Enough

by Cassidy Hutchinson

Less than a week after January 6, the House of Representatives moved swiftly to introduce, without holding a public hearing, a single article of impeachment. Unlike with the first impeachment inquiry, I was resigned to this one. I didn’t have the will to fight an action I believed was justified. Kevin called me periodically to relay updates for the president and the chief, neither of whom wanted to speak with him. After the article was passed by the House, Mark asked me to make a chart with headshots of the ten Republican members who had voted in favor of impeachment. Mark gave the hit list to the president, who kept it on the Resolute Desk.

Some days I missed being at the White House, and fantasized about an alternate reality where Trump had won. Other times, it was painful to remember my time there. I felt a pain I didn’t want to numb but didn’t want to confront, either. The magnitude of January 6th, the damage of Trump’s election denial, and the toll that the stress had taken on me would hit me full force. I’d feel guilt for having played a role in the chain of bad decisions that led to January 6th. I wasn’t to blame for it. But I had been there, and hadn’t done enough to stop it. I could have resigned, like Alyssa. I could have yelled, like Eric Herschmann. Instead, I was complicit, and called it my patriotic duty. I delicately danced between confronting the truth and seeking refuge in the past.

Lee asked if something had happened between Mark and me. I wanted to say no, but that wasn’t really true. We’d had our moments, especially near the end. But I didn’t think the strain of our relations was so bad that he wouldn’t even acknowledge me, and I wondered what I had done to make him ignore me so blatantly.

The country was tearing itself in two as Trump continued pushing the election fraud nonsense. Constant contradictory thoughts pulled me one way and another, anxiety and grief coming in waves. Sometimes I felt the need to unburden myself of what I knew about January 6th—to someone in authority. But who?

Kevin and I continued to check in with each other frequently. I had been disappointed when, after calling the former president “responsible” for January 6th, Kevin went to Mar-a-Lago in late January to pay his respects. If Republicans won the majority in 2022, Kevin needed Trump on his side to become Speaker of the House. The second impeachment failed to reach a two-thirds majority to convict in the Senate. No one was doing the right thing, including me. No one was being held accountable other than hundreds of protesters who had done what Trump had told them to do. At times it seemed as if only one person, one Republican, anyway, was determined to hold the parties responsible for January 6th accountable.

Part of me understood his logic—her job as chair of the Republican Conference was to amplify messages that a majority of House Republicans agreed with, not voice her views about Trump, which were, sadly, antithetical to the views of many House Republicans. I was disheartened at how political expediency took precedence over accountability and principles.

On removing Liz Cheney from leadership

I felt the first stirrings of hope at the end of June 2021. Congress approved the formation of the House Select Committee to Investigate the January 6th Attack. I was disappointed when Kevin withdrew his Republican nominees to serve on the committee. But Liz Cheney and Adam Kinzinger stepped up to put country before party.

Dad taught me to decline handouts, especially financial handouts, from everybody. There was no such thing as a handout without strings attached, and I agreed. I knew I didn’t want to rely on Trump World for an attorney. I would accrue more than financial debt if I retained one of their attorneys. I didn’t owe anyone my freedom and my voice. I risked the fate I was at pains to avoid, and did what a cautious person does: nothing.

He had read online that it wasn’t mandatory to comply with congressional subpoenas. The investigation was a witch hunt to take Donald down, he said. He prayed I wasn’t there to ask for money to pay for a corrupt lawyer—any lawyer who didn’t work for Donald was corrupt. He had raised me better than for me to turn my back on the people who cared about me, people like himself and Donald. “You didn’t raise me at all,” was all I thought of to say. His expression flattened, and for a moment I thought I could leave before he said anything else. I had made a mistake coming here. As I plotted my exit, I saw his jaw clench. Almost whispering, he asked me to repeat what I had said. I asked if he was deaf. “Has anyone told you lately,” he said in a low, controlled voice, “that you’re an ungrateful, spoiled bitch?”

continued networking with attorneys once I returned to Washington, but I knew that it was a fruitless effort. I had already resigned myself to reaching out to my contacts in Trump World and filling out applications for legal assistance.

