by Megyn Kelly
Of course it wasn’t true. You don’t get suspended for moderating a debate watched by nearly 25 million people and asking all the candidates hard questions. Even from the shore, I spoke to Roger often. We wrestled with what to do, since the company couldn’t control Trump, but didn’t want to aggravate him (or his supporters) further. To its credit, Fox came out and publicly ridiculed the suspension nonsense as up there with alleged UFO sightings. Later, they would also issue a strong statement defending me and my debate questioning.
My time at the beach was otherworldly. I tried to ignore the insanity, but everyone I knew during my vacation asked me about it whenever I saw them. I started to feel like someone with a bad medical result, the way people would react to me: “Are you okay? How are you? You hanging in there?”
Going online was an exercise in self-flagellation. Angry, threatening messages were everywhere. This was well beyond the typical “You suck!” that any tough questioning of a candidate might get you in 2016 cable news. It was, “Fucking die, bitch!” And “If I see you, you better run.” And “I wouldn’t be sleeping too soundly if I were you. Watch out.” There wasn’t one in particular that stood out; it was more the uncontainable level of rage that was surprising and disconcerting.
Fox informed me that they too continued to receive threats to my life. I would spend many days of the coming months accompanied by security. A word on these threats—despite their number, it bears noting that I wasn’t walking around constantly in fear. I didn’t actively worry that I might get attacked; it was more of a recognition that the risk was heightened, that I needed to be careful—to take precautions, and be aware—especially when with my children.
Most disturbing were the overwhelming number and violent nature of the messages we were receiving—and the way Trump’s anger was evidently seen by some as a call to action. Trump told his supporters that Mexican immigrants were bringing drugs and were rapists, and shortly thereafter, Hispanics were attacked by Trump fans (“My supporters are very passionate,” Trump later rationalized). Trump told his crowds they should punch protesters in the face; sure enough, they did. Trump called the media disgusting and openly shamed them to his fans; the media then got physically attacked at Trump rallies. The point is, some of Trump’s supporters took his word as gospel. And Trump’s word (and that of his lawyer) on me was clear: Megyn Kelly is no good. Gut her.
At times I wondered if I had done something other than ask a tough debate question. Had I attacked Trump while in some rogue dream state? What else could possibly explain this level of anger?
Doug insisted that I step away from the iPhone: “You have to leave your phone at home when we go out,” he said. “Look at it once in the morning, once in the afternoon, once at night. That’s it.” Then he put it in a drawer. It helped.
Every time I turned my phone back on, it practically exploded with hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of messages. One nice memory of that time was that, for every nasty incoming note, I received many supportive e-mails from friends at Fox and elsewhere: We love you! or This is wrong! We stand behind you! Janice Dean and Dana Perino, my two closest friends at Fox, were particular standouts. Stirewalt, too, was such a good friend to me. My old pal Kelly texted me Bat Shit Crazy, which summed it up perfectly. My sister-in-law Diane wished me via text the courage to continue being big and brave and beautiful.
Katie Couric, whom I’ve always liked, reached out to me. She had been through her own public backlash after she had the nerve to ask Sarah Palin, in the run-up to the 2008 election, what newspapers she read. Are you okay? she wrote me. Do you need some Tampax? Doug and I appreciated the chance to laugh.
Even Harvard’s David Cutler, a mild-mannered guy who helped craft Obamacare and with whom I used to argue on the air, e-mailed me and said, I hope you’re okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. That e-mail stood out as especially sweet.
Janice, her husband, Sean, and their two boys came to visit us at the shore. They helped take our mind off the threats as much as possible. But things were tense. Our neighbors reported seeing strange cars casing our home. Another neighbor spotted a photographer in our backyard. Then one on our front porch. We kept the blinds closed most of the time, wondering where this would go. Would people be trying to catch me in a compromising position, similar to what happened with Erin Andrews and that Peeping Tom? Word spread of still more unfamiliar characters on or near our property, and the police stepped up their patrols.
