McCabe was shocked Rosenstein was confiding in him, essentially calling the president a liar; they barely knew each other. But he wanted to be compassionate.
“Are you okay?” McCabe asked.
“No.”
“Are you getting any sleep?”
“No.”
“Is your family okay?”
Rosenstein said there were news trucks parked outside his house. His wife and family were upset.
There was a pause; then Rosenstein said, “There’s no one here I can talk to about this. There’s no one I can trust.” Rosenstein seemed again to be struggling to hold his emotions in check.
After a pause, he asked if McCabe thought he should appoint a special counsel, and McCabe said yes, it would be a good idea. Rosenstein said he’d always considered Jim Comey a friend and mentor, someone he looked up to. “The one person I wish I could talk to is Jim Comey.”
“Good luck with that,” McCabe thought, but said nothing. He was startled by the idea that Rosenstein wanted to seek guidance from Comey, whom he had just helped fire.
McCabe left the meeting in a state of shock.
* * *
—
AS SOON AS he reached his office, McCabe confided in Page that Rosenstein seemed in a fragile emotional state and had said he wanted to talk to Comey. Page was equally astonished. In her view, Rosenstein had just betrayed Comey and helped fire him, and now wanted to confide in him? Surely Rosenstein wasn’t so naive that when asked to write his memo, he had no idea to what use it would be put. McCabe and Page had fervently hoped that Rosenstein would stand up to Sessions and the White House and defend the FBI. But now “we really are alone,” she said.
McCabe agreed. Still, he felt he owed Rosenstein more thoughtful comments on the question of a special counsel. Everyone in the Obama administration had been dead set against naming one in the Clinton email case. The ill-fated consequences of that decision were now clear. Had Clinton been cleared by a special counsel, there would have been no need for Comey to make any announcement, and the FBI could have stayed out of politics, its integrity and reputation intact.
McCabe made an appointment to see Rosenstein again that afternoon at 4:00.
* * *
—
IN THE MIDST of this fraught and hectic environment, that afternoon the FBI’s inspection division sent McCabe an email following up on his May 9 interview about media leaks, which had now shifted almost entirely to the Wall Street Journal article. The email included a sworn statement summarizing McCabe’s earlier statements—“My assessment of the referenced portion of the article is that it is basically an accurate depiction of an actual telephonic interaction I had with a Department of Justice (DOJ) executive. I do not know the identity of the source of the information contained in the article,” and “I gave no one authority to share any information relative to my interaction with the DOJ executive with any member of the media”—and asked him to review and sign it.
McCabe didn’t respond, and the email disappeared into a queue of unanswered messages from that day.
As scheduled, McCabe and Rosenstein met in the deputy attorney general’s elegant private office at 4:00 p.m. McCabe sat on the sofa, Rosenstein in an armchair facing him.
McCabe pushed strenuously for a special counsel: “You have to do this.” He added, “The Attorney General has recused himself. It’s a mess. We need someone independent to oversee this.” Without a special counsel, the FBI and the Justice Department would face intense criticism going forward that could destroy their credibility.
Rosenstein didn’t disagree, but he knew how strongly the White House opposed the idea. He worried it would cost him his job, and he wanted to stay on to help choose a new FBI director. Clearly still preoccupied by his memo, Rosenstein said again that it wasn’t his idea; the president had already decided to fire Comey. In fact, based on conversations he’d had with Sessions, Rosenstein said he’d known since January that Trump would fire Comey. (January, of course, was when Comey told Trump about the Steele dossier and the “golden showers thing.”)
The meeting ended with no resolution of the special counsel issue. Rosenstein didn’t seem to feel any sense of urgency.
* * *
—
THE NEXT DAY, which was a Saturday, Sessions and Rosenstein interviewed McCabe at the Justice Department to be the permanent FBI director. Trump would be making the decision, of course, but they’d be screening candidates and passing their observations on to the White House. Rosenstein acted as though nothing had happened the day before.
McCabe assumed the interview was little more than a pretense, given Trump’s hostile comments about him and his wife, not to mention his already tenuous relationship with the president. Sessions and Rosenstein seemed cordial, but McCabe’s apprehensions were soon confirmed: Sessions showed McCabe an iPhone screenshot of McCabe and his family wearing the “Dr. Jill McCabe for State Senate” T-shirts.
McCabe found himself explaining that they were at a swim meet; the T-shirts had just arrived; they’d put them on so a family friend could take a photo; the shot had gotten on Facebook. In any event, it was taken before McCabe had anything to do with the Clinton case. As McCabe spoke, he knew he was wasting his breath. Sessions looked unconvinced. “Of all the important issues facing the FBI, here we are talking about T-shirts,” McCabe thought.
“Honestly, if I could be so bold,” McCabe finally said, “I think you should look hard and well to find the best candidate from outside the FBI,” effectively withdrawing from consideration. He pledged to do everything he could to get a new director up to speed as quickly as possible. He thought they should know that he would be eligible for retirement with a pension in March 2018, less than a year away. He planned to retire then and move into the private sector.
