Executive privilege

My interview with Mueller was about an hour old and getting crusty when he excused himself to “go take a leak,” which he said uncomfortably, like after seventy years on this planet, a good amount of them chasing bad-guys, he was still searching for a more elegant terminology.

Fidgety from the coop, I was drawn to a small dusty window over Pennsylvania Avenue, which, after tugging at the blind, I cracked open as far as it would go to let fresh air in and stale air out. Through it, I watched a mad-red sun flash through a chink in a line of slow-moving steel grey clouds blown north by a breeze that had picked up a little, but nothing you’d notice unless you were high as a kite.

According to the grand golden-handed clock decorating the 315-foot tower perched on top of the Romanesque Kunt International Hotel it was just before 11:15 AM.

The ultra-luxury hotel — which opened in 2016, weeks before the presidential election, in the Old Post Office and Clock Tower, a vast ornate “cross between a cathedral and a cotton mill,” a few blocks from the White House[i] — had become the most profitable hotel in the Kunt portfolio as lobbyists and agents from Kunt-friendly countries, like Russia, Kazakhstan, Kuwait, Israel, Singapore, Malaysia, Poland and Saudi Arabia overpaid for its facilities to curry favor with Kunt, which had led to three lawsuits over the Emoluments Clause, which prohibits U.S. officials from accepting gifts or payments from foreign governments.[ii]


Until recently Kunt’s swamp had an average Yelp rating of 4 out of 5 stars. As of this troubled and inconstant, conflicted morning the average had dropped two full stars, after almost 800 reviews describing the swamp as a “shithole” were posted to protest reports that Kunt had asked while discussing immigration during a private meeting with lawmakers "why people from shithole countries come here," specifically referring to people from Haiti, El Salvador, and a gaggle of black African nations, while lamenting that “We need more (white) people from Norway.” [iii] [iv]


By the time Mueller came back bearing coffee in white Styrofoam cups, the minute hand of the clock had ticked past the quarter, the clocktower’s ‘Bells of Congress’ were ringing in Kunt’s signing of the H.R. 1, Tax Cuts and Jobs Bill Act, a giveaway to the rich at the expense of the rest of us designed to shrink government through malnourishment, and my mood had soured. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I could put a face to it — Kunt.

I rolled down the blind, returned to my seat, fiddled with the coffee and waited impatiently for Mueller to click the story on to the next slide, which was of Beatriz, lying in state in an open coffin, which added vim and vinegar to my already sour mood.


Loss is hard to look at especially when the loss is premeditated and manmade. So, I closed my eyes to make it go away, which was a bad idea because the darkness made Mami more vivid and so fucking alive that I could hear her singing “Oriente” with Henry Fiol‘s and see her waltzing with me, as an agent-orange Kunt watched over us, his face clenched like a fist.


“Kunt killed her!” I sneered with greater certainty than I possessed, which Mueller acknowledged with a sharp-shouldered, circumspect shrug.

“Circumstantial won’t do it when the President of the United States of America is involved,” he said a couple of teaspoons more starchily than his stiff white shirt. “We need a confession or fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

“Y si el desgraciado llevaba guantes?”

“If the motherfucker wears gloves Degas, then Kunt walks,“ Mueller said dispassionately, as if it were a result he was resigned to or at least half-expected. Then he paused and chuckled to himself silent as if deciding whether to add a few extra pennies to his thought.

Whatever he was thinking he left unsaid as we trudged on without progressing the slides: “So, let’s jump to the morning of Thursday, April 6, 2017. Is it correct to say that you hadn’t seen Monica for a while?’

His fondness for questions to which he already knew the answer was pissing me off.  So, I humored him by telling him more of what he already knew:

“Yeah, but special agent Monica was good about keeping in touch — always by text to the burner. The first time in late January, to tell me that Kunt was going to nominate hanging-judge Neil Gorsuch to the Supreme Court. Then, on Valentine’s Day to let me know that Kunt had asked FBI boss James Comey to drop the Bureau’s investigation into Lieutenant General Michael Thomas Flynn, who was under investigation for trading influence for Black Caviar before and as Secretary of State. The next text, which arrived on March 1st a few hours before the event actually took place, was a heads up that Attorney General, Jeff Sessions was going to recuse himself from overseeing your investigation. Then, on March 14, she sent me the first two pages of Kunt’s 2005 tax returns and asked me to get them over to MSNBC host Rachel Maddow, who waved them at the world on live TV. Finally, on April 5, she invited me to meet and greet her with ‘an overnight bag and a change of clothes suitable for somewhere warm’ at the offices of Kunt’s attorney, Michael Cohn, at 8 AM the next day.

“And you went?” He asked.