I talked to my mom about it, and she was angry at Trump and incredulous at his willingness to play the victim. The main thing she wanted to know was whether Roger was behind me. I told her the truth, which was that he had many considerations to factor in.
The last day of vacation, Doug played in a doubles tennis match. He and his friend Matt play in this tournament every year. It is held at the summer club Doug grew up a part of, where he learned to sail and play tennis years ago. Matt and Doug are both very well liked guys—tall, fit, friendly, and handsome. They had made it to the finals of the tournament, where they faced off against two men who were a bit older, shorter, and, as it turned out, better tennis players that year. The opponents wound up beating Matt and Doug in the third set.
One of the men had complained about the rules for much of the match, to the point where the crowd began openly booing him. His partner said very little. It was crowded on the club balcony above the court. I was there, along with Janice and Sean, the wives of the other players, and other family members, cheering our guys on. Our children were with me.
When the match ended, I made my way over to the gate leading off the court so I could see Doug. The complaining player was over at the umpire’s chair, showing him a rulebook. His silent partner made a beeline off the court—not toward his wife or kids, but toward me. When he got to me, he was silent no more. He pointed his finger at my face, looked me in the eye, and boomed, “Trump 2016!”
This was his first reaction to his own victory. He wasn’t celebrating or hugging his family; he was pointing at me and angrily yelling, “TRUMP!”
Doug hadn’t seen the incident, and when he saw my face, he asked me what was wrong. I told him what had just happened. Immediately he turned around, grabbed the man by the shoulder, and threatened to hurt him if he said another word to me. Then he stormed off the court. The player would later complain that Doug had broken the club’s etiquette rules by threatening him. He was particularly upset that Doug had done this in front of the man’s wife, which struck me as ironic.
It was jarring to see Trump’s anger manifest so personally in my own life. I wondered if this was my new reality—angry Trump supporters yelling at me (and indeed it would happen many times over the next year). On the bright side, I told Doug, “You are definitely getting action tonight.” Why should there be no silver linings?
Doug’s mother, Jackie, had been at the beach with us. She had to return home to Philadelphia, and on her way home, she pulled over to the side of the road. She and I hadn’t gotten the chance to really talk, and she wanted to see how I was doing. She didn’t want to half-ass it, talking while driving or not giving the discussion her full attention. She sat in a parking lot and did something she rarely does—gave advice. She told me the country could see who I really was. That this man was not convincing any reasonable person of anything about me. That I had handled myself with dignity. That I was loved. I held on to that talk for a long time.
I returned to work ten days later, on August 24. I met with Roger, Irena, and a friend of Roger, attorney and counselor Peter Johnson Jr., in Roger’s office that day. Peter had been a vocal Trump defender on the air for some time and I wondered what he was doing there. We had agreed over the previous weekend that I should offer an on-camera statement upon my return, and we were there to discuss a draft. The overall goal was for me to stay above it all, not to get drawn into a fight.
We discussed Trump’s blood comments, the “gut her” tweet, and the attempts to get Trump to listen to reason du
ring my vacation. Roger felt reasonably certain that he had calmed Trump down for now, even though Trump had not let up during my break—tweeting out my GQ photos and calling me a “bimbo.”
“He’ll do it again,” I said to him.
“We fight tomorrow’s fight tomorrow,” Roger responded.
This was the first time we had all sat down together since the debate, and I shared with the group the story about what had happened the morning of the debate—my sudden illness, my doctor, and so on. Peter Johnson Jr. heard mention of vomiting and asked whether there might be a “different, happier” reason I’d fallen ill, suggesting I may have been expecting.
I looked at him and deadpanned, “Haven’t you heard? I’m on my period.”
That first night back on the air, tensions were running high. I felt a little nervous, and I don’t really get nervous about doing TV anymore. It seemed like the eyes of the world were on me. The air in the studio felt heavy. I could feel the energy of people tuning in, waiting.
