concerned only Russian adoptions.

But Hope Hicks, Trump's communications director, had seen copies of the email exchange between Trump's son and the Russian contacts who set up the meeting. The emails made clear that its purpose was to receive Russian "dirt" about Clinton.

So Hicks drafted a statement for Donald Trump Jr. to give to The Times. It read:

"I was asked to have a meeting by an acquaintance I knew from the 2013 Miss Universe pageant with an individual who I was told might have information helpful to the campaign."

The President did not like that statement. He dictated a new version with no mention of campaign help.

Hicks texted a new version to Trump's son:

"It was a short meeting. I asked Jared and Paul to stop by. We discussed a program about the adoption of Russian children that was active and popular with American families years ago and was since ended by the Russian government, but it was not a campaign issue at that time and there was no follow-up."

Chad Hurd for Business Insider
"Are you OK with this?" Hicks asked. "Attributed to you."

Donald Trump Jr. wanted to hedge a bit, asking that the word "primarily" inserted between "We" and "discussed."

"I think that's right too but boss man worried it invites a lot of questions," Hicks texted back.

Ultimately, the word "primarily" stayed in. The statement became truer than the president's version, but its intended effect was still to muddle the purpose of the June 9 meeting.

But just as a willingness to work with the Russians to defeat Clinton was not a crime, the deception concocted aboard Air Force One was not a crime. Its purpose was only to mislead the public.

To prosecute a president for obstruction of justice, other standards must be met.

The crime of obstructing justice concerns any intentional act seeking to prevent or impede an official legal proceeding. Any effort to influence the process can qualify, even if it is "subtle or circuitous," and no matter "however cleverly or with whatever cloaking of purpose" it is done. The law defines "obstruct" and "impede" liberally, and they can refer to anything that "blocks, makes difficult, or hinders." This includes "chilling" an investigation by indicating to those conducting it that continuing to do so threatens their career. The action is regarded as "intentional" if it is undertaken knowingly and with an improper motive.

The motive does not have to be to avoid going to jail. It can also be to avoid embarrassment or political defeat.

BI
The text on Mike Flynn's phone looked like an opportunity.

It was from the Russian ambassador, and it was succinct.

"Can you kindly call me back at your convenience?"

It was December 28, 2016, about three weeks before Trump would be sworn in as the 45th president of the United States.

Flynn was the national-security-adviser-in-waiting; he would take office after Trump's inauguration on January 20. A reed-thin retired Army lieutenant general with a face like chiseled stone, Flynn had attached himself to Trump after being fired from his job as head of the Defense Intelligence Agency four years earlier by President Barack Obama, accused of a chaotic management style, abusing his staff, and ignoring his superiors. Flynn and generals like him, battle-tested in the war on terror, were accustomed to wielding power aggressively and without a great deal of oversight.

After his firing, Flynn formed a consulting firm, corralling an impressive list of international clients, including some occasionally at odds with US interests. In 2015 he had been seated next to Vladimir Putin, the president of Russia, at an elaborate Moscow dinner sponsored by Russian Television, the Russian president's propaganda network. The consulting work was quietly lucrative, but dicey enough for the FBI to begin watching him. After the election, Obama had warned Trump about Flynn's questionable foreign associations, but the general was awarded the top national security job anyway.

Flynn had jumped on board for Trump early. He proved an important ally for the candidate, who had boasted of his successful efforts to avoid military service during the Vietnam War and who had made several missteps with veterans during his campaign. By the last months of the campaign Flynn had joined the candidate's inner circle, delivering a rousing speech at the Republican National Convention and leading a gleeful cheer of "Lock her up!" — expressing the desire not just to defeat Clinton, but to jail her.

Somehow, Trump had actually won. But now, in late December, a new problem appeared.

Obama, serving out the last weeks of his second term, had leveled severe punitive sanctions on Russia. US intelligence agencies had concluded that Russia interfered in the recent presidential campaign.

At Mar-a-Lago, Trump's resort in West Palm Beach, Florida, the president-elect brooded over this news. He hated and rejected the narrative of Russian interference, seeing it as a plot to discredit his victory. The very suggestion of Russian involvement had provoked from him a steady stream of invective. He refused to believe the official findings, insisting that American security agencies either knew too little or were in league with his enemies. He said the hack of the Democratic National Committee might just as easily have been created by "somebody sitting on their bed that weighs 400 pounds."

