Before the lions, clowns, and elephants were blocked and readied; before the freaks had adjusted their tutus and painted their faces; before the camels had been herded in; before the top-hatted, tuxedoed Master of Ceremonies had taken his place in the ring; and before the struts on the big top were strung tight, Donald Trump straightened his tie, shot his cuffs, adjusted his hot comb, and said to his attendants, “I am ready”.
No one had been more prepared for the circus antics to come – the bowdlerizing, dandyish, Grand Guignol performances of the court, a trial scripted by hacks, orchestrated by amateurs, lighted by the blind, scored by the deaf, and directed by fools – than Donald Trump, master of the slippery escape, the silver tongued preacher, the mind-twisting prestidigitator of the shell game, the heart and soul of the carny barker, ‘come one, come all’, and the supreme confidence of a Marvel’s superhero.
So the stage – his stage – was set. The Democrats thought that the purloined documents trial would be all about them – their accusations, their demands, and their justice – but instead it was about him, that man, that sinner, deceiver, and threat to the nation.
His was a grand entrance, worthy of Cleopatra paraded to the court of Augustus dressed in the finery of the East, as defiant as Il Duce. It was the grand entrance of an Emperor, a made-for-Hollywood David O. Selznick sword-and-sandal epic from Ben Hur to Spartacus. Flowers were strewn in his path, hands of adoring women extended to touch him, the scent of jasmine, incense, and myrrh in the air.
For a moment the Master of Ceremonies hesitated, the lions restive, the clowns edgy. The thousands under the tent cheered as the President stepped into the ring, stepped up next to the lions, and waved. He would make them do his tricks. The lions would lie down before him, the freaks would come out of their side show pavilions and dance at his side, the clowns would somersault, and the bears would roar.
The trial could now begin.
The accusers stood by while the President took his seat, flanked by a coterie of lawyers and advisors, front and center stage, waiting their turn; but the recitation of the 37 counts sounded as dopey and dreary as roll call at summer camp. “Not guilty!” answered the President to each and every one while the crews in the upper seats showered confetti on all below. “Order in the court!”, shouted the judge over the roar of the lions, the cackles of the hyenas, and the groans of the bears.
The prosecuting attorney, shill and stunt man for the party operatives who had brought suit, tried to get a word in edgewise, but was drowned out by the crowd, energized by the confetti and the defiance of their man. “Your honor”, the District Attorney began, “we are here to….”. Again he was shouted down until the President raised his arms, smiled, and mimed to the seats to let the show go on.
And so it did, insufferably boring with codicils, references, and judicial fol-de-rol. The audience was becoming restless. When would the real show begin, the witnesses, the testimony, and the evidence?
They did not have to wait for long, as the prosecution showed pictures of the President’s Mar-el-Lago bathrooms chock-a-block with boxes labeled ‘Secret’ and ‘Top Secret’. “Objection, Your Honor” said the President’s lead attorney. “Fake news. Photoshopped, tampered, and inadmissible”; and the prosecution was told by the Judge that they would have to produce hard copies of the boxes, i.e. the boxes themselves, in order for their claims to be admitted.
“But, Your Honor, these are secret documents and revealing them in open court would make us liable for breaking The Official Secrets Act”.
“This is your show, Counselor. Do as you see fit”.
“But Your Honor…” and right there the prosecution was exactly where the defense wanted it to be – in that world of probability, possibility, and the photoshopped world of never-never land.
Bathrooms, vodka pool parties, slipped references and innuendoes – the whole affair became fuel for soap operas from Turkey to Brazil. After the first few days, no one seemed to care whether or not the President had done what he had been accused of. Truth had been subsumed within fiction. The trial of the century had become the first episode of Aşk, Şehvet ve Gerçek (Love, Lust, and Truth) one of Turkey’s most promising dizis.
Meanwhile the President, accused but not arrested per se was free to roam, and roam he did, taking the podium at campaign events in Georgia, Florida, and Michigan. Not once did this canny carny barker, magnificent Borscht Belt comedian, and top-of-his-game Las Vegas headliner refer directly to the trial or protest his innocence. He was in full bore, high tide evangelical mode.
“This nation of vipers”, he began to a crowd of a thousand supporters in Macon, “have no fangs. They are a nest of garden snakes, little green, slimy invertebrates waiting for flies. They are sexless, godless, trans-whatever political non sequiturs. Irrelevant, meaningless, dumpster-ready supernumeraries ”
He was on a roll, and the media caught all of it. “Accused Criminal Panders To MAGA”, shouted MSNBC, and thousands of viewers tuned in, some in a fit of expected righteous indignation, but most to see a Superhero in his prime. In Mississippi he heralded the end of the woke generation – “an era of deformed ideas, twisted policies, and comic book fantasy”. Had his supporters been able to send him back to Florida on Cleopatra’s regal float, they would have paid the freight.
It was conflation of epic proportions. The show trial trying Donald Trump became the Barnum & Bailey big top, the Borscht Belt vaudevillian stage, Hollywood sets, and Las Vegas runways all rolled up into one. If the Democratic Puritan deacons were intent on temperate, legitimate, accusatory justice, they had another thing coming. The President would win on all courts – in the judicial one and far more importantly, on the streets of the city.
No one had ever paid attention to what said, only what he meant. No matter how high-falutin’ his oratory, no matter how exaggerated his claims or intemperate his charges, his supporters knew what he meant. The loved him for sticking it to the woke claques of Washington, for calling out all shameless posturing, and for having the balls to say what he thought, This time it would be no different. The President would not only have his day in court, he would have his day, a day of bombast and complete, utter disregard for the cant and sanctimony of official Washington.
He would win the trial, win the presidency, and take back America.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.