Moments earlier, Trump had been on O’Reilly for two blocks—an interesting choice by Bill for my first day back. They had not discussed Trump’s bogus suspension claims, or any of his comments about me.
I went out and sat down at my desk in the studio. This is normally where I feel most powerful. That desk has a way of transforming me into a stronger version of myself. When in that spot, I feel in command. That night, however, I just felt anxious to get it over with.
Now, I love my staff and my crew—my audio guy and stage director and my cameramen. I think of them as my scarecrow and lion and tin man, times a few. Every night I’m with these guys. These are my guys. We talk about the guests, the news, our spouses, our lives, Fox, everything. They’re like brothers to me. They all greeted me warmly and asked how I was.
“Hanging in there,” I said. I sat down. It was 8:57. My statement was loaded in the teleprompter, and I practiced it one time, which I almost never do. I wanted to make sure I could get it out clean. I could see the red numbers counting down on the bottom of my camera. It was 8:59:53. We were about to “bong in” with the open. My shoulders were inched up a little higher than normal. Tension. My stage manager, James, locked eyes with me and nodded his head. He started counting me down, “Seven, six, five . . .”
It was at that moment that Dion, our audio guy, yelled from offstage, “We love you!”
I still can’t think about that moment without tearing up.
It had not been an easy time. Off the set, we don’t really know each other all that well. I mean, I throw a party for the gang at Christmas. And we have fun. They know I would do anything for them. But I could feel the support in that room. When I read that statement—“Mr. Trump has attacked me personally. I have chosen not to respond”—I was thinking about my crew. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Those who know me know who I am. I believed—hoped—that would be the end of it with Trump, whom I promised to cover without fear or favor.6 We now know it was nowhere near the end. There’s no modern historical precedent for a mainstream political candidate targeting a journalist as Trump targeted me. Nor was there any example to follow.
If I had one guiding principle, it was to take the high road. Brit Hume understood, and would observe to me months later, “The policy of dignity has served you very well.”
I consider myself lucky, because I have a big platform. I get to show the world who I am every night. Truth drowns out the unmoored lie; I really believe that. I used my platform at times to defend other women Trump went after, including Katy Tur of MSNBC, CNN’s Sara Murray, and Heidi Cruz, who was the subject of a nasty Trump retweet comparing her looks unfavorably to those of Trump’s wife Melania. But I never responded to Trump’s personal attacks on me.
I think that frustrated Trump. He began to mock the fact that Fox News would occasionally respond to him, but I would not. It was clear that Trump was baiting me, that he wanted me to engage with him, which only shored up my resolve not to do so. I’m guessing I seemed to Trump like the women he could usually charm. When I was not charmed, perhaps he felt confused. I think he didn’t know quite what to do with me.
With a bit more hindsight, I think Trump was bothered by me not necessarily because I’m a woman but because I’m a woman with power. I had the 9:00 p.m. show on Fox News, his favorite channel, and I couldn’t be brought to heel. I think he believed I could help or hurt him more than Anderson Cooper or Chuck Todd (both of whom also covered Trump with skepticism), or just about anyone else in the media. That’s why he repeatedly demanded a boycott. And wanted me pulled from future debates. And his supporters petitioned to have me fired. They wanted to remove me from power.
People often ask me, given the number of Trump’s tweets and barbs, “How did you keep from responding to him?” One thing I remembered came from my mom. She always said that parents can project one of three things to their children: the Good Me, the Bad Me, or the Not Me. If a child can’t get attention for being good, he’ll try being bad. Any attention is better than none. The worst thing for a child is the Not Me, to feel that he’s not worthy of a response, no matter his behavior. That’s how you deal with a bully. A bully wants your attention. Give it to him, and you’re feeding the fire. You stay focused on your game. As I always tell my team in times of controversy: head down, shoulders back, forge forward.7
22
Relentless
During the nine months following the August debate, Trump’s poll numbers rose steadily. It didn’t matter what he said or did. Republican primary voters were angry, and they liked that he was angry too. Trump remained angry with me, which made it tough to extract myself from this strange space. I was still covering the news, but I was also being covered. Although I did nothing to stoke or even respond to it, the Trump vs. Me storyline was still regularly in the press. At times I felt as if I had been dropped into a shark tank—watched by slightly horrified passersby as I tried to get out and get back on solid ground. Every appearance I made on other shows or in public venues, the interviewers asked me about Trump, and not much other than Trump. I did my best to politely move on.
