Disloyal: A Memoir

by Michael Cohen

  Trump chuckled. “This is great,” he said. “I just wanted to see if you could get something from Benjamin Moore. I didn’t expect this. Great job.”

  I floated back to my office, as usual after receiving his praise. This episode encapsulated my decade as Donald Trump’s personal lawyer. The lie turned into a delusion turned into a supposed reality and then a grievance, followed by more lies, more bullying, and ultimately the ruthlessness of New York real estate—where lying and cheating and stealing are the order of the day—unleashed on folks with no clue about the depravity and dishonesty of the TV star and self-styled mogul.

  But that wasn’t the end of the Doral story, not by a long shot. The painting contractor eventually walked off the job, no doubt in frustration at not being paid in a timely fashion. Scores of small contractors have had to sue Trump over the years to try to get justice against a billionaire who has absolutely no compunction about screwing the little guy. I know because I was often the one tasked with doing such lowlife things to innocent and honest business people providing goods and services to the Trump Organization. I hated myself for what I did, even as I did it, but that didn’t stop me, and I have no excuses to offer. But you might detect a theme that applies to the politics of today: Trump’s version of loyalty is one way, as I famously learned, just like so many others have—indeed, like the nation has. But loyalty to Trump means the willingness to do things you know to be wrong and that are harming others.

  With Trump there was always the domino effect: when he screwed one small business, he would hurt others, the impact cascading into family-owned companies struggling to make ends meet. The same thing happened in Miami, only this time one businessman fought back. After the fiasco with the Super Hide paint, the contractor quit and this, in turn, led to an unpaid local paint supplier named The Paint Spot suing and putting a lien on the entire Doral property. The claim was for $32,000 in paint that was never paid for by Trump Endeavor, the entity operating the resort. As always, Trump’s litigators in Florida fought the case tooth and nail, threatening the business owner with ruinous legal costs just as he was about to give a deposition.

  “Let’s play ball,” the owner, Juan Carlos Enriquez, said, as NBC News reported in 2017.

  I wasn’t shocked when I read the press report. I was still on the inside in Trump’s world—more of that story down the road—but I knew as much as anyone the real truth of his business ethics, or lack thereof. The story described how Enriquez had run up huge legal bills with his own attorney, a risk that he’d dealt with by putting the lawyer on contingency—which was easy for the attorney to do because the claim for nonpayment was so obviously valid. In the end, Enriquez had incurred nearly $300,000 in legal fees, a sum he couldn’t possibly pay.

  “This is a company that just started,” Enriquez said. “Where am I going to get $300,000? I would have gone bankrupt.”

  Not that Trump would have cared. That was the whole point of the Trump legal strategy: to make it impossible for the little guy to stand up for his rights. And make no mistake, the lack of ethics applied equally to his three children, despite Ivanka’s carefully tended image—all them are like jackals when it comes to harming innocent businesspeople.

  After winning the case, getting a judgment against Trump for nonpayment, plus the large legal bill, Enriquez said he was going to open another paint store. But there was one challenge, according to NBC News.

  “I still haven’t gotten my money,” Enriquez told the NBC reporter.

  Chapter Nine

  The End of the World

  Explaining exactly how Trump came to dominate my thoughts, night and day, for years on end, isn’t a simple one-dimensional undertaking. The first vital ingredient was my desire to please him, which was matched by my fear of displeasing the Boss. Over and over again, these two co-equal motivations urged me further and further into the embrace of his way of seeing the world and life. But another element of Trump’s gaslighting genius involved his ability to attract a certain type of person into his inner world. It’s something you can recognize in the news today, with the likes of Lindsey Graham and Jim Jordan and Mike Pompeo and the other people surrounding Trump. The Boss had an unerring eye for sycophants: yes men, loyal soldiers, call them what you will. During my years at the Trump Organization, there was a small, hardcore group of executives who formed a cadre around Trump. There was Alan Garten, co-general counsel and litigation director (a full-time job in a company with a sue-first impulse), Executive Vice President and legal counsel George Sorial, and Larry Glick, who ran the entire golf operation for Trump—plus me, as Executive Vice President and Special Counsel to the Boss. We saw each other through the good times and the bad times, becoming friends and partners in the craziness that constituted life on the 25th and 26th floors of Trump Tower.

  The four of us were all different, with different skill sets and points of view, but we shared the same ultimate task: protecting and fighting for Donald Trump. In the same way the Republican party has been taken over by the President, each of us in this group of loyal soldiers had dedicated our consciousness and consciences to him.

  In 2013, that meant trying to find solutions to the rolling disaster that was Trump University. Originally conceived of as a strict licensing deal, Trump had insisted on owning the vast majority of the equity in the New York company posing as an institution of higher learning by offering get-rich-quick schemes in the real estate business. Trading on his reputation as a billionaire dealmaker, Trump convinced folks to pay from $1,500 for a three-day course to as much as $35,000 for the “gold” plated degree. The fact that the “University” was little more than a mail-order diploma, with the courses consisting of receiving photocopies of boilerplate real estate basics, was part of the problem, but so was setting up an educational institution without any of the necessary legal or regulatory approvals.

