The fixer or the lackey?

By Robin Givhan

Michael Cohen began his turn as the star witness in Donald Trump’s hush money trial by refraining from his usual attack dog behavior. So many of those who’d testified earlier characterized Cohen as such a pestering, angry jerk when he worked for Trump that one would be forgiven for thinking that Cohen, the disbarred attorney turned Trump antagonist, might have entered the courtroom snarling. Instead, he made his debut in the witness chair dressed in a dark suit and a pink tie, his familiar hangdog expression giving courtroom artists fodder to transform him into a gaunt shadowy character — a white-haired apparition with perpetually clenched brows. The long time New Yorker peppered his speech with “ma’am,” admitted that “I violated my moral compass,” to remain loyal to Trump and ultimately made his history of professional neediness powerfully plain.

When Cohen was on Trump’s personal payroll, his job was to accomplish the many and varied “tasks” that cropped up on any given day. According to Cohen, when Trump was a candidate during the 2016 election, those jobs involved tamping down negative stories about Trump’s relationships with women who were not his wife. Prosecutors have identified Cohen as the guy who facilitated the nondisclosure agreement with Stormy Daniels, the adult film actor and director, with whom Trump was alleged to have had sex. Cohen is the guy who forked over $130,000 of his own money to keep Daniels quiet. He is the guy that Trump reimbursed for doing him this solid. And he’s the guy whose reimbursements were said to have been intentionally mislabeled as legal fees in Trump’s financial ledger. These are the crimes, 34 counts of falsifying business records, that are at the heart of this historic trial.

Cohen didn’t fix much, but he left a lot of wreckage in his wake. As Cohen testified, he spent a good portion of the time explaining that he always kept Trump fully apprised of any actions he was taking, including when he was dealing with the editor and the publisher of the National Enquirer who were busy catching and killing stories that had the potential to be damaging to Trump as he campaigned for president in 2016. “The only thing that was on my mind was to accomplish the task, to make him happy,” Cohen explained of his murky job description. And when the boss was happy, Cohen wanted to make sure that the boss knew exactly who’d brought him such joy. Cohen wanted to make sure “to get credit,” for everything he did.

Cohen was, by trade, a lawyer — not by choice but because of family pressure. He wasn’t an Ivy League pedigreed litigator, a beloved family estate planner or a highflying corporate attorney who dealt with the complicated contracts of a man who engaged in business in and out of the country. Cohen has been described as a “fixer,” a guy who gets things done, who cleans up messes and who calms the waters in a crisis. But mostly, it seems that Cohen was a lackey.

He wasn’t someone telling Trump hard truths to make sure that he was protected. Cohen was the guy who simply wanted to make sure that Trump was placated. He wanted the boss to be happy. Cohen wasn’t using his clout or connections to turn the tide in Trump’s favor. He was just another person whose ambitions and self-worth had become intertwined with Trump, someone who as federal investigators closed in on him, as he lied and then lied some more, he had to be reminded by his wife, his daughter and his son that Trump was neither his salvation, nor was he someone worth saving. Cohen said they asked him: “Why are you holding on to this loyalty? What are you doing? We’re supposed to be your first loyalty.”

Washington has had countless fixers, both real and fictional. Perhaps the most famous of the former was Vernon Jordan, a man whose network of relationships with powerful people — and his own, hard-earned clout — allowed him to smooth over rough patches and help put shattered careers and reputations back together. He was known as Bill Clinton’s fixer, but even he couldn’t save the 42nd president from his own enormous failings. Jordan couldn’t prevent a country from demonizing a young intern. Still, Jordan’s power wasn’t reliant upon Clinton. It existed all on its own — before Clinton and after him.

Fiction produced Olivia Pope, the lady fixer of “Scandal,” who was creatively fashioned from the outlines of the work and life of D.C. crisis manager Judy Smith. Pope surrounded herself with a team of gladiators and barked orders at the most powerful people in the world to rescue them after they’d succumbed to their worst impulses. Her goal wasn’t to make clients happy; it was to keep them from drowning in their own ambition, to keep them out of jail, to keep them alive.

Trump might have dreamed of having another lawyer like his beloved Roy Cohn, who could bend and break the law to get him when he wanted. But what he got in Cohen was someone who would kowtow to his every command until some combination of family pressure, prison time, career implosion, anger and, perhaps, regret, snapped Cohen out of his trance.

Besides, how could Cohen be a fixer when Trump will never admit that anything is broken, that some part of his life is failing or that he has chosen a wrong course? Fixers have to be able to speak truth to their client. Lackeys tell their clients the things they want to hear. And what they most want to hear is that the “task” has been accomplished.

On the second day of Cohen’s testimony, fresh faces were in Trump’s entourage: Florida Republican Reps. Byron Donalds and Cory Mills, North Dakota Gov. Doug Burgum (R) and former Republican presidential candidate Vivek Ramaswamy. They were his men, those vying to be his vice president, vying for his favor and eager to reiterate the complaints that Trump has been making about the trial interfering with his campaigning for president and the judge being biased against him. They stood with Trump like his own Greek chorus in their dark suits and red ties.

After describing the trial as a “travesty of justice,” House Speaker Mike Johnson (R-La.) said, “President Trump is a friend and I wanted to be here to support him. I’m here speaking with you outside because the court won’t allow us to speak inside the building. … I am disgusted by what is happening here.” While a gag order prohibits Trump from attacking witnesses, jurors and relatives of the court, Johnson was not gagged. And he spewed forth, insulting New York Supreme Court Justice Juan Merchan’s daughter for being an executive at a digital marketing agency that works with Democratic candidates and nonprofits, accusing her of “making millions of dollars doing online fundraising for Democrats. They’re using this trial as a hook. It’s so corrupt.”

Trump has no need for Vernon Jordans or Olivia Popes — back then or right now. He surrounds himself with folks wielding sledgehammers and tossing hand grenades. They are eager to demolish whatever is necessary to make the boss happy. Not fixers, maybe lackeys, they just want to make sure they get credit for accomplishing the task.

Robin Givhan is senior critic-at-large at The Washington Post, writing about politics, race and the arts. A 2006 Pulitzer Prize winner for criticism, Givhan has also worked at Newsweek/Daily Beast, Vogue magazine and the Detroit Free Press.