by Bob Woodward
“I understand the points you’re making. I’m asking the policy question. Is this a good policy for the president of the United States, to be talking to foreign leaders about investigating anyone—”
“Corruption. Yes, corruption.”
“Well, but naming a political opponent.”
“If the political opponent is corrupt, they can let us know. Look, his son—”
“Do you think that’s the president’s job?”
“His son—” Trump tried to go on.
“Is that the president’s job? I’m sorry to persist on this, but—”
“The president’s job is to investigate corruption. If there was corruption, we’re giving billions of dollars to a country, that country should let us know if there’s corruption.”
“You don’t see the other side on this at all?”
“I don’t see it at all, no.”
“Zero?”
“No. If there was no corruption—but there was corruption. And when you look at that tape of Joe Biden—Quid Pro Joe, they call him. Quid. Pro. Joe,” he said, enunciating each word carefully. “When you look at that tape, Bob, that’s—that’s the ultimate quid pro quo. Okay? It’s the ultimate.”
Trump was referring to Biden’s January 23, 2018, appearance at the Council on Foreign Relations, where he talked about helping force Ukrainian prosecutor General Viktor Shokin from office. Shokin’s ouster had been sought by the United States and other Western countries for failing to pursue corruption cases—including an investigation into Burisma, the Ukrainian gas company.
The president continued, “I’m only saying this. Look, I’m only saying this. That conversation I had with [Zelensky] was perfect. But here’s what happened. You had an informer who now disappeared. You had a second whistleblower who now disappeared. You had the first whistleblower who reported the call. He reported it totally different than—there were eight quid pro quos.”
Trump’s facts were muddled. The whistleblowers remained masked under federal law. Several times in late 2019 the president said, without basis, that he had been accused of “eight quid pro quos,” an exaggerated misstatement of the allegations against him. Trump then tried to shift the subject to chairman of the House Intelligence Committee Adam Schiff.
“I’m just asking the policy question,” I said. “Would you want the next president of the United States to be talking to foreign leaders about investigating political opponents?”
“I would want the next president of the United States to investigate corruption. And in fact, we have a treaty signed with Ukraine, because it is a very corrupt country in the past—hopefully the new president will do something about it—but we have a treaty that we actually have to do it.”
The Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty between the United States and Ukraine allows the Justice Department to investigate corruption in Ukraine but doesn’t obligate it.
“You see why I’m asking these questions?”
“Look, look, what happened here is very interesting.”
“Indeed it is,” I said.
“They made up a phony conversation,” Trump said, “and it sounded terrible.” Trump was referring to a dramatized summary of the call that Adam Schiff had given in a House Intelligence committee hearing on the whistleblower report on September 26. Schiff led into his heavily paraphrased account by saying, “It reads like a classic organized crime shakedown. Shorn of its rambling character and in not so many words, this is the essence of what the president communicates.” Schiff went on to parody the call in the style of a mafia boss, wrapping up by saying, “It would be funny if it wasn’t such a graphic betrayal of the president’s oath of office.” It was clear Schiff was dramatizing, but he had given Trump a big opening to criticize him.
“When you released that transcript,” I said, “you gave them a sword, President Trump.”
“No, the opposite.”
“Yes, you did. Well, I know you say you—”
“Look, let me ask you a question,” Trump said.
“Sure, of course.”
“You ready? If I didn’t have that transcript, I would have a very big problem right now.”
“No sir. You would not.”
“Excuse me. I had a whistleblower—”
“There’s a kind of clarity in a transcript,” I said. What’s more, it contained the truth, released and validated by Trump. “I know this going back to the Nixon tapes. As soon as you have a transcript, even though it’s not entirely perfect, verbatim, as soon as you have that, that’s what everyone focuses on.”
“Here’s my problem,” Trump said later, summarizing, “the whistleblower report was a fraud.”
I had not yet read the public whistleblower report, but I knew the whistleblower had written that he was not a witness to most of the events, including the phone call. I also knew the report had largely been proven accurate.
“If I didn’t have a transcript,” Trump said, “I would’ve had a big problem.”
“But it just would’ve been a whistleblower report,” I said. “It has very fuzzy status, because it’s just a whistleblower report.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Trump said.
“It doesn’t have any standing,” I said. Unlike the transcript of the call he released, the report had not been hard evidence. “It’s not proof.”
Trump went on to attack the report and the whistleblower’s lawyer as “a real scumbag.”
“Okay,” I said. “You’re willing to have this conversation, and you know me well enough, I’m—I really want to understand in a comprehensive way.” I added, referring to the whistleblower report, “It’s not evidence.” But the transcript was evidence—it was proof of what had been said.
Trump looked across the table to deputy press secretary Gidley for backup.
“Mr. President,” Gidley said, “all I was getting was questions about this report. All I was getting. For days.”
“And by the way,” Trump said, “I got approval from Ukraine before I released it. Because I was very—I said, jeez. It’s a terrible thing to do. A terrible thing to do. So we called Ukraine. We said, do you mind if we release this conversation? And we got approval. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to release it.”
