NYC Pt 1: Between Love, Law, and Chaos
Pre verdict trial tensions, political tribulations, celebrity sightings & other miscellaneous ramblings
“He Had Wanted To Be in The Movie Business. It’s Important to Never Forget This About Him.”
— OLIVIA NUZZI
Inconvenient Verdicts
Verdicts, I've learned, never arrive at a convenient time. During the Maxwell trial, I spent three days awkwardly napping on a stiff wooden bench in the courthouse hallway as the days stretched right up to the edge of New Year’s Eve. The marshal, who pointed out the bench when I asked where I could sleep, looked bemused. His wife had told him to “make me at home” there, so he obliged. For Depp's case, I found myself in London, half-drunk and surrounded by a boisterous bunch of British ladies atop a brick-lined Soho House at dusk. When word of the verdict came through, we all rushed around the terrace, scrambling up and down narrow flights of stairs, frantically searching for a phone charger. My battery was down to 13%. One of the boisterous women dashed across the street to a convenience store to snag a charger. When the bar heard the jury had sided with Johnny, they toasted the ruling with shots passed around the crowd.
I figured Trump’s hush money verdict would land on Arlo's graduation day because it would be the most inconvenient timing of all. As any parent knows, the last week of school is utter chaos, stacked with overlapping obligations and celebrations. The last thing I needed was a high-profile verdict to track, which is why I knew it was coming.
The day had already started poorly. Earlier that morning, an officer pulled me over for rolling through a stop sign in a residential area, accusing me of leading him on a low-speed chase through town. When I finally stopped, he asked, annoyed, why I hadn't pulled over sooner.
"Is there a reason you failed to stop when flashing lights were following you for over a mile?" he inquired sternly.
I looked at him squarely. "I'm sorry, sir, but are you familiar with early Dylan — young, folk-era Dylan? Because the harmonics are quite shrill, nearly identical to a siren," I explained, turning up the volume for him to hear. "I didn’t hear you because I was driving with this on full blast." He handed me a ticket, shaking his head as he walked away.
The day grew more stressful, thanks to overlapping ceremonies. We hopped from a historical fourth-grade performance of native dances starring kids in handmade paper sombreros to a graduation for our eighth grader, who has been trying to drop out of school since kindergarten and who ditched us on a borrowed bike to go surf immediately after they called his name. Then, we rushed home for a quick rest before our oldest son's graduation that evening.
I was napping in the sun on our back deck, my niece and her baby splashing in a tin basin filled with water, flower petals, and fruit tossed in as pool toys beside me, when a group of teenage boys ascended to cook steaks on the grill before the ceremony. It was a loud, cramped, hectic scene when my best friend, taking a smoke break by the side gate, shouted, "Verdict is in!" I pulled a towel over my head and scrolled to see — in bold font — across every headline: 34 counts. Guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty, guilty.
A harbinger of tumultuous days ahead.
Rewind: A Week Earlier
I was determined to get to New York for at least a slice of Trump's trial, so I made my way there for the tail end of it. If one commits to tracking the campaign trail and the campaign trail ends up in court, it's only fitting to follow it there. Had it not collided with end-of-year events, I would have stayed in the city for a few weeks to document the spectacle wholly.
Even if it wasn’t part of the trail, it’s great entertainment. I’ll take a MAGA protest over a Broadway show any day. Outside most high profile cases, a circus of protesters and supporters ensure daily mayhem. I’ve come to love trial madness in whatever form it takes. Regrettably, I narrowly missed Robert De Niro's cameo. Masked and sweaty, he showed up on closing day to deliver a seething lecture to Trump supporters outside the court, condemning their allegiance to a madman. MAGA loyalists in the crowd retaliated by calling him a loser, irrelevant, and worse. De Niro's retort was more or less to “fuck all the way off."
Views Comments
“I feel safe in this city" he says with armed guards surrounding him...what a knob.”
“Car alarm had the best argument.”
“Calls someone a gangster yet made millions playing them in movies. He also spent his entire life pretending to be other people for the highest bidder.”
“Pesci was right about him in Casino...”