“Yeah, I RSVP’D.” I answered.

“How did that go?”


“Well! I got to listen to Ornette blow ‘Blues to Elvin,’ and gawk at his bare feet and his buffed and puffed toenails as he ranted past his ear-buds to the wind.  Most of what he had to say was to Kunt, about cunts who didn’t know where their fucking interests lay. When he was done ranting like a lunatic he gave me an envelope like I’d won the lotto --- inside the envelope was an invitation to a state dinner for Chinese leader Xi Jinping at Kunt’s Key Largo later that same day, a settlement agreement, and a check he’d signed for twenty-five million dollars, which got me thinking.”


“Twenty-five million dollars for your thoughts,” chuckled Mueller trying out an ill-fitting joke for size.

It wasn’t a question of too big or small.

It was that the cut was designed for a smaller man.

“My thought at the time was that it was far less than I richly deserved but it was twenty-five million dollars more than enough to persuade me to accept Kunt’s invitation to dinner.” I said cracking open a cigarette carton and plucking out the next in line to get smoked.

“By this time, you already knew that Joy was Monica’s half-sister?” He probed as patiently, as a proctologist.

So, I put my foot on the gas: “Yeah, Cohn presented them like stripper twins, drinking tea from a cup he’d parked in-between the arches of his bare feet. Occasionally he’d take a sip — on those occasions he’d be sure to put the cup right back in its cradle.

Mueller smiled but you could tell that he didn’t find Cohn antics funny because he flicked the story forward a frame to change the subject, snapping his eyelids open and shut to refocus them on the big-screen where Comey was standing as-seen-on-TV, tall, dark, and central casting handsome, by his black Suburban, in the rain.

“On the way to the Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia Airport you made a detour at Northern Boulevard and met Monica’s then-boss FBI Director James Comey, at PV Parking Garage, on the top floor,” he recited with coffee on his breath, referring to a pad full of neatly stacked hand-written notes.

“He welcomed me with a righteous handshake and Monica like they were chips of the same block,’” I sulked like a fool deceived, “I should have guessed then that Monica was Malditos Federales, but the huge water-bags under Comey’s puppy dog eyes were as captivating as his story which was that the FBI had performed a DNA test on the blood I’d splattered onto Eagle-eye’s gloves and determined my Kuntliness beyond all reasonable doubt!”

Mueller nodded at that as if confirming my story lit like a muse for Edward Hopper by a beam of dazzling bright light that had slipped into the office between the blind and the window, and he moved the story forward a couple of slides.

“At the Sheltair lounge in the Marine Air Terminal at La Guardia Airport, you met five of Kunt’s cronies who are central to our investigation,” Mueller said, met-of-factly, gazing back down at his written notes: “Kunt’s campaign manager, Stephen K. Bannon, a former investment banker at Goldman Sachs who was White House Chief Strategist and Senior Counselor at the time. Ike Mercer, owner of Marvelous Comics, CEO of Rebirth Capital. Kunt’s Secretary of Commerce, the fund manager, Wilbur Louis Ross Jr., David Jay Pecker, the publisher of the National Enquirer. And Cohn.”

“A buncha Kunts,” I gnarled at Mueller, who heard worse and gazed back indifferently.

“And you played cards?” He confirmed by way of asking.


I nodded: “Poker --- The winner collected peanuts worth $10,000 a kernel --- The loser had to confess something they had done for Kunt that was over and above. Wilbur Ross lost the first-hand bluffing with a pair of threes.  His confession was he’d overpaid Kunt’s inauguration committee $5,000,000 for rooms and meeting spaces at the Kunt International Hotel, to ‘expedite’ his selection as Commerce Secretary. Cohn lost the next hand with four-fifths of a Royal Flush. He expanded on the Stormy Daniels hush-money story he’d started to tell at the Shelter Air lounge. Ike Mercer was the monster at the table. He was sitting in front of three aces, but he had a story to tell.  So, he tanked his hand, exchanging the Ace of Spades for the Kunt of Hearts.  His confession was that Cambridge Analytica, an English political consulting firm he owned that combined data mining, data brokerage, and data analysis with strategic communications had used his special relationship with Facebook and his friendship with Zuck to harvest almost 100 million user profiles. And that it had built data-models to exploit what it then knew about those users to target their inner fucking demons with pro-Kunt messages. Kunt’s margin of victory was 107,000 votes in 3 swing states --- Michigan, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania.  Mercer claims he delivered at least half a million votes in those three states and gifted the election to Kunt.”


“Mercer is central to our investigation.  We think he may be a connect from Putin to Kunt,”  Mueller said quietly, stumbling over “May” as if it was a word that was outside his vocabulary, except when referring to the month.