Our conversation had gone from interview to confrontation. He did not seem to understand or accept my central point—the president of the United States had no business asking for a criminal investigation of his political opponent. It was clear we were not going to agree, so I decided to move on.
“I’m going to tell you something from my experience,” I said.
“Go ahead,” Trump said. “Nobody more experienced.”
“Well,” I continued, “you’re willing to have this—as you know in the Nixon case, I always said afterwards, as soon as the Watergate burglars were caught, if Richard Nixon had gone on television and said, you know, ‘I’m the man at the top. I’m indirectly responsible for this. I’m sorry. I apologize,’ it would’ve gone away.”
“I would never have done it here,” Trump said. “Yeah, Nixon should’ve done that. But I shouldn’t have done, because I did nothing wrong. I did nothing wrong.”
“Have you ever found that you did nothing wrong, but apology is the path to ending the issue?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t apologize if I did nothing,” Trump said. “Can’t do it. If I did something wrong I could apologize.”
I said, “I’m telling you, from too many decades of experience in cases like this, if you apologized it would go away.”
“I think if I apologized,” Trump explained, “it would be a disaster. Because that would be admitting I did something wrong, and I didn’t.”
The House Democrats who voted for impeachment centered their claims on the transcript of the phone call. “You clearly wanted the Bidens investigated,” I said, trying again.
“No. No,” Trump said. “I want corruption investigated.” He repeated that he wanted to know why Germany and France were not putting
up money for Ukraine. “Why is it always the foolish United States?”
“I know it wouldn’t fit with your persona to apologize,” I said.
“I would totally apologize if I did something wrong.”
I shifted ground. “Who’s the person you trust most in the world?”
Trump paused for several seconds. Then he chuckled and said, “That’s an interesting question. I don’t know. I don’t want to get into it, because I have so many people—I have great family. I trust my family members.”
“Okay,” I said. “Ask them if you should apologize.”
“Bob, I think you have to look at the whistleblower report.”
“I will,” I promised. I indicated I realized he was allowing me to push him. “I appreciate your indulgence. I am telling you my experience, and my conviction, my reportorial belief, you gave them a sword when you released that transcript.”
Trying to get the Bidens investigated was improper, or as many Republicans would later say, “inappropriate.”
“I so disagree with you,” he said, laughing. “If I didn’t have a transcription, they would have made up a story that was so phony, and I would’ve had no defense.”
“I met Ivanka coming in,” I said, referring to his daughter. “Take her for a walk around this lovely place.”
“I’ll ask her,” Trump said.
“And say, should—would an apology, carefully phrased, end this or put it in a context?”
“It would be a disaster,” Trump said. “In my opinion.”
Again from across the table, Gidley jumped in. “Disaster. You’re right. You’re 100 percent correct. The media would not give him—no way they’d—they would destroy him for that.”
“I have this reputation of not being willing to apologize,” Trump said. “It’s wrong. I will apologize, if I’m wrong.”
“When’s the last time you apologized?”
“Oh, I don’t know, but I think over a period—I would apologize. Here’s the thing: I’m never wrong. Okay. No, if I’m wrong—if I’m wrong—I believe in apologizing. This was a totally appropriate conversation. It was perfect. And again, if I did something wrong, I would apologize. Okay?”
Trump’s best-known recent apology followed the release of the Access Hollywood tape in October 2016.
Late in the interview I asked again if Trump would take that walk with Ivanka.
“I will, but I disagree with you so much,” Trump said. “It wouldn’t matter what she said.”
I pressed one last time. What would he do if Ivanka thought he should apologize?
“It wouldn’t matter what she said,” he repeated.
Dan Scavino, Trump’s social media director, had walked in. Trump pulled him into the debate. “He thinks I should apologize,” Trump said. “I think if I apologized, it would be a disaster. I don’t know.”
“A hundred percent,” Scavino said. “The media would kill” Trump.
Scavino, one of Trump’s closest aides, had his laptop open at the table.
“Show him this thing,” Trump said.
“You won’t even believe this,” Trump said. “Watch this.”
Scavino played a 90-second clip which was a spliced-together selection of stumbles, hesitations, pauses and confusions from Mueller’s testimony before Congress on July 24. Interspersed were shots of members of the committee looking on in wonder, indifference and surprise. It was funny in an unkind way. Mueller was visibly unsteady. Trump stood over my shoulder and watched. He laughed and chuckled, delighted, as if this was payback for the two years of Mueller.
Next up on Scavino’s laptop was a clip of Trump’s February 2019 State of the Union speech before Congress 11 months prior. Instead of his words, hyped-up elevator music played as the camera panned over extended shots of senators and members of Congress watching from their seats. One of the first shots was of Bernie Sanders, who looked bored.
Trump had a different interpretation. “They hate me,” the president said. “You’re seeing hate!”
A shot of Elizabeth Warren was next. She was paying attention but had a bland, unemotional look on her face.
