Michael Cohen learned that membership in Trump’s inner circle has a harsh cost | Sidney Blumenthal

When, in the early days, Donald Trump's diehard fans failed to show up in front of 100 Centre Street at the Manhattan courthouse to clamor about the rank injustice of the case of The People of the State of New York v Donald J Trump, the lonely defendant roused himself from his fitful slumbers to choreograph a dance of the marionettes. The political delegations that started appearing on 14 May attired for perfectly flattering cosplay in Trump matching red ties was a refrain of surrogates echoing insults and imprecations that if the former president were to mutter himself would earn him further contempt of court citations.

Trump assembled around him a miniature court and hierarchy that populated a desolation row. In the front row were seated Eric Trump and his wife, Lara Trump, now installed as the co-chair of the Republican National Committee. There were the senators and congressmen, the failed presidential candidates and hopeful running mates who repeated Trump's scripted talking points against the judge, the prosecutors and the justice system. There were the Fox News anchors, Jeanine Pirro, who exchanged smiles and nods with Trump, and Laura Ingraham, reprimanded by court officers for staring through forbidden binoculars as though she were on safari. There was former Trump White House adviser Boris Epshteyn, indicted in the Arizona fake electors scheme.

The carnival of the Trump vassals was a pop-up court society that formed below the authoritarian ruler. Their ranked serfdom revealed the status pyramid. Like the witnesses, whoever they have been, the trial has dramatized the web of the only kind of relationship Trump knows: master and servant.

Day after day, Trump's underworld has been peeled away. His main line of defense is that the people he has chosen to associate with are sleazy, corrupt and dishonest, and therefore cannot be believed. Illustrating their rotten characters proves Trump must be innocent. Their offense is that they no longer serve him. The reams of hard physical evidence, meanwhile, must be ignored. Trump's projection reached its risible apogee when his lawyer accused Stormy Daniels of profiting from selling merchandise, which she batted away with a quip: "Not unlike Mr Trump."

The courtroom drama has more than legal implications. While the testimony and evidence may nail Trump on 34 felony charges of business fraud, the trial has painted a vast canvas of human bondage. As the prosecution has built its case, each and every person called to the stand has described their own strange master-servant relationship with Trump.

There was David Pecker, publisher of the National Enquirer and other tabloids, who oversaw the "catch-and-kill" hush-money operation to suppress information about Trump's dalliances and to crank out smears of his opponents. "I felt that Donald Trump was my mentor," he testified.

There was the former teenage model and ingenue from Greenwich, Connecticut, Hope Hicks, whose association with the Trump Organization began by promoting Ivanka Trump as a fashion icon, and was elevated to Trump's campaign press secretary and a White House counselor. When the Access Hollywood tape was disclosed a month before the election of 2016 on 7 October - "grab' em by the pussy" - Trump "wanted to make sure that there was a denial of any kind of relationship", Hicks testified. She ordered the campaign staff: "Deny, deny, deny."

Four days before the election in 2016, Trump directed her to deny the story of the payoff to Stormy Daniels, Hicks has said. Trump told her the next day that Michael Cohen, his personal lawyer, had paid the money. "I didn't know Michael to be an especially charitable person or selfless person," she testified. She averted her eyes from the defendant as she spoke, and under cross-examination by his lawyer broke down crying. Whether heartfelt or crocodile tears, they were either way a tribute to "the boss".

The stories of the two principal witnesses, Stormy Daniels and Michael Cohen, like those of everyone else who has ever dealt with Trump, are divergent accounts of the Trump syndrome of domination and submission. Daniels refused to accept the dynamic from the start, felt dissociated from their sole, disagreeable sexual encounter, took the hush money when she could, and has since fought a running battle against him. Cohen traded himself for the grift and the glitz, thinking he had become a tough-guy prince of the city, until he became the fall guy. Then, after a stint in the pen, he became both penitent and vengeful. His rage against his former master is his servile rebellion.

Stormy Daniels' account is a passionless play in three clothes changes.