* * *
—
ON SUNDAY MORNING Rosenstein called McCabe using his cell phone, and indicated that he was grappling with the issue of a special counsel. “Have you had a chance to talk to that guy I mentioned?”—a clear reference to Comey. He’d be interested to hear his thoughts on whether he should appoint one. McCabe said he’d get back to him.
McCabe held a conference call that afternoon with Baker, Page, and others to discuss the possibility of bringing in Comey but quickly decided against the idea. Comey was now a private citizen; he shouldn’t be privy to sensitive internal deliberations. More fundamentally, he was right in the middle of the issue: his termination was the prime reason for appointing a special counsel. McCabe conveyed the decision to Rosenstein, who never brought it up again.
On Monday morning, May 15, McCabe convened a small group involved in the Russia investigation—Baker, Priestap, Page, and Strzok—to address the momentous issue of opening a formal investigation of the president.
Strzok had earlier resisted such efforts, but lying about Trump’s reasons for firing Comey had put him over the edge. As he’d texted Page, “We need to open this.”
After all, no one at the FBI knew what was coming next. They’d already experienced an unprecedented barrage of attacks from the White House. In his brief tenure, Rosenstein had inspired no confidence that he’d protect them or the integrity of the Russia probe. Either he’d told Trump to fire Comey, in Trump’s first version, or he’d been complicit in it by writing the memo. If Trump wanted him to, he might well shut down the investigation.
And Comey’s firing was the culmination of a series of events that had created a “corrosive and threatening environment,” as Strzok told his colleagues. “We can’t leave this alone,” he argued.
As McCabe later said, “There were a number of things that caused us to believe that we had adequate predication or adequate reason and facts, to open the investigation. The president had been speaking in a derogatory way about our investigative efforts for weeks, describing it as a witch hunt, publicly undermining the effort of the inv
estigation. The president had gone to Jim Comey and specifically asked him to discontinue the investigation of Mike Flynn which was a part of our Russia case. The president, then, fired the director. In the firing of the director, the president specifically asked Rod Rosenstein to write the memo justifying the firing and told Rod to include Russia in the memo. Rod, of course, did not do that. That was on the president’s mind. Then, the president made those public comments that you’ve referenced both on NBC and to the Russians which was captured in the Oval Office. Put together, these circumstances were articulable facts that indicated that a crime may have been committed. The president may have been engaged in obstruction of justice in the firing of Jim Comey.”
And they discussed another sensitive potential case: Sessions. McCabe had received multiple letters from Senators Franken and Leahy that Sessions had lied in his testimony that he’d had no contact with Russians. Comey and McCabe had brought the issue to Dana Boente and then to Rosenstein; both Justice Department officials had urged them to hold off. But the Comey firing had lent new urgency to the task before Trump could do anything more to impede it.
The decision was unanimous to open formal investigations of both the president and Sessions.
* * *
—
ON TUESDAY, MAY 16, McCabe met with Rosenstein at 12:30 p.m. to brief him on the FBI’s decision and the need for McCabe to brief the Gang of Eight in Congress. Given the gravity of the allegations, McCabe wanted both the legislative and the executive branches of government to be fully informed, so no one could credibly call the investigations a rogue operation or “witch hunt.”
Legislators would no doubt press Rosenstein about naming a special counsel, and McCabe thought he needed to be ready to answer—preferably by saying he would. Rosenstein’s chief of staff, James Crowell IV, was also at the meeting, and he agreed.
If anything, Rosenstein looked even worse than he had the previous Friday. He obviously hadn’t slept much. He launched into another account of his trip to the White House and Trump’s request for his memo, this time in greater detail. McCabe heard for the first time about the long, rambling letter Trump had dictated to Miller terminating Comey. Rosenstein’s memo was just a pretense. Worst of all, Rosenstein maintained, was being pressured to hold a press conference the night Comey was fired.
As he talked, Rosenstein grew more animated, flailing his hands and arms. At times he got up and walked around the table. At one point he was so upset he went into an adjoining bathroom to compose himself. Everyone in the room listened—and watched—in anxious silence.
At some point in his increasingly disjointed monologue, Rosenstein brought up the Twenty-fifth Amendment (providing for the removal of the president if he “is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office”) and said he thought at least two cabinet-level officers were willing to support such a move—Sessions and Director of Homeland Security John Kelly.
McCabe was startled and wondered if any such effort was really under way or existed only in Rosenstein’s feverish speculation. But the FBI played no role in invoking the Twenty-fifth Amendment, so McCabe let it go.
“I wonder what Trump really intended when he fired the Director,” Rosenstein mused.
McCabe said he wondered the same thing.
“How would we know or collect evidence?” Rosenstein pondered his question. Then he said, “I never get searched, no one ever searches me” at the White House, he said.
McCabe thought that was odd. He didn’t get searched either. No one with a security clearance did.
“I could record the President,” Rosenstein said. “I could wear a recording device. They wouldn’t know it was there.”
What? McCabe was startled. His mind raced. Was Rosenstein serious? It seemed so. “Oh my God; time out; let’s think about this,” McCabe thought to himself.
“Uh, let me go back and talk to the team,” McCabe said. “I’ll come back to you.”
