Enough

by Cassidy Hutchinson

not every successful man is a good father, but every good father is, undoubtedly, a successful man.

I stretched my neck to look over the dashboard to see Dad hurl the turtle onto a tree stump. One man handed Dad a gun. All the men walked a few steps behind Dad as he fired the first shot. The turtle’s shell shattered, pieces flying in the air. Dad tossed the gun to the next man. When he took his shot, the turtle split. I opened the truck door and screamed, begging them to stop.

Dad frequently reminded me that I should never trust anyone with a government badge.

When the driver had settled into her seat and was preparing to pull the door shut, I bolted off the bus, sprinting past Mom and Jack. Clouds of baby powder puffed from my sneakers as I screamed, “I am not riding the school bus!” From that day forward, from kindergarten through fifth grade, Mom drove me to school.

In the years since their divorce, I had learned that blood alone does not determine who family is. Home is a feeling, a sense of security and belonging. If you have people who love and care about you, you have a home.

I decided that if I could vote, I would cast my ballot for Mitt Romney. During this campaign season, something inside of me clicked. I felt a gravitational pull toward politics—the notion that politics were central to history and had a profound impact on the everyday lives of Americans. I felt a shift in me, that politics were part of my life’s purpose.

That January, I had applied to every House and Senate Republican office internship, determined to land at least one interview. I managed to get four, one in the Senate and three in the House. As I was about to accept an offer, I received an email for an interview in the office of majority whip Rep. Steve Scalise, of Louisiana.

A few weeks later, I received an email from Dennis welcoming me to the summer 2017 internship class. Although Steve held more conservative viewpoints than I did, I recognized how competitive it was to get an internship in the leadership office, especially without connections.

That’s where the majority whip came in—Steve’s job was to make sure that House Republicans were unified on how they were going to vote, and to persuade skeptical members to acquiesce to the majority position. To accomplish this, the whip needs a staff who knows the representatives and the pressing needs of their districts.

I moved to Cruz’s office at the beginning of July 2017 and realized within a day that I preferred the House. The Senate was intentionally designed for the wheels of government to turn more slowly there, making it harder to get things done. This was a necessary check on the House’s more fast-paced environment. And senators were much less approachable than House members, including Cruz, whose politics I disagreed with.

Toward the end of my time working for Cruz, the Senate voted against repealing Obamacare. John McCain, terminally ill with brain cancer, dramatically cast a late-night vote, giving the bill a thumbs-down on the Senate floor. Cruz, a proponent of repealing Obamacare, was livid. I had long admired McCain, and found his action an inspiring example of an American patriot putting his country before his party.

I believed that the White House internship would strengthen my résumé when I applied for jobs on the Hill after graduation. One available internship jumped out at me: in the Office of Legislative Affairs (OLA). OLA was the liaison between the executive and legislative branches of government. The office was tasked with harmonizing the president’s legislative agenda with Capitol Hill—or, in the Trump administration, finding ways to reinvent tradition and decorum between the two branches.

I felt that impeachment should be reserved for an offense so egregious that it was certain a president should be removed from office. I worried that the 2019 inquiry would establish precedent for presidents to face any politically motivated impeachment.

I could sense that the president was aware that I was in the room. I was a new, unfamiliar presence to him. I noticed that his eyes often wandered the room when the meetings outlasted his attention span. A few times, his gaze rested on me, as if he were trying to remember whether we had met.

I had been waiting outside the Cabinet Room to escort members out of the West Wing when she emerged and demanded her cell phones, which had been stored in a secure lockbox, as had everyone else’s in the meeting. “I assume you stripped my phone for data to spy on me,” she said accusingly. “That’s what you people do.” I assured her we hadn’t, and rushed to retrieve her phones.

“Where are all the umbrellas?” she asked peremptorily. I stuttered a response before racing to the chief of staff’s office, where I borrowed several staffers’ umbrellas. “Four umbrellas, only four? You’re incompetent, just like the president,” she snapped, before marching outside sans umbrella. The rest of the leadership took that as their cue to also decline the umbrellas. Rep. Steny Hoyer, of Maryland, patted my shoulder sympathetically. “I know you’re trying. You’re doing a good job.”

I felt in control, with a purpose, happy to have achieved the goal the president tasked us with. That goal coincided with my belief that impeachment wasn’t the appropriate response to his inappropriate Zelenskyy call.

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. He lacked empathy and was stubborn and impatient. For all but the MAGA base, his aggressive personality made his leadership appear more erratic than inspirational.

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.

Emotions were unwelcome in the Trump White House. It was imperative to turn them off as a means to survive.

“I would do anything,” Mark answered, looking over his shoulder at me, “to get him reelected.”

And instead of giving a single acceptance speech on the fourth and final night, as was customary, Trump would appear in person at the convention on three of the four nights, and by video on the other one, which was fitting, given his love of the limelight.

Flanked by security as he entered, Mark was greeted with roars from the crowd. I commented to Alyssa that half the attendees probably had no idea who Mark was, but thought he must be important to the president because Secret Service agents were protecting him.

Trump hated fundraisers—he was expected to flatter people he thought should be flattering him.

But there was one politician Mom truly adored: Kevin McCarthy. I typically kept my professional and personal lives separate, but knowing how much Kevin loved birthdays and making people feel special, I asked him for my first favor. Within minutes, he sent me a heartfelt video, singing Mom happy birthday. Kevin had made her feel more special than Mark or even the president could have.