Scene 1: Trump invites Stormy to his hotel suite at a Lake Tahoe golf tournament. Trump's thuggish bodyguard, Keith Schiller, escorts her to his room. Stormy enters to find him lounging in silk pajamas. She cracks: "Does Hugh Hefner know you stole his pajamas?"

Scene 2: A chagrined and humiliated Trump changes into a shirt and pants. He asks her whether she has ever had a sexually transmitted disease. She explains that she takes rigorous tests to continue working in the adult film industry. He presses whether "you ever had a bad test?" He asks about condoms. She asks about his wife. "Oh, don't worry about that," he replies. "We are - actually don't even sleep in the same room."

He talks more about himself, cuts her off, "and it was almost like he wanted to one-up me". He shows her a financial magazine with his picture on the cover. "At this point, I pretty much had enough of his arrogance and cutting me off and still not getting my dinner. So, I decided someone should take him on. So I said, are you always this rude, arrogant and pompous? You don't even know how to have a conversation, and I was pretty nasty. I snapped. And he seemed to be taken aback. And I said, someone should spank you with that." He rolls up the magazine, she takes it and orders him to "turn around". He bends over. She swats him. "And he was much more polite."

He raises the idea that she should appear on The Apprentice. Being an "adult actress" would be no problem. "You remind me of my daughter," he says. She puts a friend, another "adult actress", on the phone to prove she's present with the real Trump. Then she goes to the bathroom.

In the courtroom, while Stormy testified, Trump loudly muttered, "Bullshit!" The judge told his lawyer to silence him. Trump's curses were a substitute for himself taking the stand.

Scene 3: Stormy comes out of the bathroom to find Trump lying on the bed in a T-shirt and boxer shorts. "He stood up between me and the door, not in a threatening manner. He didn't come at me. He didn't rush at me. He didn't put his hands on me and nothing like that. I said, I got to go. He said, I thought we were getting somewhere, we were talking, and I thought you were serious about what you wanted. If you ever want to get out of that trailer park - basically, I was offended because I never lived in a trailer park." Then, she felt like she "blacked out".

Prosecutor: "Was it brief?" Answer: "Yes." Her hands shook getting dressed. "He said: 'Oh, great. Let's get together again, honeybunch. We were great together.' I just wanted to leave." She leaves quickly. She feels "ashamed". He calls several times a week for a while. She visits him once at Trump Tower. She never gets a gig on The Apprentice.

In scene 1, Stormy made fun of Trump decked out in Hefner's signature silk pajamas, his laughable affectation without the artifice of Hef's highfalutin Playboy philosophy. Trump, in fact, had long tried to burnish his image through proximity to Hefner. In 1990, Trump appeared with a model on a Playboy cover, which he flaunted at a campaign stop in North Carolina in 2016. In 2000, he made a cameo appearance in a softcore Playboy-produced film called Centerfolds, pouring champagne in a Playboy limousine. He attended several Playboy anniversary parties, in 2003 bringing his then girlfriend Melania Knauss and posed for a photo with Hefner. But Hef exploited Trump for his gilt-edged louche image more than Trump succeeded in exploiting Hefner. When Trump proposed a feature for Playboy, "The Girls of Trump", it was rejected. Trump was strictly for cameos. Hefner was never Trump's servant.

Stormy sized up Trump's weakness at first sight. It was not an inflection moment, but a confection moment. Trump's hollow personality is in great part confected from copying the stylized mannerisms of a swath of male entertainers of an older generation. His shtick is patched together from a variety of sources - borrowing, for example, from the method of Don Rickles, the insult comedian, to whom Trump unsuccessfully tried to sell a condo in one of his properties, to the method of Bob Grant, a now forgotten racist demagogue with a daily program on CBS Radio in New York, on whose show Trump appeared.

Trump has been especially obsessed with Frank Sinatra, ring-a-ding-ding. He once clumsily tried to impose his will on "the Chairman of the Board". Their transaction was nasty, brutish and short. When Trump sought to hire Sinatra to play at his Taj Mahal casino in Atlantic City, he tried to renegotiate the contract to pay him less than he originally promised, telling him his fee was "a little rich". Sinatra sent Trump a message to "go fuck himself". "He actually did loathe him," said Nancy Sinatra, his daughter.