* * *
—
“YOU’RE NOT GOING to believe this,” McCabe told Page and Baker as soon as he got back. When he told Baker about Rosenstein’s offer to wear a wire and record the president, Baker threw his hands up and looked at the ceiling. McCabe thought Baker was going to “have a heart attack,” he said later.
After he collected himself, Baker said, “That’s a bridge too far. We’re not there yet.”*
Rosenstein called McCabe later that afternoon and asked him to return at 7:00 p.m. to continue their discussion. This time McCabe brought Page, who took detailed notes and, if needed, could also serve as a witness to some of Rosenstein’s far-fetched proposals. Rosenstein was surrounded by a larger entourage this time.
Rosenstein immediately launched into another recounting of his visit to the White House. Even though the president had already decided to fire Comey, “they acted like they cared about my opinion,” he said with a hint of bitterness. And Trump had told him to “put Russia in the memo.”
Then Rosenstein mentioned McCabe’s “political problem,” meaning his wife, and said that Comey’s defense of McCabe was one of the reasons Trump had fired him. Rosenstein brought up the T-shirts, yet again, and accused McCabe of engaging in prohibited political activity.
Rosenstein seemed even more disjointed than the day before; McCabe thought he was at the end of his rope. He hopped from topic to topic. One moment he proposed candidates for special counsel. The next, FBI director. He mentioned Bob Mueller and John Kelly; for which job was unclear.
At one point he said the president wanted Kelly to run both Homeland Security and the FBI. “You’ve got to be kidding,” McCabe said.
It’s the president’s “strategy for disruption,” Rosenstein said.
At one point Rosenstein took a call from McGahn, inviting McCabe to the White House for an interview with Trump to be FBI director. Evidently, McCabe was a finalist, notwithstanding the White House hostility Rosenstein had just mentioned.
And—“as I’ve already told Andy”—Rosenstein volunteered to wear a wire to secretly record the president.
Rosenstein brandished a copy of the Trump-Miller letter he’d mentioned the day before. He handed it to McCabe. McCabe read it with mounting incredulity: here was documentary proof that Trump had lied about his reasons for firing Comey.
McCabe took the copy back to his office, put it in a sealed envelope, and placed it in his office safe.
ELEVEN
“THIS IS THE END OF MY PRESIDENCY”
On May 16, 2017, Comey woke abruptly at 2:00 a.m. with a sudden realization: if Trump really had tapes of their conversations, then independent proof existed that the president had not only asked for his loyalty but asked him to drop the Flynn investigation, too, both of which Trump had denied. Comey had assumed it would be his word against Trump’s, which is one reason he’d written the memos and put them in secure locations.
For the past week, Comey had been trying to get Trump out of his head. But Trump kept taunting him by tweeting. If those tapes really existed, someone had to get them. Comey couldn’t count on Rosenstein to make the demand. But a special counsel would, Comey reasoned. And if people knew about his memos, there would be more pressure to appoint a special counsel. Comey lay awake the rest of the night mapping out a strategy.
Later that morning, Comey contacted his friend and media go-between Daniel Richman, the Columbia law professor. He said he was emailing him a memo that he urgently “needed to get out.” Richman said he’d do it. He already knew the drill: he’d again contact Michael Schmidt at the Times.
Comey could, of course, simply have gone himself to Schmidt, or countless other reporters. It wasn’t because he was “leaking” and needed the protection of anonymity; there was no classified information in his memos. As a private citizen, he was free to describe a conversation with the president. But if Comey were the named source, he’d have the media camped at his driveway.
As he later put it, it would be “like feeding seagulls at the beach.”
Soon after, Richman sent Comey a one-word text: “Done.”
That same day Schmidt had a sensational scoop: “President Trump asked the FBI director, James B. Comey, to shut down the federal investigation into Mr. Trump’s former national security adviser, Michael T. Flynn, in an Oval Office meeting in February, according to a memo Mr. Comey wrote shortly after the meeting.”
While the story said the Times didn’t have a copy of the memo, “one of Mr. Comey’s associates read parts of it to a Times reporter.”
“I hope you can see your way clear to letting this go, to letting Flynn go,” Trump told Comey, according to the memo. “He is a good guy. I hope you can let this go.”
* * *
—
AS THE FUROR from the Times story raged, McCabe showed up that afternoon for his job interview at the White House. As he sat outside the Oval Office, he could hear Trump, Priebus, Spicer, and other staff members yelling over the sound of the television, where commentators were talking about nothing except the Comey memo. “Who leaked this? How did this get out?” McCabe overheard someone say.
The communications director, Hope Hicks, was sitting at a desk nearby. Should McCabe be hearing this? He offered to move. “No, no, you’re fine right there,” she said.
Hicks interrupted Trump to say the Iowa senator Charles Grassley was calling. An ardent Trump supporter, Grassley was one of McCabe’s fiercest critics in Congress. He’d seized on the campaign contributions issue to send a barrage of letters to the Justice Department complaining about McCabe.
Finally the group filed out, and McCabe went in. Trump was behind his desk as usual, and Priebus, Sessions, and McGahn had stayed behind. There was no sign of Rosenstein.
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