Seeing him pop up that day reminded me of a story I overlooked last year. A source from De Niro's inner circle reached out, wanting to expose dirt on his new lover, Tiffany Chen. They had extensive accusations of her being a manipulative force in his life after she birthed his baby, alleging she was the reason for his distance from his children and the loss of his friends. "She is draining the life from him," they claimed, urging me to contact other sources provided to reveal her true nature. He "is miserable with her," they wrote.
Aside from De Niro, I missed a rotating cast of Trump's allies, including his family: Eric, Don Jr., and Tiffany all showed up for closing arguments. What I did manage to document is arranged in semi-haphazard form below — a four-part series that takes us from trial protests to trespassing Trump’s childhood home (where I almost brought home a stray kitten on site), to desperately seeking Cindy Adams, and finally into the pink-tinged marble confines of Trump Tower to rate a taco bowl, overspend on souvenirs, interview staff, and plot the last phase of campaign coverage with help from a pro — a woman I once ridiculed who has since become a friend. But we'll get to that.
Beauty And The Bowery
Before I gush about the lavish embrace of this hotel, know that the Bowery is a rare indulgence for me. It's pricey but aesthetically unmatched. My last visit was during the Maxwell trial. I rented a sweeping suite that opened onto a patio to record podcasts after her sentencing. A few of us sat in exhausted array, clad in bathrobes, drinking champagne, while various guests shuffled in to debate the fairness of her sentence. I ordered us pizza. The idea for a "Free Ghislaine/Convict Her Clients" tee was shot down over second slices.
Later that night, keeping on theme, we argued over controversial Halloween costumes. I suggested an easy option for a college couple would be the Epstein and Ghislaine get-up — cheaply completed by copying Epstein's dumb monogrammed Harvard sweatshirt and Maxwell's smart signature navy blazer. Half the group was horrified, arguing that dressing as a serial killer was acceptable, but pedophiles, even in knockoff Harvard merch, were off-limits. The other half thought it was fair game.
"Only in college can you be so reckless and risqué. It's the only point in life where you can don problematic costumes you'll have to explain and apologize for later in life," was my defense. Then again, maybe I just like to push people's buttons.
This time, I booked the Bowery because I was feeling creatively deflated and hoped a room with a view might cure me. I was right. Everywhere I turned, something noteworthy presented itself. The bare-faced, but attractive girl at check-in had her nails painted a perfect shade of red. When one of us complimented her on it, she told us her mother loved it, too. "I tried an orange-red once," she confessed. "When I went home to visit my mother, she couldn't stand it. So now I stick with this." She looked French but spoke without any hint of an accent. When asked if we preferred the WSJ or the NYTdelivered to our room, we stalled, trying to decide. "Maybe both," she offered. "That way, you can compare."
On our first night, Denise and I strolled a few blocks to CVS to meet Link Lauren, friend and former Kennedy campaign advisor, in town to film with Fox. Weaving through fluorescent-lit aisles in the maze of consumerism that permeates modern existence, we caught him fresh off a flight, platinum-haired and smiling. "What kind of trouble are we going to find on this trip?" I asked.
“Because, I have ideas.”
For those not familiar, breakfast on the patio at the Bowery is a delight. But sitting under Gemma's striped awning comes with a price. Yes, you have a prime seat to riving street style but are also exposed to the weirdos and the wackos that color the city. "That's New York," they'll say when a homeless man hops out of a bush to threaten your life just as your omelet is delivered.
This happened one afternoon early in the week when an incensed homeless guy sprang from a corner hideout, demanding a cigarette from Jess, who flatly refused him. Infuriated, he lunged forward, threatening her. "I'm gonna fucking kill you!" he snarled, eyes flickering like Charles Manson's cousin. Then, to Denise, "Bitch, suck my dick!"
His fury was manic, which I know is easily dismissed by locals but frightful for a non-resident. After a few minutes, I rushed into the restaurant, demanding help because he wasn't budging.
"Please, please, we need help," I cried, cornering a busboy at the bar. "That man out there is harassing my friends. He won't leave. He told one of them he was going to kill her, and now he's demanding oral sex from the other one." I pointed, "The one with the cute fringe jacket." Denise looked back at us, unmoving and unbothered.
The busboy alerted two more servers who walked out, circling the table and removing discarded plates, discreetly trying to shoo him away. By now, Denise and Jess were both smoking. Jess was glaring back at him on the phone with the police. Denise, still seated, looked ready and willing to punch him.