“Things started to get a little crazy when Monica took his bait and called Kunt il·le·git·i·mate to his face. No, he didn’t like that at all and he called Monica a cunt. So, I smacked him.” I said quietly, but with much more pride than the fall was worth.

Yes, we have the surveillance camera footage.  Your left-cross to Mercer’s face is immortalized for posterity,” he replied icily, changing the subject with a single click.

“You were met by the Feds and Kunt’s private security guards outside the Signature private terminal at Palm Beach International Airport. They whisked you to Kunt’s Key Largo estate where he was hosting a dinner for Chinese leader Xi Jinping?” He asked but was more a statement than a question, leaning over me enough to establish a prosecutorial advantage.

So, I leaned right back into him so close we could have kissed: “Kunt was waiting for us at the end of a red carpet at the top of 5-steps framed by the doorway to his club. He was made up like a clown. He wore the clothes of a clown. He bounced up to me with his wife, Nadiya in one hand and a set of oversized boxing gloves by their long white laces in the other. He gave to me the gloves as a gift for knocking Ike out.  And then we arm-wrestled for a few minutes, which is how he shakes hands. In the clinch he reminded me that twenty-five million dollars was a very generous offer, ‘especially if you consider the time-value of money,’ while squeezing my hand so hard that the white foundation under his eyes began to crack. It seemed important for him to let me know that when he took the paint off I’d be looking at the face of a genius with an exceptionally-high IQ.”

“How did you respond?”


“I told him that I’d seen a study that calculated his IQ to be even lower than that of Ulysses S. Grant, who is universally recognized as the dumb and dumbest of US Presidents by far.  And that Beatriz was dead and that he could never compensate me for that.  He responded as you’d expect, that he didn’t kill her, that we wouldn’t find his prints on the fucking gun. So, I told him what I’m telling you now, that circumstantial is sometimes enough. Which is when the Art Of The Deal failed him, and he assumed I was raising, so he offered me more money and told me I’d find a lifetime membership to Key Largo in my suite and that it came with all of the benefits of being a part of his family.”


“And then you went to dinner where he urinated in a champagne glass?” Mueller asked as if he could smell rotten eggs in Kunt’s piss.

“Not directly, he was pretty riled up that I hadn’t fallen hard for his twenty-five million dollars.  So, he took me to his library to show me a preparatory drawing for Miss La La at the Cirque Fernando, by Edgar Degas.— it’s of a trapeze artist hanging by her teeth from a wire. I think his point was that twenty-five million dollars was a lot of money to pay a mongrel and that it should be enough, which pissed me off.  So, I gave him my stump speech that, “born of extreme violence, robbed of my birthright, I’m the bastard that’s going to take him down and save us from ourselves.  Whether or not —” I hurled at Mueller, “You trip over some conviction along the way. Or are you that afraid of skidmarks? And I asked him when the fuck dinner was going to start?”

Mueller stared at me stone-faced, stoic, like he was certain of his purpose, which made me feel uncertain about mine, as was intended.  Then, quite unexpectedly he blinked philosophically: “Degas, do you ever wonder about what makes us good or evil? It is certainly not solely our DNA as for example you share your DNA with James Alexander Kunt.  And I do not believe it is all circumstance either, as he and I share our circumstance, yet he avoided the draft and I submitted to it enthusiastically as part of my call to public service.  We should also not pin good and evil on acts of a greater God as I was led to believe God loves us equally.  So, the only answer I have is that our character is a combination of the three in some continually variable proportion.”

I clapped, sardonically too of course, to make it clear I got his drift and carried on regardless: “At dinner, Kunt roasted Xi. Mr. General Secretary — ” he drawled mimicking his guest. [v]“You’ve taken our business away. You’ve taken our jobs away. You’ve stolen our intellectual property. It seems as if you would prefer our people to starve! — Only the punchline was tired and Xi’s jugular well protected and he did not bat an eye, which pissed Kunt off and he went on a rant about tariffs  as he peed into a champagne glass.”

I paused to tap the ash off the tip of my cigarette and waved the smoke away., which caused Mueller to cough with conviction. I shrugged and continued with my testimony.