“No, no, no,” he said. “We want to get you in and get you out.” We were to downplay my role, he explained, as strictly administrative. I was an assistant, nothing more. The committee was dragging me into things I probably knew little about. I should not emphasize my access or volunteer anything I was not directly asked, nor should I try to refresh my memory. “The less you remember, the better,” he advised, and added, “Is there anything you’re worried they’ll ask you?” “Yes,” I answered, “that’s why I asked for a calendar.” But I relented, and resumed trying to reconstruct events from memory, describing incidents I thought the committee might ask me about, including the president wanting the magnetometers down on January 6, even though people were armed, and Tony telling me about the incident in the Beast. “No, no, no. We do not want to talk about that,” Stefan insisted.

Stefan never told me to lie to the committee. “I don’t want you to perjure yourself,” he insisted. “But ‘I don’t recall’ isn’t perjury.” “The goal is to get you in and out,” he repeated. “Keep your answers short, sweet, and simple, seven words or less. The less the committee thinks you know, the quicker it’s going to go.”

“Cassidy, you’re a good person,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to bear the weight of responsibility for other people. It’s not fair to you… It’s not fair that Mark put you in this position. We just want to protect the president. We all know you’re loyal. Let’s just get you in and out of this. It’s going to be easy, I promise.”

Several months later, I would tell Liz Cheney that I had felt that day as if Donald Trump were looking over my shoulder. Stefan had planted the seeds of old allegiances with his reference to my loyalty: We know you’re loyal. We know you’re on Team Trump. We know you’re going to do the right thing. We’re going to take care of you. Phrases I heard throughout my tenure in the White House, phrases I had spent a year trying to separate myself from. And now here I was back in their grip, taking care to protect the president, with a lawyer from Trump World.

My objective was to be honest and helpful, but I felt like my objective clashed with that of my counsel, which I understood was to say as little as possible. I tried to balance saying “I don’t know” responses while giving the committee threads to tug on that might help them in their investigation. I wanted the truth to come out.

Liz wasn’t deterred easily. She rephrased the question several times before turning to my conversation with Mark about whether he and I could go to the Capitol. Then she bore into my knowledge of White House counsel’s objections to the president’s going to the Hill. I acknowledged that they had concerns, and had raised them with Mark, but when she pressed me to describe those concerns, I responded in the most general terms. They were worried about the “legal implications,” I said. Eventually Stefan suggested that it was time for a break. With the microphone muted and the camera off, I said to Stefan, “I’m fucked.” “Don’t freak out, you’re fine.” “No, Stefan, I’m fucked. I just lied to them.” “You didn’t lie. They don’t know what you can and can’t recall. You didn’t lie.”

But I was not, quite obviously, wholly truthful. I didn’t feel good about it. Deep down, I knew my loyalties should have been to the country, to the truth, and not to the former president, who had made himself a threat to both.

Ben was my friend, but for months, I had felt like I was under a microscope with him. I worried that if I appeared disloyal, Ben would tell Mark. So when Ben relayed that Mark was sending prayers and was confident in my loyalty to himself and the president—and that we were a family—I worried that my fear of having a target on my back was coming to fruition. I did not think Ben was sending veiled threats, nor did I believe what he said amounted to witness tampering. I felt like I was being watched—closely.

It lasted seven hours, with breaks. This time around, I didn’t overuse “I don’t know” and “I don’t recall.” I was still trying to walk the balance beam—protecting myself from Trump World retaliation while dropping bread crumbs the committee could follow up on in depositions with other people. I wasn’t being helpful, but I didn’t want to mislead, either.

No sooner had I begun to move on than my name was broadcast on the news networks the evening of Friday, April 22. I received a news alert that the committee had filed a motion for summary judgment against Mark Meadows for refusing to comply with a subpoena. The filing included excerpts from my February and March transcripts.

I know I’m going to have to read this, and once I do, I know I’m going to be disappointed in myself. I did what I had to do, though. I gazed at the Capitol for a long time, hoping that the view would reassure me. When that didn’t work, I retreated to my apartment. I guess it’s time to read it.