Inside, watching (hiding) as the scene escalated as other parties intervened amidst shouting and expletives, I motioned to the staffer, "Can you just grab my laptop? Right there on the corner?" As he reached to retrieve it, I added, "And that little Chanel purse next to it — it's rented," I explained, a notch quieter.
After the hotel staff calmly collected my things — Chanel and Polaroid camera included — security guards escorted the man away. They locked both of his arms behind his back and dragged him down the street. He spewed obscenities and threatened nuclear annihilation on the whole block as he disappeared from sight. several tables never even looked up.
"You just missed Emma Roberts," Jess remarked nonchalantly when I returned to my seat. "She was right there," she nodded towards the hotel exit. "I took a photo for you." In the image, Emma, clad in a baseball cap and baggy shorts, was snapped standing next to a tall man, leaning casually against the wall, waiting on luggage.
I missed Emma, but was right on time for a sidewalk terrorist.
I Was Wrong About Olivia Nuzzi
Before delving into our New York adventures, trailing notorious Trump landmarks suggested by Olivia, I must confess a humiliating backstory. I was introduced to Olivia Nuzzi, the Washington correspondent for New York magazine, months ago. She documented the same dog van ride with RFK that I did. While informative, her article depicted him as a wild card in the campaign with the potential to upend the presidential race, a portrayal far less glowing than mine. I was incensed when the piece surfaced on Twitter, accompanied by a mocking cartoon of him with tears streaming down his face. At that point, I was embarrassingly defensive of Kennedy. Thankfully, I've since tempered my reactions. I wouldn’t unleash the same vitriol on conflicting op-eds now.
After leaving a snarky comment on her Instagram page, an army of supporters (both mine and Bobby's) echoed my sentiments. Olivia's post was inundated with fired-up responses, perturbed by her nuanced portrayal of riding shotgun with our beloved candidate through the Brentwood canyons. I followed her, then unfollowed. She found me and followed, so I re-followed.
Months later, I encountered Olivia at a small gathering hosting Marianne Williamson in L.A. When she introduced herself, I paused to remember why her name was familiar. It dawned on me — she was the van writer I had criticized, now standing face-to-face with me. A hot flash of humiliation colored my cheeks as we shook hands.
“After court, Trump has made the most of his drives back uptown, stopping at bodegas and construction sites. On May 2, a campaign official told me to arrive at a fire station at 51st and Third by 3 p.m. Although Trump would be in court for another hour at least, a crowd of security and press formed across the street from the station. Half a dozen men dressed like mini-Trumps paced back and forth with purposeful expressions on their faces. At 5 p.m., Trump arrived by motorcade. He stepped out of his SUV holding two pizzas, which he raised in the air in the self-congratulatory manner of anyone arriving anywhere holding pizzas.”
“While the area outside the courthouse has become an open-mic lounge for MAGA sycophants and Republican leaders who have determined they must convincingly mimic the behaviors of those political animals to survive in Trump’s kingdom, the holding room is where Miller and other campaign officials monitor trial proceedings as they tend to the business of trying to install Trump back in the White House. “We can listen and watch what’s going on, and we can do important things like call you back,” Miller said in his perma-ironic lilt. “He’s full time in the courtroom, and he’s somehow full time on the campaign trail. We are maximizing every single minute the president has. If we can’t be on the campaign trail, we’ll bring the campaign trail to President Trump.”
Whatever You Do, Don’t Call it “Justice”
“Show trial”
“With hunt”
“Kangaroo court”
“Biden trial”
*All of the above are acceptable taglines when discussing the trial with Trumpers.
Derek Gibson Takes On BLM Posers / Trump Haters
“He is sensitive about smallness. His entire life, he has rejected smallness. Tall buildings, long ties, big head, big mouth, big swings, big league. “When he was in New York in 2016, the whole world was coming to him. Now we’ve got the Villages, and it shows,” the adviser said, referring to the famous Central Florida retirement community.
He had wanted to be in the movie business. It’s important to never forget this about him. He watches Sunset Boulevard, “one of the greatest of all time,” again and again and again. A silent-picture star sidelined by the talkies, driven to madness, in denial over her faded celebrity. When he was a businessman, he showed it to guests aboard his 727. When he was president, he held screenings of it for White House staff at Camp David.”