Trump has long tried to present himself in the image of a cool swinger in Sinatra's Rat Pack: "I'm king of the hill, top of the heap." But the improvised group of Sinatra's friends, accomplished musicians, actors, dancers and wits - Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr, Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop - were famous for their talent, not for an empty fame. Together they performed a spontaneous, raucous Las Vegas act and made a heist movie, Ocean's 11, about robbing all the Vegas casinos. One aspect of their style was the show of casual bravado that was a knowing tribute and parody of the mafia dons who built and presided in Vegas. Sinatra had deflected stage-door johnnies and hangers-on since he was a teenage heartthrob. Trump was a familiar type of blustering wannabe, with a thick wad of bills to be given a ringside table and to be avoided, until he became obnoxious and Sinatra had to tell him to "go fuck himself".

In the midst of the current trial, on 11 May, Trump held a rally in New Jersey, where he hawked a patently false story about Sinatra to connect with the Jersey crowd. Supposedly, like they were pals, according to Trump: "Frank Sinatra told me a long time ago, 'Never eat before you perform.' I said, 'I'm not performing, I'm a politician, if you can believe it.'"

If you can believe it, even in the wee small hours of the morning, Sinatra died in 1998, 17 years before "politician" Trump ran for office. On 21 January 2021, when Trump took off from Washington at Andrews air force base, after inciting the January 6 attack on the Capitol and being impeached a second time, he had the loudspeakers blaring out one of Sinatra's theme songs, My Way, as if Sinatra was granting him a pardon.

In scene 2, according to Daniels, Trump kept circling, shark-like, to learn if Daniels might be infected with venereal disease. Relieved at her answer, when he pounced, he didn't use a condom, his triumph in scene 3. "Missionary position," Stormy testified. He called her "honeybunch", until she later criticized him and he called her "horseface".

In February 2017, Trump's bodyguard Keith Schiller - head of Trump Organization security, then promoted to "director of Oval Office operations" - invaded the New York City office of Trump's personal physician, Dr Harold Bornstein, to seize Trump's medical records. Bornstein said he felt "raped". Those records have never been released. The public has no clear idea of Trump's medical history, of whether he was ever treated for any disease, sexually transmitted or otherwise.

According to Daniels, Trump promised her a spot on his TV show, then she "blacked out", finding herself vacantly staring at the ceiling. The casting couch routine is a time-worn technique pre-existing the talkies. Trump's was a dismal variation on the theme of Harvey Weinstein. At the time, Weinstein was a king of Hollywood, producer of the classiest movies and winner of Oscars. Trump occupied a lower rung in the entertainment industry, faking his way through a reality gameshow. They did not cross paths much, though in 2009 Trump turned up at a Miramax premiere in New York of Nine, starring Daniel Day-Lewis as an Italian film-maker with a complicated love life. Trump posed for a photo with his arms around his wife and Weinstein's.

When Weinstein was convicted of sexual assault and rape, Trump stated it sent a "very strong message" and was a "great victory" for women. "I was never a fan of Harvey Weinstein," he said. "I think he said he was going to work hard to defeat me in the election. How did that work out, by the way? He was a person I didn't like." This was after numerous women accused Trump of sexual assault but before he was adjudicated a rapist in the E Jean Carroll defamation case.

Before Trump's claim that the 2020 election was "rigged", he charged that the Emmys were "rigged" for failing to award him for The Apprentice. In 2017, Stephen Colbert, as the host of the Emmy awards show, mocked Trump. "Unlike the presidency, Emmys go to the winner of the popular vote," he said. Trump's whining about the "rigged" Emmys was a rehearsal for his "Stop the Steal" coup.

The offstage but oft-mentioned character who never appears as a live witness is Trump's third wife, Melania, of the separate bedrooms, who was pregnant while Trump was inviting Stormy and a bevy of adult film stars into his Tahoe hotel suite. The overwhelming weight of testimony introduced in the trial is that Trump's actions were motivated by a desire to suppress the information of his sexual liaisons because they would damage his election chances.