I called Sam, who, as usual, offered sound advice. I asked if he had read my transcript. He hadn’t. I told him that I thought I had put myself in a position I didn’t want to be in. “You have a decision to make,” he told me. “Go look in the mirror right now. I mean it, I’ll hold, go look in the mirror right now. Do you like what you’re looking at? And I don’t mean your appearance. Do you respect the person you’re looking at? Because you’re going to have to look at that person for the rest of your life. The only person you have to live with, Cassidy, is yourself. I can’t make that decision for you.” I exhaled. “I’m scared.”

“Who’s paying your legal bills?” “I don’t know,” I answered. “I’m not trying to be cagey. I assume someone or something in Trump World, but Stefan won’t tell me.”

“Liz will probably ask for a few things you wanted to talk about before she agrees to do another interview.” I knew she was right, but I couldn’t proffer information already covered in my earlier depositions. That would tip Stefan off. “The committee never asked if I went to the Oval dining room on January 6, or whether I heard about Trump’s reaction to the rioters chanting ‘Hang Mike Pence.’ According to Mark, Trump said, ‘He deserves it.’ ” Alyssa closed her eyes at my revelation about the vice president, her former boss. I wanted to comfort her but hesitated. For too long, and often alone, Alyssa had warned the public about the dangers of Donald Trump, a duty I now recognized as a badge of courage and endurance—of survival. While she refused to surrender, I had been complicit.

picked up my phone, ignoring safe driving conventions, and tapped “Watergate” into the Google search bar, looking for someone who’d had a role similar to mine in the Nixon White House. That’s when I discovered Alex Butterfield, deputy assistant to the president and chief of staff H. R. Haldeman. I didn’t know it then, but the person whose name I had just seen for the first time would alter the course of my life. This guy must have written a book. I searched. He hadn’t. Nor could I easily find a transcript of his Watergate committee interview, or any interview. I instantly had a good impression of him. I did find a book that had been written about him, by famed Washington Post reporter Bob Woodward: The Last of the President’s Men. It was a look back, fifty years after the fact, at Butterfield’s role in the Watergate investigation. I immediately ordered two copies. When the books arrived to New Jersey the next day, I tore open the package as I ran upstairs to my bedroom.

“Trump World will not continue paying your legal bills,” Stefan said, “if you don’t have a second subpoena.” Any hope I clung to about a proper attorney-client relationship disappeared like vapor. I didn’t remark on the disclosure or do or say anything to indicate I was anything other than surprised and frustrated by the committee’s decision. “You’re right, Stefan. I think we would need a second subpoena.” I was scared that Stefan would see through me. The news had gotten out that the committee wanted another round with me, and it was making Trump World nervous.

Alex set up an interview for me with Red Curve Solutions, a political fundraising and financial services company run by Bradley Crate, the treasurer for Trump’s super PACs. “Brad has a really good job for you,” Alex promised. “It’s going to pay a great salary. We know you’re on our team. We know you’re going to do the right thing.”

When they turned off the cameras, I slumped back on the sofa, exhausted. Stefan shook Liz’s hand and then talked to Dan about something. Liz came over to me and gave me a hug. Whispering in my ear, she said, “Thank you.” “I’m really trying to do the right thing,” I whispered back. Dan, Stefan, and I walked out of the Cannon building. I had a split second with Dan to say goodbye. We shook hands, and I said quietly, “I’m about to get nuked.” He nodded slightly. “I’m so sorry.” He turned around and went back into the building.

The taxi pulled up outside Hank’s. We went in and sat down at a table. I ordered an old-fashioned and downed half of it as soon as it arrived. Stefan didn’t order anything. “I really need to call John Moran and George Terwilliger about this,” he said, referring to Mark’s legal team. “Stefan, I respectfully disagree. I do not think we need to call Terwilliger or Moran to tell them about this. I think that is actually the opposite of what we should do.”

