MEMCON: The Dramatic Comey Memo
As the door closed behind VP Pence and AG Sessions,
I shifted uncomfortably in my chair as President Trump crossed the plush carpeted floor silently but with purpose. He paused by the Resolute Desk, dragging an impossibly small hand across the freshly-waxed surface in admiration of its craftsmanship. His hand stopped right next to his highly-publicized Diet Coke button and, perhaps unaware that I had declined 5 minutes earlier, asks if I wanted one.”No thank you, Mr. President.” Those words STILL get caught in my throat, like a 400lb linebacker trying to squeeze into a middle seat in the economy section of United Airlines. How is this blathering, mush-minded buffoon in the ill-fitting 3 piece rack suit MY president? I allow myself the luxury of that one stray thought before refocusing on the situation: POTUS has just excused his potential successor and my boss, the U.S. Attorney General, from the room to discuss SOMETHING not meant for their ears. This cannot be good.
I run scenarios in my head:
SCENARIO 1 – He’s going to ask me to stop the investigation. Seems blunt, but he isn’t know for beating around the bush. SCENARIO 2 – He’s going to ask me to step down. Not likely, because I practically just handed him the presidency with my October letter. That decisions still haunts me, brings the bile right to the edge of my…
“Director Comey! Jiiiim.” Familiarity. I was never a big fan of that, and he’s possibly looking to disarm me. Every word from here on out is chiseled into the granite of my grey matter. I’ve seen manipulators before, he’s out of his depth with me. He believes too much of his own hype.
“Sir?” I replied immediately, eager to coax his gambit out into the open…
“I was just wondering,” he starts, drifting out from behind the Resolute, slowly in my direction. I stopped tracking him with my head as I realize he’s going to stand behind me. Fucking creepy. “Mike Flynn. He did a lot of good for me, for this country, a lot of good for me.” Always HIM first. “I know your department is investigating him, and that’s great. You have to do your job.” I feel his hands gripping the back of my chair now, and the hairs on the back of my neck are saluting him, I suppose. But now he’s leaning in, towards my left ear, speaking in that breathy voice.
“I hope you can see your way clear to letting this go, to letting Flynn go,” There’s that bile reflex again. The sheer audacity of this request is stunning, but I MUST stay focused. “He is a good guy. I hope you can let this go.” And the, abruptly, he releases the chair from his grip and positions himself directly in front of me, 36 inches between us. His bulky frame blocks out the sunlight, partly obscuring his expression. My eyes haven’t yet adjusted, can’t make out if he’s grinning or…no. He’s serious.
“I agree he is a good guy,” was all I could manage to force from my constricted throat. All I can think of is how quickly I need to get out of here and record this properly.
This will not end well.