Psychic Predictions in Cape Cod: A Prelude to Scandal

"The world is going to get dark. Hence, the shootings now at presidents. The world is going to get dark, and you will make a very big light in it. You need to know that."

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Forgive me while I catch my breath.

I’m finally home after a dizzying 14 days on the road. Two relentless weeks moving from state to state, city to city, scene to scene, where the boundaries between each destination began to blur, swept up in the rush of campaigns coming to a close. This morning, I woke up unsure of where I was. Home, in the most familiar sense, feels strangely foreign now—cluttered with confusion, void of routine, weighed by an exhaustion that’s harder now to shake. It’s as if the stories I’ve collected over the past year have consumed the spaces I once reserved for reflection. I don’t ponder much anymore—I track, edit, mingle, move, and write.

Thirty-eight days to go.

The snapshots on my camera roll tether me to the places I’ve been over the past few weeks: barefoot beside Marianne Williamson at the Substack loft in Chicago, tossing newspapers out the bus window with Kyle Kemper at the DNC, sweating by the fire with my family listening to Don Jr. talk about his father being shot, yacht hopping in Palm Beach. A dimly lit auditorium, red carpet flanked by reporters, in heels crawling across the buffer zone under Trump’s towering presence before a crowd of suited veterans. My first time thrust into a motorcade—wedged between strangers who are furiously tapping away on identical laptops. Sprinting across streets to keep pace with Trump as he hands pizzas to adoring volunteers. Following Tulsi through a backdoor entrance—past bomb-sniffing dogs and armed guards, their machine guns ready—ending up just feet from Trump as he dazzles the room like an old friend, smiles lighting every face around him. Then being left behind by the motorcade, too slow on my exit, missing the last scene, his airport departure, escorted back to my car by a police officer who apologizes for the mess up front but is curious about why I do what I do.

Nervous in Arizona. Bright lights. A green suit. A barstool facing Tulsi and RFK. Selfies. Hugs. Thank yous. Reminder: we’re in the homestretch. A long car ride in the dark, shadows cutting across Tulsi’s face in silence as we exit the freeway, heading for the hotel. Deep breaths in bathroom stalls across the country to ease new tightness in my chest. Surrounded by supporters, haters, candidates, critics, idols, and icons. On the verge of tears for no reason, moments before being unexpectedly introduced to Tucker Carlson. Then onto New York—to pause the breakneck pace—dropped at my son’s first apartment, high above Wall Street, where his youngest brother, his father, and my best friend are waiting with deli sandwiches on the rooftop in the sun. My emotions oscillate between pride and worry. Everything is eclipsed by the haze of exhaustion. I’ve lost track of what day, and on some occasions, what month it is. Begging America to care is a daunting task on foot. Walking New York’s streets with family revives me. I find new life charge searching for Italian restaurants, and piecing together furniture to make Arlo’s new space feel like home. I buy him linens. His dad, a guitar. Returning to simple domestic habits, my mounting nerves begin to settle. There is grounding in pause—until late one night after dinner, all contentment is shattered with news of a sex scandal involving a friend.

A week later, it’s a revelation I’m still trying to make sense of it. The lies. And the betrayal.

Fitting the pieces together in hindsight has only deepened my resentment. The invested calculation is worth a screenplay, but we’ll have to settle here for a blogpost.

However, before we get there, I want to rewind, back to a phone call during my visit to Cape Cod for the Kennedy clambake in July that included praise and divine predictions about the election, but also a cryptic warning about a woman I was advised to distance myself from—a warning that, because of a rushing mainframe, unfortunately I failed to heed.

The Following Includes Quotes Pulled From Transcripts of Our Call

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July 13th:

I’m alone in my room pulling clothes to pack for the RNC. My bed is littered by discarded choices. I’m naked debating dresses, pulling a silk emerald green one over my body, my phone pings twice.

“I think Trump was just shot,” the text reads.

My first instinct is to ignore it. It seems too far fetched. I figure this is another rumor someone read without context on X. I go back to packing, but another text pulls me away.

“What the fuck just happened?”