On Monday, June 6, I woke up to a text message that I had prepared myself for but dreaded receiving. Over the weekend, the Department of Justice had declined to indict Mark and Dan Scavino for being held in contempt of Congress. In light of this decision, Stefan suggested that it was in my best interest to stop cooperating with the committee. “There is a small element of risk to refusing to cooperate, but I think it’s the best move for you. Do you agree?” Stefan texted. I did not agree. I tried to set aside what I thought was my lawyer suggesting that a federal offense—which carried the possibility of serving time in prison—was a “small element of risk.”

But I knew in my heart that choice was a luxury I did not have. There was only one option—to fulfill my moral and civic obligations. To honor the oath I swore to defend, I had to free myself from Trump World. All I had to do was figure out a way to free myself without doing anything that would draw their attention and arouse suspicion.

“Just so you’re prepared, Cassidy,” Jody continued, “whether you move forward with us or a different attorney, it sounds like there will be a lot of catch-up for your new team to do. The sooner you can retain a lawyer, the better served you will be.” I was encouraged, but we hadn’t yet addressed my least favorite discussion topic. “I need to be up front with you two. I really don’t have any money to give you right now, and I do not have any resources to take out a loan. If it’s possible and you’re willing, I thought we could discuss a payment plan…” I began to ramble, but Bill cut me off. “I’m sorry. We should have led with this. There is no universe where you, a former government employee in your midtwenties, should be expected to shell out hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees. If you choose to work with us, your legal services will be one hundred percent pro bono.”

While Alston & Bird had declined to take on clients who were involved with the January 6th matter, there was a rumor going around Washington that one of the firm’s attorneys, Bjay Pak, was slated to testify before the committee in the coming weeks. Pak had resigned his post as US Attorney for the Northern District of Georgia when Trump’s pressure campaign to get Georgia officials to overturn the election results intensified just days before the riot. Both Bill and Jody were lifelong Republicans and unaffiliated with Trump World, and in my mind they checked every box—meeting every requirement and wish I’d come up with since I was first subpoenaed in November 2021.

I was soaking up the last few minutes of the day’s sun in my parents’ backyard before I drove back to Washington when my phone vibrated with a call from Stefan. He had been trying to reach me all day. I was trying to put him off until I switched legal counsel the following day. I answered the call and apologized for not having answered. Stefan was unfazed and picked up where we had left off about the contempt charge. I lay in the grass and stared into the cloudless sky, half listening as he droned on about how not cooperating with the committee was best for everyone. “Everyone” did not include the tens of millions of Americans who had been lied to about the results of a free, fair, and democratic election; it did not include the families of law enforcement officers who had lost their lives defending the Capitol from the mob Trump had called to Washington. “Everyone” did not include the lawmakers, staff, and journalists who feared for their lives as rioters bludgeoned their way into the building. It did not include the investigators who were being stonewalled by former colleagues of mine who dismissed the investigation as a politically motivated witch hunt. “Everyone” who would benefit from my ceasing to cooperate with the January 6th Committee was limited to people in Trump World whose personal interests could be affected by my testimony. In less than twenty-four hours, they would all find out that I was no longer protecting “everyone.” I had found my way out.

I did not find the path to my newfound freedom—I bushwhacked my way, and was now free to empower my patriotism again and, as Alex Butterfield had, to reveal the truth rather than be a bystander.

had my well-organized binder in hand when we arrived at the Capitol on the afternoon of June 20, filled with calendars, chronologies, and transcript notes. As we walked across the East Plaza, I stared up at the Capitol dome, and for the first time since January 6, I felt its magnetism and power. And next to my new counsel, I felt empowered. Together we would honor the place that symbolizes, more than any other monument, a free people’s faith in self-government.

While I had hesitated in previous interviews to share details about the president’s unhinged behavior, I now understood the gravity of those moments. Trump’s temperament wasn’t rational, but neither was it unfamiliar to me. His outbursts shed light on how his volcanic temper and egotism had lit the match that set his followers’ torches ablaze.

HAD ADORED THE PRESIDENT. I’d been very close to Mark Meadows. I had loved working in the White House. I deeply cared for the people there. I believed sincerely that we were serving the interests of the American people. I regretted the belligerence and crudity of some of the president’s messaging, the inappropriate, unpresidential tweets. But you can become inured to it, and I did. I often laughed with colleagues at his communications, when I should have seen them for what they were—mean-spirited. Politics is a team sport, and I was a willing teammate.