  The consequences of this fly-by-night approach were closing in by 2013, with the New York State Attorney General investigating Trump University and the Texas AG also making noises that he was going to look into the shadier business practices of the school’s hardcore sales tactics and shoddy organization. Student complaints were proliferating, and it was only a matter of time before the terrible quality of the education offered by Trump University caught up with the Boss. Using coercive tactics, officials running the “school” urged “students” to give the University and the “teachers” great reviews, but that was solely so they could receive their “diploma,” hardly a fair way to conduct market research or get real feedback. To the contrary, the ninety-eight percent approval rating best resembled Vladimir Putin’s election results or Kim Jong-un’s approval rating in North Korea.

  The four of us in the Trump Organization were running interference in the unfolding lawsuits and government investigations. George Sorial was in charge of dealing with the many formal complaints from students and regulators, including negotiations with Texas that promised to be resolved with a mutually agreed settlement to cover the most egregious legal violations of Trump University.

  “We should be able to close out the entire matter with a settlement of $500,000,” George told Trump during a conference in the Boss’s office.

  “What?” Trump said. “I don’t settle. We did nothing wrong. We have a ninety-eight percent approval rating from our students. I bet we have a better approval rating than Harvard. No settling. Get them to drop the matter.”

  Trump turned to me. “Michael, what are you doing to close this fucking mess down?”

  “Boss, I created a spreadsheet of all the vendors and tabulated the debt at around five million,” I said. “I spoke to Weisselberg, who told me there is around one million in cash in the bank for the company, so it looks like the vendors are going to have to take an eighty percent discount. Don’t worry, Boss. George and I are on it and we know what you want.”

  “Keep me posted,” Trump said.

  As we walked to my of
fice, George was despondent. “The Boss is insane,” he said. “I know these people in Texas. They will never drop the inquiry.”

  “Do what you can,” I said. “Try to get the number down. If we stick together, maybe he’ll agree to settle and move on.”

  Screwing small businesses again, the script was the same for more than 100 vendors for Trump University. I told them that the “school” only had $1M in cash to meet all its liabilities, which came to $5M, so they had to take twenty cents on the dollar, or sue the company in bankruptcy, which would only drag out the inevitable and waste even more money and time. I explained that I understood that they deserved to be paid, but I had been directed by Mr. Trump to close the licensing deal down; it wasn’t really a licensing deal, but calling it that was designed to give them pause about suing. Would they be able to go after Trump’s deep pockets, or only the remaining legal entity? This doubt was my leverage. I then told them I was working on the final tax return, to permanently shutter the business, so this was their last opportunity to get paid.

  “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I’d said.

  “Yes,” they’d replied. “A billionaire Donald Trump isn’t going to pay me, a poor person trying to earn a living. So what are you offering?”

  “Twenty percent of the invoice,” I would reply.

  Silence ensued, as doom and the walls closed in. One after another, faced with the prospect of pouring more good money after a bad debt, they capitulated. As I accumulated the releases, I reported to Trump’s office to receive his gleeful approval. To Trump, this represented winning, and I never once witnessed a glimmer of sympathy or humanity or regret or shame in his demeanor.

  “Michael, my man, you’re the greatest,” he’d say.

  I basked in the praise, like the jerk I had become. Like my testimony before Congress—the time I lied, that is, not the time I told the truth, and, yes, I know how bad that sounds—I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn’t stop it; I didn’t want to stop it. I took a weird kind of pleasure in harming others in the service of Donald Trump, to my eternal shame. I kept this inner reality hidden from my wife and kids. I knew perfectly well that they wouldn’t approve of what I was doing; to the contrary, it would disgust and dismay them. So I never discussed this kind of dirty business with them. Ever. Until one night, when Laura and I were out to dinner with acquaintances at Elio’s, our favorite uptown Italian restaurant.

  “I heard you spoke with my comptroller yesterday,” my acquaintance said.

  “What are you talking about?” I replied.

  “You spoke to my comptroller to settle an outstanding invoice for Trump University,” he said. “Seriously, Michael. Twenty percent, take it or leave it? My cost of goods is eighty percent, so I’m losing money. This is just wrong.”

  My heart rate spiked, and I grew lightheaded as Laura looked me dead in the eye, a look of cold exasperation on her face.

  “What did you do now, Michael?” she asked.

  My acquaintance explained to my wife how I’d ripped off his business on behalf of Donald Trump and how despicable it was to treat small businesses that way. I had no defense. I recognized the name of his business when he told me—I hadn’t put one and one together—and it was undeniably true what he was telling Laura.

  “I didn’t know that was your company,” I said. “I’m sorry. My hands are tied.”

  We sat awkwardly, Laura crestfallen at her husband’s behavior, and not for the last time, until the businessman’s wife sighed and said that they knew it wasn’t my fault—as if that was some form of excuse—and we shouldn’t ruin our dinner. Conversation turned to the veal parmigiana as I inspected my menu, feeling two inches tall. This was the price paid for working for a supposedly great businessman, the genius behind The Art of the Deal. The fraud.

  “I’m going to enjoy this meal,” the husband said. “You know why, Michael? Because dinner is on you.”