Within minutes, shaky details of a shooting at a rally takes shape. I run into the main room, switch the TV on, and call everyone in the family in with me. I give each of my boys separate words and phrasing to search and refresh on X. Within minutes the whole family is working as my news team to nail the facts. I’ve taught them that it’s critical to see live events unfold in real time, with your own eyes, otherwise media will twist and edit reality. Real time account, I tell them, is vital. When I see Trump emerge shaken and shoeless, a streak of blood running down his face, I cover my mouth so not to scream. For whatever reason, my mind rejected the image of an assignation attempt on live TV. These are scenes reserved for past tense, encased in our psyche as black and white images in our history books belonging to our parent’s era.

I sit stunned in the emerald green dress crying on the coffee table.

Later, a text comes through asking if I’m free for a phone call. It’s the physic a friend recommended a week earlier. On a lunch date in Laguna, she swore by her readings. She passed me the woman’s number without any introduction between us, but warned that she was flakey. The only information this woman was given my first name. I’d already tried and failed several times to get her on the phone during previously promised appointments. Certainly, I didn’t have time for her after a shooting in Pennsylvania.

“Trump was just shot. I’m watching news, so I can’t talk.” I told her I would call or text when I was free.

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July 22

I’m sitting in a damp bathing suit in an Airbnb in Cape Cod. The sky is a flat gray, and the air is still. Hayes is beside me, watching videos on his iPad, having just returned from jet skiing with his dad and Robyn’s kids in front of the Kennedy Compound. A follow-up text comes through, asking if now is a good time for a call.

“Sure,” I reply. I have an hour.

She warns that her downloads might be scattered; she tends to jump around. “I see pictures, images, messages, just things that pertain to you, but I will see them in my own way. And we see that. And with that being said, it comes through. Those images, messages—it just comes through. Sometimes I might not know what I’m talking about, and you can ask questions. But I get downloads when I hear your voice.”

This is a gift she’s had to embrace. Like many in this realm, she believes it’s hereditary.

“So, basically, I’ve been doing this for a long time. My dad did it. I didn’t ask for this, not as a job or anything. When I was young, I’d go to my friend’s house—we moved around third grade—and I started with my friend’s parents, or whoever was there. I had information to give them, even if I didn’t know them. That’s really how my talent started. I’ve kept a formula, kept it all the same, baby. I don’t advertise. Never have. I don’t have a website. I don’t want to be out there. I’m out there for certain people, but I don’t get to everybody. And that’s not on purpose.”

“With that being said, I let the universe pick. I don’t know who I’m talking to. I try to do appointments, I really, really do. But someone will ring my bell—someone who just passed or is having a horrible time. I always go to the one I think needs me the most. If we’ve gotten to this point, friend, we were meant to be. And I store you in my phone—yes, you have me forever. The people that get me, you have me forever, baby.”

She senses a lot of motion around me. “Okay, my Jessica. So, Jessica—you’ve got a lot of things you’re going to do. You’re very needed right now. I’m seeing for you—hold on, I just had someone come in, and they kind of drifted out. There’s a female. Hold on, Baby.”

She calls on someone with an ‘S.’ Shirley, she says. Shirley is coming through. “She’s watching what you’re doing, and she is proud. I’m seeing—you have people on the other side connecting to you. I want to say there’s an S, M—S-M? Shirley? Yes. Do you know who that is? Okay. There’s Shirley, and she’s talking about the pier. She saw you there. I’m so sorry for your loss, friend. She was—and she still is—a very good egg. She brings up your mother. Did she know her? Yes, right?”

A few years ago, on the anniversary of Shirley’s death, I drank mai tais alone on the pier in her honor. It was her signature drink. She was one of my mother’s oldest friends. The two met as disgraced pregnant teenagers in the 60s. Shirley always loved me. She called me “Jessie” and often repeated her favorite stories about me as a child to strangers at parties whenever I showed up. She loved the one about Bette Davis. At four, I constantly talked about Bette Davis—no one understood why. Shirley painted me as a vibrant, precocious child. She adored my dad too, always saying how handsome and charismatic he was. They flirted over the years, and rumors of an affair weren’t well hidden. When he died, she was one of the few who spoke of him without caution. Typically, a suicide shuts people up. The last time I saw her, our home was torn apart, in the worst phase of renovation. She brought fruit and laughed about Trump—she adored him, a point of contention in her friendship with my mother. On her way out that day, what would be our last visit, I made her promise to come back when the house was done. Sadly, she passed months later, complications from the bird flu. Her lungs failed, and on her last day, they fed her mai tais through an IV.