"Can you kindly call me back at your convenience?"
- Ambassador Sergey Kislyak
Trump also didn't like the sanctions because he saw advantages for the United States in a closer relationship with Russia. Improved relations with Russia had the potential to increase partnership against Islamic terrorism and ease tensions in Eastern Europe, but some suspected a motivation beyond affairs of state.

It's also possible the president-elect saw advantages for the president-elect in a closer relationship with Russia. His real-estate-development company, the Trump Organization, had been negotiating in Moscow for years, on and off, to build a projected $1 billion commercial tower — a project that, it had been told, would depend on Putin's approval. Talks had picked back up after Trump declared his candidacy. Headed by Michael Cohen, the organization's executive vice president and Trump's personal lawyer, these discussions had continued through much of 2016, even as Trump had repeatedly denied any business dealings with Russia. When Cohen had reminded him that this assertion was untrue, Trump had rationalized. The Moscow deal was not yet done, he said — so, "Why mention it?"

The text on Flynn's phone wasn't from a stranger. He and Sergey Kislyak, Russia's rotund, round-faced ambassador to the United States, already had a relationship. They had discussed Russia's response, weeks earlier, to a UN resolution calling on Israel to cease building settlements in the West Bank. Flynn had asked for Russia's help in delaying the measure, which Russia gave — it ultimately passed, with Russia voting in favor and the US abstaining.

Could Flynn call Kislyak and persuade him to mute his response to Obama's sanctions?

The US Constitution allows for only one president at a time. For the Trump administration to intervene in this clash with Russia could violate the Logan Act, a federal law dating back to President John Adams that prohibits private citizens from interfering in disputes with foreign governments.

Knowing what he could do, Flynn needed to know whether he should. He had been warned months earlier by Trump's transition team about premature contacts with Kislyak.


Donald Trump.
Chad Hurd/Business Insider
He texted someone who was with the president-elect in Mar-a-Lago — an aide to K.T. McFarland, his deputy.

"Time for a call?" Flynn asked. "Tit for tat with Russia not good. Russian AMBO reaching out to me today."

When Flynn and McFarland spoke, she told him the incoming administration did not want Russia to escalate the situation. Then Flynn called Kislyak.

He expressed the incoming administration's desire. Hold off. There would be a new, friendlier team in the White House in just a few weeks. And it worked, even better than expected: On December 30, Putin surprised everyone by announcing there would be no Russian retaliation. Trump tweeted, "Great move on delay (by V Putin)."

Flynn wrote up a memorandum of his talk with Kislyak. Perhaps mindful of impropriety, he left out any mention of his request. But there was no doubt about the reason for Putin's decision. The Russian ambassador called Flynn on December 31 to tell him that his request had been received at the highest levels and that Moscow's restraint had been in direct answer. Flynn, in the Dominican Republic at the time, relayed this to McFarland. The Trump administration's desire to improve Russo-American relations was already paying dividends.

Whatever satisfaction was gained by this sub-rosa mediation dimmed when it was reported by The Washington Post on January 12, 2017, eight days before Inauguration Day, noting a potential violation of the Logan Act.

"What the hell is this all about?" Trump angrily asked his chief of staff, Reince Priebus.

Priebus then called Flynn and instructed him to "kill the story." The Washington Post updated its story with a denial from the White House, but it did not retract it.

Denial became the official story. Flynn stuck with it in subsequent conversations with Priebus, Vice President-elect Mike Pence, and the incoming press secretary, Sean Spicer. He repeated it to the FBI agents who visited his new West Wing office on January 24.

But the Department of Justice knew the truth.

Acting Attorney General Sally Yates, an accomplished Georgia prosecutor who had stayed on as an interim replacement for Obama's Loretta Lynch, knew what was said during the conversation because it had been recorded as a matter of routine US surveillance of the Russian ambassador.

She also knew it was very likely that the Russians had recorded it, too. She and other Justice Department officials were appalled. Either Flynn had lied to his colleagues, or everyone in this new administration was lying. A flimsy deception like this amounted to handing Putin leverage. Flynn faced indictment on suspicion of violating the Logan Act and lying to the FBI.