“Hate!” Trump said.
A shot of an expressionless Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Trump pointed at her.
“Hate! See the hate!” he said.
The camera lingered a particularly long time on Kamala Harris, who had a straight, even polite look on her face as the dubbed-in music played in the background.
“Hate!” Trump said. “See the hate! See the hate!”
TWENTY-NINE
In January 2020, Senator Lindsey Graham was basking in his role as chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, one of the most powerful roles in the Senate. All nominees for federal judgeships came through his committee.
Trump was pushing hard to appoint a slew of federal judges. There was a steady and seemingly unrelenting flow of names. The Senate had confirmed 187 of Trump’s judicial appointments by December 2019.
On the evening of January 7, Graham reflected on the key pillar of the Trump revolution.
“I didn’t know we had so many fucking judges,” Graham said. “I think every town’s got a judge. Some are a little wacky. Most of them are really good. But a few outliers. The problem is when you only need a simple majority, you don’t need to go outside your own party.”
In 2005, under President George W. Bush, Graham, John McCain and a bipartisan group of 12 other senators had held firm to resist a proposal to eliminate the use of a filibuster in the Senate for judicial appointments. A filibuster effectively allowed one senator to block the appointment of a judge. Senate rules required 60 votes to overcome a filibuster, meaning in effect each nominee needed the support of at least 60 senators.
But in 2013, under Obama, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, infuriated by Republicans’ use of the filibuster, pushed the elimination through.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen John McCain more upset,” Graham recalled. “Because that’s the beginning of the end.”
The result was making the judiciary more ideological, Graham realized. The rule change had removed the need to strive for compromise. “If you’ve got to reach across the aisle and pick up 10 votes, you’re going to have a different judge than if you don’t.”
When the Democrats got back in power with a Senate majority they would do the same thing, he predicted.
Now with Trump’s appointments “there’s some wacky ones, but there’s some that didn’t make it. I said no. No, we’re not going there.
“But we have weeded out some really wackos. It’s only going to get worse over time, though. The judiciary is going to get far more ideological. It changes the Senate. It’s just a matter of time until the Senate becomes the House”—more ideological, more partisan and focused on the short term rather than able to take a long view.
The filibuster on legislation would be next to go, Graham worried. “If Trump wins reelection and we take back the House and we’ve got a small majority in the Senate, they’ll be so much pressure on all of us to change the rules.”
If he had anything to do with it, Graham said, he would work not to change the rules any further.
In the meantime, he said, “the judiciary’s going to fundamentally change in our lifetime.” The nominees will have to be approved by outspoken ideologues in the party “because you don’t need any support from the other side.”
Graham spoke to Chief Justice John Roberts frequently. “John Roberts is very much worried about this drift. He’s an institutionalist at heart. He’s joined several 5 to 4 decisions because he doesn’t want the Court, I think, labeled as a political party.”
THIRTY
At the very end of December, a 79-year-old physician, 5-foot-7, grandfatherly and calm, was sorting through emails, notes and phone messages from a worldwide network he had developed over 35 years.
Beep! His internal radar went off. “China. New virus. Wet market. Wow.”
Dr. Anthony Fauci, the government’s t
op infectious disease expert, was seeing the first reports of a new mysterious pneumonia outbreak at a seafood and live-animal market, known as a wet market, in China.
Fauci had been director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases for 36 years, a nearly unheard of longevity in a top government post, and oversaw a vast research effort to detect, treat and prevent a wide array of infections and immunological diseases.
He had been at the forefront of most of the most severe global outbreaks in the last four decades, including the emerging HIV/AIDS crisis in the 1980s, anthrax, SARS, swine flu, and Ebola. As late as fall 2019 he was working on the hunt for a universal flu vaccine and an HIV vaccine, two Holy Grails of infectious disease research.
He worried that a catastrophic pandemic lurked around the corner with the potential to alter civilization. “My concern is that there are always emerging infections,” Fauci said at his Jesuit high school alma mater in June 2019. “The ones that are the most devastating are ones that spread rapidly—respiratory illnesses.… I worry about a pandemic.”
Reports of a new infectious disease from China scared the hell out of him. China had been a threatening source of some of the most virulent and deadly virus outbreaks for years, including SARS, H5N1 and H7N9 bird flus.
Was this new illness similar to the 2003 SARS outbreak? he wondered. The SARS virus was believed to have started in a bat, then jumped to a civet cat who was sold in a Chinese wet market to be sacrificed for a feast. SARS was deadly to its victims, but people with SARS generally were not infectious until the fifth or sixth day of their illness, when they showed serious symptoms, so the disease was considered to have inefficient human-to-human spread. People who were ill were easy to identify and isolate before infecting others. SARS had infected over 8,000 people worldwide and killed nearly 800 before it was contained. But it could have been much worse. No SARS deaths were recorded in the United States.
The new outbreak, later labeled Covid-19, had apparently begun in Wuhan, China.