Prosecutor: Why, in fact, did you pay that money to Stormy Daniels?

Michael Cohen: To ensure that the story would not come out, [and] would not affect Mr Trump's chances of becoming president of the United States.

Prosecutor: If not for the election, would you have paid that money to Stormy Daniels?

Cohen: No, ma'am.

Prosecutor: At whose direction did you pay the money?

Cohen: Trump's.

One of Cohen's revelations was that when the Hollywood Access tape emerged, it was Melania who invented the alibi that it was just boys' "locker room talk". "We needed to put a spin on this," Cohen said, "and the spin that [Trump] wanted put on it was that this is locker room talk - something that Melania had recommended, or at least he told me that that's what Melania had thought it was."

To maintain a degree of control in the marriage, Melania dances a tango. She has been vigilantly protective of her investment. She has renegotiated her pre-nup three times, according to Page Six, twice as a post-nuptial agreement. Nobody knows its provisions. But it may be reasonable to assume that Trump's adamant refusal to acknowledge his sex with Stormy Daniels may relate to sums of money attached to episodes of adultery in the post-nup. Melania was reportedly furious after the disclosure of Trump's $130,000 payment to Daniels.

Cohen testified that he asked Trump,"How's things going to go upstairs?" referring to Melania's anger, and Trump responded with the coldest revelation to come out of the trial: "'Don't worry,' he goes. He goes: 'How long do you think I will be on the market for? Not long'." Trump was contemplating what would happen after Melania made good on the latest post-nup.

On the day that Stormy testified, in a bit of counter-programming, the chair of the Florida state Republican party announced that Barron Trump, Melania and Donald's son, 18 years old, would be a delegate to the Republican national convention. Floating that story would show that Melania was on board. Two days later, the Florida Republican party issued a statement rescinding the original one, now stating that Barron Trump "regretfully declines to participate due to prior commitments". Perhaps Melania had made her leverage known.

Roy Cohn owed nothing to Trump. Trump came to him as a supplicant to rescue him from a racial discrimination suit, which Cohn resolved through his trademark intimidation, delay and bluffing. Trump, the youthful bounder, also begged Roy to wheedle him past the rope line into Le Club, an exclusive celebrity hangout. Roy had been a darling of J Edgar Hoover and the counsel for Joseph McCarthy. Roy represented everyone in New York: the Catholic archdiocese, George Steinbrenner of the Yankees, Aristotle Onassis, and the bosses of the mafia families, Fat Tony Salerno, Carmine Galante, and John Gotti. Roy's apprentice was Roger Stone, who introduced him to Ronald Reagan. Roy's beard, his make-believe fiancee, was Barbara Walters. Roy was Trump's godfather in the city.

Michael Cohen owed everything to Trump. The personal injury lawyer from Long Island claimed he read The Art of the Deal twice before Trump hired him. He eagerly became Trump's creature. He did whatever Trump asked of him, from lying about whatever needed to be lied about to threatening inquisitive reporters to trying to negotiate a Trump Moscow Tower.

One of those tasks was paying off Stormy Daniels at Trump's orders, he testified, and Cohen served two years in prison for tax evasion and campaign-finance violations, among other crimes, for his service to Trump. Trump was named in his federal indictment from the southern district of New York as Unindicted Co-Conspirator 1. Trump sent him a message during his trial: "Stay strong, I have your back. You're going to be fine." Cohen was a made man; Trump had made him. He was his complicit errand boy. Roy Cohn had taught Trump how to create a Michael Cohen. Then, Cohen flipped.

Trump called him a "rat", a term of art applied to an FBI informant snitching on organized crime. Running for re-election with indictments shadowing him this year, Trump began trolling for unofficial character witnesses. In January, he landed the biggest "rat" of them all for an endorsement: Sammy "The Bull" Gravano - a former hitman for the mob who confessed to involvement in the murders of 19 men and a stoolie who sent away his boss, the "Dapper Don" John Gotti, for life - stepped forward to stamp Trump "a legitimate guy".