“He shook his toadstool dry and as a secret service agent cleared his piss away he led us to a small windowless room where his National Security Team and a gaggle of hangers were crowded around a large conference table, sitting on edge of the type of faux-bamboo gold-painted chairs you might see at a tropical-themed wedding or a garden-party watching seven-wars happen on seven-monitors, in real time. Kunt clambered onto one of the chairs, and for a hot minute, everyone covered their eyes, fearing the night’s second golden shower.  Instead, he started to MC the night’s main event, which was an attack on Syria, where we were getting ready to chuck 59 Tomahawk missiles at the Shayrat Airbase, in response to a chemical attack by Syrian government forces two days before.  It didn’t look like it was going to be a fair fight, so, I went back to the library bar, watched Lebron James and the Cleveland Cavaliers beat up on the Boston Celtics, for a Quarter and took a whiskey sour, shaken but not stirred to bed. The door to my suite was ajar, and Monica was stretched out on the couch opposite the bed wearing a Long Pajama top and a rope of pearls between barely parted lips. She wasn’t wearing anything else.


Mueller frowned, clicked through to a soft-core image of me going down on Monica and said a lot more than the situation warranted: “Degas fidelity is faithfulness to an obligation, trust, or duty. For me, fidelity also means fidelity to country. It means fidelity to justice and the law, fidelity to the Constitution, fidelity to equality and liberty.  Your disregard for fidelity is your Achilles heel, and it is preventing you from achieving greatness.”[vi]


His was a subtle point well made, that we, Monica and I, had been unfaithful to our story, and had brought Stallion and the blackmail on ourselves. So, I proved his point by wishing it away: “Mueller this night was going to be a holiday from alas, a night of kisses snatched from a world bent on destruction.  And yes, that was a huge fucking mistake because they, whoever they are, AND I AM ASKING caught it on tape and they, whoever they are, have been blackmailing us since. We set up the treason recording to re-balance the playing field.”

Mueller started hard at the corner of the table to avoid violating my privacy and offered up a mere morsel because he only had mere morsels to share: “The black X5 is GRU,” Mueller said tightly. “Why the Russians are involved, we can only speculate.”

“And you don’t speculate – ever?”

“ Not when the stakes are this high!  All investigations, whether it be this one or others, depend on partial facts that are open to interpretation until the case is solved.  This case may never be adequately solved, and the facts we have now may go through a number of meanings, which is why we don’t speculate –– ever!“ He said trying to click the story into the third act.

But the carousel jammed, which is when Kunt’s first repudiation of my story fluttered in on a tweet.


My leading question was who in Mueller’s office had leaked the where and when of my interview, which Mueller cut off at the pass. “Kunt’s people monitor every entrance to this building and others day and night. Kunt operates his own armed security force that he trusts above the FBI and a state within a state. That is the bigger danger than whether or not he colluded with Vladimir Putin, and it is a question that is way out of the scope of my investigation.”


“Mueller, you know from Comey and the FBI that more than one DNA tests exists and that the DNA match is incontrovertible.  So, when are you going to make that announcement? And why isn’t Kunt in here answering your questions?”


“Because Kunt has refused to testify invoking Executive Privilege, a privilege he might also claim to prevent my report or at least a great part of our report becoming public.  The question as to whether Executive Privilege was intended to shield a corrupt despotic president from the people he represents  will likely end up being decided by the United States Supreme Court.”


“Where there is a new majority of tone-deaf, democracy-light judges! Mueller, your opportunity is to serve the people as they are poorly served !” I hissed, slamming my fist on the table, causing a volcanic eruption of ash from the ash-tray.

“Degas, my responsibilities here are non-political, non-partisan, and more narrowly defined and confined in this case to the law.”


“Then, fuck you and your investigation. Que te jodan a tí y a tu investigación --- You know from the Treason Tape that Vladimir bought Kunt the Presidential election, holds the master of Kunt’s piss-tape from the Moscow Ritz, personally holds notes on the five hundred and forty million dollars Kunt borrowed from Bayrock Group, arranged for Dmitry Rybolovlev to buy 515 N. County Road in Palm Beach from Kunt for one hundred million dollars in 2008, which was almost sixty million dollars more than Kunt paid for it in 2004 and that he is using this leverage to create chaos. And you know for certain he has robbed me of my birthright,” I seethed, walking through the projection of Monica to the door.



“Él no es mi Presidente! He is not your President. És ilegítimo. Es tan jodidamente ilegítimo como yo. He is as illegitimate as me and I’m going to find a more direct way to bring the motherfucker down.”



[i] Congress and the Questions of Expansion and Increased Armaments Confronting It”. The New York Times. November 6, 1898.

[ii] https://www.pbs.org/newshour/politics/the-legal-battle-over-trumps-d-c-hotel-could-be-entering-uncharted-territory

[iii] https://fox6now.com/2018/01/16/trump-hotels-swarmed-with-expletive-reviews-on-yelp/

[iv] https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/briannasacks/trump-nigeria-shithole

[v] https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-6709669/Trump-eviscerated-mimicking-Chinease-Presidents-accent.html

[vi] https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/robert_mueller_826985

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TO BE CONTINUED: CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

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