As his campaign continued to dominate, more reporters ultimately started challenging Trump—on his call to ban all Muslims, his reversals on substantive issues, and his attack on New York Times reporter Serge Kovaleski’s physical disability, to name a few. If Trump believed anything he said or did might be problematic for him, he would simply deny he said or did it, and throughout the primaries the media usually gave him a pass—often because almost instantaneously (and, some believed, intentionally), he was on to the next controversy. He attacked many journalists who pressed him on his vulnerabilities, but he never went after other reporters in the same way he did with me.
Meanwhile, his focus on me was incessant:
I refuse to call Megyn Kelly a bimbo, because that would not be politically correct, he tweeted. Instead I will only call her a lightweight reporter!
And then: If crazy @megynkelly didn’t cover me so much on her terrible show, her ratings would totally tank. She is so average in so many ways!
Just as I would think the onslaught was over, he would again go on the attack. Then he would quiet down, and then start back up again. In just a few months’ time, Trump offered scores of insults about me on television and on Twitter.1 The word was relentless. Every time he started in, I’d get a call from Roger (who was getting calls from Trump). Was I being fair to Trump? Was I being too hard on him? He felt the bar for skeptical Trump coverage should be higher. Tom and I disagreed. The pressure was intense internally and externally.
There was often no discernible trigger for Trump’s attacks. Something that seemed of no consequence would set him off without warning. For example, after Vanity Fair profiled me that winter, Trump popped up to complain about it. There was a line in the story that mentioned he’d tried to woo me before he announced his presidential bid with notes and calls and by sending me articles written about me that he had signed. In response, Trump de
nied it, saying “The last person in the world I would try to woo is Megyn Kelly” and claiming that he’d never sent me anything other than polls.2 I didn’t say anything more at the time, because it did not seem worth ginning it up again. For the record, some of the many notes he denied sending can be found in the photo section of this book.
Over the 2015 holidays, tragedy struck our family. My stepbrother Patrick died. Patrick, Peter’s son, was a gentle and loving man. He managed a Rite-Aid. He supported his children. And one week before Christmas, he had a sudden, massive heart attack at age forty-seven, just a few months before he was supposed to walk his daughter down the aisle. Patrick led a quiet life—he loved his kids, his dogs, and going on day trips with his wife. His Facebook page was filled with sweet animal videos and pictures of his kids. He never had anything but a kind word for people.
Peter was distraught. Liza had to take a leave of absence from her nursing job. And a dark pall was cast over our family. We spent the days leading up to the holiday burying Patrick and saying good-bye. As we dealt with the loss, and I saw my family—especially Peter—in such pain, I was reminded of how little all of the political nonsense meant. Of how much value there is in simply being a good man, even if not a powerful one.
It was around this time that I first considered reaching out to Trump. I’d been thinking about the pointlessness of being mired in conflict, of what a waste all that emotional energy was. My mom had taught me this from an early age—that conflict resolution is a gift to yourself. I learned it again when I decided to leave the law, in part because of the constant acrimony. This was not how I wanted to lead my life. Some controversy is unavoidable, but constant brawling is not good. It’s just not how you want to spend your time.
I asked some colleagues at work who were close to Trump if they thought I should reach out to him. To a person, they told me that Trump was too angry, that his hatred for me was too deep-seated. I decided to give him some more time.