Steve Bannon.
Chad Hurd/Business Insider
Yates met with Donald McGahn, the White House counsel, two days after Flynn spoke with FBI agents. While she stopped short of saying he had lied outright, she did tell McGahn that the official story was false and that it put the US government in a compromising position. McGahn briefed Trump about it that same day, explaining the Logan Act and the legal hazards of lying to the FBI. Trump responded with disgust — and as if Flynn had acted entirely on his own. "Not again, this guy," said Trump, disgusted. "This stuff."

Now president, Trump told McGahn to look further into the matter with Priebus and Trump's political strategist Steve Bannon, and not to discuss it with anyone else.

Denial having failed, Trump tried to make the issue go away by dumping Flynn, who resigned on February 13.

One week earlier at the White House, Flynn told Trump he might have discussed sanctions with Kislyak. Six days later, on a flight back to Washington from Mar-a-Lago, he said he might have forgotten some things when he spoke with Pence but did not think he had lied.

"OK," Trump said. "That's fine. I got it."

As they separated, Trump hugged him and shook his hand.

"We'll give you a good recommendation," he said. "You're a good guy. We'll take care of you."

The day after Flynn left, Trump lunched at the White House with Chris Christie, the former New Jersey governor.

"Now that we've fired Flynn, this Russian thing is over," Trump remarked.

Christie laughed. "No way," he said.

"What do you mean?" Trump asked. "Flynn met with the Russians. That was the problem. I fired Flynn. It's over."

Christie said, based on his experience as a prosecutor, there was no way to make an investigation shorter, but there were plenty of ways to lengthen one. He advised Trump to simply stop talking about it — the president had begun railing frequently about it on Twitter. Christie predicted that Flynn would be "like gum on the bottom of your shoe."

Denial hadn't worked. Neither had firing Flynn. Now what could Trump do to make this scandal go away?

Trump asked whether Christie knew James Comey, the director of the FBI, whose agents would lead the investigation into Flynn's premature diplomacy.

Christie knew him. Were they friendly? They were. The president asked him to call Comey and tell him how much the president "really likes him," and that he was "part of the team." Christie felt the request would put Comey in a tricky position.

So he ignored it.

BI

On January 26, Trump dined with several senior advisers. He asked them what they thought of Comey. There were mixed opinions. Dan Coats, the director of national intelligence, said he thought Comey was a good FBI director. Trump could choose whether to extend Comey's tenure, and Coats encouraged him to meet with him before deciding whether to keep him in the job.

There were bound to be mixed opinions about James Brien Comey Jr. He had a knack for drawing attention to himself, and not always on purpose. As a boy in New Jersey, he and his younger brother were held captive at gunpoint by a notorious local criminal — the "Ramsey Rapist" — before escaping through a bathroom window. As US attorney for the Southern District of New York, he had indicted Martha Stewart for lying to the FBI. He had served as deputy attorney general during the administration of George W. Bush, drawing some attention for first advocating harsh interrogation methods and then urging their restraint.

As FBI director, Comey rocked the 2016 campaign first by publicly announcing that there would be no criminal charges over the candidate Clinton's use of a private email server during her time as secretary of state, not with the usual perfunctory "case closed" but with a press conference at which he accused her of having been "extremely careless." Then, just 11 days before the election, he sent a letter to Congress announcing the reopening of the investigation, a step Clinton would later cite as a prime factor in her defeat.

Comey was known as a stickler for propriety and for being punctiliously nonpartisan — a lifelong Republican, he had recently reregistered as an Independent — so it was a stretch to discern or assign a political motive to these acts. Rather, his actions suggested a tin ear for consequences.


James Comey.
Chad Hurd/Business Insider
The day after Trump's dinner with Coats and company, he invited the FBI director to dinner. They had met on two previous occasions. In a briefing on January 6, during which Trump was briefed on Russian meddling in the presidential campaign, Comey presented Trump with what became known as the Steele Dossier, a piece of opposition research compiled by the former head of the Russia desk for Britain's intelligence agency MI6. The report included an unverified allegation that in 2013 Trump had hired prostitutes to urinate on the bed of a hotel room in Moscow because the Obamas had once slept there. After Trump denied the Steele Dossier's allegations, Comey assured him: "You are not under investigation, sir."