"Thank you to Sammy the Bull," Trump tweeted. "I hope Judges Engoron and Kaplan see this" - the judges in his financial fraud and E Jean Carroll defamation cases, which he would lose. "We need fairness, strength and honesty in our New York Courts. We don't have it now!" But Sammy the Bull, who in 2017 was released from an Arizona prison where he was doing time for running a drug ring, has refrained from further commentary on Trump's legal troubles. Trump has turned elsewhere for character witnesses.

The cavalcade of Republican politicians to the Manhattan courthouse has been a demonstration of the party's servitude to the defendant. Journalists in the courtroom have observed Trump writing and editing the talking points handed to the pols to spout. These Republicans are more than a sideshow: they're walking witnesses to the degree to which Trump has transformed the Republican party into his accomplice. It is a made party.

Tommy Tuberville, the village idiot of the Senate, who held up military promotions for months, blunderingly gave the entire game away, and conceivably could get Trump into further hot water, by stating that he and the others came on Trump's behalf to "overcome the gag order". He complained that the courtroom was "kind of dark, cold", and that the seats "are very, very, very uncomfortable".

"I've not been in many courtrooms in my life," he went on. "Hopefully I don't have to go to too many more." So far, Trump's further trials have been conveniently delayed.

Speaker of the House, Mike Johnson, evangelical avatar, arrived on the shuttle to lend moral support to the immoral. "People are curious," he explained about his motivation last year. "What does Mike Johnson think about any issue under the sun?' I said, 'Well, go pick up a Bible off your shelf and read it. That's my worldview. That's what I believe.'"

In Alabama, while working as an attorney for the far-right Alliance Defending Freedom, Johnson spoke out in favor of Judge Roy Moore's posting of the Ten Commandments at the Montgomery judicial building. Moore lost a bid for the US Senate in 2017 after accusations of sexual assault and misconduct with underage girls. After Johnson's little intervention at the Trump trial, he might edit the commandments down to six, dropping the bits about adultery, stealing, lying and greed. If he were especially self-aware about his courthouse antic, he could also drop the first one: "Thou shalt have no other gods before me."

Standing behind the metal barrier in front of the courthouse, careful not to enter, Johnson waved to Trump. He got the talking points for the courthouse rally, too. The trial, he said, was "a sham". The gesture was a small price to pay after convincing Trump to help him fend off Marjorie Taylor Greene from carting him away in a tumbril. Empty flattery of Trump is worth the speakership. But Johnson's bended knee has guaranteed that the Democrats will not vote to maintain him again, if there is another attempt to guillotine him.

Mike Johnson is a Trump made man, too, enlisted as an accomplice in the January 6 coup and the subsequent effort to cover it up. He was instrumental in advancing the falsehood that Dominion Voting Systems and Smartmatic had "rigged software" that came from the deceased "Hugo Chávez's Venezuela", sought to nullify the votes of Arizona and Pennsylvania, and charged that the judges who rejected Trump's bogus claims were committing an illegal "usurpation". Once he became speaker, he ordered that in the film of the January 6 attack the faces of insurrectionists should be blurred "because we don't want them to be retaliated against and to be charged by the DoJ". It was too late, however, to obstruct justice. The justice department announced after Johnson's order that it already had the footage.

For Johnson, the courthouse demonstration to denigrate the justice system was consistent with his participation in the January 6 plot. After Johnson fended off the attempt to remove him, he must play a game to defend Trump in order to play Trump in order to defend himself from Trump's feral acolytes. Everyone who has tried that game has eventually wound up devoured.

For the chorus line of vice-presidential hopefuls, the courthouse was an off-Broadway tryout. They pirouetted to win Trump's nod, but only one could be chosen: "One singular sensation".

Who was and who wasn't present in the worshipful gaggle was a tale of two Dakotas. South Dakota governor Kristi Noem, aspiring running mate, was significantly absent from the courthouse, still busily justifying blasting her 14 months-old puppy and a goat after dragging them into a gravel pit. Her tale of slaughter in a recently published memoir was an exhibition of performative sadism to catch the eye of Trump. Her cruelty to animals was an unprecedented bid to secure the second slot under him. But the opprobrium she attracted terminated her short-lived campaign.