  “Absolutely,” I replied.

  * * *

  In Trump World, there were two kinds of invitations that were the most coveted to his circle of friends, admirers, celebrity hangers-on, and wannabes. The first was a chance to play golf with Trump at one of his clubs. In theory, that meant the person invited had to have at least a five handicap, which severely limited the number of people eligible for this great honor (as he imagined it to be). But, as with everything Trump, the rule was more honored in the breach than in the observance. Handicaps, as anyone who has golfed with Trump knows, were an incredibly flexible concept for the Boss. Serious golfers consider themselves honor-bound to record every round they play, in order to fairly and accurately track their handicap; golf is ultimately a self-regulated sport, so a lot can be known about a man’s ethics by examining how he manages his handicap; to say that Trump was economical with the truth about his golf game would be the polite way to put it.

  I wasn’t much of a golfer, much preferring tennis, but I witnessed Trump on the links from time to time. Despite all the cheating, and his truly godawful swing, Trump was actually a pretty good golfer. His drives were long and straight and seemingly blessed by good bounces or breaks; when he shanked or sliced a drive it seemed like it would always—well, okay, not always, but often—bounce off a tree and end up on the fairway. He was like Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack. But around the greens he routinely did things like call a chip shot a gimme—a truly ridiculous liberty—or give his ball a nudge or a kick to get a more favorable lie. I figured that was how Trump had always encountered the world, as a boy born with a silver spoon (or shovel) in his mouth: he got special treatment, had liberties denied others, and that applied to his beloved golf game as well.

  The second variety of coveted invitation was far more exclusive and elusive: the offer to accompany Trump to the Miss Universe or Miss USA pageants. These invitations were rare and highly prized, and in this regard I was a member in good standing of Trump’s innermost circle. Not only was I regularly invited to these pageants; I was on the board of directors of the Miss Universe Organization, the corporation that ran both events. Trump owned fifty percent of the entity, with NBC Universal owning the other half. To reflect his equity position, the Boss had three seats on the seven-person board, to match NBC’s three seats, with the seventh possessed by the president of the Miss Universe Organization, or MUO, as we called it. I knew I was for sure a highly valued and loyal Trump executive when he appointed me to the board in 2010, a honor usually reserved for himself or his kids.

  “Congratulations, Michael,” Trump said at the time. “You are now a board member of MUO. I hope your wife won’t mind.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked. “Does the board seat come with perks I’m unaware of?”

  “Michael, you have no idea how beautiful these women are,” he replied. “Just make sure you stay married.”

  “Don’t worry, Boss,” I said. “I’m sure my marriage will survive.”

  “Wait until you get backstage as these beauties are getting dressed and made up,” he said. “They are the finest pieces of ass from every state and country.”

  Every year Trump and I would flick through the photo book containing the shots of the contestants from all over the world in bathing suits. We were like a pair of fifth graders slobbering over the images, as we flipped from page to page weighing the merits of each entrant.

  “Wow, what a piece of ass,” Trump would say.

  “Shit, it looks like this one could kill you in bed.”

  “Man, she has gorgeous skin.”

  Trump would go on and on in wonderment as he drooled over the photos.

  In 2012, the Miss Universe Pageant was to be held in Las Vegas, so Trump and I set off with a posse of executives and friends, including the omnipresent one-man security detail named Keith Schiller, a former NYPD cop who was always at Trump’s side. Trump had a new Boeing 757 that year, and flying in his private jet contained a se
cret language, known only to initiates: where you sat on the plane demonstrated your importance and relationship to the Boss. There were three areas. In the front there was the cockpit, a private sitting area for four people, and two bedrooms. In the middle there was executive seating, including sofas and a 120-inch flat screen TV. In the rear there were a dozen first-class seats, relative Siberia on Trump’s plane. I sat in the middle section, a symbol of my role as his private attorney and confidant always ready and at hand, always the eager courtier.

  Landing in Vegas, there were six black SUVs waiting on the tarmac, each assigned to take part of the entourage to Trump International Hotel Las Vegas, all of us with pre-assigned rooms, room keys on hand and our luggage quickly stowed in the back—a hyper-efficient system that allowed us to concentrate on why we’d come to the city: for fun.

  “Hey Boss,” I called out. “The hotel or the pageant? They’re doing rehearsals for the next two hours.”

  “Pageant,” Trump declared, without hesitation. “Michael, wait until you see the production they put into this event. Depending on where they are in the rehearsals, maybe we can catch a few of them in the back getting dressed. They are truly the best of the best.”

  Silence was often the best response to Trump, I had learned, especially when it came to lewd remarks. There was really nothing to say, I knew, unless you wanted to confront Trump with a politically correct remark, and that would only result in ridicule and disgust and, in all likelihood, a steep decline in his regard. In this way, I could relate to Billy Bush in the “grab them by the pussies” video in which Trump boasted about how his celebrity status afforded him the privilege of being able to sexually assault women. It was offensive, to say the least, but I knew what Bush was doing when he giggled nervously and went along with Trump. The sexist swagger was part of life inside Trump’s bubble, a juvenile redoubt that was proudly, defiantly, and most definitely Neanderthal about women.