I am bad at mornings, and fighting midweek rush-hour Beltway traffic in the rain before the sun barely rose to see James Comey arraigned was so great a feat that I deserve the Nobel exactly as much as the president. I made several attempts to dissuade myself from attending, to excuse sleeping in instead—enough assholes would record Mr. Comey’s ordeal from every angle. I could let my eyeballs rest. But some weak guiding angel convinced me against my laziness and spite to put myself in the middle of one of America’s very bad days.
Outside the Albert V. Bryan United States Courthouse in Alexandria, Virginia, under a status of a blind woman holding scales in both hands and captioned “Justice Delayed, Justice Denied,” was a moderately long line of very engaged Americans. Many of them greeted each other with warm familiarity. Meanwhile, I could not tell the half dozen bearded bald men in line ahead one of apart—“Is that Glen Kirschner or Rick Wilson?” I wanted to Google, but I was scared a camera might catch my screen and make me look ignorant. Protesters on the sidewalk held signs like “Release the Epstein Files” and “Show Trial.” I thought it odd to see hippies agitating in defense of the former FBI Director, but then again, I was there too.
After going through security and locking my electronics in a YONDR pouch, I was bored as hell. I wished courthouses were not so damn puritanical. Without my phone or smartwatch, I promised I would finally learn how to set the time on an analog watch, but it was too late for that. No cigarettes? No liquor? No AirPods, no JBL Bluetooth Portable speaker boombox playing an uplifting jam like the single “GOLDEN” from “K-Pop Demon Hunters” now streaming on Netflix? I could hang in the courthouse all day for real if they let me live a little.
It felt odd to chit-chat in the increasingly raucous hallway—we were queued to witness a malicious prosecution by the president of one of his foes. But also I love to laugh. My favorite zinger: “Arraignment shouldn’t take too long, the indictment is only two pages.” Roll on snare drum.
As I recorded my thoughts, I was suspicious of anyone else I caught looking in my direction and taking notes. Do not include the six-foot-tall donkey in a leather jacket in your court report. I am always nervous that my reactions or odd movements could become a background detail in someone else’s writeup—“Some courtwatchers paced back and forth, fidgeting with their hands and miming lighting up a cigarette before kicking at the tile as if it were dirt.”
I am no fan of Mr. Comey—I begrudge his reckless handling of the Clinton email investigation and subsequent grandstanding. In that spirit of unease I tried to lighten the mood, and when somebody asked what brought me out to see James Comey plead, I feigned grimness and said: “That copper put away the rest of the Beagle Boys.” Nobody was amused. I was the only one thinking about DuckTales; everybody else imagined a militia.
To be fair, ICE agents terrorizing Portland and Chicago resemble such a cartoon gang more than they do the brave men and women of law enforcement. I will not concede this is no time or place for a humorist. No, this is the only time and place for one.
As I said, I am no fan of Mr. Comey. I bought his book A Higher Loyalty, watched The Comey Rule (Showtime, 2020), starring Jeff Daniels as Mr. Comey and Brendan Gleeson as Mr. Trump, wishlisted his “Nora Carleton” detective novels Central Park West, Westport, and FDR Drive, tuned in live for his congressional testimony, and even bought an “8647” shirt when the Secret Service investigated him for photographing seashells arranged in that shape. I cannot stand his ass.
Still, I felt pride when I saw Mr. Comey’s defiant video response to his indictment: “I have great confidence in the federal judicial system and I am innocent, so let’s have a trial.”
In spite of Mr. Comey’s person, I was happy to see finally a man who chose to fight a winnable battle against Mr. Trump instead of surrendering pre-emptively.
I am tired of penning more vigorous defenses of institutions than they will for themselves. I am so depressed I must give Mr. Comey more credit than my own print-on-demand publisher, Spreadshop. When they faced legal adversity from this administration, they removed all designs using the word “TRUMP,” including my “TRUMP IS A BITCH” t-shirt. Not only did they lick his boot, but by making it verboten to use the president’s name, they functionally suckled his fluid edema-bloated toes. I apologize, that was excessive. My anger stems not from the initial censorship—I accept my merchandise is too spicy for the cucked among civil society—but the subsequent banning of the “TR*MP IS A BITCH” design, which had an asterisk to sincerely and deferentially avoid using the contested trademark. It has been more than two weeks since I contacted mailto:legal@spreadshop.com to appeal, and their claim that they would return my message within three business days was a damn lie.
After more than an hour of dissociating in the hallway, we were offered a choice: We could sit in the real courtroom, or we could watch the arraignment live from a medium-sized TV in the overflow room. The overflow room sounded more comfortable: in-and-out privileges and all the urination breaks you could want. The in-person room, meanwhile, we would be locked in and could not leave until it was done, and anyone who exited could not return. But everybody always tells me how “weirdly tall” Mr. Comey is, like he is a giant or giraffe, and I had to see with my own eyes how big this story’s “hero” was.