Their second meeting took place at a White House reception for law-enforcement officials two days after the president took his oath. Comey was doing the best a man standing 6 feet, 8 inches could to appear inconspicuous, when the president called, "Jim!" and beckoned him to step up before the cameras. "He's more famous than me!" he told the crowd. They shook hands; Comey recalled a slight tussle as he avoided a hug. With the cameras rolling, Trump leaned in and whispered, "I'm really looking forward to working with you." Mindful of the need to preserve the FBI's independence, and aware of the role he had played in the election, Comey was reluctant to be seen as a presidential pal.

"I like that. I like people who are on time. I think a leader should always be on time."
- President Donald Trump
Now it was January 27, and Comey was coming to dinner at the White House. It had been a last-minute invitation, which Comey felt improper. But according to the account in his book, "A Higher Loyalty," he knew spurning the invitation would have been discourteous. He also assumed he would be part of a group, so he could try to blend in to the background.

Trump's advisers were worried, too. They had warned him not to discuss Russia or any pending legal matters. Bannon had suggested that either he or Priebus sit in. Trump said no. He wanted Comey to himself.

Comey was alarmed when he found a dinner table set for two. The president appeared at 6:30, the appointed hour, in his usual blue suit and very long tie, which reached down his broad belly to below the belt.

Trump opened with flattery, noting Comey's promptness.

"I like that. I like people who are on time. I think a leader should always be on time."

They sat about 4 feet apart. Trump held up a card listing each course for the meal.

"They write these things out one at a time, by hand," he said.

"A calligrapher," Comey said.

Trump seemed unfamiliar with the word.

"They write them by hand," he repeated.

As they ate, Trump began questioning Comey about his future. "What do you want to do?" he said.

It was soon clear to Comey that he had been invited to discuss keeping his job. Trump told him that while many others wanted the position, he liked Comey. Trump said that although he was free to "make a change," he wanted this talk first.

Comey took this to mean that if he were going to remain as FBI director, it would be only at Trump's favor, for which the president might well want something in return. He said that he liked the job and wanted to stay but that he should not be considered part of the president's team. That was not his understanding of the position.

Instead, Comey promised that he would always tell the president the truth.


From Volume 2, page 34: During a private dinner at the White House, Trump tells Comey he needs loyalty. Buy this poster.
Chad Hurd for Business Insider
That didn't seem to be what Trump wanted to hear. "I need loyalty," Trump said. "I expect loyalty."

Awkward silence followed.

Comey found the situation "surreal" — like a mob induction. Clearly, this president neither understood nor cared about the bureau's independence.

Trump did most of the talking after that, criticizing Comey's failure to recommend Clinton's indictment. Trump defended himself from the long list of barbs and accusations hurled at him during the campaign — that he had mocked a disabled reporter, mistreated women, had sex with a porn actress and then bought her silence, among other things.

Eventually, the president returned to the central point. He wanted loyalty.

"You will always get honesty from me," Comey said.

"That's what I want, honest loyalty," Trump said.

"You will get that from me," Comey said. They would part with a different understanding of what that meant.

The FBI director regarded the encounter as so peculiar he wrote his memo of the evening immediately afterward. He made two copies, one for his senior leadership team and the other for his own files. He thought he might need it someday.

On February 14, the day after Flynn resigned, Comey was back in the White House, this time the Oval Office. At what seemed like the end of a meeting, the president had shooed everyone out of his office — except Comey. The knees of the FBI director's long legs bumped up against the ornately carved front of the Resolute Desk.

Trump's advisers had told him not to bring up Flynn with Comey.

He did anyway.

He lobbied Comey for leniency. The president told the head of the FBI that Flynn had done nothing wrong. Trump said what actually upset him was that word of the conversation had leaked. He wanted Comey to find the culprit.

As for Flynn, he said: "He's a good guy and has been through a lot. I hope you can see your way clear to letting him go, letting Flynn go. He is a good guy. I hope you can let this go."

Comey regarded this as a direct order to cease the FBI's investigation — even though the president had phrased it as a request. As the director understood it, Trump had cleared the room precisely because he knew it was inappropriate. He saw it as a bald effort to obstruct justice. Comey had no intention of obeying it. When he got back to his office, he wrote up another detailed memo.