Jason Goodman Explains Twitter / Musk Accusations
"If history is to be creative, to anticipate a possible future without denying the past, it should, I believe, emphasize new possibilities by disclosing those hidden episodes of the past when, even if in brief flashes, people showed their ability to resist, to join together, occasionally to win." —HOWARD ZINN
Fast Forward 7 or 8 Months to the Trump Trial
New York provided the backdrop for us to get acquainted, moving past reactive Scorpio tendencies. Learning we were both in town for the trial, Olivia graciously offered to guide Denise and me to the trial hotspots. Having been there daily, her insider knowledge was invaluable. Upon our first meeting, I couldn't help but admire her — how could I not? A DC correspondent in a sweater dress and Louboutin platform heels, with a last name like "Nuzzi," she showed up looking like the love child of Meryl Streep and Lana Turner.
After a quick coffee run Olivia, Denise and I, headed several blocks to court. Just as we turned a corner, a truck ran over a hot sauce packet that exploded onto Olivia. Tiny orange splatters dotted her hair and clothing. The three of us stood there laughing until she pointed out that it had struck me, too. I looked down and saw that I was bearing matching stains on an all-white outfit, so we moved forward, regretfully humbled by the spontaneous attack, smelling like Taco Bell.
The three of us wandered around most of the afternoon, watching and talking to clashing protesters as they fought over the sidelines. The ease of Olivia's access was impressive. Gates opened without question with the flash of a mainstream press pass. The argument that dominated the day was over trespassing territories — the pro-Trump crowd was furious that critics had crossed into their designated lot. Everywhere we turned, someone was yelling at someone else about it. The police on hand seemed only mildly invested in controlling the chaos. The scene outside the courthouse had been unfolding for weeks: a cauldron of turmoil where political passions boiled over into deranged debate. Trump supporters, clad in red hats and draped in American flags, formed a raucous, patriotic blockade. They chanted slogans and hoisted placards proclaiming "Witch Hunt!" They baa-ed like sheep at their enemies, expressing raw loyalty to their embattled hero locked inside that cold courtroom.
Across the lines, an equally fervent throng of critics and identical-looking gray-haired detractors, some arriving by Uber, roared with the same seething contempt. They waved signs declaring, "No One Is Above the Law" and "Lock Him Up!" Cries of anger mixed with mockery served as a charged counterpoint to the pro-Trump chants.
"Do you guys have any other songs?" I asked them when "Trump is not above the law," on repeat, started to wear on me.
Later in the day, we retired to concrete seating and watched as the two groups collided like storm fronts, pushing and shoving to claim their space and drown out the other side. Police barriers buckled under the strain, and a few verbal skirmishes nearly erupted into physical confrontations. I felt scared, amused, and invigorated, wedged tight in the fury. Trump’s brand of allegiance breeds a special kind of pandemonium. For six weeks, that gated lot stood as a cacophonous testament to it, embodying the polarized heart of America. Amidst the chaos, the big guy appeared at some point in a suit and tie hand-delivering pizza to local firemen. On another, he ducked into a small bodega, winning urban hearts with a million-dollar grin. A man ignited himself on fire on live TV. Women spat on other women. Flags waved with pride and fury. Men screamed and shoved shoulders until their faces turned red. Politicians showed up to frame their defenses. Famous faces came armed for war.
Freakish as it was, I was grateful to catch a day of it.
Read Olivia’s Latest HERE
So much here!
For starters, the harsh “lunch combat” rings a bit more frightening to me than it ordinarily would- in light of the fatal stabbing of a little boy not long ago- a woman casually walking through Walmart w a knife- and then targeting and ending a precious life. ( Where IS the outrage of this surreal, violent story, and her smiling in court?!? )
All that to say- I’m glad you guys dodged weaponry! For real. It can happen in seconds.
DeNiro? Loved him for years- I’d never view another film of his- absolutely unhinged, ungrateful- and MASK sporting upon arrival (?!) -
Don’t tell me it’s not a comm! A symbol! Then takes it off and screams.
Decades since Mean Streets and his early, well deserved notoriety - only to become an utterly mean spirited man who hasn’t aged well.
I’m dying for you to do a sit down with Kellyanne Conway- this would complete my election cycle bingo card😂♥️