On the other end of the phone, I stay quiet. Shirley isn’t someone I’ve ever written about.

She moves on, running through other family members who’ve passed—Mike’s grandfather, my grandmother. At one point, even the name of our first dog pops up. She notes how my boys are well-adjusted, raised as mini versions of myself.

“You did very good with the way you raised your kids. You’re raising little mini-yous. You’re very important. You’ve given the universe a little bit more to work with than the average human, little Jessica.”

She continues, “A mom of four? I give you credit because you don’t look like a sleeping mother. You’re very hands-on. And your kids look happy. You did good with them, friend. What are their ages? They’re not babies—you almost have all teenagers. They’re all good men.”

She senses travel. “That’s the best way to live,” she says. “You’re making memories and actually living life, not stuck on that damn hamster wheel most people are on. That will kill you. You’re not in that.”

“Do you go like X amount of months on the road?”

“I do.”

“And, you do get invited? You’re getting invited all the time, right?”

“I do.”

Then, comes a shift.

“You’ve got a lot of changes coming. You’re going to be working hard.” She predicts major changes, financial gain, and my role in dark times, welding light.

“For some reason, you’re involved with the election, right?”

“Yes.”

“I think there’s stuff we don’t know, and we’re not supposed to. The world is going to get dark. Hence, these shootings now at presidents.” At the time, there had only been one. She used plural tense, as if future attempts were already accounted for.

Her tone tightens. “The world is going to get dark, and you will make a big light in it. You need to know that. Whatever you’re doing, it shows that you’re helping people wake up. Many are still asleep, but you’ll bring great education. You are leading people to see.”

She sees a move in the future but says my path could take us anywhere. “You could go anywhere and get connected.”

Whenever she uses the word “connected” I assume she means Wi-Fi—my job is cellular, after all, allowing room for roaming. I am not well versed in mysticism, so I tend to take her readings literal.

She runs through more names, all blood-related. Then pauses, focusing on one in particular. Arthur. Mike’s uncle, killed in the war at 18. His mother’s youngest brother.

“I’m seeing someone in uniform, saluting the flag. He’s connected to Rita. Oh, I’m so sorry. He’s not here. He passed young, but he watches over the boys. The one with the H? Your son with an H? He’s the most connected to you?”

I tell her Hayes is my youngest son’s name.

“Arthur is his angel. He watches over Hayes specifically.” Hayes, wide-eyed beside me, leans in. He is consumed now by this conversation. As a mother, I do an awful job at censoring information. Hayes knows all about the stories I do. Sometimes, when I’m away, he will even send me videos he finds on Youtube that pertain to particular topics I’m covering. He has a knack for pulling in the good stuff.

“He’s wearing a uniform,” she continues. “Arthur thanks you. It’s like the universe gave him gifts because he lost his life, and he’s giving them back to your family. Arthur and the men in uniform will continue to protect your boys.”

Compliments about my children are flattering. She seems them as artistic, well adjusted, confident and kind.

“And I'm seeing — I'm seeing for you, friend, that there — you have a lot of connections to Heaven. So, a lot of what you want to do or a lot of the things that you're going to do you are going to do quite well with projects. 

I turn the conversation to election forecasts. I ask what she sees.

“I tell you, friend, we're in trouble if you want me to be honest with you. Do you mind if I speak freely, friend, because I am not — I'm from New York, I was born in the 80s. So I know people don’t like the way he talks but I always say if I was president I would sound just like him.”

“Now, here's the thing. We're going to have a problem with Kamala; is that her name? We're going to have a problem with her, because it's not about Trump winning, because he will win. But it’s about the lie they will tell after he wins.  They — they won't tell us if he wins. They will make it like they won because . . .” she trails off. “It’s all rigged, friend. It is all rigged. And it's sad to say that. I don't even think the president — I don't even think Trump knows how rigged it is. I mean, I think he does because he was indicted nine times or however many times he was. But it's just — they have this connect — they have a connection to source. And it's very easy to see democrats sound like demons. You get that?

“Yes.”

“And they behave like demons. And it's almost as if that part of the world is brainwashed to not see it. And you either go through it or past it. And we are going to have setbacks unfortunately when it comes to Kamala coming in.  Because it takes a whole different — it's not what she could bring to the country.  It's not what she will promise us. It's because she's a Black woman that will make her win or will give her the attention she needs.”