BI

If Comey wouldn't play ball on Flynn, perhaps others would.

On February 22, Priebus told McFarland, Flynn's deputy, that the president wanted her resignation, too, but that he intended to appoint her ambassador to Singapore. This was a plum, a remarkable capstone for the career of a woman who had worked her way up from being a night-shift typist for the Nixon administration.

But there was a catch.

McFarland had only a day to savor her new appointment before receiving a request from Trump, again through Priebus. The president wanted her to draft an internal email saying that he, Trump, had not directed Flynn to talk to the Russian ambassador about the Obama sanctions.

Only if she was comfortable doing it, Priebus added.

McFarland "declined to say yes or no to the request," and Priebus understood that to mean she was not comfortable drafting the email.

When McFarland expressed misgivings to Priebus, he suggested that she consult a White House lawyer. The lawyer advised her not to do it. Apart from not knowing whether the thing the president of the United States wanted her to say was true, the lawyer suggested, the letter would appear to be quid pro quo — as the price of the ambassadorship. Besides, it didn't make sense for her to be writing such a note to Priebus. For what purpose? The report several times makes a distinction between Trump's efforts to mislead the public, which were routine, and to mislead the FBI. While many considered it deplorable for the White House to be making false statements to the press, it was not criminal. Efforts to falsify the official record, however, would be. Priebus subsequently stopped by her office and told her to forget that he had mentioned it. (McFarland eventually withdrew herself from consideration.)

As criminal consequences closed around Flynn, Trump sent him messages of support. On February 22 he asked Priebus to phone Flynn and pass along his good wishes, and when it was reported that the retired general had offered to talk to the FBI and congressional investigators in return for immunity, Trump publicly endorsed the move, tweeting, "Mike Flynn should ask for immunity in that this is a witch hunt (excuse for the big election loss), by media & Dems, of historic proportion!"

Days later, Trump also asked McFarland to convey his support for Flynn, urging him to "stay strong."

BI

Comey, Christie, McFarland, and others may have ignored Trump's requests. But he believed he could still rely on Comey's boss to help him out: Attorney General Jeff Sessions.

A true-blue Trumper and archconservative, Jefferson Beauregard Sessions III was a diminutive, white-haired, cheerful man with an elfin quality that belied his stern politics. Just as his father and grandfather had been, he was named after Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederacy, and P.G.T. Beauregard, the rebel general who had started the Civil War by bombarding Fort Sumter. He had been an Eagle Scout and president of the Young Republicans Club at Huntingdon College in the late 1960s, running against the prevailing winds of youthful rebellion. His deep-seated conservatism on America's most divisive social issues — same-sex marriage, abortion, tough sentencing policies — were aligned predictably with his traditional white rural electorate. Sessions' strong, early backing of Trump virtually assured him of a top cabinet post.

So it was a surprise to the president when, on March 2, Sessions recused himself from the FBI investigation.


From Volume 2, page 50: During a meeting in the Oval Office, with White House chief of staff, Reince Preibus; the White House counsel, Donald McGahn; and the White House chief strategist, Steve Bannon, present, the president complains that Attorney General Jeff Sessions isn't looking after him the way he figured Bobby Kennedy looked after John F. Kennedy. Buy this poster.
Chad Hurd for Business Insider
He had to, he believed. He'd met with Ambassador Kislyak several times during and after the campaign and participated in meetings where outreach to the Kremlin had been discussed. Like Flynn, he had talked to the ambassador before assuming his office — conversations he had neglected to disclose during his confirmation hearings. When The Washington Post revealed them, Sessions said they had not concerned sanctions against Russia. Surveillance recordings strongly suggested otherwise. He asked the Justice Department's ethics advisers whether he was the wrong person to be overseeing an investigation involving links between Russian meddling and the Trump campaign. They said yes, he was, and that he should recuse himself. Sessions was inclined to agree.

Trump tried desperately to convince him otherwise. He asked McGahn, the White House counsel, to dissuade him.