Wednesday is Odin’s day, and after FBI Director Kash Patel (or as I like to call him, “Kush Patel,” because that fool has got to be smoking something), a Hindu, promised to “see” the late Charlie Kirk, an evangelical Christian, “in Valhalla”—the Nordic warrior’s heaven—I thought a lot about that one-eyed god. Odin paid his eyeball and let himself be hung to sup the honey of poetry, sip the waters of wisdom, and bring the written word into the world. Were his halved vision to look on both Messrs. Comey and Patel, which of the two FBI Directors would he gauge was more noble, just, or virtuous? Likely not the one who blatantly disrespects the wishes of The Punisher’s creator Gerry Conway and trades challenge coins marked with an imitation of the vigilante anti-hero’s skull logo.
Sadly, as is typical for a humanoid donkey, I was the last body squeezing into a too-small room, busy imagining the importance of setting my fleshy haunches on a bench while logistics undermined me. If only I were marginally better at mornings, I would have a seat, but then, why bother improving myself for a gray Wednesday like this?
The TV cut on. Mr. Comey’s attorney called defending him the greatest honor of his life. The judge read the two counts—false statements, obstruction, with a maximum sentence of 5 years or $250,000. Mr. Comey waived a public reading of the charges. “Why? The indictment was only two pages and barely coherent,” I remarked to a neighbor who shushed me.
The speedy trial deadline was December 17. The defense proposed a small extension with January 12 as a proposed trial date, but also indicated they were somewhat confident they could knock it out in a few months if only the prosecution’s office had its shit together.
The “first substantive contact” between the parties was October 7—the night before the arraignment!—and the defense had received nearly nothing. The government’s case was half-assed and they did not have anything ready. The judge expressed skepticism regarding the need for an extension—obviously he wanted this nonsense done fast.
Defense and judge both characterized this as a simple case, and both expressed confusion about the prosecution’s planlessness as to how classified information would be managed. The judge moved the January 12 proposal to January 5 and insisted on an “expeditious but realistic schedule.”
The defense indicated they would file a malicious prosecution motion. (And it obviously is, not in legal terms but in spirit, a prosecution made with real malice and evil.) See: Mr. Trump’s accidentally-public message to notoriously corrupt bimbo Attorney General Pam Bondi (called “Pam Blondie” by Mr. Trump’s own supporters):
“Pam: … Nothing is being done. What about Comey, Adam ‘Shifty’ Schiff, Leticia??? They’re all guilty as hell, but nothing is going to be done… [T]here is a GREAT CASE, and many lawyers, and legal pundits, say so. Lindsey Halligan is a really good lawyer, and likes you, a lot. We can’t delay any longer, it’s killing our reputation and credibility. They impeached me twice, and indicted me (5 times!), OVER NOTHING. JUSTICE MUST BE SERVED, NOW!!! President DJT”
The defense challenged the lawfulness of Ms. Halligan’s appointment, noting the young woman Mr. Trump insisted be installed expressly for the purposes of indicting the president’s political enemies may not be legitimate.
It was noted there had been no substantial discussions regarding joint discovery, and the defense had only received the draft framework at 11 PM the night before. The judge urged professionalism and prompt responses between the parties, making clear he expected no further dilly-dallying or shilly-shallying.
The government did not seek to detain Mr. Comey, and he was released on personal recognizance. After news broke the president had fired an agent for refusing to “perp walk” the former FBI director, this was disappointing—if they will be villains, must this administration also be so boring and lazy?
After the arraignment, I waited outside with my fellow media for Mr. Comey to exit. I did not have a camera, but I still needed to see how tall this motherfucker was. If he went out a back door I was going to be so mad. I had sunk so much time there already. It is not like I care what happens to him or anything. He obviously will not lose this case even if he were guilty because the prosecution is so low effort. But if he threw those Nixon Vs and I missed it because I gave up, that would ruin my day.
A bald guy with a hairy sidekick passed ranting about “Soros operatives in the crowd.” People like that make me uncomfortable. I do not want an evil backstory given to me for being near the same building as their enemies. Though I wish George Soros would pay me—I’ll take anybody’s money if they’re giving it away.
The sky was still not bright when I noticed the reputable videographers had dipped, and I followed suit. If only the crazies were left, I had other places I could be. Unfortunately, I caught a nail in my tire and spent the afternoon napping inside a Firestone. Each time I woke, I hoped to see a sun that never emerged. While I slept, the president bragged to a roundtable of conservative influencers: “We took away free speech.”
Well, damn. Now they say it aloud. Had they declared that intention, to take away free speech, one year earlier, perhaps “free speech warriors,” deluded into thinking the GOP gave a damn for words that do not serve them, would have voted differently. Next time, I suppose.
Later in the night, I went into DC—an increasingly frightening place under military occupation, with Dear Leader’s face on banners hung from buildings. I sulked inside Ben’s Chili Bowl, doomscrolling, then went to see The Bulwark Live at the Lincoln Theatre. The misery in the air was relentless.
Outside the venue, the protest group Refuse Fascism was handing out flyers outside promising to, on November 5, flood the capital with millions of good, decent Americans, and evict the fascist Trump regime by shutting down the roadways. I will be covering CrookedCon instead. Republicans passed laws making it legal to hit protesters with cars, and they publicly lust for the chance to kill other human beings. I do not want that to happen to me. Does that make me a coward? I cannot be everywhere, do every act of resistance.
This clouded day was especially dreary, but we will likely have many more over the next three years. I will be at a No Kings protest on October 18—the one where we walk right up to the White House and tell that authoritarian bastard to GTFO. I hope to see everyone there. I do not know how many more such occasions we will have.