“Jody, I’m worried I’m not going to be a good live witness. I don’t want to let anybody down.” By anybody I mean almost everyone: the committee, Jody and Bill, the American people. I’m not worrying in that exact moment about the Trump wing of the GOP. I’m worrying about the people I’m going to care about when I am free from that world.

I’m at Alston & Bird Monday afternoon when the news breaks that there will be a surprise hearing the next day with an unnamed witness. Reporters start calling, trying to discover the identity of the mystery witness. I get a text from Liz Horning: “Please tell me you’re not testifying tomorrow.” I don’t respond. It’s the last time I’ll ever hear from her. I toss my phone into a corner of the room. My friends are falling out of my life. I had hoped I could keep them, but I hadn’t really expected to. I know I might lose every Republican friend I have, including Tony, a thought that makes me heartsick.

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m violating a code. I pride myself on my discretion and trustworthiness as much as my work ethic. I’m troubled by the feeling that I’m about to betray friends and former colleagues, because a higher loyalty to the country demands it.

I had moved into that apartment when I started working for Mark, and I had loved it. But the last six months had been a time of turmoil and struggle. I hadn’t been able to pay my rent in months, and my Wi-Fi had been cut off. My blinds were drawn and had been since the marshals had delivered my subpoena in January. It didn’t feel like home anymore. It felt like a prison, and I wanted to get out. Weeks later, Mom and Paul would collect my possessions and move me out. I never set foot in that apartment again.

The portrait my answers paint of the president is damning: an unhinged chief executive, willing to overturn the will of the people and plunge the country into chaos and violence on the advice of crazy people. For what? To avoid the embarrassment of conceding an election he knew he had lost? That is who he is, and that is how he appears as Liz’s questions draw the evidence of his culpability from my testimony.

I want to rub my hands together, but I know it will make me look nervous. I take a deep breath and feel relief wash over me. I think of the Capitol Police officers sitting in the back row. I had done right by them, the first victims of the catastrophe Trump had caused. Maybe I haven’t always done the right thing, but I’m doing it now.

I’m used to wearing heels on marble floors, and the thick carpet in the Caucus Room makes me feel like I’m walking on a cushion, in slow motion. It seems to take an eternity to exit the room. We’re ten feet from the holding room when the quiet is suddenly interrupted by applause from the police officers, who are then joined by others. I snap back to reality as I cross into the holding room.

Emotionally, the lowest point of the hearing is the clip the committee plays of Rep. Mike Gallagher, a House Republican from Wisconsin and an exemplary public servant, imploring Trump to call off the mob. He pleads to the camera, targeting an audience of one, the president of the United States. “This is bigger than you… It’s about the United States of America, which is more important than any politician.” It brings me back to how useless I felt that day as members and others frantically texted, begging for Trump to call off the riot. I think of Trump, sitting down the hall from me, unmoved. He thought that the people begging him to intervene were pathetic and weak, and that they should have been fighting for him. He wanted this.

News vans are parked in front of their home, cameras positioned to catch a glimpse of someone inside. Mom and Paul are staying home from work. They feel safer that way. Mom opens the door out of habit when she hears a knock.

The pushback from Trump defenders is picking up speed, the attacks led by Trump himself, whose insults are getting cruder. I tried to mentally prepare for breaking with Trump World. I know how they curate vile attacks on their detractors. I was once part of that process.

Trump continues to hurl insults in my direction. I learn how it feels to be on the other side. But I know enough not to react. That’s what he wants me to do. He wants me to be defensive. He wants to know when he’s hurt someone or gotten a rise out of them; he wants to project his hurt onto the source of it. Trump doesn’t care if you dispute him or call him a liar. Only silence bothers him. Being ignored drives him mad.

I know that people who had been my friends are trashing my reputation, too. I shouldn’t let it bother me, but I do. They were my friends. But their abuse is a reflection of their character, not mine, celebrated in the world they are a part of, the world where I had felt I belonged but now know I do not. I escaped before it was too late.