The trigger-happy governor, quick on the draw, had put a clear bullseye on her target's viciousness - Trump, not Cricket the dog. But there's no getting back up on the horse for her. By the way, she has also disclosed offing three family horses. Trump infamously boasted that he could get away with shooting someone on Fifth Avenue, but Noem's bragging about killing her dog on the farm unexpectedly became her retelling a murder-suicide.

Trump's other Dakota applicant, North Dakota governor Doug Burgum - who dropped out of the Republican contest before a single vote was taken, polling a barely detectable 1% - turned up at the courthouse to drone the Trump talking points that the trial was "election interference" and a "scam". The colorless Burgum, without the slightest measurable constituency, should be considered the frontrunner as Trump's vice-presidential pick. His advantage is not that he is bland and can never outshine Trump. Burgum's asset is his assets. He sold his software company to Microsoft in 2001 for $1.1bn. Trump is frantic for cash.

Trump has installed his daughter-in-law, Lara Trump, as co-chair of the Republican National Committee, to replace Ronna Romney McDaniel, who had resisted shoveling every last penny of RNC funds into Trump's legal defense fund. As slavish as McDaniel was to Trump, her sin was that it was not down to the last cent. She could not be subservient enough; so, she was defenestrated. Under Lara Trump, the party's money will flow in an endless river to his campaign.

Burgum, a political nobody, appears as a godsend to Trump. If Trump is the Republican goldencalf, Burgum is his potential cash cow. With him on the ticket, Burgum would be outside campaign finance restrictions and could open the spigot of his fortune for Trump. When it comes to Trump, the mercenary motive always prevails. For Burgum, it might be a cheap deal, a speculation as profitable in its own way as selling his firm Microsoft made him a billionaire. If Trump is elected, the non-entity would be a heartbeat away from the presidency. In the meantime, he simply has to perform like a Mike Pence dummy, until the moment inevitably arrives when Trump tries to coerce him to become a co-conspirator.

By Thursday, 16 May, the supporting cast was down to the scraps of Freedom Caucus devotees, most prominently Lauren Boebert and Matt Gaetz. "And I want all of the news to start asking the question, 'What is the crime?'" Boebert shouted outside the courthouse. "Because everyone in this court has not been informed of what the crime is. The defendant does not know the crime that was committed." As she spoke, one bystander heckled: "Beetlejuice!" Boebert had been evicted from a Denver theater staging of "Beetlejuice" for allegedly vaping, making loud noises and groping her then boyfriend, owner of a dive bar named Hooch that features drag queen shows.

After Gaetz appeared at the courthouse, he posted on Twitter/X a picture of himself there in a Trump-style red tie with a caption comparing himself to the Proud Boys, whose leader is serving a prison sentence for seditious conspiracy for the January 6 insurrection. "Standing back and standing by, Mr President," wrote Gaetz. He understood Trump's bottomless need for displays of subservience. In the courtroom, Gaetz was given a place of honor seated next to Eric Trump.

The House ethics committee has yet to report on its investigation into Gaetz's alleged sexual relation with a minor. Former speaker Kevin McCarthy, removed from the speakership by the people rallying at the courthouse, observed recently that the motive for his ousting was because "one person wanted me to stop an ethics complaint because he slept with a 17-year-old".

But the red-tie Trump brigade were not a snake line of Proud Boys armed with weapons ready to rush the courthouse to liberate the defendant. Their dim perception about the trial they came on Trump's orders to deride blinded them to the tragic story of the chief witness, Michael Cohen. The Trump lackey, through a tortured ordeal, at last came to a harsh realization of how grotesquely Trump had manipulated, exploited and betrayed him, and now he stood lashed in the witness box by Trump's lawyer for being Trump's lawyer, the liar that Trump depended on. Outside the courtroom, Trump's self-abasing retinue lines up to serve him like the old Michael Cohen.