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 paused to take a long look at many of the attendees. Thick clouds of breath puffed from their agape mouths, and their eyes were glazed over from waiting in sub-zero temperatures all day. 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. Instead, they were mesmerized and emboldened in the presence of the president. I very much wanted to feel an authentic connection to someone there. But the feeling never came, so I returned to my colleagues and the Trump and Pence families. That was where I belonged now.

One hour after the meeting broke up, my watch buzzed with a Trump tweet alert. “Peter Navarro releases 36-page report alleging election fraud. ‘More than sufficient’ to swing victory to Trump. A great report by Peter. Statistically impossible to have lost the 2020 Election. Big protest in D.C. on January 6th. Be there, will be wild!” Wild.

Peter Navarro stopped by our office to deliver more materials proving election fraud. Peter was a master at using PowerPoints to describe conspiracy theories. I usually took any items from Peter and, after thanking him, gave them directly to Mark, who ignored them.

I need to meet with the chief and the president about it.” “Is this from your QAnon friends, Peter?” I asked. “Have you looked into it yet? I think they point out a lot of good ideas. You really need to read this. Make sure the chief sees it.” “Oh, I will,” I told Peter, with no expectation to share the document with Mark.

“By the way,” he says, fingering the fabric, “I’m loving this leather jacket on you.” His hand slips under my blazer, then my skirt. I feel his frozen fingertips trail up my thigh. He tilts his chin up. The whites of his eyes look jaundiced. My eyes dart to John Eastman, who flashes a leering grin. I fight against the tension in my muscles and recoil from Rudy’s grip. “It’s faux leather, Rudy. Tell the boss to pay me more and I’ll get a real one, just for you.”

At her desk behind me, Eliza is watching TV. “There’s no way these are our people. This is definitely antifa.” I slowly turn around in my chair. “Are you kidding me?” “No,” she responds flatly. “Our people are peaceful.” Tony enters Mark’s office, and they emerge together a few moments later.

Secretary Mnuchin was leaning on my desk, thumbing through a newspaper. Mark’s office door was shut. “Hey, sir, good morning. Are you waiting to see Mark?” “Yeah,” he said curtly. “The Twenty-Fifth.” He was referring to calls to use the Twenty-Fifth Amendment against Trump to remove him from power. He didn’t look up from the newspaper.

“I think yesterday was antifa.” I tried to ignore the remark. “I’m hearing from some members. Are you?” “Yeah, some members.” His eyes shifted and met mine. “Do you think yesterday was antifa?” “No.” My eyes narrowed. “I don’t think yesterday was antifa.” The clock mounted above his door ticked in response. I turned to walk out. “By the way, Chief,” I said, turning back to look at him, “Alyssa just screwed you.” He snapped his head in my direction as the door closed behind me.

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.

On January 12, my Secret Service radio made an unexpected announcement: “Hoosier, arrived West Wing.” I exchanged a nervous glance with my colleagues. Vice President Pence emerged from the stairwell with a coterie of aides and Secret Service agents trailing behind. He looked every inch a president.

“Is he down with the president?” He nodded toward Mark’s office door. I shook my head. “No, sir. Mark is in his office.” “Alright.” He paused for a moment. “And the president is in the dining room?” I nodded. The vice president glanced at Mark’s office door one more time, cast a tight smile, and tapped the doorframe as he disappeared down the hallway toward the dining room. I bit my cheeks to hide the surge of pride and admiration I felt for the vice president, and I decided not to notify Mark.

“Hey, everyone, take care of yourselves. You all did a spectacular job. The country is grateful.” We didn’t have a chance to respond before he walked away. My heart ached. I wanted to thank him, too, for the spectacular job he had done, but primarily for the resolve he exemplified on January 6. Because of his courage, our democracy was still intact. Bruised, but not broken.

Even after January 6th, I worried I would look disloyal and become a target if I backed out. I started packing Sunday night. The next morning, Mark called me into his office and informed me that I might not be welcome in Florida.

There had been a news article published listing the staffers who were moving to Florida with the president, and he was trying to identify who leaked the story. I blinked several times, trying to contain my frustration. “I’m not a leaker. I’m not disloyal. You know that.” “Are you sure about that, Cass?” My frustration turned to rage. “Mark, you can go to hell if you think that.” He had crossed a bridge, and I couldn’t contain my anger. “I don’t think that, Cass,” he relented. “I know you’re loyal. You’ve been very loyal to me.”

I could hear what sounded like people saying their goodbyes to the president, but I couldn’t bring myself to join them. 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. The president and I never said goodbye. Some goodbyes are better left unspoken.

At one point, Sam started pressing me about January 6. Why didn’t POTUS do anything? What was Mark doing? I recited the rationale I had heard Mark and other colleagues make, except for their ludicrous attempts to blame the riot on antifa. In that moment, I detested myself, and I could not bring myself to look Sam in the eye.

I 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.

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. I read the book three times that night—quickly the first time; I devoured it.

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.

I had learned over the last several years that I thrived when I had someone or something bigger than myself to fight for. I had always wanted to be a bulldog for the truth, or what I believed to be the truth. I realized now that what I wanted most was to hold accountable people who had selfishly risked the country’s welfare. They needed to answer for what they had done and what they had failed to do.

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.

“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 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.

The country needs to hear the truth.” I know he is right. I know the impact I could have, a White House staffer with extensive access testifying in an open hearing to what amounted to, at a minimum, President Trump’s shocking dereliction of duty. I know it will expose how much he was prepared to hurt the country to assuage his own wounded pride. I know it will reveal him as a reckless, dangerous man. I see that plainly now.