“I don't mean that in a bad way, I mean it in the facts. You never had an African American president before. And woman president. And that is going to be something that people are going to play off of.”

Musings turn biblical. She asks if I am okay with her veering into that topic. It’s fine, I tell her.

“Now, in divine — in divinity reasons I'm going to say that Trump, and you, and you might think I'm crazy, but he and you have connections to Jesus. Yes, it’s true. I'm going to tell you why. He is suffering in many ways to try to and do better for us. Just like everybody has back in the day when there was the Roman times and the Biblical times everybody was fighting.  There was one person that was getting all the shit because he wanted to make it right and fair. And he was crucified.”

“Now, history always repeats itself. But it just can't be like that, we evolved too much to do those crucifixions, but we crucify now in different ways. Trump has been getting crucified for the last couple of months. Honestly, years.”

“But this political thing, whatever you're doing, it looks like it is top notch and needed. You're making a difference, friend, waking people up. And even if it's just three to four people — those three or four people count. And it's much more than that, obviously. But you are piercing through the dark.” 

I offer little when she gets things right. I offer more when she strays from incorrect leanings.

“Now, do you write? You journal? Or, are you writing a book? 

“Not at the moment, no.”

She sees a documentary. “You really should. Just about everything you’ve seen and more. It's not yet it, though, it looks like it gets — it gets out more in 29.  Yes, 29 and then it — it's great though. You love it. This is — you have a lot of financial increases coming. So, just know that. Be ready for that.”

“And you'll have a lot of . . . I want to say shifts coming for yourself that are very, very big. Financially and emotionally.”

The finical gains mirror the same forecasts the physic in New Orleans relayed. Money is a blessing, of course, but her follow up reading gripped me. It is unexpected. No one has ever said this to me, so it leaves me speechless when she presents it as blunt fact.

“Now, you look very connected — you know what I mean when I say that?”

“I don’t think so,” I tell her.

“You are very psychic, friend. That's why you're in the field you're in.”

I break in with slight pushback.

“No, no, no. It’s true,” she insists. “I see that very clearly, friend. It came out in you around four. And then from there, it followed you in every way that it had to. But now it's easy to come out in your creative field. You have a voice especially in the art world.”

Her specific mention of some kind of mystical or divine force at four years old is startling. Four, was when I started having visions dismissed as a robust imagination. I was tested for epilepsy and chronic migraines. I slipped in and out of consciousness often by spells that sucked me into another realm in fleeting spurts. At that age, and it’s hard to explain, but I felt I could see through things in a mystical sense. For example, sometimes I might know what people would say before they said it.

Shirley picked up on these traits. She was enthralled by it. She believed I had been born many times before. An old soul carrying the secrets of past centuries.

My earliest memories are two reoccurring dreams. One, was a nightmare where I was stuck driving a car at night on the freeway. It was terrifying to navigate a car in the fast lane as a child. I woke in a panic every time, narrowly escaping death. The second revolved around a watch on my wrist, a bulky square that looked like a small plastic orange television screen. Through it, I could talk to everyone in the world. With it, came magic. Around the world, I could see what people were doing and eating and thinking and reading. Back then, before the internet had even been rooted, it felt outlandish but exciting. Looking back, essentially it was an early premonition of the iPhone.

With the hour closing, she drops another bombshell. She sees a “Matt.”

“I’m seeing Matt. Yes, it looks like he is from the other side, though. I’m sorry, friend. And there’s a James with him?”

“Matt James?” I offer. “His name is Matt James.”

“Ok, that’s like his whole name? Okay. Matt has very fast cars. And he also—he’s like living his life up there, friend. Did you date him?”

“No.”

“Well, he would have told you he loved you. He had a plan to tell you when he got a little older. But it’s okay because he’s still your angel. He’s still very much connected to you.” She points out that his funeral was not “typical.” She’s right. It was a party at his parents' house that served as a reunion for Corona graduates. We celebrated him with beer, skate ramps, and a punk soundtrack.

