Enough

by Cassidy Hutchinson

Trees are meant to stay in one place until they die, Dad said, not people. Mom rolled her eyes at this, and said that moving around Pennington didn’t quite count.

“You’re an approachable person, Cass. People like talking to you. It’s a good thing.” I internalized what Mom had said. Suddenly I began noticing that adults did seem to enjoy talking to me, and I realized that I’d rather talk to them than to children my own age.

the 2016 election was approaching. Neither candidate, Hillary Clinton nor Donald Trump, jumped out at me at the time, but the moderate policies that Trump embraced were appealing to me.

I doubt any politician could have led the country through the deadliest pandemic in a hundred years without making errors of judgment and execution. But of all the people in the world, President Trump was uniquely unsuited to the challenge.

The president wanted to go to Mar-a-Lago, his Palm Beach, Florida, resort, or to his golf club in Bedminster, New Jersey, though Tony and Hope persuaded him that the optics of a golfing holiday while so many Americans were dying in a pandemic were less than optimal.

Earlier in the week, one of the president’s valets had tested positive, which had privately infuriated Trump. Irrationally, he banished the valet from further duties of that kind when he returned from quarantine.

A few of us were left when, at one o’clock or so, Dan Crenshaw, who had lost an eye in Afghanistan, brought out a display case of variously designed glass eyes he always carried with him, and began popping in one after another and asking us which we liked best.

He wore safety goggles on the tour. The press would criticize him for not wearing a mask, not knowing that the depth of his vanity had caused him to reject masks—and then millions of his fans followed suit.

the majority of whom were exercising their First Amendment right to free speech, calling attention to social injustices the Black community faces on a daily basis.

I was enforcing what Mark wanted across the administration and had done so effectively. But finding out he had lied to me with such convincing confidence made me realize that my guard should have always been up, at least partway.

“Antifa is getting the tickets. Kids on TikTok are getting the tickets. Trust me, it’s not our people. We’ve never had tickets go this fast,” he observed.

I wished Tony were there, to point out the obvious: we never should have scheduled an indoor, mask-optional rally at the height of COVID in the first place.

I felt like I was in over my head, and thought Mark would be better served in these meetings if he were staffed with OLA staffers with years of expertise in fiscal policy and experience with budget negotiations.

Our political goal during the negotiations, we assured skeptical Republicans, was to stand firm as conservatives and battle Pelosi and Schumer’s liberal idealism. In reality, all the players at the table were respectful of each other.

To me, the negotiations should have been a process of compromises to address the nation’s needs in an order that could be defended to voters of both parties.

“No,” I said, and wiped a bead of sweat off my upper lip. “I’m dedicated. And I’m astounded at the lack of dedication from some of your staff.”

She told me a few stories about her children, a gesture that conveyed a depth of humanity and compassion I was no longer accustomed to.

The campaigns had agreed that the candidates would be tested for COVID on-site in advance and that audience members would wear masks. Biden was tested, and his family wore masks. President Trump arrived so late that there wasn’t time to test him. No one in his family who accompanied him to the debate wore a mask.

A little more than a year later, Mark would publish a book recounting that the president had tested positive for the virus the day of the Barrett announcement, September 26. He and the president had disregarded the result, blaming it on a faulty test.

I began to understand just how much appearing strong—or not appearing weak—motivated the president, and it worried me.

below the surface I felt displaced and undeserving. I did not know how to marry the two worlds I loved dearly: the world I came from, and the world I now lived in.

They did not notice the deepening rattle in the president’s voice, or that his adult children wore outfits worth more than their yearly income.

The president, who rarely left the residence before noon, was on his way to the Oval.

I heard him shouting from the Oval dining room as Giuliani spoke, “Somebody make this stop! Get him off! Make him stop!”

The president pushed back. “I don’t want people to know we lost, Mark. This is embarrassing,” he said.

A Secret Service agent who was standing outside the Oval Office came by. “I don’t want to hear all of that,” he said. “It’s really upsetting. I wouldn’t recommend going down there.”

But at the same time, I knew that it was the president—not his advisors—that was not only enabling, but encouraging this to happen. He was in control.

He looked back at me and said flatly, “We killed Herman Cain.”

I knew the goodbyes being exchanged were tearful, and heavy with grief for the president’s loss. I was grieving, too, but for the way the administration had ended, for the wreck we had left behind.

I watched him climb into the limo, noticing the original Crossfire Hurricane binder tucked under his arm. I didn’t have time to ask what he planned to do with it as he drove away.

“Hey, Cass, while you’re on the phone with him,” Pat Cipollone added, “can you tell him we cannot pardon Kimberly Guilfoyle’s gynecologist? Maybe he’ll listen to you.”

“Good morning.” It’s Ron Klain. Shit, Ron Klain’s here. “Good morning,” I said, summoning my most chipper voice. “Welcome, uh, I mean, welcome back.” I expected a conversational response, but he had something else on his mind. “Do you have a mask?”

I dropped the bag on Pat Cipollone’s floor. “Here are your classified documents back from the reporters, Mark.” I didn’t hide my contempt, my words rife with sarcasm.

the question had released something in me. “It was bad. Really bad. None of it makes sense to me. I can’t make sense of it.” I kept repeating that last line.

The second impeachment failed to reach a two-thirds majority to convict in the Senate. No one was doing the right thing, including me.

Despite the precariousness of my financial position, I hadn’t been in a rush to find a job in the summer.

In reaction to Trump’s anger, Mark had withdrawn his commitment to cooperate with the January 6th Committee.

Meanwhile, a quiet voice in my head warned me that I wasn’t overthinking. I drove to a Staples in Alexandria and printed more than a dozen transcripts of witness depositions from the Russia investigation. I took them home and read all of them, highlighting passages that could serve as models of diplomatic responses, trying to pick up the rhythm of the exchanges.

“Trump World will not continue paying your legal bills,” Stefan said, “if you don’t have a second subpoena.”

There’s a quality in Liz’s demeanor, her seriousness and purposefulness, her self-possession, that has a bolstering effect on me.

Once she says the last part, I understand. The country needs to see someone from the Trump administration put the country’s interests before politics and self.

I know how they curate vile attacks on their detractors. I was once part of that process.

Trump doesn’t care if you dispute him or call him a liar. Only silence bothers him. Being ignored drives him mad.

The next morning, I drove to the Hampton Roads area for the first time since my college graduation and picked up my new best friend.