McGahn had been a longtime Republican foot soldier, and the rare Beltway insider permitted into the Trump ranks. As part of a solid GOP voting bloc on the Federal Election Commission during the George W. Bush administration, he had done yeoman's work loosening campaign-finance regulations. He had a broad, pink face with a pinched mouth, and in recent years — he was just months shy of 50 — he had begun to look more like an aging surfer than a partisan legal infighter, letting his thick sandy-brown hair fall rakishly across his wide forehead and reach down to the crisp collars of his white shirts.

McGahn understood the boss' concern. Recusal would focus attention on things Sessions had left out of his confirmation testimony and, as Trump saw it, would leave him unprotected. The Russia investigation had already claimed one top member of his administration. It threatened to cast a lengthening shadow over not just his election but his presidency. Trump's first State of the Union address had given him a rare burst of praise from more than just his bedrock supporters. All that goodwill might vanish if this probe widened.

So, McGahn dutifully phoned Sessions with Trump's request. The attorney general said he intended to follow his ethics lawyers' recommendation. He said that, honestly, the ethical question was not even close.

McGahn called Sessions twice more that day. When those calls didn't work, others tried.

Sessions ignored them all. That evening, he announced his decision. His step back was unequivocal. He would not oversee "any existing or future investigations of any matters related in any way to the campaigns for president of the United States." Oversight of the investigation now belonged to Assistant Attorney General Dana Boente.

Trump was livid.

He was finding that public servants did not always respond to him the way business subordinates did. One after another, either because of personal or professional ethics, or a simple instinct for self-preservation, public servants declined to act on the president's "requests." This didn't alter Trump's view of them, however. He considered the attorney general of the United States his personal consigliere.

The next morning, the president demanded an audience with McGahn. With both Priebus and Bannon present, Trump opened with a lament, "I don't have a lawyer."

He couldn't believe his attorney general wouldn't help him out of a jam.

"You're telling me that Bobby and Jack didn't talk about investigations?" he asked, referring to the brothers Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy and President John F. Kennedy. "Or Obama didn't tell Eric Holder to investigate?"

The president said he wished his attorney were the late Roy Cohn, the notorious counsel to Sen. Joe McCarthy during the Red Scare years of the early 1950s, who had later represented Trump and Rupert Murdoch before being disbarred in 1986 for unethical and unprofessional conduct.


Donald McGahn.
Chad Hurd/Business Insider
Trump asked McGahn to talk to Sessions again about the recusal, but McGahn refused. The White House counsel knew he could not make this happen and should not try. McGahn was a loyalist — but he wasn't stupid. Continuing to pressure Sessions wasn't just pointless; it was quite possibly textbook obstruction. He'd already warned White House personnel: "No contact w/Sessions," and "No coms/ serious concern about obstruction."

Bannon tried to calm Trump, reminding him that he had been warned before the inauguration that Sessions might choose to recuse himself. But Trump was unrelenting. At Mar-a-Lago that weekend, he pulled Sessions aside and again urged him to reconsider. Otherwise the investigation might spin out of control and disrupt his ability to govern.

How was Trump going to make this thing go away?

On March 22, Trump met with Coats, his director of national intelligence, and Mike Pompeo, the CIA director, and told them how much he hated the Russia investigation. He asked whether they could intervene to end it, speed it up, or, at the very least, end speculation that he was a target. Both demurred.

Eventually, Trump called Coats to push, complaining that so long as suspicion created by the investigation continued: "I can't do anything with Russia. There's things I'd like to do with Russia, with trade, with ISIS, they're all over me with this." Coats told him that his job was to provide intelligence, not to get involved in investigations. He gave the president the same advice he'd been receiving from everyone else: Back off. Let the investigation run its course.

Trump called Michael Rogers, the National Security Agency director, on March 25 with the same request. He said stories linking him with the Kremlin were false and asked Rogers whether he could do anything to refute them. Rogers' deputy later said it was the most unusual thing he had experienced in four decades of public service, peculiar enough for him and Rogers to do what Comey and others had begun doing; they wrote a memo about the call and locked it in a safe.

As with most of the others, Rogers had not been given an order. The president had merely expressed his wishes, forcefully. What he did in response was up to him. This was Trump's method. He made his wishes clear, and his subordinates could decide whether to make him happy, or angry. Making him happy led to good things. Making him angry might lead to loss of position and quite possibly public insults and attacks. But the decision was theirs.