On the other side of the phone, I sit silent with tears rolling down my cheeks. There’s no way she should know about Matt. Even those closest to me would have little to offer. He was my brother’s best friend, four years older than me. A Scorpio with the sharpest, strangest sense of humor. He could pinpoint people’s faults and weaknesses with cunning accuracy, and he used it to fuel his humor. Uniquely smart, he was equally obsessed with odd characters, secretly more sensitive than he’d ever admit. We were very close growing up. He was like a second brother to me but, as we got older, probably the closest thing to a twin flame in my life. He collected antiques, restored old gas tanks and classic cars. We never dated, but the attraction was always there. Intellectually, we matched. When he got into drugs and started to lose himself to addiction, I was the only one in my family who couldn’t bear to cut him out. The last message he ever sent me on IG about the boys skating—I still have it. Two months later, his body was carried out of his mother’s house, and we all sat together in the kitchen and cried.

Aside from lost love, she has a warning for me. A fairly new friend in my life who comes through as Dexter. The serial killer. Because of the way she’s dicing up my life under the radar.

I am totally confused by her description, but I let her unfold it anyway.

“You have an M person? What was that show? Dexter—do you remember Dexter the show? I love that show. Morgan. Do you know somebody named Morgan?”

I tell her I do know a Morgan.

“Do you see her often?”

“Not really.”

“She has a thing with you,” she lowers her voice, “she’s a little weird, friend, because she came through as Dexter Morgan.”

I think about the show, the character, the cunning murderer. A handsome man full of integrity, an expert in his field. An unassuming nerd with wild intellect, lurking dangerously in the shadows after hours. For one reason or another, there was always blood on his hands.

“And she—you didn’t have a Dexter friend, but you do have a Morgan, and she’s coming through as someone you used to be tight with. Now, she’s not a terrible person, ok? She’s not a serial killer. But right now, it looks like she might have a hard time. She is getting herself into trouble, and I wouldn’t put her back in your life too much, do you understand? If she’s not around right now, keep it that way. Okay? Are you tight with her?”

Thinking she’s talking about my friend named Morgan, I blow it off. I tell her we aren’t too tight, that she comes into my life in passing phases.

“Ok, good. Because she might need you soon, friend. And if she does, I mean, be on the phone. I wouldn’t go anywhere alone with her. You’re very protected, so don’t worry about that, but don’t let her back in.”

Her messaging returns to flattery.

“You, friend, I see you have a lot of great things ahead of you. You’re going to be reporting and doing beautiful things, almost like the universe is unfolding so you can document it. You’re an angel in disguise. Look at the Bible. If someone didn’t document that shit, we’d be in the dark, right? And that’s all because of what you document. And I’m seeing for you, there’s just more—the universe is going to give you things that flow out of your mouth so easily. So, enjoy it. In time, you’ll notice how you’re always somehow right where you’re supposed to be.”

“I can’t wait for you to keep writing. The world needs you. I’m storing you in my phone now. I love you. Keep in touch, promise? I’m always here, baby. Keep doing what you’re doing. We need you.”

With so many coded messages coming in at once, I walked away from the conversation with an appreciation for the nods to my boys, Shirley, Matt, my online community. I figured the mysterious Morgan was a small piece that I would either figure out—or not.

With so much to process, I decided to let it all settle, knowing that in time, some of these predictions might reveal themselves—not realizing that perhaps they already had.

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Footnote:

“I do have a Morgan, and she’s coming through as someone you used to be tight with. Now, she’s not a terrible person, ok? She’s not a serial killer. But right now, it looks like she might have a hard time. She is getting herself into trouble, and I wouldn’t put her back in your life too much, do you understand?”

As I unravel this latest situation with Olivia, my fury multiplies as “How could she do this” turns into “I should have seen it coming.” After rolling through Olivia’s past during a late night Google search, I may have finally connected the “Morgan” dots.

While interning for Anthony Weiner’s mayoral campaign in 2013, Nuzzi made her first splashy headline when she divulged to the media that Weiner referred to his interns as “Monica.” The salacious move from the soon-to-be Fordham drop out was too brazen for Communication Director Barbara Morgan, who publicly shamed Ms Nuzzi as being a “slutbag,” “fucking cunt,” and “little twat.”

I don’t condone those vulgarities, but do appreciate a mystical red flag warning.

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Up Ahead:

• A closer look into Olivia Nuzzi’s ethics and past scandals — why men in the industry are supporting her and women aren’t

• A personal account of my experience